It was really dark, and my head hurt, but at least I was lying down. It took a minute for my vision to correct, which gave me some time to listen and get the feel for the room I was in. It was obviously a house or apartment of some kind, as the air wasn't stale, but had the freshness of recycled, air-conditioned air. As the room stopped blurring, I realized I was lying on a couch, which was weird, considering I was a prisoner. Someone walked in, clearly an Irishman, with the bright flaming beard, and a slight accent which marked him as a first-generation immigrant. He helped me up and took me out to a table where two men and a woman sat. I recognized them, but couldn't put a name to any of their faces.
"Hello Charlie, sorry about the knock on the head. The lads were a little jumpy after the shooting and with the cops being everywhere," the woman told me. Why she would be apologizing when I had stolen a vast sum of money from them, I don't know.
"We brought you here to thank you Charlie," the man across the table from Charlie said, "We know you drew the cops after you to save our safehouse, that takes a real countryman to stand up and give his help so freely. We wanted to let you know it was all safe to stop hiding now. The cops have been handled, and now we were hoping for your help. Someone took the opportunity that night to break into the safehouse before we managed to move any documents, and stole all the money. We know you were there prior to the police arriving, so we were hoping you might be able to help us."
Stunned. I was stunned. These people honestly thought I had helped divert the police? I don't know what happened that night, but either way, I realized, I was safe for real this time. I just had to get out of there without spilling the beans, and then I'd be a free man. I had all the money I could ever- where was the money? Taking a look around the room, I couldn't see my bag.
"Well Charlie, do you remember anything that night?" the man asked again. I couldn't for the life of me remember his name,
"Um, no, sorry." I had to buy more time to find my bag. I guess they didn't look inside, so I had to find it and keep it that way,
"Well that's a real shame. We were hoping you'd seen something," the man to the left spoke for the first time. Realizing that was really all they had to ask me, I looked less furtively around the room for my bag. The woman realized what I was doing,
"Your stuff is safe Charlie, we left your bag at O'Connell's, it's safe there."
I didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified. On the one hand, at least these people wouldn't be the ones to gut me, but a who's who of the villianous bastards resided at O'Connell's, and if anyone of them found my bag and made the connection...
"I have to go." I stammered. I had to get the bag.
"Of course Charlie, John will show you out." I still couldn't remember any of their names, but I recognized the big man who brought me in. At least he wasn't at the pub looking through my bag. He would hurt. Walking up through some cellars, I found myself stepping out of the storage closet into the hall at O'Connell's. Walking into the main room, I was struck my the smell of smoke and drink. Two EMTs sat at the end of the bar, looking glum. I couldn't help but smile. At least they hadn't had to pick my body up. I looked for, and found O'Connell talking to some customers at a table in the corner. He turned as I approached, "Hey Charlie, welcome back to the world of the living," he shook my hand, "can I get you a drink?"
I didn't want a drink, I wanted an escape, "Not today, I just want my bag and some sleep," I lied, hoping he would just not ask any questions. He pointed to the end of the bar, "It's over there next to those guys."
As I turned my head, I saw the EMTs speak into their radios. They stood up, and the one at the end of the bar picked up a bag off the floor. My bag. It was like a slow motion death scene in a movie. They walked to the door. I couldn't move fast enough to catch them. I realized they were running. Away from me? Of course not, they're EMTs, they must have picked up the wrong bag when they got a call. I got outside and the ambulance was pulling away. It was moving so fast. I sprinted around the corner of Rouse as it slid to a stop in front of Jupiter apartments. I stopped about 20 feet away, as the EMTs came rushing back out of the apartments with a body bag. All thought of the money left my mind. The ambulance peeled away. All fear for the money left my mind. One of my neighbors died today. I didn't know who. I should have known. I was so caught up with my paranoia, I didn't know anything about the people I lived next to. As the money drove away, I realized it was going to a better cause. Besides, Charley needed to be fed.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
Crazy Jesus!
Leaving the building, Charlie crossed through the traffic to get to the bank. Stepping through the bulletproof glass doors, the air conditioned atmosphere pulled Charlie back to his first memory of this bank. He had woken up in the alley after falling from the fire escape. His pursuers must have thought him a drunk: he was untouched. The blood covering his face had dried with the rain. The shooting pains required to scrape off that rusty paint masked the paint he felt in his nose, which was surely broken. He found the bag he had been carrying lying next to him on the ground, miraculously unscathed by the terrors of the night. Staggering out of the alley, he found himself across the street from the Jupiter. It was the smaller building standing on his left, however, that drew his attention. The bank was already open. It must be later than he thought. All thought of getting clean gone from his mind, Charlie decided to open a security deposit box.
