Slingshot

Originally Published in Conceit Magazine’s The Bracelet Charm

Volume 10—Number 58—January/February/March 2014

 

None of them stood a chance, those slaves of evil, those walking corpses. I took them out as fast as I saw them like my hero, Irwin Wyatt, the world’s leading exterminator of zombies.

“I got ya,’ kid. Just aim and shoot!” he yelled through the syncopation of his machine gun.

Smoke filled the night air as gun fire echoed through the field. What was once a barricade of the walking dead became a carpet of bodies.

“Thanks for the help, Ir—” I said, but his eyes narrowed as he aimed at me.

“Duck!” he shouted, but it was too late; leathery hands grabbed my shoulders.

“Benny! Wake up! We have to go!” Mom shook my shoulders, and I leaned up from the cart.

A rumbling came around the corner, and two glowing headlights peered at us. The lights disappeared, making the rust scabs on the red paint and the mountain of junk on the truck’s bed more recognizable.

My mom dumped cans into the cart. “Hurry up!”

The doors squeaked open. Out of the driver’s side, two heavy, black boots stomped the ground, and a lighter pair of feet hit the ground from the passenger side. It was The Cooks—Owen and his son, Jim. Owen was a tower of a man who reeked of stale beer and garbage. He wrapped his dirty hands around the cart’s handle bar.

“We’re not bothering you, Owen. Leave us alone,” Mom pleaded.

I looked over at Jim whose flabby lips curled into a snarl as he pounded his fists.

“This is my route.” Owen tightened his grip on the cart. “Anything you take is money from my pocket. I tell you that every week.”

“You don’t own this block. You don’t own these cans,” she said, pulling at the cart.

“It’s all mine! From the crushed can to the discarded microwave. It’s mine!” Owen said as his eyebrows stiffened, and his yellow teeth clinched.

Mom snatched the cart from his grip. I’ll take what I need to get by. I don’t answer to you or anybody.

Owen flipped the cart over, and an explosion of cans rained to the ground. He took forceful steps toward my mom, crushing cans in his wake.

My mom took my hand and yanked me, almost pulling my arm out of its socket.

“Mom, What about the cans?”

“Leave ‘em. There’s always next week. Run!”

We ducked into the nearest alley, and she poked her head around the bend.

“Damn it!” She pounded her fist against the brick wall then leaned against it. “We had about ten dollars’ worth, and we just got started.”

She rubbed her forehead and sighed. I peeked around the alley’s bend and watched The Cooks dump our cans into their truck.

“Mom, we have to get our cans back!”

“We have no choice,” she exclaimed, “You think I like giving up our extra cash to those—”

A honk interrupted her, and The Cook’s truck pulled up to the alleyway. Owen stuck up his middle finger, and Jim projected that snide smirk. The truck pulled away leaving behind their echoed laughter.

Mom exited the alley, and I kicked the nearest trashcan. I heard something heavy hit the ground. I looked down and saw a “Y” shaped piece of wood with a thick rubber band tied to its stems.

“You comin’?” Mom yelled from the sidewalk.

“Yeah,” I replied, stuffing the slingshot into my back pocket.

*                                                          *                                                          *

Through the neon sign of Dante’s Arcade Inferno, I saw a world of super heroes and street fighting thugs. I entered the world of beeps and dings with the intent of stopping in on the way to the diner. I promised myself I’d only be there for a couple of seconds, not thinking of the lifelike graphics and alternate worlds.

I saw Jim’s reflection on the arcade screen. On the curved glass, his face was a drooping glob of freckles that wanted to slip off his skull.

“Looks like we took your weekly paycheck this morning, Caldwell.”

“Your dad’s gotta feed that beer and cigarette habit somehow, Jim.”

He pushed me into Battle Star Republic, and I felt the slingshot in my back pocket. All I had to do was reach back and aim.

His face tensed up, and he closed in on me, “Let’s see how funny you are when I’m beating your ass.” He tightened his fist and wound up.

