Shovelling handfuls of sand into my mouth like it’s going out of style. It ain’t headed anywhere, but I’m straight up starving. Somehow this is upsetting my stomach worse. Chugging ginger ale to ease the pain of living, laughing, and loving, and yet it’s all supposed to be good in the hood. So why can’t I stop? Shirt bursting at the seam, buttons hand-sewn in Hawaii popping off like a party at Mike DiRenzio’s house. Talk about an hourglass figure. You’ve got to be kidding me.
The man steps off the beach for the last time. He can’t help but think of his life as a sequence of moments in a plot, the string connecting those moments nearing its end. The handgun shifts.
It’s ironic. The idea of driving a hundred and fifteen miles just to sit on a patch of grass (except minus the grass (and the dirt) and replace them both with miles of miles of sand even though we’ll never really know how deep sand even goes, digging through without it just falling back in on itself is one of life’s great impossiblities) to look at the ocean and say ‘good job’ before getting shot in the head pow pow two bullets to the back hitman style (you gotta check out this movie Boondock Saints it’s sick as fuck, bro). I’m falling, sand filling the whole above, limbs flailing, this shit taking a full on eternity. I think I get it now.
The man doesn’t think of himself as a man, but rather a space that occupies spaces. Something in between, something that stops––a force other than self. Maybe he isn’t a man. Maybe he’s a woman. Or maybe he’s neither, a being without center. Imagine being so determined by one event that your identity becomes the event and all you are is the thing and not the person outside the thing. Thirteen in the magazine. Imagine only categorizing your life by an event. One in the chamber.
The obituary read something like this:
Don Williams was born and raised in Middleboro, WA. It’s not known by this reporter if he enjoyed getting shot in the head or not, but we are forced to assume that he did not. Was it his dying wish, or perhaps, more complicated than that, something he never even considered? There are limited resources at our disposal without a social media account with which to determine a lifetime lived. Shortcomings must bid adieu in the case of the senseless beach death. He might be missed. He might not. Our sincerest apologies; this is not our finest hour.
The man––or the shape in the shape of something coming––looks at the address in their hand. Written on the back of a napkin for a nearby gas station that serves fish tacos in the back room. An address passed to the shape like a bad idea you can’t shake. A secret never to be intervened against. The shape looks at the houses on the street, titled shacks with addresses hidden behind tropical overgrowth, the chaotic music of a flock of green parrots hidden in the palms towering above the healthily cracked street. Cars half-rusted by salt heavy air. Then the shape sees it, a little yellow one-room, front door open to let in the breeze. Sounds of splashing from the backyard. This is the moment the shape takes the handgun from the waistband of pizza-print swim trunks.
Literally. That’s the word I’ve been thinking of. Couldn’t remember it for the life of me. Literally the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Such a simple word, how could I forget it? Something’s wrong with my brain, losing bits and pieces through a hole in the back. How am I supposed to remember the details when I’ve never even known–fuck–forget the thread again. That fear of not remembering your locker combination but it’s my home address and all I’m able to do is wander these streets for nigh on a hundred years. Only dogs can see me now.
The shape follows the narrative string to the inevitable, unable to step away or remove themselves even if they wanted to––forced into this by an unseen hand typing each next step. Typing, the sound pulling the shape toward the backyard. Old typing. Not the modern weak click of laptop keys, but the heavy mechanical thud of vintage history. Smith Corona or Royal. Ink to paper through violent punctuations. Permanent. And the splashing, shallow and playful. And the laughter––or giggling, someone who’s just tricked the warden into an all-you-can-eat last meal. The handgun’s a Glock G23 Gen 4 with a shortened trigger distance, Trijicon red-dot sight, trigger pull of less than 5lbs, extended suppressor, Longhorn slide pull charging handle, and a magazine loaded with jacketed hollowpoints. A dog barks somewhere close. A child laughs somewhere far.
The shape looks over the fence and sees him––the writer. Sitting in a kiddie pool, naked, portable Smith Corona typewriter in his lap. He types a set of phrases, says “Literally” and giggles to himself again. The shape points the handgun at the writer, a forensic string connecting the end of the suppressor to the back of the writer’s head, evidence to later map the bullet’s trajectory, an effort to find a killer who’s already a ghost. Five pounds of pressure against the trigger. The shape takes the inevitable shape. All this is is sound and silence.
Oh shit wait what’s happening? Uhhhh… hello?
Tex Gresham is the author of Heck, Texas (Atlatl Press). He lives in Las Vegas with his partner and kid. He’s on Twitter as @thatsqueakypig and online at www.squeakypig.com.
KKUURRTT is glad you read his thing. His novel Good at Drugs is forthcoming
from Alien Buddha Press. He can be found on Twitter at @wwwkurtcom.