Saturday night I watch Postcards From The Edge, holding an empty fifth of Wild Turkey to my chest like it’s my life. Commercials interrupt every seven minutes because the movie is a heavily edited for television version run on the Lifetime channel. My name is Charlie Grady and this is my life. The commercials come on and the volume turns up. I press the mute button, wondering why the commercials are louder than the movie. I used to turn the volume down whenever the commercials came on. Now I press the mute button.
My phone rings, but I don’t answer. I stare at my overpriced 51” Sony flatscreen set atop a Zuo Modern forte long t.v. stand. These were paid for by the settlement, but the settlement money’s running out, it’s almost gone. The answering machine picks up and it’s Matheson on the other end. He says he’s my lawyer. Remember me, buddy? he says. He tells me it’s been a while, it’s been five months. He says, “Just thought I’d give you a ring and check up on you, see how you were doing.”
The movie is back on and I don’t know how long because I’ve been listening to Matheson. I think he calls to see how much money I have left – to see if I have anything else on the back burner cooking. I press the mute button, the movie plays another minute, and the commercials are back, loud and obnoxious. This is corporate America making sure I’m tuned into their bullshit loud and clear. I read somewhere congress wants to pass a bill to lower the volume on the commercials, but I’ll believe it when I see it.
I press the mute button. My phone rings, this time it’s my mom. She calls me Charlie Ramone Grady. She tells me to pick up the phone, she’s my mother, I need to pick up the phone. She slurs and I can tell she’s drunk again, or maybe stoned, or both. She calls me an ungrateful cock sucker. She was in labor with me for over fifteen hours and when I finally came out, she says I was half a man because I had one testicle and a tiny dick. I’m still half a man. She says, Jesus, you’re pathetic. I’ve been here before. She quiets down and says honey, I need some money, honey I love you.
Friday night I drink at McDuffy’s, with a Barret 82A1 .50 cal in the trunk of my car. My car is a 2009 Ford Mustang GT. These were paid for by the settlement. I’m not even sure the .50 cal is legal because I bought it through a friend of a friend. I’m sloppy drunk. I don’t know why I have it in the trunk of my car but I do. I think sometimes people do things for no good reason and maybe this is one of those times. It’s a Friday night and everywhere I look there are college kids. College kids come here on the weekends. I wear an Arizona Cardinal’s jersey and I look like a college kid. I wonder if coming to McDuffy’s tonight is a mistake.
I ran a scam at Disney World two years ago and this was what I did, this was my life, up until now. The scam was pretty simple. I pissed off a bartender at a club in Downtown Disney. It was a club on Pleasure Island called 8 Trax before they closed down Pleasure Island in September of 2008. The kid was young; he didn’t know any better. All I did was record some choice words using the video setting on my cell phone. When he wasn’t looking, I slipped a roofie in my drink. I claimed he was disgruntled, he drugged me, and this was how I sued Disney. The court case took a year and a half. It was the video that won it, and Disney settled out of court for seventy five grand. Tom Matheson was my lawyer. He was forty-something, balding and fat. He had flushed cheeks and beet red nose; I don’t know what I saw in him. He was a low-life and had gotten in over his head snorting all his money up his nose. He convinced Disney to settle out of court and I thought I owed him the world. Then he took a thirty percent cut without my okay, and there was nothing I could do about it because I was up front with him from the beginning that it was all a scam, my mistake.
I feel someone bump me. He’s short and skinny and he wears glasses. I glare, bleary and hateful, turning in time to see him squeeze past. He asks me if I’m a Cardinals fan. He sees my jersey, and maybe he sees that I want to kill him. I think he doesn’t want any trouble, he just wants to get to the bar. His name is Terry and he’s Harry Potters older twin. He says he’s a Cardinals fan too. He pats me on the shoulder and says no hard feelings. He wants to buy me a drink so I say sure. He orders tequila shots. We wait on the shots at the bar and I tell him how I saw a .45 one time that had smile, wait for flash etched on the muzzle. He says cool. I ask him if he’s happy with his life, what would he do with his life if he could do it all over. He tells me he would be a politician, maybe run for congress, and I tell him that’s corporate America trying to sell him the American Dream.
I tell him how I had a girlfriend ask me one time if I had a gun in the house. I told her I did and she said she certainly hoped it wasn’t loaded. I told her of course it was loaded, it wouldn’t work without the bullets, and she asked me if I was that afraid of someone breaking into my house. I said not at all, I wasn’t afraid of the fucking house catching fire either, but I still had loaded fire extinguishers around. He smiles and I tell him having a gun in the house that isn’t loaded is like having a car in the garage without gas in the tank. He asks me what kind of guns I have.
