He woke up groggily looking around to survey his surroundings. It must have been just after dawn, as it was not fully light outside. He was lying on a bed in a small apartment bedroom, fully clothed. Sometimes he was just so tired.
Turning to the right, he sees a nightstand with a lamp turned over. He found himself staring at a framed picture of a man and woman sitting together on a park bench. They looked so happy together. Head turning to the left in a motion that seemed to require all of his available energy, he sees the clock, which puts the time at 6:22 AM. So tired. Just a bit more sleep.
He wakes with a start when the radio screams to life. 7:15 AM.
Getting up, they're playing some top forty stuff he's heard before but doesn't know the name of. He presses his fingers to his temple and squints. How the world has changed. This is what passes for music these days. He felt actual pain, but it wasn’t likely from the radio. Aches and pains along his back and neck. His whole body moving up, a stone being pulled from the mud. Now sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. The song ends and is replaced by chattering voices, talking about some non-sense.
Stretching, bending, pain. Arms hurt, legs sore, neck screwed up, must have slept on it wrong. Moving gingerly getting up, so sore. Some kind of night.
Shambling, he makes his way into a bathroom. After using the toilet, he moves to the sink and sees his face for the first time since yesterday morning. Black and grey hair, stretched out in seemingly random directions. "Really need a haircut" he thinks. Face unshaven. And what's that just above his eyebrow? A scrape and a bit of dried blood. He really needs to be more careful.
Another top forty song echoes through the bedroom. He haphazardly goes back to the bedroom and looks for the button to shut it the radio off. After several long seconds of pressing several buttons which have no effect, he unplugs it. Not only, he thinks, does he not understand the music these days, but he can’t shut it off when it’s playing. This makes him smile. Which also hurts.
A few minutes later, he’s done showering. Looking for a towel and there’s none hanging up. the little linen closet has what appears to be four dozen washcloths, but no towels. He sighs.
A few minutes and a few dozen washcloths later, he’s tearing through the drawers. Going through pants and shirts, nothing works for him today. He does find a pair of sweats and a sweater. It’s November, cold, and I don’t give a damn how I look, he thinks. It must be one of those things when you get older.
After rummaging through the refrigerator and pantry, he decides that toaster pastries and milk are just as good as anything else. Anything else he could cook. Never could get the hang of that.
Turning on the television and checking out the local news while eating. Typical weather for the season, traffic reports, and then local stories of interest. One of them is about a shooting overnight.
"Police told our reporters that the incident started when Jones allegedly tried to push over Wesson’s motorcycle. A scuffle broke out, and that's when Wesson pulled a gun. "
Then it breaks away to an older woman, who describing the incident to the reporter. "I saw them two pushing each other and like the next thing I know I saw a gun and it was like bang and that was it."
Back to the newscaster. "According to police, Jones was shot once in the head. He died at the scene. Police have taken Wesson into custody. Neighbors report that this isn't the first time there's been a shooting outside Harley’s Bar and Grill."
Typical. A couple of drunks, one decides to be an asshole and the other decides to be judge, jury, and executioner. Probably a couple guys who hang out every night, never a problem, then something ignites the power keg. Something stupid. What happened to the old days, when the most you’d get is a liquor bottle upside your head or a bloody nose? Nowadays, you’re looking at guys with more firepower than the cops.
He surveyed the place and though about cleaning it up a bit before leaving, but decided against it. What would would his mother say? Thinking, yeah, what wouldn’t she say? Looking around, where did he put those keys? Bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, kitchen. Kitchen counter. Right where he left them.
Outside he opens the door on the mid-size sedan and get’s in - pain. His back,neck, and shoulders. Damn it, he almost forgot about it. Easing gingerly into the from seat. He’s going to have to remember this for awhile. Lift with the legs, never with the back.
On the road, he took the state expressway, heading west.
Clicked the radio on and was greeted by the same song that broke his sleep. Jabs his finger into the eject button and the cassette pops out. Examines it. “How can she listen to this crap?” Opens the glovebox and throws it in there.
