The Saddest Break of Day
P. H. Madore
May 2006
May 2006
In my room I stuffed three pistols (two for Corey, one for me), the AR, and two fresh bottles of Bacardi into a duffel bag where the cash had been resting since the day of the first call.
Corey was already outside revving his Thunderbird. I took a last look at our apartment, and soon nodded out as we went south of Boston.
I awoke to Corey’s laughter and looked at him and said, "What?"
"Nothin."
I knew. He was a happy drunk–it was why he drank pretty often.
"Pull over," I said. "I’ll drive."
"Ain't got a license," he said, suddenly serious.
"Yer fuckin drunk!"
"We get pulled over we’re completely fucked–these plates’r still hot," he admitted.
"Ain’t eithah," I said thinking I was right, but he didn’t answer. "What the fuck? I thought you fixed that, you stupid son of a bitchin motherfuck!" Again he didn't answer and he was wearing a moronic smile which actually angered me. "Then gimme the bottle." I could smell rum emanating and remembered that it was how we’d met–the only two at some forgotten crack whore’s party who could drink straight rum.
"Na–"
I cocked my heater.
"Wouldn’t shoot me, Pete." He said my name in a way which implied that I was being irrational.
"You think," I said, not exactly sure how serious I was.
He tossed the bottle into my lap carelessly, rum slopping onto my clothes. I was satisfied with that, even if I wanted to bust the bottle on his skull. It was his car though, probably the only thing of value he owned besides a gun or four. I put the safety on, made sure he noticed. "I will next time, you cunt," I told him, and couldn’t help but smile.
I turned the radio on medium volume. I hoped to fool him, keep him thinking I was aware although I was trying to be rested and mindful for the transaction. I leaned back in the seat, relaxed.
The sun set.
The next time I awoke, we were at a gas station. Corey was inside, all smiling red cheeks. I noted three cop cars. I felt pride–he was becoming bold as me every day, finally learning that people see only what they want to.
He came out toting four packs of gum. Unlike most drunks, his cheeks were the only giveaway–he never stumbled, talked too fast, or got belligerent without provocation.
I reached behind the seat and quickly checked on the cash and protection in the pump island lights. Reclined and fell to sleep once again, and in my dream I heard a tugboat–I'd spent the entire dream somewhere near Booth Bay Harbor up in Maine.
The sudden shatter of glass was real, and I was launched to consciousness as my body heaved forward, my head smacking the dashboard. I smelled rum and burning rubber and blood–surrounding me was the stink of indulgence. As my head slammed back my eyes were wide. Headlights I knew to shine golden were spots of white; tail-lights I knew as red were countless scattered shades of gray.
As the car rolled once on its side, I reached left for Corey to touch his heart, see if there was a pulse still; touched his neck and was immediately and truly shocked for the first time since adolescence–there was no pulse, no head.
I pulled my piece and held the barrel to my temple. I thought about cashing in right then. Starting over's a bitch, I knew from experience; the game had turned on a silver dollar and I felt unwilling to change with it. My partner and closest friend was lost to me, to his family, to the game, to his own weak desire.
The radio filtered into my weakened consciousness: Oh-oh, take the money and run, Steve Miller sang. Corey’s favorite drinking song ever since we’d hit some fuck called Chad for our first eight grand.
I yanked the hefty duffel bag from the back of my seat and crawled through the open skull of the windshield, dragging the duffel behind me, and walked until dawn.
It wasn't just the saddest break of day I’ve ever witnessed, in grayscale as it was, but one of my last. I haven’t seen anything for over two years now, and sitting here doing nothing I am often glad that I can't see things which jog my memory. Things which make me regret not pulling the trigger either time.
P. H. Madore was born in Providence. He did not own TFF until three years after this piece was first published, so take your accusations elsewhere.
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