Stories From The 6 Train 1(163)

And then my heart freezes in my chest. It's missing.





Lucien





Maybe I don't understand women, but who keeps a daily, hand-written journal these days? Isn't there an app for stuff like that? I carefully take the blue, spiral-bound journal out from under my shirt and look at it in my hands. I can see she uses it often. The corners are bent and the blue cover is fading. It's surprising I wasn't caught. When she looked back at me in the infirmary, I thought for sure I was fucking done for. But you know something? I don't feel bad about taking it. Sure, she may miss it at first, but it's just a book. It's replaceable. She'll get over it.

I open the journal and see that this woman's got a list for everything. There are notes upon notes and some that read, "pay cell phone bill," and "go for a run," which make her seem pretty organized I guess, and then there are some more interesting notes like "change wifi password to 'shutyourdogup' so the neighbor gets the hint." I grin and think that at least she has a sense of humor.

I think back to how long its been since I've lived in the real world—to a time when things like barking dogs were actually a problem, and not whether or not some asshole was going to punk you in the yard, or whether or not you had shower shoes to get cleaned up in because you didn't dare touch your bare feet against some fucking scummy tile. What I wouldn't give to have those kinds of problems now. But what am I even saying? I'm in this shithole for life. I didn't pull that fucking trigger—I ain't a baby killer, but who's going to believe me? Not a single person, that's who. If they have their way, I'll take my last breathe between these four walls. They'd love to see me rot in this joint.

Maybe if I made lists like these—run today, eat tomorrow, and pay this, and pay that—I wouldn't have been such a fuck up, right? It's hard to say. Life seems like one giant poker game to me. Some people are just born getting dealt a shitty hand. If you think that's just some negative bullshit story, it's not. It's the fucking truth.

It wasn't my choice to have the parents I did, or grow up in certain neighborhoods. I think back to being 8 years old, living in a small, brown house with my mom, dad, and brother. One night, my dad's been tinkering with his VW bug in the garage. "Come out here son!" he yells. I come out, and it's night. I remember the air being fucking freezing and only wearing a thin, white t-shirt. I cross my arms across my chest to try and keep warm, and also, looking back on it, I think as a defense for what's to come. My old man looks at me and says, "It's time you learn to be a real man. Grab this." His voice is slow and gravelly from years of smoking and hard drinking. He hands me his shotgun. From the look on his face, I know better than to talk back. I unhook my arms and take it. My arms sag under the weight and seriousness of it all.

"Point it there—to the back of the garage," he commands. I raise it up and rest it against my shoulder like I've seen in movies—as if I were some fucking cowboy. He continues, "Now pull the trigger son." I pull it and I'm bucked back, my ears are ringing, and I'm crying some hot tears. I remember being scared out of my fucking mind. Who the hell knows where that bullet even went? And my dad got some kick out of that—boy, he was laughing so hard his Coors Light nearly came out of his nose. Some prankster he was. That was the last time I saw him. We later learned he ran off with a woman named Ruby and was married by an Elvis impersonator in Vegas. My mom was so depressed she locked herself in her room for weeks on end. I'd watch her hold a pen in her hand in an attempt to write love letters to my old man, but she'd fall asleep in a fit of emotional exhaustion before she could ever actually write them. I'd come check on her in the morning and see that the pen ink had bled into her sheets—a pool of blue as dark as her state of mind.

I tried to be a straight arrow in school. And for a minute, I thought that maybe I had a real shot. Maybe I'd graduate and go to college. But who the fuck was I kidding? I never had a shot. I was on the losing end of the stick from day one. And once I realized that, I stopped caring. Then fast forward a few years and I meet Billy and the whole gang of those assholes—stealing cars, fucking women, and getting sucked into the crazy web of mob politics. Fucking Billy. If I would've known I was going to be framed, I would've put my fist so far down his fake-ass mouth it would've came out of his asshole. I should've rearranged his face, that's for sure. Too bad I'll probably never get that chance now.

I let out a sigh and lay down on the bed. The pillow is flat, but it's still better than the few months I found myself sleeping in a car—it's impossible to get comfortable in a small car, and if you've never tried it, I don't recommend it. I look at the blue journal again and flip through the pages. My eye lands on one page in particular. The handwriting seems hurried with the letters written in large loops. It reads: