Saving the World, One Appliance at a Time
“Can you hear me now?”
I know. I know. But we only get the one go round, right?
We’re at the place, our special place, and my work face has replaced my everyday face, lack of hair included. “I’m only going to tell you why they call me ‘The Arm’ once. Do yourself a favor: listen the fuck up and slow the fuck down. You do that, all three of us can get to the places each of us needs to be.” I look over to Randy, offer him the megaphone. He shakes his head, pulls his pants up and over his ever expanding gut. “I ever once take that thing when you ask?”
I smile and look back down toward the man of the hour; to the man whose name is Paul. He’s wearing skinny jeans and a ratty flannel shirt which flails each time he tries to run up the sides of the pool. Sliding back down, nothing changes, the man coming to rest within beers cans, wines bottles, and other, less distinguishable waste. “It was an accident, really, me getting that nickname. Me and my brother here just doing our bit the day it went down,” I go on, my voice twenty-six stories high. I tell him of Marty Barnes and how he and that particular piece of shit shared the same strain of dirt-bag; middlemen to monsters who used children like toys. Taken by surprise, Barnes gets past both Randy and I that day but Randy, his abdomen nowhere near the unstoppable expansion it will become, is up and after him before I can pull myself from the floor. Dazed, I hit the balcony in hopes of becoming a lookout.
“Everything happens fast after that. I mean, really fast.”
In boxers and a beater-T, Barnes is below me, twenty stories down and catching his breath behind a rusted-out Ford. To my left, on the concrete, is the air conditioner I would become famous for. I pick it up, heave, and call out to Barnes two or three seconds after the leaking machine has left my hands. Now, I have never been the best of shots, not on the best of days, but I will admit to being somewhat lucky in life. It’s the only reason Barnes takes off when he does I think, and why he looks up and back the moment I call his name. “I saw his eyes too, there before the metal took each of them away. Not fun. Not how you’d think. Every last bit of bone, hair, and grey matter parceled out into something like a nine-foot radius. This doesn’t even include the blood puddle his neck creates.”
My little speech done, I release the bowling ball I’d been taunting in promise. Lob it like the weapon of destruction I want it to become. The man screams as it descends. Continues to scream as the concrete above his head cracks, relents, and comes to hold the ball like an eye. Behind me, Randy sighs. “You know you have a problem, right?”
I want to ignore him, I do, but sometimes a brother is the only friend a man can have. “It’s only a problem if you can’t stop. I’ve read the books. Pretty sure you should read them too.” He eyeballs me hard, just like our father used to do. It doesn’t do half of what he thinks it does but it’s a game neither of us can quit. Not if we wanted answers.
I turn back round, drop ball after cinderblock after microwave oven. The balls I found on sale at SPORTCHEK, everything else being me adjusting to the environment I’d been given. So you know, either way.
The man named Paul dances and rolls, shucks and jives, and still I come close to hitting him more times than not. I can’t quite hear the words pouring from his mouth, not really, but a pretty good bet would be he knew we were done with fucking about.
Last bowling ball deployed, I straighten first my holster and then my badge. Randy does the same.
Time to see if our incentive took.
Time to see if our bird was ready to sing.