Walt Trizna

I read the local rag to see what’s goin’ on around me. Sometimes the articles even make sense, but not too often. I swear, they must have fuckin’ monkeys for editors.

Through this source of confusion, I learned that in the last two weeks six old geezers in this area have been beaten to a pulp, and worse, for the few dollars they had. Pisses me off ‘cause someday I might be old, if the neighborhood lets me. Right now, I’m 70 and figure to reach my peak in about four or five years. Life has been shit so I’m lookin’ forward to that peak. From then on, it’s all a steep ride downward, or maybe a gentle slope. Endpoint the same. No problem, I got no great plans.

Anyway, I decided to get vengeance for those old folks in our shitty society and give those hoodlums what they deserve. Today old folks are less than respected, only looked on as marks. Thought it was time for payback.

I live in a rough neighborhood. Always have and prob’ly always will. Y’ know how they talk about survival of the fittest? Well, I must be the fittest. Doesn’t say much for the rest of the population.

I don’t take any shit headin’ my way. That causes me trouble, more than I like to admit. I’ve been less than a model citizen. With where I grew up and how I was raised no other outcome was possible. Well, it was possible, but I didn’t follow that road and have no respect for the assholes who blame all their fucked-up actions on their upbringin’. I step up for what I am, no excuses, and no back doors.

Around when I was about 17, I was arrested for beatin’ the shit out of a guy who was ready to beat the shit outta me and went to a prison for minors for a year. I learned there to accept no bullshit and to dish out what the assholes I met deserved. Taught those who wanted to use me a lesson. Once they learned, I was left alone.

After I got out, met a guy who wanted to get the best of me. Wanted to take what I had. His big mistake. Stabbed the fucker to death. Felt no guilt. He got what he deserved. I walked away innocent.

Since then, I’ve been in jail a coupla times for minor shit, but if all the shit connected to me was known it would’a won me an extended stay at society’s expense.

So, I have a past. Who the fuck doesn’t? I’m not proud of mine, but there it is. These days I’m tryin’ to keep my head straight as long as society keeps its distance.

But times’ve changed. Today, everything is guns. When I was young, if someone pissed you off or you had an axe to grind you used your fists. I had many a split lip and black eye. Hell, delivered a lot of ‘em too. But both fighters walked away, one satisfied and one not, and everyone lived for the next disagreement. Now guns settle arguments and, until our asshole politicians stop takin’ bribes, they won’t do anything about this sorry situation. If nothin’ gets their asses in gear after Sandy Hook, with twenty six and seven-year-olds gunned down, nothin’ will. Proves politicians are worthless pieces of shit in this day and age. Prob’ly always were.

Decided to buy some guns. Yeah, I know what I said about ‘em. But I can’t stand shitholes takin’ advantage - ‘specially of people who can’t defend themselves.

You’d be surprised how fuckin’ easy it is to get a small arsenal in a short time. I know I was. As soon as word went out on the street that I was lookin’ for firepower the gun-dealin’ assholes came knocking on my door.

Began carryin’ a coupla pistols wherever I went. Know it’s not legal. Don’t give a shit. The dummies I was after weren’t exactly law-abidin’ citizens.

On this one particular night I was walkin’ around the neighborhood where some of the attacks on the geezers’d happened. Piece in the back of my pants, another in the front. I was in a parkin’ garage to get the jalopy I use for transportation until one of us dies. I’m walkin’ along, happy as a clam, when I hear, “Hey you, turn around.”

As luck would have it, I was in front of one of those curvy mirrors that tells you whose comin’. But ‘cause it was a mirror, I didn’t know what direction was which. I was close enough that I was pretty sure the mirror didn’t catch my reflection, but it sure did catch the assholes standin’ in back of me. How far away were they? – no idea! But I could tell that the dudes on either side were holdin’ somethin’. The asshole in the middle definitely had a pistol. I had my hands in front of me so I slowly reached for the pistol in my front waistband - bein’ careful not to shoot my dick off. But, what the hell, at my age, no great loss.

Caught the jackasses totally by surprise. Fired all I had and all three went down. Sparks were flyin’ off cars just like in the movies.

