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Between The Train and Forever

By David Bulley

It started on the train.

I am writing this in a gray cement room, on a shaky wooden table, while I sit on a metal chair. The chair was cold a few minutes ago. Two policemen are in the room with me. The younger one, all nerves and sharp creases, has said in his best TV detective voice, "Write it up." He has blond hair so thin you can see his scalp through his crew cut.

Do you remember, in New York City, that fat black man who shot a bunch of people on the train? I was there. I was sitting up front, so close I could hear his shallow breath before he started shooting. So close I could see the beads of sweat on his forehead. I heard his defense was "black rage." I would have testified to that. He appeared full of rage.

The young policeman has one pimple in the middle of his forehead. He has just asked me to get to the confession part. I told him, if he wanted a written confession, he ought to shut up and let me write it. I will call him Zit from now on, just to piss him off. It worked! I know because I felt an angry snort of breath on the back of my neck. May I write my confession now, Zit?

I sat in the aisle seat. A pretty, in a nice way, woman sat in the window seat beside me. The car was full. There were children, and old men, and crazies, and a father and his adult son sitting together. They sat next to each other, but I knew they were father and son because only that combination could sit so close and have so much distance between them. The fat man, full of rage, was sitting up front right next to where one car joins another.

We made a stop. When we started moving again the man stood up and brought out his gun. Then two things happened at once. I heard the shot. In the confines of a train car it was so loud it was physically painful. The other thing that happened is that the woman's neck--the one sitting next to me--her neck shattered. From the corner of my eye, I could see the white skin burst apart. I saw the stream of blood before it covered me. Then it did. They always say "hot blood" in the movies and TV and stuff. They say it because blood is hot. It is hot, and wet, and sticky. It dripped under my clothes, and stuck my shirt to my skin. The man kept firing. More people died.

Zit's breath has changed on my neck. It is quicker. Do you think this is horrible? It is, but it is not the most horrible part, Zit. The most horrible part is yet to come. The shocker is coming right up.

No one said a word. At first, there was a scream or two, but they didn't last. He fired and fired. Then, finally, the gun went click.

Here comes the most horrible part, Zit. Are you ready?

He reloaded.

I felt your breath catch like you were saying, "Oh no! More people are going to die." You are correct, but you are missing the point. HE RELOADED. At that second, any one of us could have stopped him. I could have jumped up and tackled him. He probably would have beaten the shit out of me, but in hindsight, so what? A child could have stopped him long enough for others to join in. No one did.

Instead the gun filled my vision as if a magnifying glass were focused on it. I heard the slick as the one clip slid out of the handle and a snick as the new clip slid home. I watched his thumb pull down the safety, and the bolt slam shut on another live round. "Too late," I thought. He emptied that clip too.

Someone stopped him at some point, but after I thought the words "too late" I sort of dozed off. I just phased out. I don't clearly remember another thing until a police officer was taking my name, number, and brief statement.

I clearly remember the police officer's brown eyes. When I told him that the man had reloaded, he tilted his head and his eyes got big. He looked straight into mine, then he turned away in disgust. Then he said, "That is all." I took a cab home, and bathed.

My wife cooed. My daughter touched my shoulder, then went to her room and called a friend. My boss saw my face on the news and called. He gave me a week off from work, with pay. "No one should have to be a victim of that," he said. He was right.

My family had been getting obscene calls for about two weeks prior to this. The man called again on that very night. "I saw you and your wife screwing," he said.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"I'm going to fuck your wife in the ass," he said.

I hung up. Then, like every night he called, I stared at the phone with a sick feeling in my guts. With fear. The phone rang twice more that night, and each time I jumped out of my seat, the hair on my neck standing straight up. Both times it was friends offering sympathy. My wife Sheila asked, "Who do you think he is?"

"I don't know," I said, "but I know what he is doing now."

"What?"

"He is reloading."

Two nights later, I took my wife to the movies. She loves Robert Redford. I was standing in line waiting to purchase our tickets when two young men cut in front of us. Sheila gave me the look. You know the look, right, Zit? Not the "Do something" look, she gave me the "Look how rude they are" look. We turned our heads away, avoiding eye contact, and hoping they would take the hint. I looked around and saw that everyone was just turning his or her head away. These two boys were taking advantage of everyone in the line, and all we could do was look at the ground. They were reloading!

