BOOM (6 page)

Jeffrey blinked his eyes over and over again as the R.A.
informed him he would be excused from school for the rest of the semester. She
had called the school counselor. They would come and help Jeffrey pack and try
to get him back home as soon as possible. He had nodded and thanked them for
their help.

He sat on his bed, glancing at the last letter they had written
him, the one that said they were so proud of him and knew he would be a great
architect someday.

A voice broke him from his memories.

“Jeffrey.”

He glanced up and held his breath.

Allison was standing a few yards away. She was dressed in
cutoffs and a tank top.

He pulled another cigarette from his pack and lit it. “What
are you doing here?”

“Taking a walk in the park.” She came closer and now he could
smell her. She smelled like spring and summer mixed. “I live near here.”

“Why aren’t you at work?” He took a long drag and exhaled.

“I quit.” She smiled. “Pretty much right after you did.” She
sat next to him on the car. “That was crazy, by the way.” She looked at him but
he couldn’t meet her eyes.

“Sorry about Griffin,” he said.

“Don’t be. After you left, he was whining to everybody about
how you suckered him and how he could take you one on one any day. It was kind
of sad in a way. I think he got knocked off his pedestal a bit.”

Jeffrey looked back towards the playground.

“You were right by the way.”

“About what?”

“He was an asshole. And he didn’t know how to treat me.”

“Then why stay with him?” He looked at her now.

Now she was the one who could not meet his gaze. “It’s
just….sometimes things don’t turn out the way you think they will, you know?”

He flicked the cigarette away. She leaned into him and
rested her head on his shoulder.

“No. I guess they don’t,” he said.

X.

They left the park and stopped at Allison’s apartment.
Jeffrey had told her he was leaving.

“I want to go too. I need a change of scenery,” she said. He
nodded okay and they drove from her apartment out onto the interstate. There
was an unspoken understanding between them now, a shift in their relationship.

Later that night, they pulled into a motel. Allison hopped
into the shower as Jeffrey stood in the dark, smoking and looking out the
window at the neon signs glowing across the way.

What is happening here? How is this going to end?

“Who says it has too?” He did not realize he was speaking
out loud and did not hear Allison shut off the shower. He turned and she stood
naked in the bathroom doorway. She stepped from the lit bathroom into the
darkness and touched his hand.

“I feel like I’m going to explode,” he said into her ear.
“I’ve done some bad things and I am afraid I’ll do more before it’s all over
with.”

“Shh,” she whispered. She kissed him softly and he rubbed
her bare shoulders. “I don’t care what you’ve done. And don’t worry about the
future.  You are not alone anymore. Let’s just think about the right now.”

So they did.

Afterwards, lying in each other’s arms they smiled and
laughed. Jeffrey felt the shadow retreat a bit deeper. Allison grabbed one of
his cigarettes. The ember glowed brightly in the dark hotel room.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” he said.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Jeffrey Walls.” She
blew smoke into the dark room.

“Well, here we are. Two unemployed people with hardly any
money and any prospects.” Jeffrey scratched her back as she smoked. She
continued: “What do you want to do? I mean besides heading out to the coast.”

She looked at him in the darkness, could barely make out his
features.

Jeffrey was looking towards where his jacket sat on the
chair. The gun was in one of the side pockets.

“I want to rob banks,” he said quietly.

Allison giggled and stubbed out her cigarette. She nestled
down under the blankets and slid her arms around Jeffrey.

“You’re kidding right?” She smiled in the dark.

There was no answer.

Jeffrey had fallen asleep.

-FIN-

THE AFTER WORDS

This
story started with a clock. My wife bought a new analog clock from the store
and hung it in our bathroom. This clock is the bane of my existence. It has the
loudest ticking sound I have ever heard.  I would be trying to sleep or
changing clothes and the ticking would assault my senses.

It became
so bad that even when I left the room I could still hear it. I would be on the
other side of the house and the ticking would be in my head. Tick tick tick
tick tick…..

It had
this pervasive pressure that seem to accompany it. I began to imagine a bomb
ticking down in a movie or one of those spy TV shows. I felt like once the
ticking came to an end point, my head would finally explode or I would throw my
body through the wall or window. I’m always on edge around this clock (of
course my wife finds the sound soothing).

And there
is the seed of a story…..

The scene
with the couple in the jeep really happened. I was stopped at a light behind
the vehicle, listening to the radio when I saw the guy hit the woman twice. In
front of the baby. I was stunned and wondered if I had imagined it all. I
distinctly remember him kind of flipping his hair as if to say “Yeah, I’m a
man.” When they pulled away, I was still in shock by the whole thing. As they
disappeared over the bluff, a realization came to me: I wanted to hurt that
guy. Bad. Really, really bad.

 I’m
living vicariously through my writing.

I feel
like I held back a bit on this story. I was adamant that Jeffrey never killed
anyone. It was a line he would not cross……yet.

Mike
Whetzel

May 2012

BONUS
SHORT FROM MICHAEL WHETZEL

PUNCHY

Punchy couldn’t talk. He
couldn’t hear also. He had lost both those abilities seven years before, his
last time in the ring. It was Svenson who did it. Gordy “Knockaround” Svenson
who knocked around some wiring in Punchy’s head, cutting it loose from its
fleshy skull plugs. Synapses not sparking, pathways blocked or clotted or
severed by violent jabs to the head that Svenson had thrust at Punchy’s face.

This last fight had left
Punchy lying spread-eagled on the mat, watching the little yellow birds dipping
and diving across his blurred double vision. Later, he remembered a massive
body of confusion running into the ring, leaning over him, blocking out the
bright lights of bloody fame he was used to dancing in. The ring. The beautiful
violent mastery of the squared circle. And this would be the last time he would
ever be in it, lying down as if he was back in his bed at home. Or patiently
waiting for his death shroud to envelop his sore body, and make the buzzing
pain finally stop.

