A Real Man
Pete Hamlin loved his guns. He loved the solid heft and feel, the precise design and construction, the noise and jar of the recoil. A well-crafted gun was dependable.
Pete often said, “Take good care of your gun and it will take good care of you.” Pete took good care of his guns. He used them most nights after work, firing one hundred or one hundred fifty rounds at the gun club indoor range, then cleaning them carefully.
His love and care won him the gun club rapid fire championship three years running. He was practicing now to take the title for an unprecedented fourth consecutive year. He caressed the Ruger, squeezing off the last three rounds.
The range attendant reeled in the five targets as Pete slipped off his shooting muffs.
“Good shooting, Mister Hamlin,” he said, “four sets in, the other two very close.”
Only since he was some kind of Latino, he said, “Meestair ‘ahmleen” and “wery closeh.” Pete grinned to himself. Years in this country, and the wetback still couldn’t speak decent English.
“I’ve got to do better than that, George, to hold on to the championship.” The man frowned slightly as he always did when Pete called him ‘George’ but Pete wasn’t going to make a fool of himself stumbling over some foreign moniker.
Pete laid the Ruger .22 in its case. Now for some fun, some feel-like-a-real-man fun. He pulled his M96 Mauser from its wooden holster and cradled it gently, admiring the long, thin barrel and the rounded grip that gave the pistol its ‘broomhandle’ nickname. This gun looked like a gun should look, a real classic, designed in 1896. Pete’s gun had been manufactured in 1916 for the German Army, and carried into battle by a German infantry officer in the final German World War I offensives in 1918.
Pete carefully loaded the gun. Ten nine millimeter rounds held by a ‘stripper’ clip fed into the top of the magazine mounted just in front of the trigger guard. He hefted the piece as he waited for George to run out the target. At eleven inches long and 46 ounces, the Mauser was only a little bigger than the Ruger, but the long barrel and blocky magazine looked huge.
The targets stopped, five man-sized silhouettes with bulls-eyes on their chests. A gun this size required a two-handed stance. Pete aimed and fired each shot deliberately. The damn thing kicked like a mule, the huge hammer slamming back and forth. He pulled the Mauser back into line after each shot. Standard rapid fire - five shots in eight seconds, one target after another, counting carefully, five more shots, eight more seconds. Reload, then fire two five shot sets in six seconds each, reload again, fire five more rounds in four seconds and a final five rounds in four seconds.
That was the end of the standard firing sequence, but he reloaded one more time and fired off the clip one-handed, standing like Cary Grant in some old western. When the magazine was empty, he resisted the impulse to blow the smoke off the barrel.
This was by God the way fun ought to be. Pete considered firing a few more clips. Better not, he was late already, and he never knew what fool thing Marie would do if he wasn’t home to keep an eye on her.
George reeled in the targets. Pete slipped off his shooting muffs and glanced at the results. Not bad, nothing like the Ruger, but for an old gun with a horrific recoil, not bad at all.
Stepping to the bench in the back room, Pete started to clean the gun, then frowned as he ran a soft cloth over the Mauser. There was a small nick in the wooden grip. Damn! His first reaction was anger at the club, but he never let anyone else touch his guns, so somehow he must have done it. Well. it would polish out. He finished cleaning both the Mauser and the Ruger.
“Good bye, Mister Hamlin,” George laid the targets on the bench and held out his hand.
Pete looked at the hand, surprised and a little offended. “What?” he asked.
“Good bye,” George repeated, “tomorrow is my last day. I am going back to Puerto Rico. My mother, she is sick.”
“Oh,” Pete said, “well, good bye, George, good luck.” He shook hands very lightly. He didn’t like to touch these foreigners, you never knew what diseases they might have.
A thought came to Pete, not quite formed, not a plan, just the thought that it would be good to take the gun home to work on it. Pete pulled two twenties from his billfold.
“Well damn, George,” he smiled, “good luck. Here’s a little going away present.”
Jorge accepted the money with a small smile and waited. He knew well enough that Pete would want something in return.
“Oh, George,” Pete continued casually, “I need to take the Mauser home and work on it. Nothing said, no harm done, eh?”
“Sure, Mr. Hamlin,” George said. He pocketed the money. Pete could take the gun without checking it out. Not checked out, not checked in. No one would ever know it had been gone.
This was against club rules, and it was certainly against the rules of the City of New York, but he had done it before and he would do it again. To hell with their rules.
The Mauser came with a bulky wooden holster that could be clipped to the back of the grip and used as a stock. In the empty locker room, Pete arranged the holster so it hung between his legs, put on his overcoat and checked the effect in the full-length mirror. Damn! The bulk of the holster spoiled the lines of his tailored overcoat.
He pulled and rearranged, remembering his mother’s words, spoken so often as she tidied his clothes or tried out some new and stylish item.
“Peter,” she would say, “God knows you’ll never be a big man, but you can always be a well-dressed man.” Or sometimes the litany, “Your father was big, he was a big, husky man. I don’t understand what happened to you, short and scrawny as you are. But he was an untidy man, Peter, a big, sloppy man. I could never do a thing with him. At least you’re neat, and a snappy dresser.”
Those memories and others like them came often, and his cheeks would burn as her words played themselves back. He didn’t understand the sense of embarrassment and vague shame. His mother loved him, wanted only the best for him, had taught him to dress well and carry himself proudly, even if he was... not as tall as some men.
He continued to adjust the holster and the coat. There, that was a little better, but he needed to wear something that wasn’t so nicely cut.
The feelings of embarrassment were probably Marie’s fault. He knew she looked down on him for being... not so tall, even if she never said anything. She was taller than he was in heels, so she never wore heels, the condescending bitch. That reminded him, he’d better get home to see what kind of mess she’d made today.
