Day 12

What have you stolen?

I had no choice, you understand. It had to be done.

Let me explain it to you slowly, so it makes more sense, because any misbegotten facts will make you assume the worst of me, and you have to understand. I’m not a bad person, just a normal guy with, shall we say, extraordinary expectations. Maybe a little on the mischievous side, but, as the common man would say “I ain’t e’er done nuthin sides look out for me own.” At least, I assume that’s what they would say, in years past.

I’ll have to start at the beginning, so you have a clear picture. The family I was born into, well, maybe you will see that I didn’t really have a choice. Maybe you will see, because of my mother’s connections and my father’s great acts in the last great battle of the last major war, that I never could have been anything but great.

My idea of greatness though, I say ‘idea’ but really it was my realization, is nothing like my parents. When I was at the glorious ballroom parties of New York and London at the young age of 5, I realized I could never be great like my parents. My mother, tall and willowy, with splendid locks of russet colored hair and dark, seductive eyes, enraptured every man in the room. My father, battle-scarred and limping on one good leg, held a presence of command that no other man could equal. Even his superiors, for he was only a lowly officer in the war, straightened their backs at the sight of him.

Don’t you see, now? How could I hope to be the equal of the woman desired by all, the man equal to none? At the age of five, I realized my own path lay on a forked road, away from the starlit walkway my parents trod with no trouble at all. It was to them that glory and honor would go. It was to them that people would bend down and revere.

That night, at one of those parties I so loved, for I did love them, was when I began to forge my own path. As the admirers gazed hungrily upon my parents, as I, with my clear perception, saw them glow in the light of candles and chandeliers, my hand stole out into a gentleman’s pocket. I remember the pounding of my small heart, not realizing what I was doing until the digits were nearly to the opening of his suit paints. Sweat beaded upon my upper lip, and I felt such a rush of greatness that, with a quick movement, I slipped my hand in, grasped the brown leather wallet, and then held it behind my back.

It was at that moment my father, bushy eyebrows relaxed, turned toward me, and smiled.

Don’t you see that it was a sign? My father, he approved of my greatness. He knew I had not his command of words, nor my mother’s intellect. But this, this knowledge and skill I possessed, he approved. He must have seen me take the wallet.

That night, as he climbed behind the wheel, he said only ‘I love you, son.” As he gazed knowingly into the rearview mirror, the truck slammed into us, and it was in that clear moment, as my head snapped, that I knew that he would approve of the seed growing inside of me.

I never had his verbal approval, of course. The crash had maimed him severely, adding to injuries he had sustained in the war. I remember, at the funeral, that my mother had said she knew his time would always be short since that dreadful last battle, and I remember watching a little of her greatness die as she said goodbye to my father. The willow branch no longer waved, but stayed bent and hunched, and the fire had left my mother’s eyes.

Don’t you realize, now, why I had no choice? It was not for me that I pursued greatness. It was not for my own sake, but for my mother’s and father’s, and so what if I loved it, too? Should a man not love that at which he excels? I knew my skills, and I knew that only my greatness, though of a darker and harder type than my parent’s, would bring back the glory my family deserved.

It was several years until I had a chance to improve upon my skills. With my father gone, his pension alone sustained us, for though my mother had a strong mind and beautiful features, she cared too much for my own education and safety to seek employment. We moved out of the great apartment in Manhattan to a small, simple house in Brooklyn, the yard perpetually brown even at the height of spring.

My mother was vain, though, and she still kept her sparkling dresses and jewels, and told no one of the move. She still dragged me to the wonderful ballroom parties, though I knew that people now instead looked upon us with pity, not with the wonder and awe due to our name. It was here that I would take from the gentleman and ladies. Within months of my father’s death, I became an expert at picking pockets, of taking what was due my family and I from those who, I suspected and later confirmed, profited from my father’s death. I had overheard something once, someone asking my mother for “consideration” and from the shocked but resolute expression on her face, I knew the money I drew out of a ladies’ purse that night really belonged to us.