“Come on, Ben, reach back and get the slingshot,” I said to myself, but only my shaking knees and quivering lips moved. His fist came at me like a speeding car. I couldn’t watch, but nothing happened. I opened my eyes, and Jim’s fist hung in front of me.

“You’re pathetic. Get outta here.” His heel shoved me in the back.

I juggled the duffle bag and scooped up the change.

“Get outta here.” His heel shoved my butt.

I darted out and felt the gloom of regret as I headed toward the diner. All I had to do was reach in my pocket and aim, but I chickened out.

When I arrived, I saw Mom and the other waitress, Karen, taking orders and pouring coffee.

After taking orders, Mom tucked the pencil behind her ear and walked towards me. “Tom’s making your favorite for dinner. Remember to thank him.”

I loved Tom’s fried chicken platter, and the mashed potatoes had a garlicky taste. He put peas and carrots in them—definitely my mom’s idea since I always left the vegetables on the plate when I was done. The mashed potatoes masked the vegetable taste, so I didn’t complain.

Mom served a family with a kid my age. He kind of looked familiar. Maybe I saw him on the bus or in the schoolyard. It wasn’t who he was or where I saw him that intrigued me. I saw his mom and dad talking and smiling and how he joined in on their happiness. He probably never had to avoid the landlord, and he probably never wore clothes two days in a row because he couldn’t afford to wash them. I then pictured the vacant fridge and empty cabinets in the apartment.

The boy pointed over his father’s shoulder, and when the father looked, the boy took some of his French fries.

“Here you go, Ben,” a tattooed arm placed the plate on the table. “I promise there are no vegetables.”

“Sure there aren’t,” I said in a sarcastic tone.

He smirked and patted me on the shoulder. “Enjoy.”

I looked down at the fried chicken and creamy potatoes as a pea rolled down like a renegade boulder. I stared at the plate’s contents and rolled the escape pea back and forth.

The people at Karen’s table got up, and when I looked over my shoulder, I saw a stack of crumpled ones on the table. I scanned the room to see if anyone saw me, and I looked at the kitchen only to see Tom’s back to the diner. Mom, too, had her back to me as she made coffee. I leaned over and reached for the money.

“Not a good idea, kid,” a deep voice said behind me.

I thought it was Tom, but when I turned around, a figure appeared out of thin air. At first, the outline was blurry, a jumble of vibrant colors, but they sharpened and dimmed. He had broad shoulders and wore a hat, tie, white shirt, and a pin striped suit. His face was skinny, and there wasn’t a speck of stubble on it.

“She earned that money, not you,’ he said, tapping the cigarette in the ashtray. “That could just as well be your mom’s money, and you don’t want anyone taking her money, do you?”

I sank in my seat and swirled the fork in my mashed potatoes. When I looked up, Irwin looked like he expected an answer.

“No,” I moaned.

“Good,” he said, “It’s better to earn than to take. The best things in life—love, respect, friendship, even money—can’t be taken; they have to be earned.”

“I know, Irwin,” I said. “My mom and I can’t—” and when I looked up to him, he faded into thin air.

Karen came by and took the money from the table.

“Enjoying your dinner?” she asked, wiping the table.

“Yeah, it’s great.”

She walked over and took my empty soda glass. “I’ll get you a refill.”

“Thank you,” I said.

*                                                          *                                                          *

I read my comic book, and I couldn’t believe Irwin Wyatt appeared at the diner. Why did he appear? What did I do to get him to visit? And can I summon him anytime? A strong grip pulled me from my thought.

“Don’t ever step into Dante’s, Caldwell. That’s my turf.”

Upon responding, I felt a slug across the face. I saw fireworks, and Jim’s feet were inches from me. He picked up my comic book. I heard the pages flopping as I tried to regain consciousness. Through the screen of red, purple, and blue, Jim looked down at me with glossy eyes. His face—gray and chipped in decay and his lower lip dangled from his chin. I wiped my eyes and looked again, and his freckled face grinned above me.