“I have a Barrett 82A1 .50 cal in the trunk of my car,” I say.
“What?”
“I have a Barrett 82A1 .50 cal in the trunk of my car.”
“No way. Serious?” he says.
“You want it? It’s yours for five grand.”
He says he needs to think it over. He says he needs to talk it over with his friend. He shows back up with his friend several minutes later and introduces us. I forget his name or what he looks like. I’m sloppy drunk and I can barely stand. He doesn’t have all the money; his friend has the rest. He asks me to show them the .50 cal and I take them out to my car. I open the trunk and show them the .50 cal inside. I tell them the car and the .50 cal were paid for by the settlement, but they don’t say anything. I think maybe I misspoke, I said too much, maybe they don’t want to know. The .50 cal is loaded with a 10-round magazine and it has a hair trigger. I don’t tell them because I think maybe they don’t want to know. His friend looks like he wants to ask me what the fuck I’m doing with a .50 cal in the trunk of my car. Let’s smoke a joint, he says, You want to smoke a joint? he says. He lights a joint and I hit it like a chain smoker. He tells me not to bogart the joint and takes it back. I wake up the next morning. I wake up laying in my own vomit at the side of an Arco gas station. My name is Charlie Grady and this is my life. I don’t remember anything. The trunk of my car is open and the .50 cal is gone.
Wednesday night I watch Requiem For A Dream, holding a fifth of Jack Daniels to my chest like it’s my life. I finish the last swallow and drop the bottle on the floor. Commercials interrupt every seven minutes because the movie is a heavily edited for television version run on the American Movie Classics channel. The volume turns up when the commercials come on and I press the mute button, wondering when congress is going to pass the law.
My phone rings but I don’t answer, staring at my overpriced flatscreen. The answering machine picks up and it’s Matheson again. He says he’s my lawyer and he’s getting worried; I haven’t called back and he’s getting worried. He says, “Hey buddy, just wondering what you were doing, I want to talk to you.” He tells me he wants me to call him back. He says he’s serious, then jokingly laughs. I think he calls to see how much money I have left – he wants to know if I have another scam on the back burner cooking. The money’s almost gone and he knows this is what I do, this is my life, until recently, now that I’m down to my last few hundred dollars. Call me buddy, I’m serious this time, he says. We can work something out, he says.
The movie is back on and I don’t know how long. I press the mute button, wondering why the commercials are louder than the movie. My mom is homeless living out of her van again. She calls and she’s drunk and stoned. She says she’s parked in a supermarket parking lot living out of her van. She thinks it’s an Albertson’s parking lot. She’s on disability, she can still work, but she won’t. I ask her if she’s happy with her life, what would she do with her life if she could do it all over, and she says she wants to live with me. I say wouldn’t she rather be the first female president if she could and she says she wants some of what I have.
She calls me an ungrateful cock sucker – I’m half a man – I was born with one testicle and a tiny dick and I’m half a man – she was in labor with me over fifteen hours – it’s all my fault. I wouldn’t give her any money and now she’s living out of her van in a parking lot somewhere in Phoenix, begging for change and whoring herself out. It’s all my fault. I ruined her life. She got knocked up and it ruined her life. I should have never been born. I want to tell her to get herself clean and straighten up her life, but who am I to give advice. This is my life and I’ve been here before. I tell her I’m hanging up the phone and she quiets down and says honey, I need some money, honey I love you. She tells me she’s sorry and can she have some money to tide her over until her next disability check.
Monday night I drink at McDuffy’s, looking for Terry and his friend. It’s been a week and I don’t know why I still look for them but I do. I think sometimes people do things for no good reason and maybe this is one of those times. A squat woman stands behind a metal bathtub crammed with ice and bottles of beer. She has stringy, dirty blonde hair, and crooked teeth. Her name is Jenny and she’s a snaggled-toothed troll. I watch her give shit to a girl for drinking water. Don’t come to a bar if all you’re going to drink is water, she says. I mind my own business and she tells me she prides herself on being mean. She puts another Budweiser in front of me and tells me she has a ten year old son. I think Jesus, and how desperate the guy was to fuck her. She has a kid and says she’s thirty four. She’s worked bars all of her life, drinking and partying all of her life. I ask her if she’s happy with her life, what would she do with her life if she could do it all over, and she says she thinks I’m cute. She tells me she would be a lawyer or a doctor. I tell her that’s corporate America trying to sell her the American Dream, and she asks me if I want to fuck. We go out to my Mustang, she pulls out one of her tits. She pours some coke on her tit. She takes me by the back of my neck and pulls me into her chest. I pull down my pants. She sees my dick, laughs, and says never mind.