Walking was a little awkward, but he liked the hard, heavy feel of the gun between his legs. He liked it so well he kept it on in the car, letting the holster drape over the front of the seat.
He felt good on the drive in to New York, so good that he didn’t bother to weave in and out, didn’t cut anybody off and only once screamed curses at another driver.
His mood broke when he got to his apartment house. Pylons blocked the entrance to the apartment garage door. A man sitting in a chair got up, approached the car.
“Can’t park now, buddy,” he said, “the automatic opener broke.”
“Then open the damned thing by hand,” Pete snapped.
The man smiled thinly. “The door weighs over 1000 pounds,” he said, “we’ll have....”
“I have to park my car,” Pete said.
“It’ll be a couple of hours, Jack....”
“Shit!” Pete shouted, “Shit!” He threw the BMW into reverse and squealed the tires pulling into the street. The man shook his fist and yelled something. Pete flipped him the bird and gunned the car down the street.
There was no way he would find a place to park this time of night. Would he have to drive the damn car around for two hours? He cruised down the street for several blocks, back on the next street, the wooden holster bumping the steering wheel every time he stepped on the brake.
Fifteen minutes of
this brought him to a parking spot. The area was seedy industrial, the streets dark and potholed, the walk to his apartment at least a mile. He squeezed the BMW into the space, muttering curses and threats.
With the car finally at rest, he considered his options. Leaving the car alone on the street didn’t appeal at all, but sitting out here for two hungry hours appealed even less. Crummy neighborhood, too. He felt a tingle of fear, then remembered the gun that bulked between his legs.
“Let the fuckers try something,” he muttered aloud as he got out of the car. Setting the alarm, he walked briskly down the outer edge of the sidewalk, his right hand inside his coat, resting on the gun.
But the only people he saw were a couple coming out of a restaurant a block from the apartment. The garage door was still closed, the man still sitting in the chair. Pete entered the building, went to the super’s apartment, beat on the door.
No answer, no sound, but Pete knew Mrs. Gonesh was there, behind the door.
“I want that garage open pronto, Mrs. Gonesh, “he yelled. “Pronto.” He liked the sound of the word. “And you call me when it’s fixed,” he added, “and damn pronto.”
Feeling that he had the situation at least partly under control, he rode the elevator to his floor, mulling the letter of complaint he would send to the property management company. If Mrs. Gonesh thought being an old lady would let her get away with incompetence, she had another think coming.
Marie met him at the door.
“I turned dinner off,” she said, “it was getting dry. I’ll warm it up....”
“Ten minutes,” he snapped as he walked to his den holding his coat around him. The door closed and locked, he slipped off his coat and unbuckled the holster. His legs felt bruised from the wood. He pulled the gun out and laid it on the desk, peered at the nick in the grip. How could that have happened he wondered, was that greaser at the gun club getting into his locker? Well, never mind, the guy was swimming back across the border and the damage would buff out.
He washed up and sat at the table, Marie silently dished up the lasagna and salad. He tasted it.
“It’s cold,” he said, “ and the sauce is runny.”
“You’re forty minutes late,” Marie said from the other end of the table.
Now is own wife was mouthing off! He sat up straight.
“Shut up,” he said, “I’m tired of your bitching. You’re a poor excuse for a cook. If I waited for a good meal from you, I’d starve.”
Marie ate silently, her eyes on her plate. Her mouth quivered but she didn’t cry. She hadn’t cried much in the last few years.
The lasagna was quite tasty; Pete had three helpings. Keeping at her worked wonders. If he let up she’d get complacent and sloppy and even fatter than she was.
When he finished, he left her at the table. In the den, he worked carefully on the stock, smoothing out the nick with garnet paper. He took a break to make sure Marie did a decent job of cleaning up, then went back to the gun, rubbing in wood finish oil until the buffed area blended completely with the rest of the grip. He stripped the gun, then reassembled it. Each precise piece of metal was like a small work of art, the ‘snick’ as it slipped into place part of its song. But when they all sing together, he thought as he sighted down the barrel, the chorus, that’s the most beautiful music.
The look and feel of the weapon was vaguely exciting; he felt himself harden as he slipped it into the holster. Maybe tonight Marie could do him some good.
She was already in bed, breathing evenly, pretending to be asleep, the rejecting bitch. Slipping naked into bed, he pulled her nightgown up, fumbled at her breasts.
She was silent, unmoving. He nuzzled at her, squeezed her flesh. His erection was so hard it hurt. He pushed her legs apart, willing himself into her. But at the very moment, it slipped away. He felt himself start to soften, no, no, then in an instant go completely limp.
“Damn you, Marie,” he snarled, “you frigid bitch. You can’t even get this right.”
“I, I’m sorry,” she whispered, “here....” She reached for him. He drew away.
“Never mind,” he said bitterly, “I don’t need anything from a cow like you.” She started to cry, little muffled sobs. At least I have some effect on her, he thought with satisfaction.
He went into the bathroom, stood over the toilet. His erection came back immediately. As soon as I get away from that cow, he thought as he touched himself and began to stroke. He came quickly, release that forced a little cry of pleasure.
For a moment he relaxed, standing in the bathroom still holding his limp penis. Then the tension returned. He stood up straight, washed himself off. He wanted to move the car, no point in going to bed. He could work on the gun...no, he had repaired the nick, cleaned the gun. He felt a little disappointed.
He decided to think about a more practical holster. The Mauser’s wooden holster looked good - very crisp and military - and snapped on the back of the gun to form a stock. He played with that feature for awhile, enjoying the precise action as the stock fitted to the gun. But the holster was too bulky to fit easily under his coat. Something that would sling from his shoulder ... he dug some catalogues out of his desk. Maybe a Blocker shoulder rig with a few modifications. He sketched some ideas, humming softly.
It was past midnight by the time he had worked out a possible approach. Might as well check on the garage door.