"Hey, ass-wipe!" I said. "Get to the back of the line!"

They did. People started clapping for me. Everyone cheered right up. I was on to something.

I should mention the other cop briefly. He is older than Zit by twenty years easy. He sits silently across the table from me. I am sure, before they came in here, he turned to Zit and put his hand solemnly on his shoulder. I'll bet he said, "You do this one, son." I'll bet Zit jumped for joy. "Interrogate the perp," I'll bet Zit said, all serious.

The next relevant thing that happened was at the office. Every Friday, a woman named Jackie March needs to use the copy machine at about the same time I need to use it. We grew to hate each other. I used to get enormous satisfaction if I was first, and she had to wait. She felt the same. I could tell. On this particular Friday, she got to the machine a split second before me. It was a race, really, with both of us seeing the other and sprinting down the hall. I could see the evil grin she was trying to hide as she copied and copied. I thought, "You can fuck me, Jackie, but you can't reload." I approached.

"Jackie," I said, "We play this game every week, and I'm getting tired of it."

Jackie stopped copying. I noticed for the first time that her eyes were green. I said, "How about we take turns going first?" I had her attention. "Since this week was a race, how about next week is your turn first, then it will be my turn two weeks from now?"

"OK," she said. "Sounds good to me." Jackie extended her hand and I shook it.

Sheila thought I was turning into a brand new man. I had energy. That Friday night I caught her in the kitchen doing dishes and grabbed her from behind, gentle. I wrapped my leg around her waist and started humping like I was a horny dog or something. She laughed, and (now this is important, Zit) I laughed too. I threw back my head, opened my mouth, and laughed right out loud. Jeez, I was having a good time living! I was discovering the secret of life, Zit. You want to know what it is?

You can't let them reload. Look here: all of us, in some ways, are victims of circumstance and other people. We can't help that. We cannot change it. Car crashes and rudeness and credit cards and you can't get a loan unless you owe money. We are screwed in a myriad of ways, and sometimes there is nothing you can do. But we don't have to let them reload.

My friend had paid back a small loan with a check. I deposited the check, and a few days later got a call from the bank. "Mr. Biffle?"

"Speaking," I said.

"Mr. Biffle, a check you deposited two days ago for the amount of two-hundred and fifty dollars has not cleared, I'm afraid."

"Oh," I said, "That's too bad. Thanks for telling me."

"I'm afraid, sir, that we must deduct twenty-five dollars from your account as a check bouncing fee."

"But I didn't bounce the check."

"We are aware of that, sir. It is nevertheless bank policy. There is nothing we can do."

"You're fucking me," I said.

"Sir?" asked the woman.

"You are fucking me and there is nothing I can do. I just wanted you to know that I know that I'm being fucked. Good day," I said. Then I hung up. I felt wonderful.

The next relevant thing is I got the shit beat out of me. I got mugged. I was working very late. I used to work late all the time, but recently was telling my boss “no” quite a bit. I had some catching up to do. I started walking around 11:00 PM when two young men approached. They were white, if that matters. They were big young men, both around six feet. The man's body in a child's brain type of thing. You must see that often, eh, Zit? They both had peach fuzz all over their faces. One had brass knuckles. Brass boy said it plain, "Give me your wallet."

I thought long and hard, I'll tell you, Zit. I thought about how good I'd been feeling, and I thought about how bad this felt, and I looked those boys over real good, then I said, "No."

It felt like those brass knuckles went right though my belly all the way to my backbone. All the air jumped out of me, and I could not get any back. I bent over involuntarily, right into the other boy's raising knee. He knocked me flat on my back. My nose was bleeding and broken. It hurt like hell. Brass boy said, "Give me your wallet!"

I said, "No." And I couldn't help myself. I knew it was stupid, but it felt so goddamn good saying no, that I smiled right through about a mile of pain, clear and bright. They put the boots to me. They stomped and kicked and the world went away. When I was nothing but a ball of pain, all curled up like a fetus with the needle coming, they reached down and took my wallet. They took my watch too. Then they ran away, and I just lay there for a long time.

After my wife drove me home from the hospital, I noticed that the phone was unplugged. "He called?"

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing important," she said. "Same old stuff."

This may surprise you, but I was feeling great about the mugging. I was on top of the world. I was victimized, sure, but without my consent. Consent is the key. Those boys got me, but I didn't let them reload. There was only one area of my life left where someone was making me and my family feel fear, and he was reloading at will. The next day, I bought a caller ID.

