I hate your birthday

Urban Hunting

When I hear the “pop” I knew we were in trouble. Just suppose to be some old lady living off daily meals on wheels. Did he fuck this up? I bet he fucked this up. I’m just clear of the second landing when I hear the second “pop”, this one accompanied by a senior citizen flying around the second floor stair case, twirl on her very dead heels and fall in a blue-haired tumble down the stairs to my feet. I wasn’t allowed to hold the gun, so I just stood in the stairwell looking down at the back of some geriatrics’ head, and only moved when I noticed the blood pool increasing toward my shoes. I performed a modest hop to the third step toward the second floor, and climbed three more before he stuck his head out of the apartment door.  

“Hey man, everything’s cool.”

Sadly it wasn’t so painfully obvious he was a psychopath two hours ago when we were still sitting in McDonalds. I would have at least done better than a dollar menu dinner. 

“What the fuck!?”

“Look, we got to hurry, the cops will be here any minute.”

“No fucking shit, you just shot an old woman twice in the chest!”

“Once. She just surprised me…” 

“But I heard…oh shit! You hit?!”

“No, I missed the first time. Now hurry up, Marla is going to fucking kill me if she realizes we took her father’s gun.”

The dead old lady’s place was very much like a living old lady’s apartment. I suppose the transition didn’t do much. He was, though. I could hear him throwing her wooden drawers against the wall of the bedroom after dumping it’s contents on the floor. Five drawers in, I figured the old lady didn’t have anything. Her living room was tidy, but still felt messy, and the windows hadn’t been opened in a few months. The granny croaker also smoked, and everything had a yellowish tinge to it, the few knick-knacks on the table sticky to the touch from the film build up.  

“What a waste of time, this lady doesn’t have anything worth a fuck. Hurry up, lets go!”

As the first siren carried through the apartment building, I was watching his legs kick toward the front door; he always put too much effort into running, I took a moment to snatch a pack of Marlboro’s from the coffee table.  

We run for the first six blocks, then cut down another avenue and walk the rest of the way. We’ve been living in his father’s garage for two months. His father doesn’t know it. Drunk and denial is a strong mix. Later that night, my head is resting on his lap, and I’m watching his face for traces of his thoughts. I fish the pack of cigarettes out of my jeans pocket, and his eyes watch my hands as I extract and light two for us. He gives me his boyish smile as he takes one from my hand, and squeezes my chest where his other hand lays. His chest fills with smoke as he takes the first tote, and exhales as cool as James Dean. He’s out of his mind, but he’s mine.