TWO FAGGS AND A DEAD GUY
by Stephen McLean
Harold Peterson, rummaging through the drawer of a very old and stained wooden coffee table, pauses. He stands upright stretching, his back cracking with age.
“Can't find a damn smoke in the whole damn house”.
Reaching, Harold pulls the cushions from a tattered couch, tossing them angrily on the worn circular carpet.
“Guess I'm gonna' have to head down to Charlie's for a pack”.
Harold stares at the open drawers of his tiny kitchen, their contents spread across the counter top.
“I hate owing Charlie...anything”.
Grabbing a fisherman's coat from the rack, Harold pulls cap over his thin graying hair. Stuffing a can of beer in each coat pocket, he heads out into the night, the door banging loudly behind.
Robert Mathews bobs his head back and forth to the music playing on the car radio. His shaggy dark hair wildly whips across his face as headlights desperately try and pierce through the darkness. Tires fight to keep their grip on the twisting and winding road as they loose in the conflict. With no road lamps to guide him, each turn becomes more and more difficult as Robert adjusts the music louder, unknowingly picking up speed.
Twisting, reaching into the back seat for beer, Robert is oblivious to the shadow walking in the middle of the road.
Bones crunch as the figure bounces off the hood, smashing the windshield. A hard crank of the steering wheel, causes the car to run off the road, sliding along the rocky mountainside.
Robert finally brings the car to a stop.
White knuckles, Robert holds onto the steering wheel, staring blankly ahead into the night, His body ridged. Moments pass like hours, when Robert finally reaches into his shirt pocket pulling out a pack of cigarettes.
“Shit! Only two fags left”.
He shoves the pack back into his pocket and reaches into the backseat. With shaking hands, Robert snaps a can of beer form the plastic ring, opens it and takes a small sip. He holds the can up as a tribute.
“One vice to replace another”.
Downing the beer in several gulps, Robert grabs another, and takes a deep swallow as his body finally stops shaking.
“I am so screwed”.
Gaining composure, Robert pulls a flashlight from the glove box and opening the door, takes a calculated step out onto the ground. He grabs another beer and tosses the empty into the back seat.
“I keep this up, I'm going to get messed up...better check whatever the hell it was I hit”.
Walking around the car, Robert assesses the damage.
“Dented hood and fender. Smashed window. Spattered blood...blood”?
Robert turns, shining the flashlight down the road. The light vanishes in the darkness.
“This is bad, so very bad”.
Once again he reaches for his shirt pocket, and pauses.
“Damn! Forgot. Only two fags left”.
Shoving the pack into his shirt pocket, Robert stares down the road.
“Maybe I should take a walk back and see what type of animal I hit”.
Robert shines the flashlight down the road, walking cautiously, he shines the light surveying the area. His foot brushes on something lying on the shoulder of the road. Bending down, Robert picks up a blood smeared baseball cap. Down from the cap is a crushed pack of cigarettes.
“I have a bad feeling that was no animal”.
Robert shines the flashlight back and for the across the road, walking slowly. Off to the side, a pair of boots stick up from within the bushes.
“Oh man...this is not looking very good”.
A few steps closer revels a crumpled body which appears to be elderly man with a body that is twisted and distorted.
“Oh man”.
Robert walks slowly in circles.
“Oh shit. This is so freaking bad”.
Stumbling as he goes, Robert hurries back to the car. Leaning on the trunk, panting, sweat forming on his forehead. Robert shakes uncontrollably.
“I killed the poor bastard. I actually killed someone. What the hell am I going to do now”?
“Hey! Buddy! Got a smoke”?
Robert turns, falling back on the trunk in fright.
“It can't be! You're the, the guy I hit”!
Harold Peterson somewhat twisted, bent and quite dead, stands along side Robert. Blood stained coat, his head fixed facing to one side staring up toward the stars, Harold holds out his hand.
“Harold Peterson here. But please call me Harry”.
Robert studies Harold up and down. Torn pants covered with a mix of blood and mud, a twisted right arm, and turned head causes Robert's stomach to turn.
Harold reaches up with his left hand and snaps his head foreword causing Roberts legs to give way and buckle. Robert falls hard to the ground as Harold twists his right arm back into place.
“Oh man. That was just sick. I think I'm going to be sick”.
“Son. You're not really looking' so well...need a hand up”.
“I'm not looking so well? Dude, you got a mirror. You're dead man! Don't you realize it”?
Harry holds out his hand again.
“Names Harold Peterson. You can call me Harry”.
Pulling himself up, Robert grabs Harold's hand and gives it a firm handshake.
“Okay, whatever...Robert here”.
Bones crunching, Robert quickly releases Harold's hand.
Curiously, Robert watches as Harold's head very slowly falls backward until he is staring up at the stars once again.
“You wouldn't happen to have something to prop my head up would ya ya there Bobby”?
“Ah, sure. Hold up a minute”.
Robert takes a piece of rubber carpet from the car, and grabbing a roll of duck tape, stands in front of Harold. Robert surveys the position of Harold's head.