I heard moanin’ and didn’t know if any of ‘em was dead and didn’t give a shit. They asked for it and I delivered. I got in my wreck and drove away to the sounds of approachin’ sirens. Drove to the river and flung the pistol from a bridge. Read in the paper that two had died and one was in critical condition and couldn’t be questioned. Shithead probab’ly wouldn’t remember much anyway. There are cameras set up to record everythin’ that happens in this fuckin’ world, but I’ll take my chances. I’ve seen too many surveillance videos where the dummy doin’ the crime coulda been Mother Teresa. Most of those camera shots aren’t worth shit. And it happened too fast for anyone to take out a cellphone. Anyway, there was no one around.

Spent the next few days walkin’ the town. One night I was out and decided to take a short-cut through an alley and heard, “Hey fucker, turn around.”

I did as ordered and turned to see this dude, maybe twenty, must’ve been liftin’ weights since he was one. He was a walkin’ muscle. I also thought he might be a muscle from the neck up pushin’ aside any small brain in his shaved head. He had no weapon. He was the weapon, ready to pound the shit outta me. I taught him a lesson he’d never pass on; muscles don’t stop bullets.

A few days later it happened again. I’m on a darkened street when I hear, “Pops, turn around and empty your pockets.” I’m armed of course, so I turn around and see a kid, maybe eighteen, wearin’ a hoody with his right hand in his pocket. Somethin’ in that pocket was pointin’ at me.

I made to empty my pockets and instead of valuables pulled a pistol. If that dude’s eyes had gotten any bigger his eyeballs would’ve fallen out.

I said, “Now you turn that right pocket inside out?” The kid was sweatin’ bullets - a good sign. I waited to see what sorta weapon he had. There wasn’t one. I laughed and said, “Hey shithead, what caliber’s that finger?”

I said, “Right now I’m decidin’ what to do - blow your head off or take you to the cops.”

That struck me as strange. In his place I would’ve been yellin’, “Don’t kill me!” But this young kid didn’t give a shit about what happened to him.

“Bullshit,” I said. “You should be showin’ somethin’ - fear. But you’ve got the emotion of a dummy. What the hell is goin’ on?”

We stood quiet for a few long minutes, then he said, “Ain’t got nothin’, so I ain’t got nothin to lose.”

His answer set me thinkin’ about my past, and the memories weren’t great. What an attitude for this young guy. But a part of me understood.

“Ain’t got a home. Live mostly on the streets. My mom’s usually strung-out and her boyfriend’s pissed off all the time. When I’m there, he gets pissed off at me.”

I’d heard about lives like this—seen it face to face many times—but this kid was different from those lost causes known as families. At least, I hoped so.

There it sat, Mel’s Diner. A beacon of eats in the middle of the night. Mel’s is one of my favorite joints to chow-down. The food’s plain, but good. The staff is friendly, but won’t take no shit. And you won’t find any fancy people eatin’ at Mel’s, just real people livin’ their lives as best they can. The place had a row of worn stools facin’ the counter and old booths against the wall.

We sat down in a booth. I figured it was time for introductions. “My name is Fred, what’s yours. Names might make the conversation easier.”

Molly, a waitress I’d known for years approached our booth. The years showed but her friendly personality hadn’t changed, she said, “Hey Fred, what can I get for you and your young buddy?”

She brought the menu, and it might as well been written in Chinese. I don’t think this kid went out to eat very much. Wasn’t sure he could read. I took the menu and explained it for him and ordered what he wanted.

I ordered each of us a slab of apple pie with vanilla ice cream. Molly put the order of pie in front of the kid and the pie disappeared too. I finished half of mine and caught the kid lookin’ at my plate. I pushed the plate over to him and don’t have to tell you what happened.

Molly brought us the check, and said, “You boys have a good night.” As we left, I threw some bills on the table. Molly deserves all the kindness she can get.

We walked to the register, I paid and we went out into the night. Again, I could see the life I’d led in this kid.

Andy’d set my brain in motion. I have this problem, among many. My compassion outruns my common sense, just as my mouth sometimes outruns my brain.”

“We might go to the cops later, but for now we’ll be goin’ to my place.”

Okay, my place isn’t fancy. It’s small, very small, but meets my needs. Come to think of it, my needs are small too. There’s one bedroom, a bathroom and a room serving as a kitchen, dining room and living room.

I opened the door and the kid looked around the place. I figured he was lookin’ for what to steal. But I caught somethin’ else in his eyes—a new fear. He looked at the single bed. I could sense he was worried about pay-back time for my kindness. I went to my closet, reached in and dragged out a sleeping bag from my homeless days, and said, “Andy, this is your bed for now.”