“Yeah, that’s it,” one of two men in coveralls wiped his hands on a rag while the other one piled tools into the back of a pickup.
“It’s about damn time,” Pete muttered and turned away. Now to get the car under cover and finally go to bed. He stopped and thought - a long walk in the middle of the night to a deserted part of town? It took only a few minutes to go back up to the apartment. Leaving the holster, he dropped the gun into an outside pocket of his overcoat, where it sagged and banged against his leg.
A cold wind blew trash through the streets. The dark streets, with no people and few cars that became no cars at all before he reached the BMW.
He was parked next to a long blank wall. The sound filtered down the wall, murmurs, crunching footsteps. The crunch of broken glass? What the hell!
Quickening his pace, he clutched the gun to keep it from banging against his leg, and for comfort. The murmuring turned into words, he could see figures moving slowly around the car.
Damn! How many were there? He paused as fear caught in his throat, twisted his stomach. The dome light flickered briefly. Two, no, three men. One ducked beneath the dash as another held a small flashlight. Stealing the radio? Hot wiring the ignition? Those assholes had broken into his car!
The fear made his hands tremble, his legs weak. He curled his lip in self disgust. Real men weren’t afraid. He had a gun! And he still stood here afraid like some weak, whining girl.
One of the men laughed. Pete let the safety off the gun still heavy in his coat pocket and rushed forward.
“Hey,” he yelled. His voice cracked, “that’s my car.”
“Que?” one man said.
Another stood slowly up. “Not anymore, man” he said, “its mine now.”
An accent! Spics! Dirty little spics were smearing their dirty little paws over his car!
He had his hand on the gun in his pocket, finger on the trigger. His heart beat in his chest, the top of his head, the soles of his feet.
The other two climbed out of the car, lounged against the front.
“Just move along, damn you. Get away from my car.” His voice shook, but he moved closer, hating his cowardice.
The three men slouched to the center of the sidewalk. He saw they were young, boys rather than men, but two of them were beefy, muscled under a layer of fat.
“You jus’ keep movin’ y’self, man,” the small one drawled.
Pete’s knees were water, his stomach a yawning pit of fear. He clutched the gun in his quivering hand.
/> Don’t shoot yourself in the foot, he thought, but he said, “Get away from my car.”
“You askin’ for it, man,” the small one said, and pulled up his shirt to show a small revolver stuck in his belt.
A gun, a pissant little gun! Three of them to his one and they tried to scare him with a piddly little .22!
He lifted the Mauser out of his pocket, a huge pistol, make six of that toy .22, brought it up in a smooth arc, all fear gone, and fired at the boy with the gun. The muzzle flash lit up their shocked faces, the report echoed down the street. The 9mm slug hit the boy in the chest, throwing him back.
The Mauser had a kick like a mule, and the recoil forced the gun up. He grabbed it with both hands and fired again and again, pulling the gun back into line, picking his shots as if on the target range.
He had the second one down before they could react. The third greaser dirtbag turned and ran. Pete put two rounds into his back, sending him sprawling on his face.
The sounds faded away, the sharp smell of powder hung in the air. The three tough guys were silent lumps, dark against the sidewalk. Blood ran over the curb into the gutter.
Pete said, “Fuck you, Pancho, and the donkey you rode in on.”
What if the car doesn’t start, he thought, but it did and the only damage was a broken driver side window and some scratches around the radio. He pulled away, leaving the lights off for a couple of blocks.
The shakes returned momentarily and he was afraid he would have to pull over. But they passed and then he felt wonderful, strong, brave. He wanted to drive fast, screech around corners, fire the Mauser into the air. This was what a real man felt like!
But he had to get the car out of sight until the window could be fixed. There was glass on the street. The cops might put things together..
In not many minutes he was back in the apartment, the BMW parked against a wall in the garage to hide the broken window. Too excited to sleep, he paced from room to room, reliving the glorious moments when he, with his own hands ! Blasted those wetbacks straight to Hell!
Sometime during the night he got another erection. He thought about Marie, but to hell with that fat bitch. He masturbated and relived the flash and report and ferocious recoil. And the sudden fear on their faces....
He finally fell asleep at his desk, his head next to the Mauser. Worn out as he was, he woke up and watched the early news. No mention of three ex-greasers.
Calling in sick, Pete spent the day repairing the broken window. He drove all the way to Philadelphia and paid cash - too much cash, but whatthehell, it was for a good cause - found a secluded spot off the turnpike and put the glass in, a bitch of a job. More than once he swore at the Mexicans and wished he could shoot them again.
Tedious days. He went to work and dealt with his idiot boss and whining subordinates. He went home and put up with that fat cow Marie. The power of That Night began to fade.
He went to the gun club often and fired his other guns, but it wasn’t the same. He wanted the bark and flash and kick of the Mauser, but if he brought it in then he would have to check it out. Only George knew he hadn’t checked the Mauser out, and George was back in Puerto Rico.
It wouldn’t be the same, anyway. It wasn’t just the gun, it was the targets. He wanted fear, blood, power. Not little holes in cardboard silhouettes.
He built the leather holster and wore the Mauser around the apartment when Marie was off to one of her silly classes or meetings on saving the spotted owl or other damn fool things. The gun itself he kept wrapped in a blue silk scarf that he had given Marie as an anniversary present. The gun deserved it a hell of a lot more than she did. He would wrap up the gun and lock it in his desk when he heard her at the door, then feel resentful and snappish.
Unable to sleep, he went for a long walk past The Spot, the gun hung on his shoulder. Maybe those dirtbags have friends. But he didn’t meet anybody at all.
He called in sick the next day. It was the second time in two weeks, but what the hell. He worked hard and deserved some time for himself. He went for a walk down by Times Square. He didn’t like being without the gun, but he was afraid to cart it around in daylight.
A woman caught his eye. A big woman, with tits out to there, but not fat.