“You know...someone is going to have to lift up your head”.
With unstable arms, Harold reaches up and pulls his head back into an upright position. His neck cracks loudly as Harold positions his head to face forward.
“There. Now could you please hurry. I feel the blood draining from my arms”.
Robert wraps the mat around Harold's neck and begins securing it with duck tape.
“Dude. You have no blood in your arms”.
Robert stands back from Harold, tossing the duck tape into the back seat of the car.
“Hey thanks. Feel better already Bobby”.
“That's Robert...kind of sensitive about...”
“Ya, whatever. Let's go to my place for a beer Bobby”.
“I got beer in the car...Harry”.
Harold turns and stiffly walks off the road into the bushes. Harold motions back as he walks.
“Common! Bring your brews. My place is up this way”.
Robert gathers the six packs from the back seat of the car, bundling them in his arms. Running, almost scrambling, Robert heads after Harold.
“Hey! Harry. Hold up...oh what the hell am I doing”?
Robert, slightly out of breath, catches up to Harry.
“Hey Robby. You got a smoke? Kind of lost the new pack I got from my buddy Charlie”.
“It's Robert...oh, never mind. Sorry Harry. Only have two left and they have to last me”.
A few minutes of walking in silence, and they reach Harold's home.
An overgrown weed filled front lawn leads up to a small wooden shack that has seen better days. The cracked front window, is patched together with weather faded gray duct tape. A front door that is slightly off it's hinges, has a piece of rope for a door handle. It opens and closes slightly with the wind, banging gently against the frame.
“Ah, Harold. Is this where you live”?
“It ain't much Robby, but it's what I call home. Come on”.
Robert hooks a six pack in each of Harold's hands. Takes one of the smokes from his pack, lighting it, sucks back deep.
“Harry. Is this place safe”?
“Sure. You got another one of those”?
“I told you Harry, buddy. Only have two...now one”.
“Sigh, alright. This way Robby”.
Shuffling, Harold heads slowly up the dirt walkway, the six packs of beer swingingly comically from side to side. Robert shrugs, tosses his cigarette butt, and follows Harold into the house.
Harold drops the six packs onto a small stained coffee table in front of a tattered, brown corduroy couch. The multi colored round carpet, worn with age, puffs dust as Harold shuffles into the kitchen. Pushing dishes into an already crowded sink, Harold grabs an already open bag of potato chips.
“Got some munchies to have with the beer, if you are interested Robby”.
“Ah, think I'll pass Harry”.
Robert tosses his leather jacket on the couch and, opening himself a beer, pops one and passes it to Harold.
“Here's a cold one for you dude”.
Harold raises the tin up to his mouth. Unable to bend his head back, he struggles as he attempts to take a sip. The beer spills down Harold's chin and onto this flannel shirt.
“Robby my friend, I seem to have a bit of a problem”.
“Ya, you happen to be dribbling a bit dude”.
“No kidding”.
Harold, placing his beer on the counter, gets a pair of scissors from the drawer. From under the sink, he pulls a foot long piece of plastic tubing from a large roll, and snips it off. Slipping the tube into the can of beer, Harold takes a sip.
“Ah, that's better”.
“Guess you gotta' do what you gotta' do. Cheers dude”.
“And to you too Robby.”
Robert looks about the small one room home. Front room, kitchen with a cast iron stove. A small cot off to one side of the room. A tiny broom closet beside the refrigerator doubling as a coat rack.
“Harry buddy. Where's the washroom? Have to go take a pee”.
“Out the front door to the right. Little shed with the moon on the door”.
“Right. Thanks Harry”.
Beer in hand, Robert heads out the door.
“To the right! And don't step in my garden”.
“Garden? What frigging garden”?
Harold picks up Robert's jacket and takes out the cigarette pack from the breast pocket. Slipping the last cigarette into his mouth, Harold lights it and heads out the back door.
“Hey Harry. Back”.
Robert looks about the small house. Harold is no where to be found. Grabbing another beer to replace his empty one, Robert scans the small house.
“Alright. Where you at Harry”?
A bright light fills the house through the back door window. Robert places his beer on the coffee table, by the empty cigarette pack, and walks toward the light.
Entering the back yard, Harold stands off in the distance smoking Roberts last cigarette. Harold waves back at Robert, cigarette in hand.
“Have to go Robby. Nice meeting you”.
“Hey! You took my last smoke”?
The light gets brighter, as an angel walks up beside Harold. Places a hand on Harold's shoulder.
“It is time to go”.
A quick wave, and Harold turns, walking into the light alongside the angle. They disappear as the light fades. Robert, shaking his head, walks back into Harold's house.
“Well let's see. Seven beers, half bag of potato chips and no smokes. What's the plan then”?
Placing a baseball cap on his head, Robert walks straight through the house, and out the front door.
“Need some smokes. Guess I'll have to go down to Charlie's. I hate owing Charlie”.