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Another Dollar
Mike Longo
Bill Falsewrite leaned with the
turn as his battered blue ’92 Chevy Cavalier grasped a tight corner along
good ol’ route three. Another day, another dollar, Bill
thought to himself as he flicked his Bic lighter, touching the flame to a
skinny roach resting in-between his lips.
He inhaled deeply and ember glowed.
Fuckin’ Mondays, Bill
thought. Same shit every goddamn day. Bill exhaled and took another deep drag. Same shitty toilets to scrub.
Bill coughed quick shots onto the
windshield. Same shitty schwag weed. Bill rolled down the window, took one
last rip, and gave his roach to the wind.
And if I find that muther fucker
who keeps wiping boogers on the mirror, I’ll use my mop to clean his nose
out. A shiny silver Mercedes—Mass
plates—whipped around the bend ahead and passed dangerously close to Bill’s
Chevy. Bill swerved slightly. “Goddamn yuppies,” he said to
himself. Probably visiting their kid at the college. Spoiled bitch or bastard probably flunked high school, but
Mommy and Daddy have lots of money so it doesn’t matter. He festered…but despite Bill’s sour mood, that
crappy weed began to kick in. At first, a minute warm sensation
numbed the skin. Fuzzy little
vibrations then touched his consciousness.
For a moment, he forgot about the Mass-holes, the day ahead, that cunt
ex-girlfriend, and their “happy accident” Bill blames on a messy
blowjob. For a moment…instead of
thinking about the heavy clouds and grayness outside, he noticed how bright
and green the plants looked on wet days like this, as he rolled by at 54
miles an hour. A bellowing tone sounded in the
distance. Shocked out of the buzz,
Bill turned his eyes to the road ahead.
Looming before him was a white SUV, occupied only by the driver, a chicken
faced woman wearing big earrings and golf shirt. Fear was in her eyes as she pounded the horn. Bill was in her lane. I’m
in her lane. OH SHIT!!! Bill
slammed the brakes as he swerved out of the way, evading a head on collision
and a nasty scrape by mere inches. Leaning
on the horn, the SUV lady shot her arm into the air, flipping the bird in a
grand gesture. Bill—still shocked—trembled unconsciously, as the
previous seconds replayed in his mind like a dream. Smile on mighty Jesus,
Bill thought. That was close. He
pondered the near death experience for a moment. Sadly back to reality, Bill slowed down and bitterly became
more aware of everything. He hit the edge of town, and lit a Quality Smokes Brand cigarette. This
masked the mild but potent roach smell rising from Bill’s fingers and
breath. Plus, there’s nothing like a
cigarette at eight in the morning. He
savored that cigarette, even though he knew it was the cheapest brand. With a
name like Quality Smokes, you know
it’s gotta be some shamefully cheap shit.
It don’t matter. He pays for quantity, not quality. Quality
smokes don’t last any longer than cheap ones, so why pay more money? Why buy
the beer, when you can buy beer-flavored water at five bucks a twelve pack,
and with that stuff, there’s more alcohol than expensive shit. More
bang for the buck, Bill thought. Now that’s quality. Bill smoked that cigarette. With each inhale-exhale of smoke the world
would get a little bit better. Hand
to mouth, pull. Exhale. This was normal. This was familiar. Bill
mellowed out in the routine like a mouse on a wheel. Round
and round. He was safe again.
Bill parked on the subtle slope of Town Hall employee parking. He unwrapped a stick of mint gum and
popped it into his mouth. Bill
chewed. Powerful mint flavor opened
the floodgates of saliva. They mixed
and covered the surfaces inside his mouth.
He was cleansed. Minty fresh
and ready. Bill flipped down the sun visor to see his own
face. In the cracked mirror, Bill straightened his Charlotte Hornets ball cap.
