Lost

Have you ever wondered what goes through the mind of a homeless person? Why they are the way they are? The forgotten society makes little splash in the media unless they either do something newsworthy, or are the victims of some grievous crime. The guy sleeping on a sidewalk, whom everybody thinks is a passed out drunk; the person sitting in the park mumbling to himself: who are they really?

I wondered as well about those people who have no support, or don’t want any support and why. So I wrote this as a short story to remember them and what I think goes thorough some of their minds. They number in the hundreds of thousands, and we can’t ignore them. But what can we really do to help them? It’s a question society needs to answer as a whole.

The man woke earlier than usual and knew something was different. He was totally aware of his surroundings, and though he could not define the difference he felt, he knew it was there. He tried to pull it out of his subconscious mind into his conscious, but couldn’t. They told him it didn’t matter, but he knew instinctively it did. As he lay on his mattress, he listened carefully to the outside environment and heard the usual clatter: a siren in the distance, a dog barking, the screech of brakes and a horn honking, but no voices. He rarely heard voices; where he lived other humans had avoided for years.

He slowly lifted the blanket he always covered his head with when he slept and saw it was starting to get light out. He looked around at his surroundings. He noticed nothing amiss, nothing out of place. All four walls intact; his collection of paperback books still carefully stacked no more than three high. His three exits, each secured and unseen by the outside world. They told him that was as he would find it. But he knew deep down something had changed. He knew deep down they were wrong this time. But no matter how hard he tried, that something alluded him.

He remembered back many years ago when a man or a woman told him they were not real. Unless he recognized it, they would take over his life. He knew they were not real, but he still listened and conversed with them. He did not know who they were, or even if they were ghosts of his past, but still he listened and conversed. He accepted the situation because that was the way it was, and it kept him safe.

When he found this place many years ago, they told him he must enclose himself in a quiet atmosphere. So much so internal noise must be forbidden, and he complied. Nothing in his space was allowed that made sounds. He’d carpeted the floor with layers of foam and soft cloth, and had tried many kinds of shoes until he found a pair that allowed him to walk without hearing anything. He was good at finding things people threw away.

He knew enough to allow a free exchange of air so he wouldn’t die from carbon monoxide poisoning, but didn’t know how he knew. Outside sounds were allowed because they could warn him of impending danger. He vaguely remembered a time when some people used the area downstairs one night. He sat quietly in fear of them finding him, but they never did, nor did they ever come back.

His memory was sporadic at best. Sometimes he could see himself sitting in a large chair, with two small children bouncing and laughing on his knees. Sometimes he saw a beautiful woman leaning over him and saying something he couldn’t hear. He sometimes remembered times when noise was good, and he was surrounded by it. But now he avoided it, and didn’t know why, except they told him to.

His world was set: he woke up at the same time, although he didn’t know what time; he just knew it was always the same. He left, never using the same exit two days in a row, and did his daily business in another abandoned building close by. It still had running water. He would then make his way to his usual route, collecting food a few of the merchants always left for him. He never spoke to or thanked them, and they didn’t seem to mind; it was as it was, and he didn’t question it.

He walked the same streets and avoided people whenever he saw them, which wasn’t often. Once and awhile a police car would stop and the policeman would ask if he was doing okay. He would always nod yes, and move on. He remembered one time when a policeman started questioning him, his partner stopped him and they left. That bothered him, but they said not to worry; he’d done just fine.

On this different day, he waited until he thought it was time and left to do his business. He looked carefully at the outside world, looking for that difference, but noticed nothing. After finishing up at the other building, he started his routine, and all went well. He was happy the merchants left him food, and made him think he was wrong about it being different that day. He walked the same streets in the same pattern he’d walked for years, and noticed nothing different. He stopped at the same park he stopped at every day and ate part of his food, saving some for later, and some for the same dog that visited him every day there. He never talked to the dog, and the dog didn’t stay long. Just enough to eat and receive a few scratches from him.

Upon returning to his room, he felt that same sense of difference he felt that woke him up early. But they told him it was nothing to worry about, so he tried to put it out of his mind. He settled down for the night, choosing his copy of John Steinbecks “Travels With Charley,” a book he’d read many times, but forgot soon after. He read two chapters, being extra careful to make no noise turning the pages. He finished the food the merchants left him, put the book away, lay down and covered his head with his blanket. He felt more tired than he’d felt in a long time. He was soon asleep, dreaming dreams only he could dream.

“Have they identified the man yet?” asked the reporter.