He drifted back and forth between some political talk radio and the local news station. The commentary about how the President was handling the crisis in Kuwait. Switched back to the news and a story caught his attention.
"Eighteen year old Jeffery Glock was riding his bicycle on the sidewalk of third and Roosevelt, when Derringer's truck jumped the curb and struck Glock, stopping only when it struck a utility pole twenty feet away. Glock was flow to Mercy Medical North, where he later died. According to police, Derringer's blood-alcohol level was nearly four times the legal limit. Witnesses say that Derringer's truck was moving at a high rate of speed." Cut to eye-witness testimony. "That guys truck...must have been going fifty, sixty miles a hour. I never seen anyone do that fast up this street. School zone here, cops usually watch for this in the morning" *click* he shut it off.
Jesus. Eighteen years old. He thinks back - He was pulled over once after drinking, he didn’t think he had that much. Turns out he was just below the limit. Although he still got a citation for reckless driving. So he knew that it a guy could just go a little over by accident. But four times over! Unbelievable. Now somebody’s lost a son and another guy’s going to prison. Seems justifiable, until you think about that guy’s kids. They’re going to grow up without a father. Who can really make that decision? Gut-wrenching either way. No one wins.
---
Early afternoon and he’s in a roadside diner, drinking coffee, having some pie, and watching the news on the 30 year old television bolted to the wall. People these days with their fancy coffee shops that sell the eight dollar Italian-sounding coffee drinks. Yeah, he tried them, they were alright. Not eight dollars alright. Maybe two. But, fresh brewed roadside diner, truck stop coffee. Made in one of the stainless steel with wood-grain plastic coffee brewers. Can’t imagine something fresher.
He vaguely paid attention to the newscast, until a story caught his attention. Newscaster goes from talking about the Puppies for the Homeless campaign straight into a missing persons story.
"Where are Robert and Amanda Famas? That's what police are asking neighbors in this quiet residential neighborhood after the couple were reported missing by Amanda's sister, who found the Famas home ransacked, with no sign of either individual." Cut to the sister: "Amanda said she and Robbie were going to meet us for dinner last night, but they never showed up and that's not like her at all. She didn't call or anything." Station displays a photo of the smiling couple sitting in a fishing boat, slowly rotating ever so slightly to the left. "According to investigators, the back door was broken open and there appeared to be signs of a scuffle, but police are not elaborating." Back to the sister. "If you're out there Mandy, please give me call, I'm worried."
Back to the newscaster and he goes from the serious face back to the lighthearted one. "And...how about those Tomcats? Paul, what can you tell us about last nights game?"
He shakes his head. Two people missing and they spend less time talking about it than the stray dogs that they're rounding up for the homeless. These are two people, real flesh-and-blood people. And they can't spend more than a few moments to report about it before they have to transition to some shit about football. Un-fucking-believable. What if it was your brother Paul? How about your sister? How important would a bunch of guys kicking a ball around be then? It’s a sad state of world. Powerless to stop it.
----
Late afternoon, and he's driving down a gravel covered road, slowly. Purposefully. The road winds around a cluster of pine and levels out on the relatively smooth circle next to the boat ramp leading into the lake. No one else here this time of season, too cold for recreational boating. He circles the area and then slows to a halt. Staring out into the calm, placid waters. His thoughts drifted around the calmness of this place.
Moved the gear shift from drive to reverse and backed up a few feet. Then he shoved it into neutral. Getting out of the car and walking around, he felt that the tranquility of this place washing over him. A beautiful lake, trees in the late fall colors decorating the horizon. Sunset would be wonderful. "Yeah," he whispered to himself, "I can see why you liked it here so much.”
He fumbled the car keys with his sore fingers and he managed to find the right one. Unlocked the trunk and opened it. Inside were the bodies of the two people that he murdered last night. He winced as the smell of blood hit him. He never really got accustomed to it, no matter how many times he smelled it. Looked around again at the fall colors and listened to the gentle lapping of the lake along the shore. "Yeah, this is the place you'd want to be."
He closed the trunk and leaned into it, the vehicle starting to gain momentum and drift down the boat ramp into the calm waters.