I’m sloppy drunk and this is my life. I’m at another bar, I forget what it’s called. A sexy blonde works the bar. I think she’s sexy, I can’t tell anymore. This is the fifth or sixth bar I’ve been to tonight. Her name is Michelle and she has her hair tied in a bun. She wears tight ugly gray sweats that ride up the crack of her ass, or I think maybe that’s the g-string. She wears a white tank top that barely holds in her tits. She throws ice at all the drooling pricks clamoring for her attention when they piss her off. I mind my own business and she puts another Budweiser in front of me. She tells me she has four or five kids, I forget. I think Jesus, and how lucky the guy was to fuck her. She has seven kids I think and she says she’s thirty five. She loves to party and fuck and get high – the type men don’t want to date, but will stick their dicks into. I ask her if she’s happy with her life, what would she do with her life if she could do it all over, and she says she would be a movie star or a talk show host. I tell her that’s corporate America trying to sell her the American Dream and she tells me she has an eighteen year old son. She throws ice at me and says Hey asshole, you listening?
I wonder how many women are single and alone in the world. I feel alone in the world. How many have kids. How many have worked in bars all their lives, drinking and partying all their lives. They made their beds. Michelle still looks good and maybe Jenny did in her prime – I give her the benefit of the doubt – but now they’re thirty-something pushing forty. They have kids and they’re still working the same shitty bars. They’re still single and alone, pissed off and bitter they got shorted in life. They think they deserve better. I get up to leave and I hear a song playing, or I think maybe it’s been playing all along:
And so Sally can wait
She knows it’s too late as she’s walking on by
My soul slides away
“But don’t look back in anger,” I heard you say
I drive somewhere, I don’t know anymore. I see in triples. I squeeze my left eye shut to drive straight. I’m not Jenny and Michelle. I’m not Terry and his friend. I’m not Matheson. I’m not my mom. The settlement money’s all gone. A Ford F-150 pulls in front of me. The truck has a bumper sticker that reads: ‘How’s My Driving Dial 1-800-Fuck-You.’ I think that’s what it says, I can’t tell, maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s me.
I scream, “Shit or get off the pot, mother fucker! Shit or get off the pot!”
I honk at the truck. I don’t want to be alone anymore.
“Shit or get off the pot!”
Maybe it’s me. My name is Charlie Grady and this is my life. I’m not responsible for theirs. I’m my own person, but I’m no different from them. I made my own bed just like them. I try to get around the truck. I deserve better just like them. It’s not too late to do something about it. It’s never too late to do something about it.
“Shit or get off the pot, mother fucker! Shit or get off the pot!”
What am I doing?
Why?
This isn’t living.
This is less than living.
The truck swerves between lanes. I can go to college, and then what? I can get a job, and then what? I can get married, have kids, find love, find happiness, a legacy. Then what? I lay on the horn. The truck keeps swerving and I think I’m going to do it, I’m going to change. No more bars. No more drinking. No more drugs. No more scams. I see an opening and speed up to get around the truck, but it swerves into me. The Mustang veers into oncoming traffic. I hear a song playing on the radio. I don’t remember turning it on. The Mustang is clipped by an oncoming car and flips over; rolls across the opposite lanes. I recognize the song this time – Don’t Look Back In Anger by Oasis. Another oncoming car clips me and the Mustang is a spinning top skidding across the asphalt until it crashes into a streetlight on the other side. I think maybe the song’s been playing all along:
And so Sally can wait
She knows it’s too late as she’s walking on by
My soul slides away
“But don’t look back in anger,” I heard you say
I wake up in a hospital bed. I’m wrapped in a full body cast and my arms and legs are in traction. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I remember the accident in stills. I don’t know how I survived or why, but I do. I think sometimes things happen for no good reason and this is one of those times. I think maybe it’s God. Maybe God lets things happen for no good reason and this is one of those times. Or maybe things happen for a reason, and this is God giving me a second chance.
“How are you feeling?”
