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American Standard
The SUV made a sharp left, smashing the wall, hurling pieces of its grill towards me. I
protected myself, ducking my head as debris flew past me. Smoke seeped out the hood.
Its front-end struck where the north wall met the east wall. I saw a longhaired, thin
pedestrian on his cell phone, the only person on the early morning street. Fear spread like
a hallow-point bullet through my heart. I walked around the rear of the death machine,
finding the driver slumped over the steering wheel, the safety harness around his sloped
shoulders. Longhair still talked on his mobile.
I wanted to scream at the unconscious driver, “You fucking shit, I should pump two
shots into your skull.” The last time I used my over-and-under .38 derringer I killed a
highway patrol man. In lonely, backcountry darkness, who would find out? A man named
Kirk had sold me the derringer in front of a cracked, piss-painted American Standard
urinal at the back of a bar.
A fire truck, then two squad cars arrived. One officer tried to open the door, but it was
jammed. An emergency tech used a pick-and-pry tool and the door opened. The driver
was still unconscious. Or dead, I hoped. He finally came to, his fat, bland pale face, a
chunk of puke dribbling down his jaw. His face was that of an all-night, fast food
manager, burping cheeseburgers from his thin lips.
I walked away, seeing Clara stare out a window of Ta-Ta’s, an organic food restaurant.
I’d eaten there often, getting more than friendly with her. An occasional bonk and
blowjob ( think about sucking warm yogurt ) made me healthier than anything Ta-Ta’s
served. The following day I ordered an espresso there.
“Where’s Clara?” I asked.
“She quit. I really liked her,” the waiter said.
“So do I.” I drank slowly, listening to reggae on my iPod earbuds. That reminded me
of listening to reggae while emailing Kirk. He once told me that he had killed eight or
ten ( who counted? ) Mexicans and Indians. “They’re animals,” he told me. I clearly
remembered that, jabbering in a scuzzy bar. He gave me his email address and I stashed
the card in my wallet. That had been my only contact with him.
Kirk sold survival books online, as well as a book he wrote about his years working
undercover for the FBI, informing them of far-right hate groups and militias in America.
That night, Clara promised a visit, but failed to show. Filling her void, I e-mailed Kirk,
telling him about my past years of antiwar activism. Generic, tired blather, my rant,
except for a confession of stabbing to death an undercover informer after a demonstration
against war and capitalism. “You’d understand, even though we’re at opposite ends of the
spectrum,” I wrote, thinking how close we were. Perhaps after watching so much porn,
substituting Clara’s face and body for every female who got boffed or spat out sperm, I
weakened, getting soft, confessing as a schoolboy might to a priest.
Kirk must have hired that driver. Was that paranoia or real? I paid, leaving Ta-Ta’s.
Walking across the street, I saw the cement gouged out where the SUV crashed. My only
witness was Clara. I had to find her. I was as inconspicuous as the driver, just another
loser except I had a .38 derringer.
I drove past a used car lot. I never was much of a car-guy, but this time I looked. I
parked my car, seeing a salesman talk to a customer, a short, balding man, with a thick
dressing around his forehead. I watched the two enter the office. I waited. When I had
a clearer view of the man walking to the Hyundai, it was the same asshole in the SUV.
I trailed him to a cruddy motel outside of town, the kind where ex-cons, parole
violators and prostitutes lived. I parked a block away, walking to the motel, finding the
Hyundai. I got out and walked to their room. I listened through the cracked window,
hearing Clara call him Dad. I peeked through the glass, seeing him give her cash, putting
the thick roll in his pant pocket.
She counted the bills, saying, “$2,000. I can live on this for a few months.”
“Kirk will pay for another try,” he said.
“Trafficking gals from Canada means beaucoup bucks.”
“Killing old ‘60s’ lefties pays too.”
She went into the bathroom, shutting the door. I kicked the rickety door in, seeing
recognition spread over her dad’s flabby face.
I pulled the derringer from my jacket pocket, telling him I would not kill him.
“Relax, I’ll wait until Clara comes back,” I said. Then I walked towards him, shoving
the derringer to his forehead and pulled the trigger. “I lied,” I said, giving the corpse a
kick in the ribs. Clara entered the room and I pointed the derringer at her.
“I wouldn’t hurt you, I’m sure you realize that,” I said. Her face paled, her lips
quivered, perspiration dripped from her hairline. I closed in, pinning her against the wall,
then slid the gun up her belly to her sweaty forehead.
“If Kirk owns you, I gotta kill you,” I said, I squeezed the trigger and said, “Goodbye,
shit.” Her body collapsed, reminding me of the glee I felt when both towers fell that day.
A car pulled up. I looked out the window and saw a Mercedes. Kirk shut the door,
walking quickly towards the room. His large frame towered over me. I sat on the bed,
the derringer at my side. He picked the gun up, reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out
two bullets, dropping them into the chambers.
“Killing civilians is harder, isn’t it, George?”
Before I confessed to whacking the Highway Patrolman, he squeezed the trigger.
George Sparling has been published in many literary magazines including Tears in the Fence, Lynx Eye, Hunger, Rattle, Red Rock Review, Rattle,
Paumanok Review, Lost and Found Times, and Potomac Review. He has had many jobs, such as a welfare caseworker in East Harlem, a counselor/reading instructor in
the Baltimore City Jail, and a scuba diver for placer gold in the Trinity Alps of Northern California for two years.
He tries through fiction and poetry to give all dark things the light they require to exist unconditionally.
The tension between persons living in pain and the struggle not to fail as human beings also concerns him.
Email: George Sparling
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