It was that simple. Two days later, he called again. "I'm going to fuck her flabby tits," he said. "I'll do it backwards so my asshole is rubbing against her nose."

I said, "Hi Robert Toquae."

There was a long silence. It was a full minute at least. Finally, he said, "This week."  He hung up.

I found his address in the phone book, and then thought about a weapon.

I remembered once when I was a teen, hitchhiking, a man picked me up. I told him thanks and something about trust. He pulled a tire iron out from under his seat. He looked very self-satisfied. He said, "Oh, I don't trust you. Prepared is better than trust," he said.

I unlocked the trunk of my car and brought out the tire iron. The cold steel felt like power. I pretended I was that comic book character, Conan. I held up the steel and yelled "CROM!" Then I drove to Bob's house.

Yes, Zit, now we are getting to the confession part. You have been reading each word as I put it on the paper. Do you see how it is all the confession? Do you see how I had to go? I was getting my power back, Zit. I was getting courage. Not just here, but in everything. Courage is Viagra for the soul, Zit. Did you know that? I was facing every aspect of my life except this caller with courage and dignity, and as a result my soul was potent. I was walking straight and high. I loved my family more. I laughed out loud. My soul was potent.

One more quick story: My wife and I used to do this thing where she would ask me to do something, and I didn't want to fight, so I would say, "Sure honey, I'll get to it." Then I would forget, and she would get angry. She would yell at me, and to make her stop I would do it, and resent her for it. She would resent me for making her yell. We lived this way for a long time.

One day, between the train and the tire iron, she called from the kitchen, "Frank, could you take out the trash?" I'll tell you, Zit, I saw the whole ugly scene flash right out. You cannot even let your wife reload.

I thought careful, then I said, "Honey, I'm right in the middle of the paper, and I don't want to do it right now. I'll do it a little later." I listened for an answer, but none came. I was off the script! I was improvising. After more thought, I said, "Honey, if I forget, could you please remind me?"

Sheila walked right into the room, and said, all tender, "Sure I will, and thanks." BANG! I felt great, she felt great, and I remembered the trash on my own.

So, here's this caller, making me scared, and scaring my family, and what would have happened if I called you guys, Zit? Nothing, right? So I grabbed some cold steel and I headed for his house. When you're feeling as good as I was about everything, the one bad part stands out like a compulsion.

My ass was so tight with fear you couldn't drive a nail through it with a hammer. I pulled over and puked on my way there. Nevertheless, finally I was standing in front of his house. I knocked. He opened the door a crack.

I'll tell you, Zit, he was my size and looked in better shape. He was ten years younger. I should have been more scared, but seeing him, my fear washed away clean. It wasn't about who would win, or even if we would fight. It was about reloading. Knocking on his door, seeing his face, I was stopping the reload. If he beat me up, so what? I smiled all my teeth, and said, "Hi Robert Torquae."

He opened the door and came at me. In his right hand, the one hidden by the door, he had a big butcher knife. He lunged straight at me. I was holding the tire iron behind my leg. I forgot it was there and just brought my hand up to stop the knife. I connected with his wrist, and heard a clang as metal hit bone. He dropped the knife, and grabbed his wrist with his other hand. His mouth was open wide, like he could not believe what just happened. Me neither.

I watched my arm swing that iron over my head. I jumped right out of my body. I saw the way my feet were planted. I saw my body lean forward and the tire iron crash into his head. I heard the crack. I saw him drop, and watched myself drop the iron, before I zoomed into my body again.

I'll tell you, Zit, before that moment I had never been in a fight in my life. My parents were big into non-violence, and I remember clear, wailing home from school, shoulders hunched, head down, arms covering my face. "Please," I would whine, "I'm not going to fight. Please stop." After a while they would stop, but I was scared every day, all day. Perhaps if I had learned the power and potential of violence before I was old enough to really hurt anyone, things would have been different. I don't know.

It is too bad that I am forty years old and just learning to be a man. Too bad that I am learning the key to happiness inside this burning regret, and on what could be my way to prison. I hope Mr. Torquae lives, Zit, with all my heart I do. But I'll tell you this: between the train and the rest of my life, no one will reload on me again. 

 Copyright © 2002 David Bulley

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