“Hey, lover,” she said, “want a date?”
Sure, why not, he thought, his restless strength running through him. Make a change from...that pig Marie.
“Sure, why not,” he said, “how much?”
“Hundred bucks,” she answered, hooking her arm in his, “and worth every dime.”
Damn. A c-note. But he had over two hundred in his pocket, so what the hell.
The dirty hotel room smelled of cigarettes and marijuana. Pete’s ‘date’ whipped off her clothes and held out her arms.
“C’mon big boy,” she said.
His penis throbbed with power. It was hard, hard, hard. It would stay hard, it had to stay hard. He threw himself on her, grabbed her breasts with both hands, bit her neck. He wanted to thrust, but damn was he getting soft, yes, damn he felt himself soften. He squeezed her breasts, her fat, sagging breasts, saw the roll of fat at her waist, the hair on her upper lip. The bitch turned him off, the fat pig. He pulled away, reached for his clothes.
“Hey,” the woman said, “you’re no fun.”
“Not with you, you fat whore.” Pete buttoned his shirt.
“Yeah, droopy-prick? Well it’s still one big one, whether you get it up or not.” She pushed up from the bed.
“You did nothin’; you get nothin’” Pete slipped on his shoes and reached for his coat.
The woman hit him, a roundhouse swing to his right ear, which hurt like hell. She pushed him hard in the chest. He tripped and went down, her naked body on top of him, all breasts and claws and hair. She dug her nails into his face.
“Pay up, damn you,” she snarled, “or I’ll tear your fucking face off.”
Pinned, he couldn’t move. Her fingernails tore his cheeks.
“All right, all right, dammit. Let me up.”
She let go of his face and sat on his chest.
“Pay and you get up. I should charge you double for trying to stiff me.” She shifted her weight and dug her knees into his chest.
“Ow, I can’t reach my wallet.” God, she was ugly, he thought, nobody sober could fuck her.
“Try harder.” She pressed her knees.
He squirmed, finally managed to pull out five twenties.
Snatching the money, she hopped off his chest. He struggled to his feet.
“Try anything,” she said, “and I’ll stop being nice. Get out of here.”
He went, so angry with pain and humiliation he had trouble finding the elevator. Damn the bitch!
Later, at home, he slapped Marie, left a good red mark on her face. Then he felt better. She ran from the apartment, her sobs echoing down the hall. He put on the Mauser and stalked from room to room, pulling the gun from its sling, practicing a quick, sure draw.
After midnight, Marie still wasn’t back. To hell with her, the silly bitch. He went for a walk, him and the Mauser.
A freeway crossed the Hudson, the approaches to the bridge rising on a black forest of columns and supports. Pete shuffled toward the concrete edge of the river, trying to look hunched and aimless. His hand rested on the gun dragging at his shoulder.
Two men approached. Yes! They were ragged and bearded, the light splashing from the freeway showing faces marked with alcohol or drugs or madness or God knows what.
“Hey, asshole,” one said, “whatcha doin’ on our proppity.”
“We charge rent,” the other one said.
“How much?” Pete muttered. He loosened the Mauser from the sling.
“What cha’ got?” one said. They both laughed.
“Let’s see,” the other said. They were close now.
Pete’s heart beat hard with fear and excitement. The Mau
ser came smoothly from under his coat.
“How about this?” he said and fired.
The bullet caught the one on the right in the chest, throwing him back and slamming him on the ground. The other man cried out, a high pitched, womanish scream. Pete shot him in the stomach. He screamed again, a sound of pure pain and terror. Still on his feet, he clutched the wound as blood poured through his hands.
Ignoring him for the moment, Pete sauntered over to the man lying on the ground. He was still breathing, the hole in his chest gurgling with each breath. His eyes glittered in the dim light. Poor fucker had a sucking chest wound. Not much help for that. Pete slipped the Mauser into its sling, turned away, then suddenly swung back, pulling the gun out and firing three times as quickly as he could aim and pull the trigger after the recoil. The man’s body bounced each time he was hit. No more breathing.
“All fixed up,” Pete said, “don’t bother to thank me.”
The other piece of dogshit was still on his feet, staggering toward the river. He had covered almost a hundred feet, but he was clearly outlined against light reflecting from the water.
Let’s try a head shot. Pete aimed carefully and squeezed off a round. Damn! Missed! He tried again, take it easy, no rush. Ah! The man dropped and rolled onto his back.
The 9mm slugs didn’t spread much, but the exit wound still covered most of his forehead. A good, clean head shot at a moving target in bad light. Not bad, not bad at all.
Holstering the gun, Pete slipped into the shadows. He walked quickly, staying under the bridge approach. Feelings of power and triumph rolled through him. By God! By God! This was what it was like to be a man! To fight and win!
Marie didn’t come home, damn the bitch. Probably at her sister’s but who the hell cares. He paced, reliving the excitement. He masturbated, holding the gun in his other hand, and came like a tiger.
The next morning was like a hangover, tired depressed, nauseous. But he struggled to work and was unnaturally calm and understanding most of the day.
Marie met him at the door that evening.
“Pete, we have to talk.”
He raised his hand and she shrank back. Good, she still remembers who’s boss.
“I come home tired and you’re on me before I can even sit down,” he snapped, “get the hell away from me.”
Locking the door to the den, he put on the gun. He wanted to walk around the apartment with it on, but not with Marie hanging around, watching him. He paced resentfully around the den, his style thoroughly cramped in the little room. Damn her! He fingered the gun. He could do anything he wanted...he forced his thoughts away. He wanted to...never mind.
Sitting at the desk, he stripped and cleaned the gun and installed a new recoil spring while he was at it. With the gun assembled and oiled, he dozed at the desk. Later, he stretched out on the couch for the last few hours of the night.