Finally, I remember, after a particularly brutal winter, when my mother began to cough even after the snow had melted, her attention began to wane. I knew that my mother knew of my greatness at my craft. She had glanced at me, at parties, at the supermarket, with a small smile and an incongruous line between her eyebrows, as I took small trinkets, small tokens, and things which helped us survive. She never asked where I got the money to buy candy or toys or, my real passion, books. She simply kissed my forehead, and told me, in a somber voice, “Be careful.” But after that brutal winter, she seemed to turn inward.

The Valentines Ball, which was held in the Waldorf Astoria, we did not attend that year. Nor St. Patricks at the Ritz-Carlton.

It was on those two occasions, when my mother shut herself in her room with her hot water bottle, I crept out into the night. On the first, I boosted a car. It was not the first time I had driven, but it was the first time I had not returned my prize to its rightful owner. I only remember a haze of glorious greatness, ending in a sharp crash and my feet pounding as I ran from police sirens.

The next time I had reason to leave, St. Patricks, I finally made the real commitment required of my craft. At only 7 years old, I broke into my first apartment. The feeling was spectacular, I doubt you would understand. I don’t mean that rudely, you know, but seriously. It is something one such as yourself can’t understand. Seeing the gleaming possessions of those mongrels, those wretches who were out drinking their minds away. I knew, at that moment, that they belonged to me. I, who had the presence of mind to do what others would not. Can you not see the greatness within my reasoning?

I see you’re growing bored, but bear with me a moment longer. It took me another three years, and several close scrapes, to hone my craft. I became an expert at locks, mechanisms, and all things secure. I began to watch people as I doubt they had ever been seen, as I doubt even I understood at the time, and saw how they protected themselves, and how to exploit those measures. Every night I broke through the barriers of at least one home, but I did not confine myself to high-rises. From the lowest beggar to the richest politician, I prowled each of their homes, looking for things to plunder. Often, I took nothing, but simply saw, as no one but the very keenest see, how people live.

My mother passed away. I had months to reconcile myself to the fact, and though I roamed the streets nightly, my mind was often with her, back in our scrubby little Brooklyn house. It seems people think sometimes that those who pursue greatness of the kind I have are full of only thoughts of themselves, but that isn’t how I am. Everything I did, I did for her, I did it so one day people would know our names and fear us like they did when my father was alive.

I really think she would have appreciated it.

We laid her to rest next to my father, in Cypress Hills, where so many souls have been laid to rest. I remember crying at her funeral, crying like I had not cried at my father’s, and resolving then to become what I am today.

After that, I drifted. My feet carried me anywhere they could, and my wallet was never lacking with funds. It was with a real purpose, now, that I practiced the art of the night. I was determined to make the name Halgill great again, make it something more than just the name scribbled on two headstones. I took great things, as you know, and always left my signature black handkerchief emblazoned with the family crest. You know all this, of course, but don’t you see now why it was necessary? Don’t you see that it was not compulsion that drove me?

Don’t you see the great purpose?

That’s why I stole it, Sergeant Hastings. That’s why I stole the classified laptop. Who would suspect a thief here, in the middle of the Pentagon?

Don’t you see why it had to be done?

Day 11

Day 11

The end.
Warm crimson droplets fell from his hand as he stared out at the sandy landscape, dust billowing up around the scrub brushes and destroyed vehicles in small puffs. He couldn’t tell where the shots were coming from.
At this point he didn’t care.
After a minute, of searching around him, he found his helmet. Thankfully, the flames hadn't burned off the reflective red cross on the front. He plopped the bucket onto his head with a lopsided grin.
Slowly, Merciville got to his feet. On the ground, only five feet in front of him, lay Sergeant Olden. Olden’s face has been torn clean off, it looked like by a piece of sheet metal blasted from one of the MATVs. His leg, combat boots always laced so tightly, twitched in convulsions, then finally lay still. Merciville couldn’t do a damn thing for him, but he knelt down next to the sergeant anyway, the effort bringing a fresh pain to the pit of his stomach. He gripped Olden’s hand, shouted that he would get help.
The ringing still had not left his ears.
Staggering back to his feet, Merciville wound through smoldering pieces of slag, craters in the sound, and, he numbly saw, large puddles of a terrifying mixture of fluids, most of which were tinged crimson. About 20 yards from Olden lay Gruber, sitting up, clutching his neck with his left hand.
His right hand was missing.
Gruber balanced a radio mike in the crook of his shoulder, shouting for reinforcements.
As he half walked, half stumbled toward Gruber, Merciville’s ears suddenly popped. He widened his jaw in a silent yawn, and distantly felt a creeping sensation in the region of his feet at the soft whiz and pop of more rounds striking the ground.
He was glad the Taliban weren’t great shots.
At last, he reached Gruber and, ignoring the lieutenant’s protests, bandaged his hand. It was awkward, and took much longer than normal, but he finally got him taken care of. Out of the corner he saw the severed hand on top of a flaming box of MREs.
He didn’t mention this to the lieutenant.
The next time he stood, the pain knocked him back to the ground, and Merciville inhaled a mouth full of moon sand. Coughing, he felt Gruber grab him and drag him into a sitting position. Gruber told him not to move, ordered him not to tend to anyone else.
He had never disobeyed an order.
That didn’t matter anymore, though, he thought.
In about five minutes, nothing would.
Finally, he pushed himself to his feet.

