I'm the operator of my pocket calculator

Published on Sunday, October 12, 2008 at 12am

So, my apartment is gone. I don't have a new one yet because this bunch of doctors decided that right now (a little over a month ago) was the very time to slice me up like a tur-duk-en and attach me to a machine that makes gurgles. I've named it Mr. Steven Krakerchak the Third. I may also be going crazier than before. Anyway, having many things more pressing but not wanting to do any of it, I decided to write a story as stream of consciousness as I can and post it on here. Editing will be minimal. Enjoy.

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The face in the mirror isn't mine anymore. It's pale and drawn -- his eyes don't focus on anything. That's how I've come to think of myself most of the time: him. I'm supposed to be doing something else. Somewhere I'm supposed to have a family and I still see the sun. He's more of a puppet dragging through the world behind... behind who?

Five chambers. Five shiny brass tubes capped with five dull copper domes. Five fingers. Five years... God! Has it been five years? It sits there, blue-black like some kind of beetle, heavy in his palm. Brown wood peeks out from behind black tape. Like him, it has no meaning just sitting there against pale skin. But. But. But, squeeze the wood and electric tape in those five fingers and it has purpose. An artificial limb full of menace and power. No one would question it, him... me.

A sweep of the thumb and three small clicks. Seventy-two degrees. That's how far the pin-wheel of blue-black and gold rotates. No more and no less. He presses down on the hammer and pulls the trigger. Slowly the hammer goes back to its rest. Again and another three clicks and another seventy-two degrees. Again and his potential energy dissipates. Over and over he watches the cylinder and hammer tick-tocking away. Time passes as he plays with the thing from the pawn shop. He opens and closes this facet and then that. I find a certain beauty in the little brass jewels -- at once capable of so much destruction and so impotent without their host. Three clicks and another seventy-two degrees.

Time to go.

...

I'm outside in the cold. The sky is a giant watercolor of blues and orange-cream. Pools of world in an ocean of growing darkness thanks to the glaring streetlights above. I want to remember everything, to take it all in. Fists in his pockets as the puppet strings drag him down the sidewalk. The beetle-blue artificial limb is wrapping his whole body in a singing buzz of energy in the same way his hand is wrapped tight around the thing... but careful of the trigger. The hammer back, it hardly takes more than the breeze to bring the hammer down... "and Hell followed with him."

How far has he walked now and still nothing? At least not what he's looking for. Even he's about to give up on this, to try other plans, when he sees more than he could have hoped for. Just as he comes around the wall on 22nd Street. 7-11. It's bright and nearly empty. Some kid behind the counter lost in thought. Just one customer and that customer's car is the beacon whatever drags the puppet has been looking for. A big new Dodge painted up to draw attention and command respect. It makes me think of a mime in the boy-scouts. Black and white and covered in medallions, badges, slogans and identification numbers.

Hands still in pockets, shaking now with the lightning of the metal thing, he crosses the intersection through the middle. A horn, some yelling, it doesn't matter. He can see the black uniform at the register. It's being worn by a young hispanic woman, brown hair pulled back in a short pony tail. He's passing the gas pumps as she hands her money across the counter. He can see the bright yellow plastic of a tazer sticking out below the real danger -- a flat black and modern answer to his threat. So many thoughts but no time to put them into coherent words for himself as she walks out the door still fumbling with change, soda and hot dog. He's already stopped at the curb, almost close enough to touch her. Hernandez. That's what her name is. Black against dull gold opposite a silver badge. She looks up and sees... something, something in his face. I'd like to tell her that she's pretty. He knows he's got her even though he hasn't moved a muscle. She knows it, too. Panic ruins her pretty face. It makes her look like a little child.

His arm is moving and everything is so slow. The gun is out of his pocket and gliding purposefully up toward the open mouth and wide eyes of Hernandez. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. He watches the cup and hot dog falling and the small tan hand grab the huge hunk of black metal and plastic. He doesn't even rush. Up on the curb, she's still smaller than him. His arm goes straight and level right in line with her upper lip. Her pistol is no threat now.

There, in the store, a terrible face ripped open in a scream of fear and anger and white in the unnatural light, pointing a small gun out at me. It takes a moment to register that it's him,,, it's me reflected back at me. He puts his finger against the trigger and the hammer drops.

A burning car roars into my chest in an orange flash and strings are instantly cut. I fall limply to my knees and keep falling to my side. His hand had let go of the thing as I fell and blue-black gleam bounced and spun away inert and without purpose or energy. He got what he wanted and was gone. My other hand had come out and I watched five glittering gold and copper jewels roll to the curb.

There's a stillness that shouldn't be there in the middle of the burning in my chest. My mouth is full of copper and salt. I look up into the brilliant white light. She's looking down at me, so pretty. Emotions crash across her face like waves. She's still pointing the giant weapon at me, but it shakes. I want to ask if she's an angel. Do angels wear black? I open my mouth to speak... it takes a lot of effort. I close my eyes and try harder.

---

So, that's a story I wrote in about an hour while listening to King's X and Kraftwerk (blame the Kraftwerk). Mr. Steven Krakerchak the Third has been gurgling away. I'd love to know what you think. Was it too hard to follow or just dumb? Tell me. Also, don't read too much into this stuff. Maybe my stories are windows to my soul or maybe they're just things I make up to amuse myself. I'm not planning to commit suicide by cop. Besides, this can't be about me. My .357 is chrome, not blued. -_^