Well, days stretched to weeks and weeks stretched to months. We got used to each other, but to be honest, I’m a loner and at times wished he’d just leave. But then I’d think of the life he left behind. Talk about a conflict. Thought of my life and wanted to set this kid on the right road.

What he noticed right off when he came to my place was a guitar sittin’ off to a corner of my multi- purpose room. I don’t play—never have, and never will. The instrument was a gift from my good friend Jerome. He makes ‘em and they are, more or less, all he has to give. Jerome’s built a reputation in the local music scene and is known for his craftsmanship. He doesn’t need to advertise to make a livin’. Word of mouth keeps him busy and that’s how it should be.

Well, one day Jerome came over while the kid was foolin’ around with the guitar. When Jerome sat down, I began to talk, but he put up his hand for me to stop. He wanted to listen to the kid.

After the kid stopped Jerome had the slightest smile on his face. Unusual for Jerome.

Talkin’ to the kid and ignorin’ me, Jerome said, “I really need someone to keep my shop clean, run errands. I’d be willing to pay you, but it won’t be much. And when there’s time, I can give you lessons.

I never saw the kid’s face light up like his did. Jerome had a slave. My face lit up too. I’d have some alone time.

Well, Andy stuck with the job and the lessons. One day Jerome and I were havin’ a few beers at our favorite tavern when he said, “You know, Fred, the kid’s pretty good. He doesn’t have the chops to be great, but he’s pretty good.

Time passed. Andy got his GED and goes to the local junior college now. He’s also a member of a local band, a band good enough to play some local bars as patrons drown their sorrows. He’s on his own now. He stops by now and then and always shows his appreciation for how I changed his life. Not so much in words—but I know.

I still like to walk around town. I don’t carry a pistol anymore, but it’s temptin’. The other night I was walkin’ down a deserted street when I heard, “Hey you. Turn around and give me your money.”

I turned around slowly to see this kid, maybe 14 or 15, snot runnin’ from his nose with his right hand in his pocket. Somethin’ in his pocket was pointing at me.

THE PRICE OF SUCCESS

Walt Trizna

Long ago, to gain success and fortune, I accepted help. I had no idea what the cost of my weakness would be.

* * *

I made West Chester, Pennsylvania my home. It’s a small hamlet forty miles west of Philadelphia. Although construction marched across the landscape, there were still open fields, some farming and a sense of freedom not found in the city. I pursued a writing career turning out short stories and poetry published by small presses. I had not made a cent. Working as a short-order cook and doing seasonal work, I managed to get by.

For years I’ve also been working on a novel of gothic horror. I felt the story line was fine but could not capture the moodiness of the genre, could not complete the book. Every night, after work, I would sit and produce nothing but a pile of crumpled paper. The manuscript lacked a life of its own, remaining far from a finished product.

To boost my spirits, I would sometimes visit one of my favorite haunts in West Chester – Baldwin’s Book Barn. Baldwin’s is a rambling building with shelves upon shelves of old books spread over five ramshackle floors. I would roam the barn for hours, finding treasures on the shelves to ponder in one of the comfortable rocking chairs scattered throughout the barn or, if the price was right, take home.

One day, while visiting Baldwin’s, I wandered past the rare book room. This room was kept locked and special arrangements were needed to gain entry. Although I had wanted to spend some time in that room, I knew my pockets were not deep enough to gain admittance. This day, however, much to my surprise, the door to the room was ajar. I cautiously entered and found the room to be empty. It was a small room. Its walls lined with bookshelves and a solitary table and chair off to one side. The shelves held leather-bound volumes, first editions of some of the most famous authors of the English language. There were books by Hemingway, Hawthorne and Poe. Herman Melville was represented along with H. G. Wells. As I poured over the titles, something caught my eye, a slight movement from the direction of the table. I turned quickly but could find nothing. I continued to wander around the room and again felt a presence, a feeling that I was not alone. I turned slowly to the table to discover that my intuition was correct. For a fleeting moment I was not alone, and in that moment, I knew I must return to the Book Barn that night.

I left the bookstore and drove my car from the small parking lot in front of the barn to one of my part-time jobs. My plan was to return near closing time, sometime before nine o’clock. I would park my car in a nearby development and walk the mile to the bookstore. I was sure that they checked their parking lot at closing time to see if any customers remained in the store and in this way my presence would go unnoticed. The store itself was one huge hiding place. With its haphazard arrangements of shelves, it was full of nooks and crannies where one could easily be concealed.

Entering the store at eight, I nodded to the manager and made my way to the upper levels. I quickly found a hiding place on the second floor, the home of the rare book room. Soon after nine, I heard the store manager climb the rickety stairs and begin turning off the lights, starting at the highest level and working his way down. I made sure I was nowhere near the light switch and my hiding place went undiscovered. The only sounds I heard were the occasional creaking of the old building settling in for the night.

Security lights illuminated the first floor and some of the light filtered up through the spaces between the floorboards. I tried the door to the rare book room and found the door to be locked. I located a comfortable rocking chair and began my surveillance. The excitement of the quest quickly gave way to the weariness of the day, and I was soon dozing, then fast asleep.

It was one A. M. when I suddenly awoke. It took me a few moments to remember where I was. I slowly made my way through the darkened passageway of the bookshelves until I stood before the rare book room. An eerie glow emanated from beneath the door. I tried the door and it opened easily. There, sitting before the ghost of a candle was the figure I had glimpsed that afternoon. I recognized him immediately by his manner of dress, the small mustache and the sorrowful eyes – it was Edgar Allen Poe. He sat at the table piled high with papers, his face sad with the knowledge he held. He did not look up, but his lips were moving and the words entered my brain.

“I exist in neither heaven nor hell,” he said, “but between these leather-bound volumes. My soul is tied to my thoughts, to my dreams and my fears, and it is mostly the fears that lie between these covers. … The tortured nightmares that pursued me in life I entrapped on the page, their number was endless as I dipped into their essence for material. Once a fear was conquered it was replaced by a fiercer, more wicked specter.” Glancing at me, he continued, “You carry demons within you, as we all do,” he said as he slowly shook his head.

It was then he began to write. It was the same story I had written, well, almost the same for the improvements were obvious. He rewrote sections with which I had been having the most trouble, sections that would not come together. His lips moved and I could hear the words he had written.

Then he said, “Nothing in life comes easy, there is always a price.” With that he set aside his writing, stood, and was gone. With trembling hands, I retrieved the pages. I accepted the help. I needed help even if it came from beyond the grave. I kept all the changes, and the story was published. To see my name in print, accepted now by a major publisher, to have my work recognized was like a drug. I could not get enough. That was some time ago. Fame and fortune are mine, but I now know the price.

It began one night, months after my book was published. I dreamt that a creature was squatting in the corner of my room, a being not of the waking world. He had a narrow face ending in a pointed chin. His eyes glowed red like the fires of hell. I refer to this being as ‘he’ but the more proper term would be ‘it’.

Its body was covered with gray matted fur and its short thin legs bent backward at the knee. It there is a hell; this creature journeyed from that destination.

Speaking in a hollow – echoing voice it spoke to me of horrors. The horrors I could see as the demon’s form faded to be replaced by the story it told. This visage from hell weaved unspeakable stories, stories to gruesome to use. I took their essence of horror and changed them for no one would believe what was depicted in my dreams. It was after the stories were published that I learned the horrible consequences of my plagiarism.

The first was of a man possessed by demons. His wife had just given birth to their first baby, a son. The demons told the man that the son would grow to be a spiritual leader and must be destroyed, and was murdered by his father. I could see this in my dream, every detail, along with the shocking outcome. With changes made I wrote the story, and it was published. Once in print, the story became reality. A man did kill his son as I had dreamed, and if I had dreamed longer, I would have seen him slaughter his wife and end his own misery.

I thought that surely this was a horrible coincidence, and then my nightmare visitor paid me another visit and revealed another dream.

This scenario played itself out more times than I choose to remember. The demon enters my dream, and then the story begins a movie in my mind. The more I use its stories, the greater becomes my writer’s block, until I have no stories of my own to tell.

My nights grew restless, filled with demonic dreams, dreams that would make your blood curdle. I have no release until the story is written. Once on paper, my stories are readily published, and the cycle begins again. The demons hiding in the shadows seek the light of day in my dreams. I fear sleep because I know the stories won’t stop.

It has been some time since I published my first novel. From that publication on success came easily, but I did not recognize the price – the horror I have unleashed upon the world and became an addict to my ill-gotten fame and fortune. I must find a way of release. My conscience can no longer endure the havoc I have done and my yet do.

* * *

The open window beckons me.

I take my first step toward oblivion and freedom.

THE END