Day 10

Word vomit.

Dark thought dark cloud, what is there to see tonight, you look so sweet in pale moonlight, I never would have guessed you were the Devil in sheep’s clothing, more like a wolf, a spawn of unholy madness, a tower of terror in the digital age, all messed up and no place to fall down on your face, never thought you would have seen the light now you’re just a pretty girl all a dither in this ancient world of wonder, thought you might seek out the Devil even though you’re a pretty one yourself, had you at hello did I, had you when I said goodbye, pretty little thing who waits to bite your face in the night, waits to slit your pocket with a watch and wallet, waits to stab you in the back with all the trappings of a wonderful wedding, with what you cannot explain, no, it’s just an early summer day and here you are, gleaming in the sunlight with all your teeth shining brightly and the words lost on you as you see me rise up out of the ashes, what have you done little woman, what is it you find, a monster creeping behind you with great black unfurling wings, will he eat you, oh, maybe he’s the Devil you ran from, maybe he is me but you thought you would escape, now you run, now you lie, now you scream for mercy but it is the blood on your hands, this is your penance my sweet, nothing you know will save you, oh, maybe now you have a chip with which to bargain. 

Day 9

Day 9

Gloves.

Scotty took the thick leather gloves off and shook the dirt from them, then wiped the red dust from his forehead with the back of his sweaty hand and leaned on his shovel. His brown eyes peered up at the sun, and he sighed a little as he saw how high it was in the sky. The scent of concrete, wet and earthy, was heavy on the construction site, and the rattle of trucks, cars, and the raucous jackhammer were all a blur of noise. Scotty breathed deeply through his nose, the musty smell of his dust mask both annoying and comforting.

“Hey, Longfellow, get back to work!” shouted the foreman from the second floor of the house frame. He said it with a grin, though. Foreman Frank had been a longtime family friend of the Longfellows, and Scotty owed this job to him.

“Yessir, Mister Foreman!” Scotty cried jovially, with far too much gusto, and began attacking the dirt frantically where he was digging the trench line. Foreman Frank barked a laugh, shook his head, and went back to talking on his cell.

Scotty continued digging, though at a much steadier pace, all the way from the side of the house, where the kitchen would eventually be, down to the street, where they would connect the plumbing lines with the city water lines. It was not a hard trench to dig, only 2 feet wide by 2 feet deep, but it took Scotty the better part of an hour to complete it. Afterward, he stuck the shovel back into its slot on the truck, smacked his gloves free of dust again, and joined the crew moving 2x4s from the delivery trailer to the house. It was slow work, and none of the other workers were in any particular rush. They were, after all, paid by the hour.

“Hey, Scotty,” said Oscar, a burly man in his 30’s with long, lank hair and shoulders like hubcaps, “You wanna take it a little slower.” He looked slightly annoyed that Scotty was on his third trip with the wood, while the rest of them were coming back from their first,

“The faster you go, the faster it goes!” said Scotty, cheerfully, repeating the old adage his dad had told him since he was young. Scotty didn’t love the work, but there were worse jobs, and at the age of 17 he had had a few of them already. Just last month he had been cleaning sewage trucks at the end of the day. Not something he would be keen to get back to, and now that he worked here he probably wouldn’t need to be frying burgers and asking snotty people in SUVs if they wanted extra Fry Sauce at Freddy’s either. As he went back for his fourth and final load of wood, because there was no more on the trailer, he felt a sudden burst of energy.