“Yes, his name was Roy Sternman. He was the husband and father of the wife and two daughters killed in that home invasion ten years ago. He arrived at his home just as the killers were leaving. They shot him in the head, but he survived. The doctors said there was some brain damage, and thought the loss of his family plus the damage to his brain pushed him over the edge. He disappeared not long after, and hadn’t been seen since. He evidently passed away in his sleep. One of the policemen, who knew his routine, reported not seeing him for a week.

One of the merchants who left him food knew about where he stayed, so we sent a team out looking and found him in a hidden room on the second floor of an old abandoned building. The smell led us there. We found his old drivers license with him, and, after checking it out, figured out who he was. We checked his finances and found he was well off, but never used any of it. We’ll bury him next to his wife and daughters. A sad ending to a sad life. Sometimes life just sucks.”

The Hit

Okay, short hiatus, but a refreshing one. I’d been spending way too much time on the net, and was pretty much burned out. Many of my posts were rehashes of stuff I’d written long ago, and I wondered if I could still write anything worth while. So I wrote a short story that started out as an introduction to a book I’ve been thinking about. It kind of took off in an unexpected direction, and I’m glad it did. Whether or not it’s “worthwhile” is immaterial: I had a ball writing it, and that’s what matters to me. Writing became fun again, but I’ll not be posting as often. Maybe once or twice a week is enough. Better to post what I like than just post. BTW Bearman, it’s fiction all the way.

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The man dressed in dark clothes, matching his surroundings, waited patiently between the garage and the house. He’d done so for the last six nights, arriving at ten pm, and leaving at precisely three am each of the previous nights. That night he planned on finishing his assignment. He was pretty much nondescript except for his oversize shoes. He had a thing about his small size six feet, and felt it necessary to compensate for them by enclosing them in the finest Italian leather. The shoes, size twelve, cost over eighteen hundred dollars custom made. He stood five feet eight inches, had been bald since the age of fourteen, and had a face you might forget after five minutes, except for his rather large ruddy nose. All in all, considering the shoes and nose, he looked a little like a clown out of costume. He was actually a hitman.

In fact the non-members of the non-membership club he didn’t belong to called him “The Clown.” It was a non-club consisting of seven non-members who were all hitmen. They had gathered in Majorca eleven years ago and decided they would create a club, but they didn’t want it found out, so they all took an oath declaring the club never existed. They all kind of liked that as it meant they wouldn’t have to pay any dues or things like that. The non-club didn’t have an official name, but whenever anyone of them was asked if they belonged to any clubs, they would answer, “What?” So the unofficial name became “What?”

The man waited until well after all lights in the surrounding houses went out, and the reflection on the back fence from the light in the bedroom darkened. Prior to rising, he screwed a silencer on the barrel of his Taurus 22/25 sub-compact 8/9 rounds semi-auto hand gun. He preferred it because of its compact size and ease of modification. The only thing he didn’t like was whenever he hid it, he had a difficult time finding it because it was so small.

He rarely had to make a kill shot further than eight to ten feet, and he could group all nine shots within a one inch radius from that distance, even with the silencer attached. His relied strictly on the GLSR 00200 BLUE 25ACP 35GR round, not because of any special features to the round: he just like the word blue because it was his favorite color.

The family whose house he was hiding behind had a small dog. It had grown accustomed to the man’s presence, and pretty much ignored him. As he stood, the dog came up to him. He thought briefly about shooting it, but decided not to. Shooting animals seemed to get people more riled up than shooting people. Besides, he kind of liked the dog, not that he was an animal lover or anything. Professional hitmen can’t afford to get attached to any living creature. It was kind of a code thing. As he reached down to pet the dog, it rolled on its back, waiting for a belly rub. Reluctantly, he complied. He gave the dog a treat he carried with him, and after the dog started jumping on him for more, tossed a bunch into all the corners of the back yard. He knew if he didn’t get into the house in a few minutes, the dog would be back, pestering him.

The man had previously disabled the alarm system. It was a silent type that sent an alarm via phone to ADT, the alarm company, which would then call and confirm, and call 911 if no one answered or if the person answering didn’t use the code word, which today was, Broccoli. It was a simple matter for him to reroute the phone signal to a disconnected number of his choosing. All indications were there to make the husband and wife think the system was working as it should. When he would enter the house, he’d ignore the alarm system, secure in the knowledge the electronic changes he made would work as planned. Three seconds after he picked the lock, and opening the back door, his cell phone started buzzing. He quickly turned it off, realizing then he’d accidentally routed the alarm to it.