The deposit box was no longer a safe haven for Charlie, but the main source of his worry. What if the IRA had someone inside the bank? They would surely notice that he had opened an account on the same day that the money had gone missing. But that didn’t matter now. Dispelling the dark thoughts from his mind, Charlie went to open his box, retrieve his bag, and carry away his fate.
Leaving the building, Charlie found serendipity yet again. A man was atop the bank, shouting religious praises and lessons. Everyone in the vicinity was crowded around the bank. Charlie slipped quickly into the crowd – there was no way any pursuer would have seen him. Reaching the back of the crowd, Charlie froze. A car was speeding down the road. It swerved around the corner and two gunshots rang out. The crowd scattered. Charlie stood frozen. He wasn’t hit. Maybe they missed? Reality grabbed him as the curses of a man 20 yards away filled the air. Charlie heaved a sigh of relief and fled down Rouse Street.
He headed towards the Jaguar. He knew someone there would be able to get him out of the city safely. Police were crowded in front of the bar. Charlie slowed as he realized he recognized the man being put into the police car. He was a semi-famous rapper. Charlie didn’t remember his name, nor did he care. The police would be enough distraction for him to get into the Jaguar unnoticed. Unfortunately, the police were enough of a distraction to Charlie as well. He never heard the two men coming up behind him. Then there was blackness.
The deposit box was no longer a safe haven for Charlie, but the main source of his worry. What if the IRA had someone inside the bank? They would surely notice that he had opened an account on the same day that the money had gone missing. But that didn’t matter now. Dispelling the dark thoughts from his mind, Charlie went to open his box, retrieve his bag, and carry away his fate.
Leaving the building, Charlie found serendipity yet again. A man was atop the bank, shouting religious praises and lessons. Everyone in the vicinity was crowded around the bank. Charlie slipped quickly into the crowd – there was no way any pursuer would have seen him. Reaching the back of the crowd, Charlie froze. A car was speeding down the road. It swerved around the corner and two gunshots rang out. The crowd scattered. Charlie stood frozen. He wasn’t hit. Maybe they missed? Reality grabbed him as the curses of a man 20 yards away filled the air. Charlie heaved a sigh of relief and fled down Rouse Street.
He headed towards the Jaguar. He knew someone there would be able to get him out of the city safely. Police were crowded in front of the bar. Charlie slowed as he realized he recognized the man being put into the police car. He was a semi-famous rapper. Charlie didn’t remember his name, nor did he care. The police would be enough distraction for him to get into the Jaguar unnoticed. Unfortunately, the police were enough of a distraction to Charlie as well. He never heard the two men coming up behind him. Then there was blackness.
Journal
I am writing this both as a schedule, and as an elegy. I don’t know if I will survive the coming days, but I’m going to face my fate. Two weeks ago, I led the police to an IRA safehouse, but only after stealing hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of dollars from it. Today I’m going to try and get the money from where it is hidden, and flee the city with it. As soon as I step into the bank to go to my safe deposit box, I’m sure the bank is being watched. My fear for what could happen if I stay here has driven me to this decision. I can’t stand the paranoia that I don every time I walk the streets. I will take the money and run. Maybe I’ll move to South Dakota. Although, if that happens, I might as well just turn myself over and ask for the quick death that South Dakota could never give me.
Tomorrow, I think, I will stop running. Running from what? You may ask. I haven’t written about it because I was afraid. Well shit, I’m still afraid, but if I’m done running from the most frightening radical political activist party I’ve ever seen, then I might as well write it down, right? Think of this as my living will. Or my eulogy. Something along those lines. Regardless of the outcome, I don’t think I’m coming back to this room, or even this city.
I have never agreed with the terroristic tactics of the IRA, but as a member of the Irish community, it is an expectation that you will follow the norm and support the IRA. I don’t know what led me to finally revolt against this norm, besides a random act of drunken stupidity, but the fear and the paranoia have become determination. Maybe this neighborhood has changed me. I see all of my neighbors living their lives while I sit here and try to hide from mine. The regular people worry about the cold weather, the normal folks get angry when the fire alarm is pulled, those people, not me, have jobs, families, and issues to deal with. Me? I have a renegade ant to take care of, and a terrorist organization to hide from. Where is that normal?