Marie was still asleep. Holding the gun, he watched her in the morning light. He’d like to show her his real power, little does she know who she’s dealing with, the stupid bitch. Wake her up and...not very smart, no, no. He watched the morning news instead. The police were concerned about a series of killings. Didn’t appear to be gang related. The surge of joy and power almost choked him.
When Marie got up, he used his power to make her cringe. He didn’t have to hit her - she knew she was dealing with a real man. He left her sitting red-eyed and trembling at the kitchen table.
At work, he pitied the people around him, so weak and pathetic, living their empty lives. He usually fawned on any executives who came through the department, but today he was sardonic and slightly condescending. He wished he could wear the gun. He imagined himself wearing the gun. It was a good day.
The good day ended when he got home. Things were missing, pictures from the walls of the tiny living room. The hall rug, a gift from Marie’s mother. In the bedroom, the closet and dresser drawers were empty of her clothes. She was gone! And had taken...my God, my God. Heart pounding, he raced to the den. The desk was still locked. He unlocked it, opened the drawer. The gun was still there, its dark bulk wrapped in the pale blue silk. He strapped it on.
With the gun on, he felt power and anger pour through him. The bitch! Who did she think she was, sneaking away behind his back. Of course, he thought with some satisfaction, she wouldn’t have the nerve to do it to his face, the sniveling cow.
It was some time before he noticed the note on the kitchen table.
“Pete,” it said, “I always thought you would change, and in the last few weeks you have, but not the way I’d hoped. I’ve gone to stay with Victorio. I’m not coming back. Marie”
Victorio, her hulking, weight-lifting, lawyer of a brother. Always frowning and asking her how things were. Pete hitched up the gun. A few minutes with Victorio now, and he wouldn’t be so menacing, the big dumb ox. And Marie...he clutched the gun and ran scenarios of revenge through his mind.
He roamed the apartment for a time, cleaned the gun, masturbated holding the gun, had a TV dinner with the gun on the table beside him, and finally fell asleep with the gun on Marie’s pillow. To hell with her.
At work the next day, he was more subdued, but could still feel the power. He looked forward to getting home. To hell with her. Without her, he could do what he wanted, have the gun with him whenever he wanted.
But the sense of power and satisfaction faded in a few days. He wanted it back, that feeling. The night was warm. He went for a walk, wearing the gun under a long light shirt worn loose.
The streets were frustratingly empty. Where was a scumbag when you wanted one? He walked down alleys in the warehouse district, holding the gun under his shirt.
He finally found a drunk sitting on the edge of a loading dock, a man, a sleeping bag and a broken wine bottle.
“Hey buddy,” the man slurred, “ya got a smoke? Ya got anything ta drink, Ya got....”
“I’ve got this,” Pete said. The man gaped at the gun. Pete shot him in the chest. The bullet knocked him on his back. Pete climbed up on the dock, looked down at the man, the pitiful, fucking worthless drunk.
“You pitiful, fucking, worthless drunk,” Pete said.
“Wha’, wha’, “ the man said. He looked sober now. He reached up. “Help,” he said.
Pete stepped back ten feet and popped him in the ear. He realized the sound of the shot was loud, echoing off the brick and concrete of the warehouses. Might be security around, so better not take the time to gloat. He jumped off the dock and loped down the alley, feeling good.
Safe at home, he masturbated while holding the gun. It was good, but he wanted to fire the gun as he came. Maybe a trip to the Maine woods...he fell asleep with the fantasy, a Real Man in the North Woods.
The feelings of power lasted for days. He was better off without Marie. He still daydreamed of confronting her, her and that slab-sided fool of a brother. But he didn’t seriously consider it, not that he was afraid of Victorio, no, it just wasn’t enough to bother about.
Power ebbed as the days passed, and another lack crept in. Masturbating wasn’t enough, even with the gun. Marie had turned him off, the cow, but even so her body had stimulated him in ways that living alone couldn’t do. A real man needed a woman.
The next morning he called in sick and took the subway to Times Square. This time he took the gun. No one would notice, and he wanted the company. He smiled as he went through the turnstile. He should pay two fares.
Within a block a big, busty blond smiled at him.
“Ya wanna date?” she husked.
“You got a room?” he answered.
“The honeymoon suite at the Ritz, lover, come on.” She took his arm.
As he followed her up the stairs of the cheap hotel, he wrapped his hand around the barrel of the gun swinging in its holster. It was still hard.
A Day at the Beach
The coarse blue paper is
printed with blurry green lines. The lines make half-inch squares, and inside each square is a blurry green tiger head. The tiger appears to be winking. I tear off a square and lay it flat on my palm. I extend my hand to Nadine, the little blue and green scrap bouncing lightly.
Every cell in my body is turned on edge and screaming ‘no, no’ in a tiny little voice. This happens whenever I’m going to drop acid, but I do it anyway.
Nadine holds the little square between her thumb and forefinger and looks closely at it. I tear off another square and pop it into my mouth, chasing it with a swallow of cheap red wine.
“Through the lips and over the tongue, look out reality, here I come.”
Nadine has heard me say that before. She sticks out her tongue and carefully places the blotter acid on the very tip, slurps it quickly into her mouth, and giggles. She chews, swallows and slugs down a generous dollop of wine.
“OK,” she says, “ready to blast off, Commander Cody. Ten, nine, eight.” She drinks some more wine.
Looks like I was right that tripping with Nadine would be fun. I had to talk her into it, but she’s flying just fine. Nadine’s not real bright, but she enjoys life and is for sure a stone pony - speed, pot, mushrooms - I was surprised that she had never taken acid.
We look at each other in silence for a minute or so. I can feel the LSD beginning to nibble at the edges of the world. We drink more wine.
The sound of the surf fills the small room. We’re sitting on the floor in a cheap motel in Lincoln City. In 1974 there are still cheap motels right on the beach at the Oregon Coast, and rooms are easy to get, even in August.