“Irwin Wyatt? Who the hell is Irwin Wyatt? Gees, Caldwell! Are you that poor that you can’t even afford real super heroes?”

He dropped the comic book on the ground, and a picture of an enraged Irwin Wyatt shooting his gun faced upwards. He was sending me a message.

“Irwin Wyatt’s a pussy. I bet Iron Man and Wolverine could pulverize him.”

I felt my cheek throb and inflate. I zoned out for a second, and I felt a kick to the gut. All the air exhaled from my body, leaving fear and pain. With my cheek pressed against the gravel, I stared at Irwin, hoping he’d give me direction.

Nothing.

I reached for the slingshot and placed Jim between the stems. All I had to do was release, but he snatched it from me.

“A slingshot? You think you’re gonna beat me with a slingshot? Who do you think you are? Bart Simpson?”

He grabbed the two stems and pulled them in opposite directions. They bent but not enough to break. One more chance. I knew that’s all he needed, and my defense was gone. With white knuckles and shaking hands, he tried again, but nothing happened. He loosened his grip, tossed the slingshot, and  walked away.

I sat up, looking down at Irwin Wyatt eradicating a wall of zombies. I stared, trying to find the energy to stand, hoping he’d give me assurance that I’d be alright.

Nothing.

*                                                          *                                                          *

I limped down the block, my cheek throbbing from Jim’s fist, and the nearby ATM machine hummed. I walked over, and when the buzzing stopped, it coughed dollar bills on its tray. I thought it had to be a joke, but what if it wasn’t? The nearest person hailed a cab, the ATM the furthest thing from his mind.

I reached for the money, and Irwin appeared next to the ATM. He leaned up against the wall with one hand in his pocket and the other removing a cigarette from his mouth.

“Just keep walkin,’ kid. Let the bank handle it.”

“If I don’t take it, someone will.”

“If you’re gonna take the money, give it to the bank.”

I reached in and removed a stack of $20 bills. I thought of the rent being paid, nice dinners, nice clothes, and video games.

“Do the right thing. Go home and forget you ever saw it.”

“Forget about it?” I couldn’t “Forget about it.” I’d never forgive myself if I let it pass. I stuffed the money in my back pack and walked away.

Irwin appeared in front of me, “Now go in the bank and tell the manager what happened.” I walked through him, and his voice shouted behind me. “This isn’t the way, Ben. This isn’t right.”

“I needed you today, Wyatt, and you abandoned me. That’s not right.” I took quick steps down the sidewalk, and shouted over my shoulder, “You only appear when I want something, never when I need something.”

I turned the corner and darted home, picturing the enthusiasm in my mom’s eyes as I handed her the money.

I stormed through the door, “Mom! Mom! Guess what!”

No response.

“Mom! I got a surprise!”

I entered the kitchen and saw a note on the table: “Benny, had to get to work early. A TV dinner is in the fridge. Love, Mom.”

I reached in my book bag for the money and saw the slingshot. I stared at its chipped stems and studied its contours, wondering what other action it has seen. I pictured Jim twisting it, and all that resulted was a couple scratches? I felt that sting in my cheek. Irwin wouldn’t help me, and I couldn’t blame him. I was on my own.

*                                                          *                                                          *

The line of beer bottles glistened in the evening sun. With my slingshot in my back pocket and a bucket full of rocks, I was ready to go. I reached down for a rock with my left hand and the slingshot with the right.

Too slow.

Again—I dropped the rock.

Again—the sling tangled in my fingers.

“Damn it!”

I closed my eyes, imagining the bottles with Jim’s face on each one. I pulled back the sling and squinted my eyes, focusing on the bottle. I released the rock, and it tumbled to the ground. I knelt down to pick up another rock, and I saw a pair of polished shoes and pin striped slacks.

