No Sense in Figurin’ on When

“Just look at him. Standing under that same fucking lamp post like nothing’s going on.”

            Steam like Spirits eschewed from the hood of Dick’s rusty-not rustic- 1985 Mustang. Ice, melted to slush in the off-warmth of the day, nestled into the bosom of the street-curb, solidifying in the chilled night air. John strained his eyes trying to make out the kid. The lamp was flickering as they approached, but died when they killed the engine.

“Can’t get him into the light, can we?” Asked Dick, fooling with the heater. “I like to look at their faces.”

“It’s all the same shit to me.”

“Same shit.”

            The kid leaned on the lamp post, lit up a cigarette, and tapped his knees together. Beyond that, it was hard to make out his face. Had the light not gone out, and the only light been the distant lamps reflecting off of green dumpsters and the side panel of a grey impala, they would have been able to make out his face, contracted and wrinkled in the cold, wind-whipped and sun-blasted (leaving an irregular, patchy tan like a Pinto whose Maaco paint job had seen one too many years), with a pair of eyes painted a dark brown melancholy; a visage carved from out of adolescence, which looked much like James Dean…post mortem.

“Turn on the radio won’t ya, Dick.”

“Speakers blown out.”

“When’d that happen?”

“Dunno. No since in figuring on when.”

“Not like it matters much.” John mumbled in exasperated tones, stretching his arms back, interlacing each finger, cracking every bone, smiling in satisfaction, his eyes squinting in the pleasure of a good stretch. But it would have mattered, had he turned on the radio, which was set to some phony radio-vangelist who would have said thirty minutes of bullshit, rapping around a single line that would have saved John’s soul. Still, “Probably best to keep quiet.” He thought. “Whaddaya make of this kid, anyway?”

“Dunno.”

“Just stands in the dark, waiting for cars to come by.”

“Standing,” he breathed,  “…waiting.” Waiting just as they waited. Breathing just as they breathed. Though the kid, alone, would occasionally respond to a slowing Jetta playing techno music, and perform and intricate performance with his and the driver’s hands. “It’s too damn hot in here.”

“You know what Joe says?”

Dick didn’t give a fuck what Joe said.  But he gave John an appeasing, “What does Joe say?” as he tapped his fingers slowly on the dashboard; tadadadum…tadadadum…

“Says the kid ain’t got no folks. Whaddaya make of a sonnovabitch kid ain’t got no folks?”

“Sad story.”

“They’re all sad stories.”

“Same shit.”

John and Dick watched the kid from the comfort of their steaming ‘stang. They smoked cigarettes and wiped the grit from the corners of their red eyes, though they were red for different reasons. Dick was allergic to cigarette smoke, and his eyes would burn and water every time that he took a puff. John had insomnia, and got about five hours of sleep a week. It was easier after a drink and a smoke, but he was dyspeptic, and the drink would irritate his bowels, so he only drank in private. This was a problem, because he felt like a drunk, drinking alone.

“Did you bring the camera?” John asked.

“I got the camera. In the trunk.

“Well that’s not gonna help us much is it?

“Seat folds back.”

“You gotta think sometimes, Dick.”

“I’ll hold your cigarette.”

“Forget it. It’s almost burnt down anyway. How am I supposed to move around back here with all this shit on the seat? No wonder this car smells like wet socks.”

Dick’s mind was elsewhere. Like machine with a primary function, he maintained locked on what he was programmed to do. Blood, like oil, flowed through his veins to fuel the engine of his heart, which ignited a system made to do one thing without conscience; one thing without repercussion; one thing guided by nothing but his own stock coding to survive, thrive, enterprise, and be the last one standing—standing on a pile of obsolete predecessors.

“Here’s the fuckin’ thing.”

“Just step into the light you little shit. Just step into the light…”

 

Snap. Shot.

 

            The eye is such a complex organ that scientists have yet to develop a comparable device to mimic the capabilities of the original organ. The beauty and intricacy of the retina, the pupil and the iris—the versatility of a lens that can focus in a deep field and a shallow field, in crisp, vibrant color. No physical human capability—no individual talent—can replicate the delicate precision of the eye. All human kind has to attempt to replicate the ocular miracle is a camera–(a lens and a mirror that must be manipulated by hand) that strange device-that fascinated John since he was a child.

John used to photograph beetles that he found under piles of fence posts that his father always intended to put up. Rollie-pollies and pincher bugs were a favorite subject. He made a pinhole camera out of a Pringles can, black electrical tape, and oven paper. His jaw would slump as he stared through the spy-hole, observing the inverted, black and white, blurry version of the world in front of him. In order to see through the pin-hole camera, however, he needed light. So he would take a jar, gather the bugs from the shaded mud under the fence-posts, and transplant the bugs to a sunnier spot; to a slab of concrete in the front yard. On this slab, John used to lay out the six or seven bugs he caught, get out his camera, and excitedly stare at their movements, save for the ones that died along the way.

He would stare longer at the dead dung beetles and pincher bugs, in awe of the stillness that he had yet to achieve, not understanding the finality of their stillness; not understanding the pain of suffocation or the confusion of entrapment, the blinding burning eruption of light forced upon nocturnal sensors magnified by the concave glass jar; magnified by time; time lost, time illuminated, breathless, daunting, foreboding, diminishing…

 

The kid felt heavy in his converse as his thirst demanded that he find something to drink. His throat was like a an introverted cactus. As he swallowed, the needles would scrape against the soft skin of his esophagus, and no descending liquid he could provide could soothe the gashes created by those needles. So he gave in, walked from his parched desert of darkness, and stepped into the light.

 

“What now, John?”

“check his pockets.”

“Kids pockets are empty.”

“Check his jacket lining?”

“The thing’s got guts all over it.”

“I said do it!”

“Got gloves?”

 

“Here… Whaddaya make of this orphan now? Ain’t got no hair on his chin. Scrawny arms, smells like the back seat of your car. D’ya think he was figurin’ on getting’ plugged today?

“…”

“You think he saw our car?”

“There’s nothing in the jacket.”

“What if he saw our car? Knew we were here? Was just waiting for us to come over? Do you think he recognized us?”

“I don’t recognize us.”

“Don’t any of them recognize us?”

“Little bastard’s got at least three G’s sewn into these pants.”

“How many people have we done now?”

“Split it half?”

“How many?”

“Fifty.”

“Fifty…”

“Fifty percent.”

“I’m done.”

“It’s getting light out.”

“Kid’s got three G’s and still don’t shower.”

“Put him in the trunk.”

“Hehe…Kid smells like piss.”

“Put him in the goddamn trunk.”

“Do you even know what he did?”

“I don’t give a shit what he did. Stop laughing.”

“S-sorry. But I just ain’t killed a kid before. It’s just funny to me.”

“I’ll pop the trunk. Get it together.”

“Never killed a kid. Never really pulled the trigger. You know, Dick? Come to think of it, I always just sort of watched. You’re apprentice you know? If you really think about it. This shit ain’t my fault, if you really think about it? It’s all you isn’t it…It’s all you… I ain’t done shit. Just along for the ride………Kids, ya know. Goddamn kid. Stay home! MAKE MONEY! Could’ve had something. Punk little orphan bastard sonnovabitch… Goddamnit you’re a stupid kid…Stupid fucking kid, John.

 

Snap. Shot.