“So, when does it hit?” Nadine asks after another minute.
“It already has,” I say, “you just don’t know it yet.”
Nadine looks doubtful.
I think about continuing Nadine’s political education. She’d never paid much attention to politics and I’ve spent hours bringing her up to date on the war, Tricky Dick and Watergate. She’s not an eager student, and now is probably not the time for another chapter on capitalist imperialism. Instead, I leaf through a copy of The Nation.
A minute or an hour or a year passes. The waves crash through the room, the sound rippling the worn imitation oriental rug. Nadine stares into her wine. It glitters like blood through the thick, chipped glass. The color flows out of the glass and up her arm, turning her face blood red. She sips the wine and the color melts back into the glass.
“So, when does it hit?” she asks again.
I have no idea what she’s talking about. She becomes a statue, a machine, a paper cutout, a doll. A slightly empty-headed, drug-taking, wine-drinking doll. Suddenly, it’s funny enough to laugh out loud.
“What’s funny?” Nadine asks.
“Funny,” I answer, “meaning is funny, funny is as funny ain’t.”
“Is the wind blowing?” Nadine asks, “Are those curtains really moving?” She rocks back and forth. “This isn’t like mushrooms,” she says, “this isn’t very fun.”
I guess she isn’t going to be such a kick to trip with. I would be pissed, but the acid is taking over now, and it’s not important.
From a dim place in the back left corner of my brain comes the reminder that I’m the guide. I struggle to remember what that means.
“Just relax,” I say. I may lose track of meaning, but I can always relax and let the bullshit flow. “Don’t fight it,” I continue, “look at the patterns in the rug.”
The carpet is pulsing gently, its colors glowing. The border moves, marching around the edges of the rug, then twining smoothly along the baseboard. It turns into a giant snake. A frightening snake. An indifferent snake. A friendly snake. A fire hose. A line of marching ants. Before I can react to one image, another appears.
Nadine stares at the rug, still rocking back and forth. I realize that she’s talking, a steady flow of words.
“Then my father said he was leaving,” she says, “and my mother threw a plate....”
Tears are running down her cheeks. Oh, great, some heavy personal shit. Maybe if I just let her talk I won’t have to deal with it.
The visuals are heavy enough. Everything in the room is dancing, changing shape and color. As Nadine talks, her words form into pale motes that fly into the corners of the room. I forget about Nadine as I watch the furniture melt into the floor and reform as abstract shapes. Beautiful, beautiful shapes.
A minute or an hour or a year pass. Nadine emerges from the shifting patterns on my retina, still talking. She’s looking down, tears dripping off the end of her nose.
The room looks like a room again, with a fraying rug and clunky furniture, except everything is outlined in shimmering rainbows. Even the little drops of water falling from Nadine’s nose are haloed with color.
We’re all one, me, Nadine, the carpet, the chairs, the waves pounding the sand outside, all part of the endless cosmic stream. Tears come to my eyes as I feel the joy and wonder and love in all of existence. Nadine is a wonderful child of the universe, and so am I and so is that picture of Mt. Hood on the wall.
A persistent sound drills into my brain, not the waves, too shrill, not Nadine, too shrill even for her. The phone. The room phone is ringing.
“What’s that?” Nadine asks, her eyes wide.
There is something compelling about a ringing phone. I can barely remember who I am and don’t care, but I swoop down from the lofty peak of my thoughts and stumble to the phone. I’ve been sitting in one place on the floor so long both my legs are asleep. I force out a hello. It’s the motel manager.
“Got a call for ya,” he says.
“Thanks,” I answer. The phone twists in my hand. As I give it a shake it goes limp and starts talking.
“Hey, Steve,” it says, “how you doin’?”
“OK,” I answer. I wonder who the hell this is.
“Thought I better let you know,” the phone continues, “just came over the radio that Nixon is going to resign. He’s due on national TV in about an hour.”
“Far out,” I say, then can’t think of anything else .
“You OK?” the phone asks.
“Uh, yeah, I’m a little stoned.”
“Stoned or not, get thee to a TV set. This is a sight not to be missed. I gotta go. Say ‘hi’ to Nadine. The struggle continues!” The phone goes silent. I hang up.
“Who was that?” Nadine asks from her spot on the rug.
“Damned if I know,” I answer, “whoever it was said to say ‘hi’ to you.” I settle back onto the rug, wondering why someone would call to say ‘hi’ to Nadine.
“Why did he call?” Nadine was starting to sound animated again. “Was it Jimmy?”
“Uh,” I say, “yeah, I think it was Jimmy. He didn’t say.”
“So what did he say?”
Now Nadine is being pushy, which she does well. Maybe it was better when she was quiet and tearful. But it doesn’t matter, we’re all one. Even old Tricky Dick is part of the universal flow...oh, yeah, now I remember.
“Nixon’s going to resign,” I say, “on TV, in less than an hour.”
“Groovy,” Nadine says, She’s not very interested - I’ve tried to get her to understand the importance of the fight against oppression and imperialism around the world. She’s not interested.
The room has stopped jumping around. Now I feel mellow and enlightened. Everything’s cool. I think about a TV.
“The Inn at Lincoln City is a half mile or so down the highway. There’s a TV in the bar.” As I say it, a half mile sounds like a long, long way.
“Go somewhere else?” Nadine says doubtfully.
“That’s not far,” I say, “and it would be very cool to see Richard’s shifty little eyes one last time.”
Nadine clearly doesn’t want to go, but whatthehell, it’s cool, everything’s cool. And I want to see the last act in the Nixonian drama.
“C’mon,” I say,
“It’ll be fun.”
I stand up and pull Nadine to her feet. If I’m the guide, I’m going to guide us to something different. I realize I’ve forgotten where we’re going. Oh well, first we’ll get out of the room. I throw open the door.