Back in the locker room, he
tried to make out what his coach was saying to him. Sweat and blood dripped
from his swollen face and mingled on the dirty green tiled floor. He watched
Tony’s mouth carefully; the lips forming each syllable, small specks of spittle
flicking their own way to the cold floor. Punchy registered no voice. No sound
vibrated his broken drums.

The water in the sink
splashing silently into the drain. The reporters yelling questions from the
hall, snapping eerie quiet light bulbs on their cameras. The heavy oak door to
the room slamming shut into a noiseless vacuum. Nothing registered.

And then not speaking. He moved
the muscles in his jaws, trying to form the words to tell Tony he couldn’t hear
him, couldn’t hear anything. Punchy could only point desperately at his mouth
and watch Tony’s eyes grow larger as realization dawned on the old man’s face.

“Nerve damage” the
professional quacks diagnosed. Too many hits to the head, too much damage to
the brain.

“Nerve damage” and a
promising boxing career was done. At least he thought it was a promising
career. A 21-5 record with 19 TKO’s and the meeting with Svenson, the current
#1 contender to the middleweight belt. The potential was huge until “nerve
damage.”

“Nerve damage” would turn
Ricky “The Dynamite Kid” Jones into “Punchy” Jones.

And “Punchy” Jones was no
boxer. He was told he couldn’t box. The commission wouldn’t let him. The
commission said he was done. The commission didn’t know shit.

Punchy folded the quilt
neatly over the small cot. He downed the rest of his morning coffee and left
the one room apartment. The apartment was located in the basement of the
Liberty Hotel, one of the city’s oldest buildings. The Liberty was still in
fine working order and popular among tourists looking for somewhere swanky yet
somewhat classy to spend a few days while catching the popular views.

The Liberty was classy
because Punchy kept her that way. He had worked as the sole handyman for the
hotel for the past five years. It was one of the few jobs he could actually
find and keep. His disability check hardly afforded him enough for food each
month, and this job helped bring in extra money and he got free room and board
to boot. Besides, Punchy wanted to work. He needed to keep moving, keep active,
always keep dancing.

Punchy flipped the light switch
and the basement was bathed in bright florescent light. It was a large room,
with one side dedicated to storage. Holiday decorations, stage costumes, and
years of assorted bric-a-brac were stacked high against the walls. The other
side of the basement belonged to Punchy. It was dedicated only to maintenance.

There was a large workbench
that ran the middle of the space. On top was a huge assortment of tools and
devices, all used to keep the aging parts of the old hotel running. The tools
were arranged neatly and Punchy knew where everything was.

He walked past the bench to
the main elevator. Next to the closed doors was a bulletin board. The board was
empty much of the time, and only held safety notices for the hotel and the past
building inspection. It was also were the shift managers updated what needed to
be repaired every day.

Today the board held two
service requests. The first was in room 245. The pipes under the bathroom sink
were leaking. Without looking at the pipes, Punchy already knew they needed new
O-rings. The rings in all the bathrooms were going as of late and he had spent
much of the past month traveling to different rooms replacing them. It was an
easy job and would take the better part of half an hour at most.

The second request was for
room 532 on the top floor. The top floor housed large suites that were nicer
than the basic rooms one could get at the hotel. Besides large living areas the
suites also contained a full kitchen. These were usually rented by the week, by
businessmen attending conferences or someone who had found work in the area but
not a place to live quite yet.

The service request stated
that the garbage disposal in the kitchen sink was clogged and stopped working.
This would probably be a bigger job than the bathroom pipes. The disposal units
were tough and it usually took something major to cause them to stop working.
It could be a real messy task trying to clean them out.

Still, there were only two
requests to start the day and if he was lucky nothing else would come in. If
that happened, he could be finished by noon and knock off the rest of the day.
He wanted to take in the flea market and see if he could find some more
paperback westerns. Punchy read every night and his favorites were the classic
Louis L’amour novels. The flea market was a haven for used paperbacks and he
knew he could find some he had not enjoyed yet.

He ripped the service orders
from the board and stuffed them in his shirt pocket. At the workbench he
strapped on a worn leather tool belt and began filling it with the tools needed
for today’s jobs. He slurped down his second cup of coffee and punched the
button for the elevator.

The doors opened and Punchy
stepped in hitting the button and making the round 2 glow a bright yellow. He
hitched up the belt and ran a hand over his smooth head. He was still in good
shape for being out of the ring for so long. Every week he hit the gym and
worked the heavy bag for hours, sweat pouring from his skin, finding seclusion
in the silence in his head. No one ever bothered him at the gym. Sometimes he
wondered if they knew who he was, who he had been. But most of the time, he
worked out alone, watching the others drift by as if in a dream.

The elevator stopped on the
first floor and the doors opened. A bellhop pushed a rack of luggage onto the
car, followed by a short, chubby man and his chubby wife. They were talking
incessantly, back and forth, the woman waving her hands in frustration. For
once, Punchy was grateful he could not hear what they were saying.

The bellhop rolled his eyes
at Punchy as he pushed the cart against the wall. Punchy nodded in return and
settled further back into the elevator, giving the others ample room. At the
second floor everyone got off. The bellhop led the arguing couple down the
hall, the wife still waving her hands crazily about. Punchy grinned and turned
the opposite way towards room 245.

Poor kid,
he thought.
At
least I don’t have to deal with that kind of stuff every day.
He found he
liked not having to interact with people. Despite the added challenges of being
deaf and mute, there was the fact that Punchy just was not a people person. He
never was. Even back in his heyday.