“You’re too tense,” Irwin said. The sun overshadowed the brim of his hat, imbedding a black stripe across his eyes, “Relax. Control the slingshot. Don’t let it control you.”

“Irwin, aren’t you mad at me?”

“No, kid, I’m not mad at ya.’ You’re young, just trying to find your way. I was there once. That’s how you learn what’s important in life.” He slung the gun over his shoulder, “Besides, I like ya.’ I know from here on out you’ll do the right thing.”

He knelt down next to me, his eyes squinting from the sunlight, “Alright. First thing’s first. Relax your shoulders, your arms, and your hands. Hold the slingshot; don’t choke it. It’s a part of you.”

I did as Irwin said. I loosened up and made the slingshot an extension of me. I pulled the sling, released the rock, and grazed the narrow bottle neck. The bottle teetered until the torn label faced us.

“Good job! Now let’s work on your aim. Relax. Concentrate.”

The beer bottle was in my view, and the trees surrounding it disappeared. I let go, and the bottle shattered.

“Did you see that? I did it!”

“Good! Now try again.”

I pulled back and aimed for the next beer bottle, and when I let go, the rock knocked it off the fence.

“That’s it. Now you’re getting it. Now the can.”

I launched the rock, and the can flipped off the fence.

“Good job, kid. Keep up the good work. This is your first step, and with the right tools and the right attitude, good things will come your way. Try again.”

Try after try, no bottle, no can was safe, much like the zombies in my dream.

“I’m doing it, Irwin! I’m really doing it!” I shouted, but when I turned around, no one was there.

*                                                          *                                                          *

I went over my story again while waiting in line: I was getting money for my mom, and the ATM gave me too much. Yeah, that should work. Or will it? Didn’t computers keep records? I’ll just tell her that I walked passed the ATM, and there was unclaimed money in the tray. Technically, that was the truth.

“Next, please,” the teller said, and she wore a wide smile like she’d seen me many times before. She had long, dark hair, brown eyes, and she wore a button that said, “Every day’s a bright day at The Sunshine Bank.”

“Hel-Hello. Uh, hi,” I said, “I was walking by, just walking by the ATM machine, and this unclaimed money was in the tray. N-no one had been by the machine, so I knew it was nobody’s money.”

She nodded as I made my speech, and. her eyes widened when I placed the money on the counter.

“It was noble of you to bring back that money. Not many people would’ve done that.”

She opened up a drawer, and a part of me hoped that she would give me some of the money, kind of like a good deed tax.

“This isn’t much.” She stretched her arm across the counter. “And we seldom give these away, but I’m making an exception for your honorable gesture.”

I reached out my hand, and when her overturned hand met mine, I felt something cold against my palm. She removed her hand, and a yellow button with a smiling sun lay in it. A wave of disappointment rushed through me, but I mustered up the best smile I could.

“Thank you.”

I headed toward the exit with my button. I noticed a trashcan, and I thought about tossing it. I slipped it in my pocket instead.

*                                                          *                                                          *

Mom passed cans to me—the most tedious part of can collecting. I couldn’t toss them in the cart because they made noise, and making noise meant waking neighbors.

“We’re doing really good, today, Benny. A couple more blocks to go, and we’ll have about twenty dollars’ worth.”

She rummaged through the bin and rose with an armful of cans and a bright look in her eyes, but it faded when bright headlights shone on her face. She dropped the cans, but the motor’s rumble behind us smothered their clang.

The engine puttered to silence, and the headlights dimmed and flickered. The doors squeaked open, and out stepped two silhouettes: one short and pudgy, the other tall and skinny. They shuffled towards us, their heads tilted like they were about to roll off. They swayed back and forth with each step taken, and their stiff arms dangled at their sides. They stepped into the street lights, and their movements and features became more life-like.

Jim’s dad nudged the cart, “All this time, and you still haven’t learned your lesson.”

Owen slammed the cart. His lips curled and moved as dollops of spit flew from his mouth, but I tuned the words out. I had to do something.