Bill smiled at himself despite the empty space where his front tooth
used to be, and checked his grill for breakfast stragglers. All
clear. He took out the car keys
and stuffed them in his pocket. Back to the grind. The car door opened grudgingly with a
whining creak. That sound got louder
every day. * * * Bill didn’t take the front door,
the passage most people used. Bill
used the service entrance, a dull gray door around the side of the brick
building, unmarked. Bill walked down
a plain white hallway under fluorescent lights, and took the second to last
doorway on the left, sporting a black plastic plaque reading
“Utilities.” Just inside the dimly lit room, Jerry Blizkowski
leaned against the concrete wall with his back to the door, guiding sudsy
fluid into the mop basin with a clear plastic tube. It wasn’t even 8:05 in the morning, and already Jerry had pit
stains forming beneath his generously plump limbs. Jerry “Lump” Blizkowski was Bill’s custodial comrade and a
bonafied beer athlete. If Bill was correct, the lump probably had a sixer in
him already. Good ol’ Jer, startin’ his day early. He came to the town hall a few years after Bill, but they’d
been best friends since elementary school.
Those were the days, Bill
thought. Riding bikes in the
woods. Teasin’ girls. We had one hell of a rip… The wheel-o-mop was about full. Jerry punched the red button on a chest
level brown box attached to the wall; the tube running out of the box stopped
flowing with soapy sanitizer and emptied slowly into the swirling
solution. Jerry hadn’t noticed Bill
standing in the doorway. Bill grinned
with mischief. “Howdy Fucker!” Jerry gasped and lurched backwards, teetering
precariously on the end of his heels.
Thankfully, he found his footing and turned around, face red and blue
eyes wild. “You damn shit ass!” Jerry yelled, jowls
fluctuating. “My heart just
palpitated.” “Relax ol’ boy. I ain’t tryin’ to kill yuh—“ “Fuck you.” “I’m just tryin to have a little fun. That’s all.” Jerry fumed.
“Well do me a favor and quit that shit. You wanna be responsible for a dead man?” “Hey Lumpy, I ain’t responsible.” Bill patted Jerry’s shoulder. “All I gotta do is mop the piss up after
they drag your fat ass to the ambulance.” Jerry chuckled but tried to hide it. “Quit fuckin’ around I’m serious. We gotta
mop the front before doors open.” It’s like this every morning, back and forth. “Relax, relax. We got twenty-five dang minutes ‘til the paper pushers show
up. Get this,” Bill leaned in. “I almost ate a bumper on my way here.” “Huh?” “I almost kissed the grill of an SUV goin’ 50
miles an hour.” “No shit?”
Jerry said eyes wide. “No shit man.
My life flashed before my eyes, like one of them slideshows they had
at school.” Jerry shook his head slowly. “Wow.” “Actually,” Bill snickered. “I saw the sweet little Asian from a movie
I watched last night.” He slapped his
knee. “She could deep throat a mortar
shell. Damn!” Jerry frowned.
“You’re sick Billy boy. I
don’t wanna hear that shee-ite.” “Yerright.”
Bill nodded. “My nocturnal
habits are none of your business.”
Bill grabbed two mops off the wall.
“Now let’s get things started before the boss-man gets here”—Bill arched forward waving the mops
around—“with his entourage…” Jerry stared. “He’s your brother.” “He’s also the one who hands us our paychecks
every week. If we made him look bad
in front of any important people it wouldn’t be good.” “Yep.”
Jerry placed his hand on the wheel-o-mop. “I hear ya.” Bill turned around and held the door open. Jerry shuffled by, wheel-o-mop in
hand. They turned right into the
blank hallway, and took another right to another equally blank hallway. At the end of that, they passed through a
red door into the public office area, where the town made all the important
decisions. On the right there was the big meeting room;
Transportation; and the Department of Economic Development. On the left was Bill’s brother’s
office. Every other door in the Town
Hall had the usual clear glass, but the glass on this door was smoky, reading Mayor
Alan Falsewrite in thick black stencil.
The next door belonged to the book-keepers, and after that there was
the processing area—where townspeople registered cars and what not—and
finally the lobby, where Bill and Jerry’s first duty of the day took
place. The mops hit the tan marble with wet slaps. Starting in the front of the lobby, Bill
and Jerry worked back slowly, evenly coating every inch and working out any
tough stuff. They stopped halfway,
squished out each mop, and dunked them for more solution. When the entire floor shined with mop
water, they squished out the mops until they were as dry as possible, and
went back over the entire lobby, picking up most of the moisture applied by
the first pass. “Dang man.”
Jerry said. “We hauled ass.” Bill checked his watch. “Eight-eleven. Damn right we did.” Jerry winked.
“We keep this up, we could be drinking lunch in no time.” He laughed. Bill didn’t laugh. “I can’t do that anymore.
Remember when Alan caught me swiggin’ schnapps in the parking lot?” “Yeah.” “He almost fired my ass. My own brother.” “Well I ain’t got caught yet.” Jerry said, pushing the wheel-o-mop back
towards the red door. “Drinkin’ on
the job is only bad if they know you do it.” “That’s right Jer. You got it.” Bill saluted. “Meet you
out front for a cig?” “Yessir.
We do this every day.
Remember?” Bill said nothing. * * * The LCD display on Bill’s watch read 11:32
when his brother motioned him to follow.
Walking behind Alan into the fairly spacious mayor’s office—a tan and
green theme—Bill couldn’t help but notice Alan was an inch taller, his frame
thicker and rather defined for someone in their late forties. Alan had a good sense of style, and always
seemed to coordinate in a visually pleasing manner. Today Alan wore a slick metallic sky blue oxford shirt,
complimented by a tie featuring overlapping Picasso shapes of the same blue
and ranging purple hues. Alan always
wore khaki’s, the same khaki color. It never failed. Bill
imagined his brother’s closet—a walk-in no doubt—with a long line of khaki
pants, all alike. Probably throws one out every day. Alan walked around the side of his spacious
mahogany desk, and sat in a reddish leather swivel chair. He had the same hazel eyes as Bill, but
the whites were whiter, cleaner, and the surrounding flesh seemed less
sunken. He just sat, staring, and
said nothing. Bill took a seat,
leaning forward with an elbow on each leg. “What’s up?” Alan leaned back in his throne. “We have a problem.” “Great.”
Bill said. “What now?” “It’s not you.” Alan said. “It’s about
my re-election.” “What goin’ on?” Alan took a gold pen off his desk and
twirled it around in his left hand.
“You know my opponent, right?”
Bill nodded. “A trusted source
tells me our good friend Robert Pecano has hired some professional dirt
diggers.” Bill huffed. “Your record’s cleaner than a new pair-uh-draws.” “I know that Bill. I know.”
Alan shook his head. “As far
as the public record is concerned…” “Well what’s that mean?” Alan put the pen down. “It means nothing.” “So what’s the problem?” “There is no problem Bill. I just felt I should warn you.” “Okay then. I won’t talk to any strangers.” Bill gave a quick smile. Alan’s face was stone cold. “Don’t doubt the seriousness of this
matter.” “Shit man, chill out. What could they possibly know about you?” Alan turned halfway around so the back of
the chair faced Bill. “Nothing of any
real importance.” “You’re my brother. I can tell when something’s up.” Bill spoke softly. “You’re afraid.” Alan turned back around, slamming his palm
down on the desk. “Dammit! I’m not afraid of anything!” The vein above his right temple throbbed. “You’re the only thing that can make me
look bad! My own brother, the fucking
janitor.” “That’s master of the custodial arts to
you, jerk off. You think you’re
better than me?” Alan smiled a shark smile. “I know I’m better. Look at my car. Look at my home. Look
at me.” “Fuck you.” Bill said, stabbing at Alan
with his finger. “Okay. Okay. Honestly…” Alan locked hands across his stomach and
reclined. “Why is there such a wide
gap between us brother?” “Dad paid for your college.” Alan clapped and stood up. “It’s not college. You damn well know what I’m talking
about…” Bill stared at the floor. “You’re an asshole.” “Why didn’t
you…no.” He glared. “Why couldn’t
you go to university in the first place?”
Bill hung his head low.
“You’re a killer.” In the silence the word KILLER reverberated painfully in
Bill’s mind. An old emotional monster
gnashed and screamed out from the clouded realm of memory…that night in ’76. The unfortunate young family never saw it
coming, never saw Bill’s pride and joy cross over the double yellow line. Well maybe they did, but it was too
late. Bill’s brand new Chevy truck
was going twice the speed limit, and smacked head-on into that econo-size
sedan. The combined momentum crumpled
that small car like a can on a forehead.
They were gone in an instant… the baby boy
and his parents. Bill was
drunk—scored a point two-seven on the b.a.c.’s—and at the time of impact he
was lighting a cigarette with both hands.
Not minutes after the accident—in a bleeding moment of clarity—Bill
realizes I just chopped a whole fucking
limb off some poor bastard’s family tree!
Not soon after that, his world cracked like
an eggshell, and a huge mess of pain and denial gushed forth. Bill entered limbo, and eventually state
prison. The Lump had been riding
shottie so he got no time, shit-faced as he was. He did get a concussion though, plus fourteen stitches and a
leg broken in three spots. No seatbelt, poor Lumpy. Bill had only cracked two ribs, broke his
nose, and lost a front tooth. He also
lost any true opportunity by disgracing his family and losing both their
financial and emotional support. Bill’s father was a prominent lawyer in
town. When the shit came down, it
came down fast and on fire. It made
the state’s nightly news, and Bill’s father lost some very important clients
during the wake of the local media’s feeding frenzy. His practice became tarnished, and for the
Falsewrite’s, money was tight for a while. Never again could Bill’s father
bring in as much capital. Within the
hearts of Bill’s family, a toxic seed of blame took root. The
black sheep, the hopeless one. Off in
jail rotting. No one ever truly
forgave him. He never forgave
himself— “Bill! Stop crying! You look so pathetic.” Bill continued to whimper, hands on his
face. “I can’t.” “Sure you can.” Alan got stood up, walked around the desk, and put his hand on
Bill’s shoulder. “Look, I shouldn’t
have brought that up. I’m sorry.” Bill jumped to his feet and grabbed the
Picasso tie, drawing his brother’s face close, feeling the breath of surprise. He clenched his teeth. “You love to bring that shit up. You’ll never let me forget, ever.” “That’s why you need me Bill. I know your
pain… what made you. Without me,
you’d probably be a worthless junkie, or even back in jail.” He talked close to Bill’s ear. “How was
jail, Bill? Did you make lots of
friends?” Bill pushed his brother away and walked to
the smoky glass door. “I don’t
deserve this.” He wiped his eyes with
a sleeve. “I won’t take it no more.” “Walk away then. You’ll be back. You
always come back. Like clockwork… That’s how predictable you—” Bill closed the door behind him. Bastard. He walked down the hall past Sheila in
processing. She waved and
smiled. Nothing. He continued out the front door and pulled
out his pack of smokes. Drawing one
out like a sword from a sheath, he placed the cigarette in his mouth,
igniting the tip and inhaling. Smoke
poured down into his lungs, filling them, dosing through them to the body and
brain. He looked at his watch—11:56—and turned down the street
towards the local dive. Time to drink lunch. * * * Bill took a seat at the bar. “Gimme a Schlitz.” The bartender—Old man Lugarson, owner and
operator of The Brew Hole—opened
the nearby freezer and got a frosty mug.
Holding it at an angle, he pulled the handle of the requested brand
beer and filled up the mug with minimal frothing. Nice pour. Lugarson placed the beer in front of
Bill. Cool fog tumbled off the frosty
glass in a slow cascade. Like the goddamn TV commercials, Bill
thought. He put the mug to his lips,
sending a cold rush through the flesh.
As the beverage splashed down his throat, Bill got that burning
sensation in his brain only the first beer of the day can give. Half of the mug emptied in Bill’s first
sip. “Thirsty?” Lugarson asked. “You bet.” Lugarson winked a black little eye. “Well there’s a lot more where that came from. Don’t be shy now.” “You got it…” Bill pounded the rest of his beer and ordered another one. Six beers later the world took on a watery
tangibility. Bill’s diluted blood
pushed through his veins to a slower beat. The confrontation with his brother
was lost in the warm haze of intoxication.
He floated on the bar stool, all alone, his fingers cradling a
cigarette. It was 1:30, and normally
Bill would have been back to work by now.
Bill usually didn’t get so drunk so early in the day, but today was
different. Things are
gonna change, Bill thought to himself. I’ll get me a new job, maybe even do one
of them internet courses so I’m worth more money. I
don’t need my brother’s handouts.
Fuck ‘em. I’ll stand on my own
two feet. Bill pulled out his
wallet, threw down a Jefferson, and left the tobacco haze of The Brew Hole. He smoked another cigarette on the short
walk back to the town hall parking lot.
Bill hadn’t even noticed himself taking out the cigarette and lighting
it. It happened effortlessly. When Bill reached his car, he noticed the
door was slightly ajar. Probably didn’t slam it hard enough. The door shrieked open and he sat inside,
just as raindrops began tapping the windshield. The seat felt funny to Bill.
He reached behind him and felt paper.
He grabbed what ever it was and put it down on his lap. A sandy brown manila envelope looked up at
him. Bill was written on it with a thick black marker. “What the…” Bill found the two metal prongs and pinched them together,
flipping up the envelope’s top. He
turned it upside down, and a folded piece of stationary fell onto his lap. Bill unfolded it with cautious fingers,
and read through bleary eyes: To Whom It May Concern, A
once in a lifetime opportunity has come your way. Whether you accept or not is your choice. The mayor has been running a little
business on the side. More specifically,
he’s aiding the local underground in monopolizing a drug market in and around
the region. If word got out, his
career as a public official would be ruined.
Our proposition is this: Break
into the Mayor’s office, steal his address book containing the names and
numbers of his “associates,” and deliver it to us. The drop site is yet to be determined, but upon delivery, you
will be compensated immensely. Be
aware, we are watching you as you read this.
Pump your brakes three times if you accept our offer. If you wish to decline, pump your brakes
once, but keep in mind you’re turning down a generous amount of money. Bill came to the crossroads. At first, he wasn’t sure if he believed the note or not. But as Bill cycled through his Rolodex of
memories, he came upon the earlier conversation with Alan. Bill remembered his brother’s warning
about the “dirt diggers.” What if they found out? Maybe my brother is doing illegal shit…it
wouldn’t surprise me. Always thought
he was a slimy fuck, never trusted him much.
If we switched shoes… he’d probably fuck me for a bunch of money. Why not? Bill laughed inside his car and put the keys in the
ignition. He’ll see what it’s like, what it’s all like. Muther fucker. He’ll know what it feels like to scrape the bottom of the
barrel. Bill pumped his brakes three times. * * * The wet gray day became a thick dark night—7:37 on my watch, but the bank on Main’s
showin’ 7:34—and the place had been empty for at least an hour. Bill found the gray side door and used his
keys. Down the hall, left, down
through the red door…Bill opened the mayor’s door with his trusty janitorial
key. The desk ahead bounced back a
smooth sheen from Bill’s blue key-chain light. Bill walked around the side of the desk, running his knuckle
along the polished surface. A fuck on this thing would be nuts,
Bill thought. I bet Alan’s had a couple late night meetings here and there. He chuckled. Sorry bud. Not anymore. Bill opened the top right drawer. Personalized stationary, a calculator, and two golden pens…no
book. He opened the drawer below
that. More nothin’. The drawer
below that was filled with files. The
one mid-desk had a laptop and a mouse.
Bill then checked the top left drawer. Bingo. A small black book read ADDRESS in sliver
plate. Bill grabbed it and left. It was raining again. What
the hell do I do now, Bill thought, walking to his car. When he got close, Bill saw in the window
another envelope on the seat. No shit…these guys don’t fuck around. He screeched open the door and tore off
the top of the envelope. Inside, his
hand found a small piece of paper. Good job, To
finish business, go to the boat launch under the bridge and wait. Come alone, or don’t come at all. * * * Bill took a left off the main route onto
the dirt road leading to the river’s edge.
Through the woods a short way the road eventually falls into
water. Bill parked ten feet from the
muddy bank—A safe distance—and let
the engine die. He cracked his window and sparked a Quality smoke. In the
blackness his cigarette cast a weak golden glow around the Cavalier’s
cab. It was the taste of success, the
gentle crackling sound of victory. All I gotta do is wait here. It began raining harder. Each fat drop of water thumped, creating a
stampede of sound and turning Bill’s windshield into a blur. He smoked the cigarette and waited. Halfway down the smoke, Bill noticed a
quick flash in his rear view mirror.
Two headlights broke out from the darkness behind him. Be
cool, Bill thought. He opened his
door—splitting the rumbling downpour with that all-too-familiar screech—and
stepped onto the soggy earth. The car stopped; a limousine in fact. It was a long one, with the little lights
that run above the stretched out windows.
The back end driver’s side door opened. A hand popped out, gesturing to come inside. Bill clasped onto the address book in his
left hand as he walked to the open invitation. He came around the door, already soaked, and entered the
spacious cabin. Bill found himself sitting next to a neckless hulk in a
three-piece. Bill nodded at him, sort
of a hello. Another suit was sitting
along the side seat. At the far end,
a man sat cross-legged, hidden behind the weekly paper. Bill decided to break the ice. “I got the book.” “Good, William.
Good.” That voice rang
familiar. It couldn’t be. The
newspaper fell. “Alan!” Bill
shouted. His brother sat glaring with
a peculiar look of amusement. “That’s right little brother.” “What the fu—“ A meaty fist made contact with the side of
Bill’s face, throbbing compliments of his neighbor. The brute stretched an arm across Bill’s chest, restricting
him. “Shut the fuck up.” “That’s right Billy boy,” Alan said. “You’re busted.” Bill was still registering the situation. “How the—“ Another punch connected, this time to the temple. “I said shut the fuck up.” “Easy Clarence,” Alan warned. “No damage. Remember?” “Right boss.
Sorry.” Alan turned back to his brother. “So, Bill…” Alan shook his head.
“You betrayed me. You sold out
to the enemy.” Bill didn’t
reply. “So what do you have to say
for yourself. Go ahead, Clarence
won’t hit you.” Bill thought for a second. “How’d you know I was down here?” “My people left those envelopes on your car seat.” Alan laughed. “It was a test…and you failed, regrettably.” “You slippery bastard.” “It runs in the family.” Alan displayed his pearly whites. “Unfortunately, you’re weak and
predictable. Do you honestly think
I’d be involved with drugs?” Bill was
about to speak when Alan put his finger to his mouth. “Silence…truthfully I am involved in a
little drugs here and there, but that’s not the whole pie.” Alan’s smile became serious. “The stakes are higher than you’ll know,
and you’re a liability, little brother.” Bill realized where this was going. “What are you gonna do Alan? Shoot me between the fucking eyes and dump
my corpse in a ditch?” “I’m not going to do anything. It’s you who’s going to do
something.” Alan motioned to his
goon. He grabbed Bills arms,
immobilizing him against the seat with his mass. The other suit whipped out a syringe. “What the fuck is that for?” Bill strained. No one answered. He
felt the needle break the skin. Fire
poured into his bloodstream. “On a rainy Monday evening,” Alan
continued. “Bill Falsewrite decided
to shoot up and take a swim.” The
Limo’s engine came to life. They were
now in motion. “For some reason,
Billy boy, you jumped off the bridge with no intention of coming back to
shore.” “You bastard!” Alan ignored his brother. “They’ll find your bloated corpse
downstream. Maybe tomorrow…maybe a
week from now. I’ll be so sad at the
funeral. I’ll mention how mislead you
were, what a tragedy.” Bill’s body was now numb. “How can you do this? Your own flesh an—” “You pumped your brakes three times. How long did it take you to decide?” Bill didn’t answer. “That’s right Bill, you fucked me. The damn note didn’t even say how much you
would get for it. You chump. Duller than a butter knife. Predictable as a fucking rodent, seeing
only the cheese, oblivious to the metal bar about to snap his little neck.” The car came to a stop. No-neck pushed Bill out the door onto wet
pavement. He looked up and saw his
brother standing over him, holding an umbrella. “Blood or no blood, you’re bad for business.” The goons picked up Bill by his arms. He could see they were in the middle of
the bridge. Sixty-five feet below,
the river crept along in the darkness.
Bill felt his body being lifted off his feet. They swung him back and forth two times
before tossing him over the side.
There was nothingness for a second.
Weightlessness, freedom. Then the hard smack of reality flashed
behind his eyelids. Some ribs snapped
on impact, but Bill felt only the large dose of heroin tracking through his
veins. It was blissful—that sinking
sensation—like cumming, or being on the downturn of a Ferris wheel. He opened his mouth for air but found only
water. Oh well. Bill filled his
lungs one last time, settled down in the lonely black depths, and faded out.n Creative
Writing Short
Story Dr.
Petersen 10/3/02 |