Well, anyways, here’s the plan: I’ll go to the bank. And really that’s where this whole thing falls apart. Depressing, no? IF they aren’t already watching the bank, I will officially be the luckiest man alive. I will walk out of the bank a made man, and I promise you, I will not look back. However, the likelihood that the IRA isn’t watching the bank as about as likely as Charley escaping his ant farm. In other words, I’ll go to the bank, get the money, proceed to be jumped by a gang of IRA hitmen, and if not killed, then dragged back to whatever is serving as the IRA’s HQ to be flayed alive. Sounds fun.
Charlie C. O’Charley
Tomorrow, I think, I will stop running. Running from what? You may ask. I haven’t written about it because I was afraid. Well shit, I’m still afraid, but if I’m done running from the most frightening radical political activist party I’ve ever seen, then I might as well write it down, right? Think of this as my living will. Or my eulogy. Something along those lines. Regardless of the outcome, I don’t think I’m coming back to this room, or even this city.
I have never agreed with the terroristic tactics of the IRA, but as a member of the Irish community, it is an expectation that you will follow the norm and support the IRA. I don’t know what led me to finally revolt against this norm, besides a random act of drunken stupidity, but the fear and the paranoia have become determination. Maybe this neighborhood has changed me. I see all of my neighbors living their lives while I sit here and try to hide from mine. The regular people worry about the cold weather, the normal folks get angry when the fire alarm is pulled, those people, not me, have jobs, families, and issues to deal with. Me? I have a renegade ant to take care of, and a terrorist organization to hide from. Where is that normal?
Well, anyways, here’s the plan: I’ll go to the bank. And really that’s where this whole thing falls apart. Depressing, no? IF they aren’t already watching the bank, I will officially be the luckiest man alive. I will walk out of the bank a made man, and I promise you, I will not look back. However, the likelihood that the IRA isn’t watching the bank as about as likely as Charley escaping his ant farm. In other words, I’ll go to the bank, get the money, proceed to be jumped by a gang of IRA hitmen, and if not killed, then dragged back to whatever is serving as the IRA’s HQ to be flayed alive. Sounds fun.
Charlie C. O’Charley
The Fire Alarm
Stuffing the last wig into his bag, Charlie thanks the cashier and walks out of the wig and custume shop. He likes that shop. It doesn't have any identifying features - no name, an indiscreet building, and a forgetful owner. Charlie looks up and down the sidewalk. Seeing no one, he heaves a sigh, and begins the short walk back to the apartments. Rounding the corner at Polaski Ave, he sees people trickling out of the apartments. Across the street, Charlie sees a woman standing in the runoff water beside the curb, watching as the old asian mechanic walks quickly away. An angry looking man approaches Charlie, and he instinctively tenses to run. "Can you believe this?" the man asks, walking by, "Some goddamn kid pulled the fire alarm!" Charlie's anxiety passes along with the man, until, as if on queue, sirens sound from down the street. The fire engines will bring spectators, Charlie realizes. Banishing all thought of saving his ant or his belongings, he cross the street towards the coffee shop. He doesn't want to be there when all the spectators show up, it's too dangerous. The fire engines arrive at the apartments, blaring loudly through the crisp, cold air. The last people run from the building as firemen jump off the trucks. Charlie sees none of this.
The customers of La Choze look up as the slight, whiskered man nearly sprints through the door. Smiling anxiously, Charlie walks up to the counter and orders some tea. Taking a seat, Charlie quickly stuffs his bag of costume supplies under his chair and hides himself behind a magazine. As his anxiety passed, Charlie began to see the words on the magazine page. There was an ongoing project to restore the park and update the historic "Old Well". The world was changing. Charlie knew it would continue to change without him if he couldn’t escape the IRA for good. The clock read 5pm. Charlie had been sitting in the café for hours. The tea was cold. Hours had passed in seconds. Charlie felt the paranoid urge to leave. Sitting in one place for so long was dangerous; it was easier to find someone who never moved. Slinking out of the door, Charlie walked behind the bar to the alleyway across from The Jupiter. As he had hundreds of times before, Charlie checked the street in both directions. He sauntered across the street, darting looks in both directions. Elevators were death traps. He took the stairs.