Nadine looks around the little courtyard, mutters “Oh, God,” and steps gingerly across the threshold.
Of course it’s totally weird out here, a light wind, a thin overcast overhead and scruffy, tufted grass under our feet. No one is in sight and that’s good. There’s the sidewalk and beyond it the street. Cars rush by, their tires growling on the pavement, fast-moving monsters that ignore us in their noisy hurry.
I take Nadine’s hand and pull her along. I don’t like it outside and I want to get to wherever we’re going.
The cars rush past on Highway 101. Nadine is pale, her eyes huge in the soft afternoon light. I think wherever we’re going is this way.
“It’s this way,” I say and drag her down the sidewalk. A truck roars by, breathing fire like a thirty-ton dragon.
“Oh, God,” Nadine says. She clutches my hand so tightly it would hurt if I could feel pain.
The sidewalk rolls away in gentle waves. I realize I’m still very stoned. As I often do, I mistook the slowing after the first long rush for coming down. The world is a strange and threatening place. The wavering sidewalk stretches away forever.
“Not long now,” I say. I have some vague idea I’m supposed to be encouraging, even though the whole damn thing is a mystery to me. The cars and trucks roar by, each one trailing a huge balloon of noise.
I remember when I see the sign ‘Inn at Lincoln City’. The sign’s metal and neon is waving gently in the breeze. Nadine clings to me like I’m the only thing keeping her from going down for the third time.
“We’re here,” I say heartily.
“Thank God,” Nadine cries and pulls me toward the door.
The Inn at Lincoln City clings to a cliff between Highway 101 and the blue Pacific, its foundation on the beach and its eighth floor opening onto the parking lot. Only two stories rise above ground level, so from the highway it looks like a rather small building instead of a huge hotel and condominium with some godawful number of rooms.
We stumble into the quiet lobby, refugees from the turmoil of the great outdoors. Two clerks puttering behind the counter appear to ignore us, but I’m sure they are watching us closely and are probably getting ready to call the police.
“Are they watching us?” Nadine asks, pointing at the clerks.
“Shh,” I answer, “no, they’re not watching us. Be quiet and don’t point, for Chrissake.”
Thankfully, the elevators are easy to find. Nadine is taken with pushing the ‘Down’ button to get from the lobby to the bar.
“Look,” she laughs, “the lobby’s on the eighth floor and the bar’s on the fourth floor. That’s far out.”
I start to think about what a simple little skirt Nadine is, which isn’t surprising considering her lack of education, but I’m distracted by the elevator. Things aren’t jumping around, but colors are vivid and surface textures stand out in high relief.
The elevator is pretty fancy, lined with several colors of wood-grain Formica and plushly carpeted. In my hyper-aware state, I see that under the expensive covers, the elevator is a corroding mess. Rust edges the control panel and streaks the top and bottom of the doors. The aluminum ceiling grid is coated with gray powder.
I’m relieved when the elevator reaches the fourth floor. Nadine is enraptured by the beauty of the Formica and I have to drag her off the elevator and down the hall.
Like the elevator, the hall is expensively carpeted. The carpet doesn’t fit very well and the concrete floor shows at the edges. The concrete is cracked and red with rust. The wallpaper is streaked with water marks and peeling where it meets the floor. I realize that under its sleazy-rich facade, the building is crumbling around us. How appropriate that a playground of the capitalist oppressors is disintegrating, and how much more appropriate that the rot is hidden by sumptuous fittings. My thoughts race down acid-inspired musings, but Nadine interrupts me.
Just past the door to the bar the hallway ends at a large window looking up the beach. Nadine pulls away from me and peers down at the surf.
“Can we go down there?” she asks.
“The elevator goes all the way down,” I mutter. The last thing I want to do is get back on that rotting elevator. I check my watch. “Only twenty-five minutes to speech time. This could be the high point of our lives.”
“God, I hope not,” Nadine says, “we can go down and stand on the sand for a minute or three.” She pulls me back down the hall.
I can hear everything. The television from the bar. A couple arguing in one of the rooms we pass. My heart. The elevator creaking and rattling.
The trip down takes too long. I think about rusting cables, corroding electrical contacts. The door finally opens on a short cross hall. A sliding glass door at the end opens directly on the sand. I stop at the open doorway. Nadine slips off her shoes and kicks up sprays of grit for a few steps, then digs her toes into the sand.
The surf crashes against the shore a couple of hundred feet away. It feels closer. I expect to see water lapping at Nadine’s feet. I look along the building. Every ground floor room has a sliding glass door opening onto the beach. In the winter, storms must push water right up against those doors.
The heavy air flows past me into the hall, curling against the wall paper, the carpet, the concrete and metal. I can feel the salt and damp digging into the fabric of the building, tearing it down a molecule at a time, working behind the brocade wall paper and patterned carpet.
“That was groovy,” Nadine says as we again risk our lives in the elevator, “the sea is...is....”
“The sea is sucking this place into the sand,” I say, “in ten years, all of this will be a heap of rust and broken concrete.”
“Oh, poo,” Nadine says, “it’s wonderful. Smell that fresh sea air.”
Mostly rotting seaweed I mutter to myself as we finally enter the bar and peer through the gloom for a table.
Nadine points. “There’s a table with a good view of the TV,” she says.
There are several tables with a good view of the TV, since the place is almost empty. I’ve forgotten why we need to see the TV, but I follow Nadine. We sit side by side. A large color set hangs above the bar. The picture is good except for a slight greenish tint to the color and a vertical roll every minute or so.
My eyes get used to the dim light and I see that the theme of decaying opulence is continued. We’re sitting in plush captain’s chairs, but the velvety upholstery is threadbare on the arms and the edges of the cushions. The table is covered with something textured to resemble leather, but the edges are chipped and the top is marked with cigarette burns.