Tonight, he thought.

The work went slowly. He helped move the 2x4s and some of the bigger beams into place as more experienced men measured, cut, planed and finally hammered them into place. The dull yellowish frame of the house had been standing for days, and they were finally beginning the inside rooms. Scotty helped mostly with the ground floor, though Foreman Frank called him up to the second floor several times to carry heavy bags of tools and hardware down from the second and third floors. The house, when it was finished, would be a monster. 7 bedrooms, 3 full baths and 2 powder rooms, with living rooms on every floor, and kitchenettes on both second and third. It had already been bought by a cattle rancher, who had apparently got a big contract with Wally-World.

Then, as Scotty was holding the last board for the doorway to the 4 car garage in place for Gilbert to nail into place, he heard Frank yell, “Wrap it up, guys!”

Scotty’s pulse quickened. Once the beam was in place, he jogged around, making sure he had everything he had left at the site, including the empty Gatorade bottle and the snack wrappers he had stuffed in one of the work buckets. With a spring in his step, he hopped into the back of Oscar’s truck, and within minutes the wind was whipping his long red hair around, blowing the dust off his bright yellow shirt.

He watched the Oklahoma highway blow past as Oscar hurtled down I-44, then onto I-40, out west toward the edges of Oklahoma City. Scotty gazed fixedly at the clouds, shimmering with different colors, not a thought or worry in his mind as he got closer to home.

“Allright, kid,” said Oscar gruffly. He had already lit a cigarette and looked ready for a cold brew and a shower. “You take care, ya hear?” He eyed Scotty doubtfully, as though assuming the Longfellow kid did nothing but cause trouble in his off hours.

“Will do, Oscar,” said Scotty, slapped the side of the truck. He quickly ran down the long gravel drive toward the small, cheaply built stilt house. The front screen door was tattered from the recent storms. He would have to remember to fix that this weekend.

“Mom!” shouted Scotty, blasting through the door and towards his small room, “I’m going out!”

“You just got home!” she yelled back at him, coming out of the kitchen and wiping her hands on her gray, stained apron. “I made lasagna, you stay for dinner, then you can go out.”

Scotty groaned loudly, but knew there was no arguing. Maddie Longfellow worked long hours as a nurse at Integris Baptist Hospital, and she rarely had time to cook. When she did, her sons did not leave leftovers.

Scotty leapt into the shower, rinsed himself while humming along to the sound of Ozzy Osbourne on his shower radio. With a rush of excitement, knowing he was an hour or so until freedom, he toweled and dressed. His leather gloves, worn in the palms from handling so many different types of tools, lay forgotten on the floor, at least until tomorrow. Scotty slid on his nicest pair of jeans, drew a clean t-shirt down his chest, and, after lacing up his comfortable Vans, stuck a pair of black mesh athletic gloves into his back pocket.

The lasagna was delicious, but Jerry and Bill both talked his ear off about their days at school. Jerry, the youngest, had just started middle school, while Bill was finishing up high school. Bill asked longingly about Scotty’s job. Scotty had worked hard and graduated early, and he was saving up every cent over the next year to go to an out of state trade school, where he would learn to work with mechanical lathes and, hopefully, be able to transfer to a full time university with a mechanical engineering program with the credits. Bill wanted to follow suit, and hung on Scotty’s every word about what to do.

Finally, after pecking his mom on the cheek and yelling that he would be back later, Scotty ran to the garage.

He threw the door open and stared.

There she was.

His very own 1968 Road Runner. This was a real car, not like the fiberglass crap on the road these days. 425 horsepower, with a 426-cubic-inch Hemi V8, she gleamed in the dying sunlight, gloss cherry red with black racing stripes. Since the age of 10 he had been restoring this car with his dad, and it was only in the last few months that he had been able to drive it, as he finally had his license. He remembered with clarity the day they had stumbled across the chassis in a junkyard. It was his 9th birthday, and he had told his dad he wanted a truck. Stanley Longfellow, an engineer with an oil firm out of Oklahoma City, told his son that no boy should have a truck. They didn’t have anything to haul.