Arriving home, Charlie put his purchases away and put water on the stove to make rice. Checking the locks on the windows and door, he sits down at the table to write in his journal. The water boiled and evaporated. He kept writing. He never takes that long to write. Looking up from his own meal, Charley knew something was amiss.
Perhaps tomorrow would be a normal day.
The customers of La Choze look up as the slight, whiskered man nearly sprints through the door. Smiling anxiously, Charlie walks up to the counter and orders some tea. Taking a seat, Charlie quickly stuffs his bag of costume supplies under his chair and hides himself behind a magazine. As his anxiety passed, Charlie began to see the words on the magazine page. There was an ongoing project to restore the park and update the historic "Old Well". The world was changing. Charlie knew it would continue to change without him if he couldn’t escape the IRA for good. The clock read 5pm. Charlie had been sitting in the café for hours. The tea was cold. Hours had passed in seconds. Charlie felt the paranoid urge to leave. Sitting in one place for so long was dangerous; it was easier to find someone who never moved. Slinking out of the door, Charlie walked behind the bar to the alleyway across from The Jupiter. As he had hundreds of times before, Charlie checked the street in both directions. He sauntered across the street, darting looks in both directions. Elevators were death traps. He took the stairs.
Arriving home, Charlie put his purchases away and put water on the stove to make rice. Checking the locks on the windows and door, he sits down at the table to write in his journal. The water boiled and evaporated. He kept writing. He never takes that long to write. Looking up from his own meal, Charley knew something was amiss.
Perhaps tomorrow would be a normal day.
The Cold
The snow was miserable. He hated being so cold. It felt like his bones were plates of ice. Charley scuttled over the ice. He had left the apartment to find more dirt. To find a new home where he could be king (or queen- he wasn’t really sure what the difference was). This white dirt was painful to his tiny little legs. Steam rose from a hole in the ground. The steam felt as good as the sun on Charley’s legs, only slightly less “clean.” Charley climbed into the hole, hoping for a utopia of warmth and dirt. Had Charley had the ability to smell, the stench from the tunnel under Rouse Street might have offended him, but to his antennae, the scent was just another trail in his insect vision.
The cold was terrible. Charlie preferred the warmth of a fire, a wool blanket, and an aged scotch. Sitting down to a dinner of cold pasta and spinach was therefore not very satisfying to Charlie’s palate. He thought about having a drink afterwards, just to warm up a little. He knew it was a mistake, but it was just so cold. A roach scuttled across his counter and into the crack between the cabinetry and the wall. Charlie disliked roaches. They reminded him of fleeing from the dark. He remembered when the men from the IRA had burst into O’Connell’s looking for him. He had stolen over $1 million from the IRA’s safehouse, and had reported it to the police, who found dozens of illegal weapons in a highly televised raid later that day. He fled the thugs in the pub, and had made his way home as quickly as he could. Drinking had gotten him into this mess with the IRA. Screw it, one shot wouldn’t hurt.
The tunnel was surprisingly cold, but Charley knew he was near the apartment – the scent of diluted laundry detergent used in the apartment’s laundry room was discernable even here. Following the tunnel towards home, Charley came across a mountain. Unbeknownst to him, this mountain was none other than Felix, the homeless man who inhabited the tunnel. The man had brown hair and seemed to be sleeping brokenly. Climbing over the mountain of newspaper and dirty old clothes, Charley retreated further into the tunnel, seeking the warmth of his home over this clinging, dirty warmth in the tunnel. Up through cracks in the foundation he went, scuttling through electrical wiring, and hiding from the nasty creatures that inhabited the walls of the Jupiter. There seemed to be far more cockroaches than normal, which frightened Charley.
It had happened one night without pre-meditation. Finn, the largest man Charlie had ever known, had accused him of possessing a weak liver. Charlie showed him the meaning of a weak liver. By midnight, the pub was out nearly a quarter of its alcohol, and Finn was lying face down at the bar in a large puddle of it. Still angered by the insult to his manhood, Charlie stormed out of the pub and found himself three hours later in the IRA’s headquarters. A small townhouse on the opposite side of Little Ireland, the townhouse was used more as a hideaway and safehouse than anything else. Charlie knew how he would pay back the IRA lieutenant. He found the false wall panel, wrenched it apart, and took as much of the money as he could fit onto his personage. He awoke the next morning in his basement, lying next to the washing machine full of money.
