Dead Shot

           Joey and Daniel crept into Daniel’s parents’ bedroom. Daniel sat on his knees as he searched underneath the bed. He exclaimed excitedly and pulled out a heavy case, laying it on the bed. Snapping open the locks, he opened it. His father’s long rifle, gleaming stock and barrel, sat before them. The smell of sulfur and gun oil was pungent. 

‘This is so cool!’ Joey said. 

‘Yeah, my dad’s a dead shot with this thing,’ Daniel said proudly. 

‘Have you shot it?’

‘My dad showed me how. It’s easy.’

Daniel lifted the rifle from the grooves of its case and hefted it in his hands. It was heavy, but he showed no strain. 

‘Can I hold it?’ Joey asked. 

‘Sure.’ Daniel held the rifle to Joey, who took it. He grinned widely. Daniel looked into the case where he knew the bullets were stored. They weren’t there. 

‘Let’s take it outside!’ Joey shouted.

They went out into Daniel’s backyard. Joey was pointing the rifle at a tree, sighting it with the rifle’s scope. He made a gunshot sound and lowered it. From a neighboring house, the boys saw Mrs. Phgerner on her back porch. Joey had a particular hatred for this woman, for she was the one who told his father of his roughhousing last week, which earned him a beating with his father’s belt. 

Joey leveled the rifle against his shoulder, sighting her in the scope. He placed his finger on the trigger. Daniel noticed that the rifle’s safety was off. 

Mrs. Phgerner’s head was in the dead center of the scope when Joey pulled the trigger. 

Railly and Train Wreck Woo a Girl

            Railly Martinez and Train Wreck Del Mar boarded the bus heading to Pasadena, carrying their instruments. Railly had his old, beat-up Epiphone acoustic. Train Wreck lugged his snare drum and stand. The bus driver looked at them dubiously, preparing herself for mischief. But the two paid their fare, headed to the back of the bus, and settled in their seats peaceably. The driver shut the doors and drove towards Glendale. 

‘Where are we going again, man?’ Train Wreck asked lackadaisically. 

‘You forgot again?’ Railly was annoyed, especially after Train Wreck shrugged. ‘Man, I told you not to smoke, didn’t I?’

‘I needed to clear my head, man.’

‘But I need you to be clear-headed!’

‘Nah, man, don’t worry, I’ll be alright.’

Railly shot a worried look at him. ‘Will you, though? You get weird after smoking.’

‘I got it, I got it.’

‘Okay. If you say so.’

‘So, where are we going?’

‘Pasadena,’ Railly sighed. ‘Off of Colorado. It shouldn’t be far where we get off.’

‘Okay, cool.’ Train Wreck grinned stupidly. 

Railly lifted his guitar, tuning it to the best of his ability. Train Wreck pulled out his sticks and tapped a simple rhythm on his thigh. After some time, he asked Railly, ‘So, how do you know this girl, man?’

‘Oh, you remember that. I met her at a bus stop.’

‘You two took the bus?’

‘It’s what people do when they’re at a bus stop, Wreck.’

‘Sure, sure. So, what? You two struck up a conversation or something?’

‘Not really. I sat down next to her, and she was, like, talking to herself. Low, not loud. And I caught some parts of it. She was talking about me. And when I tried to get her to admit it, she denied it. But we became friends, talking shit and everything. I thought she was cool when she snatched a lady’s wallet from her purse on the bus and treated me to lunch after.’

‘Ah. What’s her name?’

‘Veronica. Veronica something. She likes being called Ronnie, though.’

‘Gotcha.’

The bus turned onto Colorado Boulevard and slowly made its way past Old Town Pasadena. Old brick storefronts morphed into modern buildings of concrete and steel. Railly pulled the lanyard, and the bus came to a hissing stop. He and Train Wreck hauled their instruments off and walked into the night. 

The neighborhood was dark and quiet, punctuated by the soft, yellow glow of a random streetlight. A bird sang in the distance. The rich, earthy scent of mature oak trees lining the street was everywhere. Railly led the way, guided by a map printed from MapQuest. ‘How do you know where she lives, man?’ Train Wreck asked, trying to take out his pipe and lighter discreetly from his pocket. 

‘From the registrar,’ Railly answered. 

‘Huh?’

‘The PCC registrar. I went there and got her address.’

‘But. They, like, can’t give that away, man. I think that’s illegal.’

‘Yeah, they told me that. I snuck in when no one was looking and found it myself.’

‘Dude. That’s fucked up.’

Railly didn’t answer. 

‘How’d you know it was her?’ Train Wreck continued. ‘I bet there are hundreds of Veronicas or some shit.’

‘Through her birthdate.’

‘How’d you get that?’

‘I asked her.’

‘Why?’

‘I said to her that I wanted to do something nice for her birthday. She gave it to me. Then, I looked her up.’

‘Shit, man. You must really like her.’

Railly stopped and turned to Train Wreck. ‘I don’t just like her, Wreck. She’s the epitome of beauty and grace. A brilliant mind who can discuss Dostoevsky’s fiction and the drawbacks of capitalism flawlessly. She’s everything, man.’