“Pick a car instead, son,” he had said, and it was at that moment Scotty had seen the rusted but intact blocky front of the Road Runner. It had cost them $1300, which Stan had said was a steal.

Scotty let out a war-whoop, and ran toward the car, sliding across the hood Dukes of Hazzard style. He shot through the window and slammed the ignition forward, revving the powerful engine. Before he shifted into gear, he slowly and carefully pulled on his gloves with glee. He was going to race tonight, and nothing could stop him.

Hours later, when the fiery wreckage was being sorted through by Oklahoma Highway Patrol and Maddie Longfellow, having buried her husband from stage 4 liver cancer only months before, was sobbing on the side of I-40, the fingers in the gloves, which had not quite burned through, still held the leather steering wheel.

Day 8

In need of prompt. 
Overstuffed, I sit on the couch, slowly letting the adrenaline drain from my body from the long, desperate day of toil. The potatoes have been cooked, the bills nearly paid. I place the headphones into my tired ears, only to take them out. Check on the kids. Pay the mortgage. Hear what is being said. This is the time I should be creating my novels, should be telling a story that would make an old man weep and a young girl sing with joy, but the distractions are not preventing the creation of beauty. It is within me where the blockage lies, from my soul, which does not possess any beauty in this moment. 
The lyrics scream into my ears, and suddenly, is that something? Is there an idea for me to pen, something original to develop? No, it is an old idea, an old song, one already sung by bards, and by teenagers who do not know a note from a tone. 
There are many things in my mind, but none of them are words. The words are what I desperately need, the words drive me from one moment to the next, a dying man across a barren desert in search of the words. 
My head aches.
There are many things in my mind. Will the weekend be long or short? How did I ever survive without rest, in the days I was young, quick and full of promise? I am not without promise now, but I feel the quickness has left my limbs, like a battery slowly drains throughout the long day. I become more quickly charged these days, sometimes quick to anger, but more often everything simply seems clearer. It is true what they say, then, that as the body slows, the mind does not necessarily. It is a paradox, but unimportant. I leave it on the glowing path I walk in my mind, lay it gently on the floor and move down the line. 
There are many things in my mind. The fear is there, but that lies closer to my chest, closer to the organ which, dare I think it, may stop at any time. Will it burst? Will it snap? I cannot not think about it, there must be some thought pouring into it or it will cease beating on its own. There are solutions to that particular problem, but they draw back to the quickness again, that quickness I desperately need these days. My anger flares, and I tell myself this too will change.
But then I feel the desire of ice cream, and that anger too lays upon the bright golden road of my thoughts. 
There are many things on my mind. Mostly, the thoughts bite, just like the pain in my head and back. It is easy for them to come and go, flitting in and out like canaries. Or are they robins or, oh what is that other bird. I feel angry when I force the words.
Sparrow.
There are many things on my mind. The many tasks on my to do list overshadow my joy of hearing each individual key click on my keyboard, but if there were ever a hypnosis strong enough to work on my mind, it is the typing of words steadily upon a keyboard. I wonder if Stephen King writes like this, fingers flying back and forth.
Probably. He probably knows all the words, sees them brightly in his mind, miles before he writes them. For me, it is as though accord connects to a dark room, from where the words fly willy-nilly, without rhyme, reason or rhythm. I can only see two steps in advance, so much in the moment does my tactical mind live; strategies are for action, for doing. In that, I can see leagues along. I can plan where to go, what to say, what moves to take, unless I am sitting still. 
They have probably invented a way to type while walking. But, there again, I lack the quickness.
There are many things on my mind tonight. As I look around my wonderful living room, surrounded by my wonderful family, a small part of me questions why they cannot come to the forefront and spill onto the page like oil onto the ground. Do I lack the required skill? The knowledge?
Am I bereft of story?
Am I just mediocre, just like Brian said then?
Quickly, for within my mind I have quickness now, I examine my life. 
I find no answers, negative or positive. The logic says the slight dehydration, the overwork, the toil of my body to provide for my family and to make my life better are what keeps the words from the page.
The heart says it is because I have yet to slay giants, to do something really extraordinary. 
The feet say it is because there is too much to say, too much I have already done, what needs more to be said?