Mom and Owen tossed words back and forth while tugging at the cart. Deep down I knew it was a fight we wouldn’t win.

“You know what you have to do, kid,” a voice said behind me.

Irwin leaned on the lamp post with a cigarette dangling in his hand. The overhead lighting created that shadowy band across his eyes, and cigarette ashes rained to the ground.

I pulled out my slingshot, and the arguing stopped. My mom’s jaw dropped, and Jim and Owen wore that trademark Cook smirk.

“I’m having a bad day, Cook,” I recited, “And you—”

“Don’t want to be the reason…” Irwin coached.

“It gets worse.”

I placed Owen’s face between the slingshot’s stems, and its tension was so tight, a gust of wind would’ve released it.

Owen and I made eye contact, “You wanna take me on, kid? You’re gonna need more than a toy.”

Both my arms shook from tension, and the sweat from my fingertips made the sling slip a little.

“Benny, I don’t know where you got that, but you will put it down right now,” Mom said.

“Listen to your mommy, kid. You don’t know what you’re doing,” Owen suggested.

His eyebrows stiffened and formed into a “V.” All I had to do was release, twitch my finger, but it was too late; the sling snapped. Startled, my arms loosened up, and Owen snatched the slingshot from me. He twisted its stems and accomplished what his son couldn’t.

I watched the once solid “Y” fall to the ground as two unrecognizable letters, and when I looked up, Owen stood over the cart with crossed arms. Mom tugged at my shirt, and I knew he had won.

As Mom pulled me away, I couldn’t let them win. I couldn’t listen to Jim’s remarks about how his dad got the best of us. I shoved the cart with my foot, and it slammed right into his groin. He went from sturdy column to quivering kidney bean in one maneuver.

Jim attended to his father, but he pushed him away.

*                                                          *                                                          *

I walked into Dante’s with a handful of coins. It was about two dollars’ worth which was enough for me. I walked toward Alien Recon when I felt a shove to my back.

“You’re gonna pay for what you did today, Caldwell, and you don’t have your little slingshot to hide behind.” I was inches from his face, and his breath held the stench of a hundred corpses. He pushed me, and gravity gripped me like his secret ally. I shuffled, gained footing, and charged him with all my weight. He blocked me and threw a right hook.

Ding!

The blinking lights around me were a tangle of strings. He was gonna win; I was no match for him, but I wanted one hit.

The arcade stopped swaying, and I lunged at him. He grabbed me again and swung me around. I stumbled, but all I thought about was that one hit, that one victorious hit. I didn’t care if I needed a facelift after the fight; I was getting that one hit.

I ran at him with swinging arms, and he blocked my first three punches. It was that magical fourth one that smashed against his freckled cheek. I tried for another but missed. He, however, did not. A downward, wavering whirl accompanied my fall to the floor. Game over.

*                                                          *                                                          *

I heard footsteps. When I opened my eyes, Irwin Wyatt peered down at me. At first he was a blur, but I knew it was him from the hat. I sat up, and my brain felt like it slid to the left side of my face.

“You did well, kid,” he said as he knelt down next to me.

“‘Well’? I got my ass kicked.”

I felt a sharp pain along my jaw.

“It’s the losses that make us stronger, kid, wiser, too,” he said, “Next time, you’ll know what to do. You won’t fear it because you already encountered it.”

I rubbed my swollen cheek, “I fear the pain. I fear my mom’s reaction.”

“There will always be pain. That’s a guarantee. As for your mom, well I can’t help you with that.”

“Thanks, Irwin. Thanks for everything,” I rose to my feet and gained balance, “If it wasn’t for you—”

When I got up, he was gone.

Mom walked into the arcade. “Will you get in here! I’ve been waiting for you!”

“Sorry, Mom.”

“Who were you talking to?” She halted, “and what happened to your face?”

“Nothing, Mom. I was talking to myself.”

 

THE END