He found room 1313M safely locked and as warm as a tavern before the last call. Charlie was sprawled over the table, a bottle of something knocked onto the floor. Charley navigated carefully past the spilled liquid towards the glass box he called home. A prison only when he wanted it to be, as he had burrowed many tunnels through its plexiglass siding. Next time, maybe, the weather would be kinder, and he could find a better patch of dirt to start his own colony.
It was 6am when the alarm sounded. Charlie woke with a start and a splitting headache. The whiskey was a bad idea. He decided to go get some coffee from La Choze. He had heard somewhere that coffee helped with hangovers. Stepping outside the Jupiter, the cold, snow-filled air bit at his eyes. A woman passed him coming out of the building. She smelled like O’Connel’s. A momentary panic filled Charlie. He turned his head away while taking a quick glance at her. He hadn’t seen her in any of the IRA hangouts. Exuding relief, Charlie walked towards the coffee shop. He had to figure out what to do.
The cold was terrible. Charlie preferred the warmth of a fire, a wool blanket, and an aged scotch. Sitting down to a dinner of cold pasta and spinach was therefore not very satisfying to Charlie’s palate. He thought about having a drink afterwards, just to warm up a little. He knew it was a mistake, but it was just so cold. A roach scuttled across his counter and into the crack between the cabinetry and the wall. Charlie disliked roaches. They reminded him of fleeing from the dark. He remembered when the men from the IRA had burst into O’Connell’s looking for him. He had stolen over $1 million from the IRA’s safehouse, and had reported it to the police, who found dozens of illegal weapons in a highly televised raid later that day. He fled the thugs in the pub, and had made his way home as quickly as he could. Drinking had gotten him into this mess with the IRA. Screw it, one shot wouldn’t hurt.
The tunnel was surprisingly cold, but Charley knew he was near the apartment – the scent of diluted laundry detergent used in the apartment’s laundry room was discernable even here. Following the tunnel towards home, Charley came across a mountain. Unbeknownst to him, this mountain was none other than Felix, the homeless man who inhabited the tunnel. The man had brown hair and seemed to be sleeping brokenly. Climbing over the mountain of newspaper and dirty old clothes, Charley retreated further into the tunnel, seeking the warmth of his home over this clinging, dirty warmth in the tunnel. Up through cracks in the foundation he went, scuttling through electrical wiring, and hiding from the nasty creatures that inhabited the walls of the Jupiter. There seemed to be far more cockroaches than normal, which frightened Charley.
It had happened one night without pre-meditation. Finn, the largest man Charlie had ever known, had accused him of possessing a weak liver. Charlie showed him the meaning of a weak liver. By midnight, the pub was out nearly a quarter of its alcohol, and Finn was lying face down at the bar in a large puddle of it. Still angered by the insult to his manhood, Charlie stormed out of the pub and found himself three hours later in the IRA’s headquarters. A small townhouse on the opposite side of Little Ireland, the townhouse was used more as a hideaway and safehouse than anything else. Charlie knew how he would pay back the IRA lieutenant. He found the false wall panel, wrenched it apart, and took as much of the money as he could fit onto his personage. He awoke the next morning in his basement, lying next to the washing machine full of money.
He found room 1313M safely locked and as warm as a tavern before the last call. Charlie was sprawled over the table, a bottle of something knocked onto the floor. Charley navigated carefully past the spilled liquid towards the glass box he called home. A prison only when he wanted it to be, as he had burrowed many tunnels through its plexiglass siding. Next time, maybe, the weather would be kinder, and he could find a better patch of dirt to start his own colony.
It was 6am when the alarm sounded. Charlie woke with a start and a splitting headache. The whiskey was a bad idea. He decided to go get some coffee from La Choze. He had heard somewhere that coffee helped with hangovers. Stepping outside the Jupiter, the cold, snow-filled air bit at his eyes. A woman passed him coming out of the building. She smelled like O’Connel’s. A momentary panic filled Charlie. He turned his head away while taking a quick glance at her. He hadn’t seen her in any of the IRA hangouts. Exuding relief, Charlie walked towards the coffee shop. He had to figure out what to do.
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