‘Cool, man.’

They reached an intersection deep in the neighborhood. Railly pointed to a dark, two-story house between two Craftsmans. ‘There it is, Wreck. That’s her house.’

‘Got it.’

Train Wreck set up his snare drum on the sidewalk in front of the house. Railly stood next to him and slung his guitar. He strummed melodic chords, each measure sweeter than the next, heading into arpeggios. Train Wreck followed along, nodding his head to the rhythm, before going into the beat. Railly sang mellifluously, with great longing. When the song ended, Railly and Train Wreck waited for a response from the house. Nothing. ‘Alright, Wreck,’ Railly said with determination. ‘Another one.’

They launched into another song. It was Beatlesque. Railly gave his best John Lennon impression. Again, there was no response. ‘Come on, Ronnie!’

They were midway through a third song when a window from the house to the left flew open. A rotund man with slovenly white hair leaned out. ‘What’s going on there?’ he demanded. 

‘Nothing!’ Railly replied. 

‘Doesn’t sound like nothing. It’s too late to make such a racket!’

‘He’s in love, man!’ Train Wreck said. 

From the other neighboring house, a window opened. A woman with curlers in her hair leaned out. ‘Is that you, George?’ she asked. 

‘Yeah, it’s me!’

‘What are you yelling for?’

‘These damn punk rockers are making so much god damn noise. I’m gonna call the cops!’

‘They’re not harming anyone. Besides, I’m enjoying their tunes!’

‘Of course, you are, you anarchist! Some of us need our sleep. We have work in the morning.’

‘You’re retired, George!’

Railly and Train Wreck stood in the middle of the neighbors’ bickering. Stoically, Railly strummed his guitar while Train Wreck tapped on the side of his snare drum. They took some pride in knowing that someone enjoyed their performance. 

‘What are you two boys doing here?’ the neighbor woman asked. 

‘I wanted to show my love to Veronica,’ Railly answered. 

‘Aw, that’s sweet!’ the neighbor woman said.

‘Is she around?’

‘I haven’t seen the family in a while. Maybe they’re away on vacation.’

‘Or, they’re committing her to an asylum again,’ George interrupted. 

‘George!’

‘What?’

‘That’s an ugly rumor, and you have no right to push it!’

As the neighbors bickered, Railly was crushed. Train Wreck noticed and threw his arm over his shoulders. ‘I think we should go, man.’

‘Yeah, I think you’re right, Wreck.’

They gathered their instruments and started their walk down the street towards Colorado Boulevard. The street lamps grew brighter as they approached. Railly and Train Wreck sat on the bus stop bench, waiting. 

‘Maybe you’ll see her again,’ Train Wreck said, pulling out his pipe and lighter, taking liberal tokes of his very skunky weed. 

‘Maybe,’ Railly answered despondently. Their bus approached and stopped beside them. ‘I can hope,’ he said as they boarded, heading into the night. 

The River Man

  When it was sweltering, as it always is in July, I often left my parents’ house for some fresh air. I’d take my bike and ride out of the neighborhood, down Glendale Boulevard, to Fletcher Drive. My destination was the river. The city began to open it up to walkers, joggers, and others. Its trail wasn’t maintained, though, with a lot of potholes, dips, and cracked concrete. 

The ride down the trail heading to Lincoln Heights was pleasant. It was cooler in the afternoon. And the river had a smell. Aquatic and vegetal, but never stagnant. In the center of the river, rock formations had built up over the years, allowing plants and trees to grow, transforming them into small islands. Cranes and egrets flew down to these islands. From the city’s run-off came the return of the old ecology. 

One early evening, I was on my normal ride, rolling down the river’s trail, approaching the environs of Frogtown, when I saw movement on one of the little islands in the middle of the river. It wasn’t birds, for the rustling of the thin trees and bamboo shoots was caused by something larger. I slowed down until I stopped and looked at the island. From the grass came a man, skinny, with a shiny bald head, wearing a dirty T-shirt and cut-off jeans. He was working on a plastic tarp when he noticed me, looking up. His smile was wide, revealing gaps where his teeth were missing. He waved at me, and I waved back. 

Little by little, the river man built a house on his island. He set up a frame and covered it with plastic tarps, cardboard, and plywood. Smoke billowed from a handmade stove. Whenever I rode past, he worked on his house or washed in the river. He would wave at me, and I reciprocated. His smile was always there. 

The summer ended, giving way to fall. Then, winter arrived, bringing with it the rains. At first, it was scattered sprinkles. Then, full showers. The rain became monstrous, coming down relentlessly. The river swelled until its waters crested over the banks, flooding Frogtown. 

People lost their homes after the winter rains. They weren’t salvageable, so they sold the land underneath them and moved out of the neighborhood. Developers came in and built luxury condos, pricing out those who remained. 

The river appears cleaner nowadays, with well-maintained trails and newly developed parks. I stopped riding down the river because too many new people were crowding the trails. The river man’s house was washed out, its debris still entangled in the river’s trees. I don’t know what happened to him.