I hear the voice but I can’t place it. Everything’s hazy like looking through rain streaked glass. I clear my vision. I focus as best I can. I see the owner of the voice; he wears a medical lab coat. I focus more and shake it off, not completely. I ask what happened. He smiles and says I’m lucky to be alive. Do you remember what happened? he says. I tell him I remember everything. He says good, he’s just checking up on me.
There’s a t.v. mounted near the ceiling. The channel three news runs non-stop coverage of the accident. The cars lay in twisted wrecks, some flipped over. I see the cars and they look like crunched metal boxes run through a compactor. I see broken glass and pieces of rubber tire and metal, littered and scattered. I see blood-soaked sheets draped over bodies. They line the side of the street in a long gory row.
“Hey buddy, long time no see,” Matheson says. He walks in and stands at the foot of my bed. “How you feeling? Jesus Christ, you look like shit. That’s good though… good for our case.”
“What case? What are you doing here Matheson? What are you talking about?”
“You hit the jack pot this time, buddy. That driver in the Ford F-150, that was none other than Diana Taurasi. You know, basketball player for the Phoenix Mercury? Got busted for a DUI a while back? Ring any bells?”
“Phoenix Mercury?” I say.
“Don’t worry about the details. I got it covered. Let your old pal Matheson do all the talking. Big bucks, buddy. Mucho dinero. A cool mil at least this time.”
I see Matheson wave. A throng of reporters rush into the room. They shove cameras and microphones in my face. They fight to ask questions: tell us what happened? – what went through your mind? – do you feel lucky to be alive? – what will you do next? – how do you feel about Diana Taurasi? – any plans to go to court?
“As Mr. Grady’s attorney, all I’m at liberty to say right now is, yes, we will take this up in court… and of course Mr. Grady feels lucky to be alive, what kind of dumb question is that?”
Matheson leads the reporters out of the room. I hear him answer questions. He turns to me and winks. I can taste my blood in my mouth. I try to spit it out and it stains my mouth red. They move farther away. I stare off into space. Their racket moves farther away. My name is Charlie Grady and this is my life. I picture a million dollars. I’m not Jenny, or Michelle, or Terry, or his friend. I’m not Matheson. I’m not my mom. I picture it stacked in front of me, and I smile.
BIO: Jason Duke is a Sergeant in the U.S. Army and served 15 months in Iraq as part of OIF 07-09. He was borderline before going to Iraq, but now he’s totally fucked in the head. He mostly misses killing shit and blowing shit up. His stories have appeared in Thuglit, Plots With Guns, Pulp Pusher, Flash Fiction Offensive, Darkest Before the Dawn, A Twist of Noir, 3AM Magazine, Suspect Thoughts, Shred of Evidence, Outsider Ink, The Hiss Quarterly, Dungeon Magazine, The Murder Hole, A Cruel World. He can be reached at dm_jasonduke@hotmail.com.
Push that rock up the hill, push it down again. Brilliant. Great ending,too.
Great fucking piece of work, Jason. A real lyrical treat and a crotch kick to the way society rings our bells and we never learn from second or third chances to change.
I really loved that piece.
The voice is extra-ordinary, carries loneliness and the edge of reason with it. The repetitions are stunning and the weaving in of the song lines really works.
Beautifully done. If that’s not in my top 5 at the end of the year then I’ll be a very lucky guy because that will mean I get to read another 5 as good as this.
Jason, I think you’ve produced a dandy. Love it.
When I read this two years ago it blew me away and when I read it today it still had the same impact. Great story, Jason.
Excellent story. What Nigel Bird said. All of that.
Noir like a motherfucker. At ease, Sarge.
Raw, man. That was a miserable story. Thanks for inflicting it on me. It’s rare that someone turns down the volume so effectively. I felt imprisoned in static and cheap drunks the entire go.
Thanks everybody for the kind words. It’s what inpsires me to try and write the best I can, I owe it all to you.
I liked it a lot. I hate I waited this long to read it. I always enjoy your stories. Great way to end the night.
Exquisitely raw. I now realize that my own life could be much, much worse than it is. Thanks for cheering me up.
What a top-notch story, Jason. That ending is disgustingly perfect.
The real bitch kill your kitty cat is contained in “Or maybe things happen for a reason, and this is God giving me a second chance.” followed close on the heels by “My name is Charlie Grady and this is my life.” This is just exactly how the universe says Fuck You and makes it stick, forever. Rock on Sarge. Cool.