He’d scouted the floor a week earlier, when the couple was out, looking for any sections that creaked, and avoided the two he’d found, while making his way to the back bedroom. The door was open, as he knew it would be, and he stepped into the room and made his way to the foot of the bed. The husband, who he knew as Mark, was sleeping on his back, making a single round to the forehead a simple kill shot. The problem was when he pulled the trigger nothing happened. He muttered to himself, quietly backed out of the room, pulled his wallet and took out the firing pin he always kept there. He’d shot himself in the leg once and had since removed the pin after every job for his own safety. He then walked back to the kitchen, sat down at the table and proceeded to disassemble the gun and install the pin.

As he finished reassembling the pistol and jacking a round in the chamber, Mark appeared in the kitchen doorway. “What the fu . . . “ was all he got out as the man casually shot him in the head, dropping Mark instantly.

Two seconds later, Julie showed her head, said, “What the fuck!”, finishing her husbands exclamation, and took off back down the hall towards her bedroom. The man had already risen and shot her in the back of the knee, which stopped her in her tracks. He didn’t want to make any noise while he was there, and was surprised when she didn’t scream out. He stepped over Mark’s body, making sure he didn’t step in any blood. He wanted the conversation he needed to have with her to take place in her bedroom, but settled on dragging her to the living room instead because of the blood he would have had to walk through. He really hated getting blood on his shoes.

He pulled her into the living room and deposited her in a large, wing-back chair he knew was there from previously scouting the house. He really liked the chair and was hoping he could buy it if the families relatives had, like, a garage sale after the funeral, but since he had to use it, decided getting the stains out would be too much trouble.  He plopped onto the couch, putting his feet up. The only thing he hated about the shoes was they were so heavy. The molding placed in the front to accommodate his small feet had to be rugged to withstand daily use. His feet always ached after a long day; or night as was the case here.

As he looked at her, her return gaze reminded him of the look a certain evil torturer gave his intended victim as he started the death by one thousand cuts usually reserved for people that really pissed off other people. In that case, it was the torturers’ car salesman, whom the torturer claimed sold him a lemon, so it was probably justified.

What the man failed to notice was the woman’s quick glance over his shoulder. Had he caught it, he might still be around, but instead suffered a fatal blow from Mark, who happened to be twelve feet away from the man when he was shot, so had only suffered a glancing blow from the bullet. Had he been ten or less, he would have been dead instead. Upon waking up, Mark had assessed the situation, and grabbed the largest cast-iron frying pan they had, which in this case was their twelve incher. He snuck around the corner, and after seeing the tops of the man’s shoes sticking up on the couch, crept over, raised up and whacked the man as hard as he could on the head, killing him instantly.

Mark then went to his wife to asses her injury. “What happened?”

“The bastard shot me in the back of my knee,” she replied.

“I didn’t hear you make any noise. Didn’t it hurt?”

“It hurt like hell, but you know how I hate waking the children in the middle of the night. I can never get them back to sleep.”

About that time the dog sauntered in, sniffed the dead man on the couch and growled. “Fine watch dog you turned out to be, Bogart,” Mark said. The dog rolled over on his back and pawed the air, hoping for a belly rub, but was ignored.

After calling 911 and getting medical attention, Julie and Mark Webb told the police what happened. The cops had never heard of the man, but had heard rumors about a clownish looking man who went by the name, “The Clown.” It was never ascertained if he was that guy or not.

They were, however, able to trace all the calls made and received on his cell phone back to Julie and Mark’s old neighbors. They thought when the Webbs had moved, they’d taken a bunch of electrical tools, belonging to the neighbors, with them. After some serious detective work, it was found that the neighbor, who’s suggestion it was to hire the hitman, was the one who had actually stolen all the tools. It was rumored, but never confirmed, the rest of the neighbors took out a contract on him.

All the neighbors were arrested and, after the trials, spent from ten to twenty years in prison. Both Julie and Mark recovered from their wounds, and they traded Bogart in for a really mean Pit Bull. The dog never rolled over for a belly rub. In fact, petting him was a bit of an adventure, but at least they had a real watch dog now.

The only one who really made out was the coroners assistant. He was four feet, nine inches, and wore size six shoes. Everybody called him “Shorty.” He tried on the man’s shoes, and fell instantly in love. In fact he wore them everywhere and had everybody call him, “Shoes.” What he never realized was after that everybody called him “The Clown” behind his back. He never became a hitman. Such is life.