The waitress wears a white blouse and stirrup pants. Heavy makeup overlays wrinkles and nicotine-stained teeth.
“Let’s see some ID.,” she says.
I bite back a sharp retort and dig out my OLCC card. This is so freaking humiliating. Nadine presents her card and the waitress scrutinizes them carefully, tilting them back and forth in the dim light.
“Is Nixon going to be on TV?” Nadine asks.
“That’s what they say, honey.” The waitress squints at the cards. “He better be on Channel 2, ‘cuz that’s all we get. OK, what’ll ya have?”
We both order Bud. The waitress has them in front of us in less than a minute. On TV, a hair spray commercial is rolling slowly across the screen. The sound has been turned down too low to hear.
Nadine looks closely at the table, tracing the burn marks with her fingers.
“This place isn’t very clean,” she mutters.
“It’s the acid,” I say.
“Acid makes things dirty?” she asks loudly.
“Shh,” I say sharply, “acid makes you notice the details,
like how dirty some things are.”
“Things aren’t always this dirty,” she says doubtfully, “are they?”
“Some things are and some things aren’t,” I say patiently, “but tripping brings out the detail, which is sometimes dirt.”
Nadine can be freaking dense sometimes. Being stoned doesn’t help her a bit. I wonder again whether hanging out with her is worth the aggravation.
“Here is is,” a voice from the bar says. An announcer type is on the screen, mouth moving silently. The bartender turns up the sound.
The solemn announcer is replaced by an exterior shot of the White House. This dissolves to a picture of Nixon at a desk flanked by two American flags as the announcer intones “...the President of the United States.” So they’re still laying on thick slabs of pomp and circumstance for the crook.
There he is, crouched behind the desk and as close to wrapped in the flag as he can get without actually using it as a shawl. Is this the last time we’ll see those shifty eyes, that stiff, hunched figure? I hope so. He stares into the camera for a moment, looking tired and even more tense and uncomfortable than usual.
“Good evening,” he says.
Is it evening already? I guess it is, back there in Washing Tundy Sea. He goes on, but I can’t hear him, because now Nadine is talking to me.
“...details,” she says.
I don’t catch the first part. For Chrissake, is she going to chatter through this frigging historic event?
“...actually been thinking about this for awhile,” she continues.
Nixon says, “...felt it was my duty to persevere, to make every possible effort to complete the term of office to which you elected me,” his eyes dart back and forth, his hands clasp and unclasp on the desk.
“Nadine,” I whisper, “that is Richard Milhous Nixon throwing in the towel. I want to hear his last words.”
“...there is no longer a need for the process to be prolonged,” Nixon says. The camera moves closer. His forehead glistens with sweat.
“This is important,” Nadine whispers fiercely.
Great. As if that sweaty little man on TV wasn’t important. This is the culmination of years of struggle, another dagger in the heart of imperialism. Trust Nadine to get her priorities screwed up. She’s usually laughing and joking. She’s picked a hell of a time to get serious.
“...I might not have the support of the Congress,” Nixon says.
Might not have the support? The Congress is going to impeach his ass!
“From when I first met you, I thought you were smart and interesting,” Nadine says.
Apparently she’s not going to shut up. I strain to hear Nixon.
“To continue the fight,” he says, “...for my personal vindication...focus should be on the great issues of peace abroad...I shall resign....”
I catch words and phrases through Nadine’s babbling. Something about what she wants in a relationship. What about me? I’d like some intelligence in a relationship, and right now I’d like a little consideration.
“I’m glad we did this today, because it really has made things more clear,” Nadine goes on and on. “Steve, you’re intelligent or bright or whatever, but I don’t think you’re very smart, not about people anyway, or the way to treat people.”
Nixon says, “And to those who have not felt able to give me your support, let me say I leave with no bitterness toward those who have opposed me, because all of us, in the final analysis, have been concerned with the good of the country, however our judgments might differ.”
For Chrissake, he’s not admitting to anything. After all he’s done, to sit there and still weasel and squirm. Why can’t people take responsibility for their actions?
“You know lots of stuff,” Nadine says, “and you went to that fancy eastern college, but you aren’t really very nice.”
“What?” I ask. What is she talking about? The acid edge is back, putting a little rainbow around every light. The TV shimmers gently, and even the evil Richard has a little multicolored halo.
“I thought maybe it was me,” Nadine continues, “ that I was just dumb. But I thought about it today, and I’m not dumb. I don’t know all the political and historical stuff you know, and I only went to Oregon State, but I’m not dumb.”
She could have fooled me about being dumb. I’ve never said that and I don’t say it now. My mind bounces back and forth between the TV - Dick the Prick pulling out - and Nadine’s earnest face.
“We have ended America’s longest war....” Nixon says.
Wait a minute. Wait a freaking minute. This bird is dumping me. Could this be true? My mind spins.
“I’m not good for you?” I sputter, “I help you with....”
Nadine holds up her hand. “I know,” she says, “you have lots of advice and ideas on how I should do my job, live my life. But you don’t care about my ideas. You say you’re helping me, but I think you’re just showing off how smart you are.”
I want to point out how wrong she is, but I can’t think of anything she would understand.
Nixon says, “I have fought for what I believed in. I have tried to the best of my ability to discharge those duties and meet those responsibilities that were entrusted to me.” For Chrissake, after all that’s happened, he still can’t or won’t understand how wrong he’s been. and how much damage he’s done to the country.
“So,” Nadine says, “I think it’s better if we don’t see so much of each other.” She touches my hand. “We can talk some more about this if you want, but that’s how I feel and I wanted to tell you. I’m glad you insisted on this trip, it really cleared things up.”
She’s actually honest-to-God dumped me. In this crummy bar. I focus on the TV.
“May God’s grace be with you in all the days ahead,” Nixon says, and fades from the screen.