Tall Tales of Felony and Failure Read online

  “No thanks. I don’t want to catch your crazies.”

  “Your loss.” I finish the beer, and it’s damn good.

  * * * *

  I don’t know what time it is, just that it’s been dark for ages. We’re in Eva, at a little buy-me-drink bar. Unfortunately for them, we’re not buying any thirty-dollar bottles of juice for the bar girl employees. We’re just here for the atmosphere--and the cheap beer. I have a clean bandage on my head, and feel pretty fresh.

  “You still smell like ass.” Tom’s words are slurred. “You really should fix yourself.”

  “I know.”

  The bar girls are persistent. One slides over and sits next to me at the bar and coos. “Buy me a drink, baby.”

  You’ve gotta love ‘em. I do, and have, but not tonight. Tonight our drinking’s almost like work. We fly out tomorrow to meet the boat in Guam, so now’s not the time for fooling around.

  “Goddamn fucking piss off.” Did I just say that? I’m going to get our asses kicked.

  Tom’s buried his head in his hands, resting them on the bar. “You’re going to get our asses kicked.”

  So now it starts, as stupidly as it always does. The thirty-dollar drink girl is yelling at me in Philippine. The bouncer, an angry-looking, hulking Samoan, comes over. We lock stares as he approaches.

  “What did you just say to her?” His voice is soft and melodious, but his words are a demand.

  Tom staggers up, oblivious, and ambles past the pool table, toward the bathroom.

  Now would be a wonderful time for my smooth-talking to kick in. “I said, ‘Goddamn fucking piss off.’ I know English isn’t her first fucking language, so I’ll speak slowly if you need me to. And I’ll talk louder! Would that fucking help?”

  I’m yelling now, knowing it isn’t going well. I feel skull-juice dripping down my cheek onto my neck, under my collar.

  It does seem to be going well for the bouncer, though. He grabs the front of my shirt and shoves me against the bar, knocking over my barstool. My beer spills all over the back of my shirt.

  The bouncer pulls his free arm back, balling his hand into a fist. It shoots toward my face. I shut my eyes and cringe, whimpering. My heart’s going to explode.

  I whimper for a while, until I realize the punch hasn’t landed. I open my eyes to see a tattooed, white knuckled fist inches from my face. I stare at the tattoos for a long moment. I’m sure they represent something; tradition, lineage, a successful rite of passage. Or maybe he’s just a big hardassed son-of-a-bitch.

  I notice that his fist isn’t the only thing that’s stopped. He’s stopped. The buy-me-drink girl’s stopped. The action on the pool table’s stopped. The whole bar is frozen.

  Behind the bouncer, Tom is standing with a cue stick gripped in his hands and an evil glint in his eyes. Good man. I study his stance, and it occurs to me that he’d been standing there for at least a moment before everything froze. What the hell was he waiting for? Why hadn’t he started swinging that damned stick yet?

  My mind snaps back to more immediate concerns. Realizing that I don’t know how long this extended moment's going to last, I wriggle free of the grip. Once done, I duck under the bouncer's arm and scurry out to the center of the bar, taking in my surroundings. This being a small, dark, hole of a bar, it doesn’t take long.

  My breathing’s too quick. I’m terrified. I jerk my head around repeatedly, looking for a reason for this. Nothing’s moving. Everything’s still with no sign of ever moving again.

  Has the whole world stopped? Have I lost my mind? Is this a new aspect of my brain damage? If so, why hasn’t anyone caught fire yet?

  Easy, Cranston, easy. You’ve dealt with stranger things than this. Remember college? There you go. Deep, slow breaths. There’s my boy.

  I sit down on the floor. It’s wet, so I stand up again. I walk over to the frozen, drunk Marine who’d been playing pool by himself and help myself to his beer. I realize the situation is improving, and that I might not be as bad off as I’d thought.

  As a little trick, I push all the balls on the pool table into the pockets. Even the cue ball. They travel down to the ball trap, waiting more quarters. There’s fifty cents he’s not getting back! I giggle as I finish the Marine's beer.

  This has become very fantastic.

  I snatch the quarters the Marine had stacked on the pool table rail to keep anyone else from playing and pocket them. Slipping his wallet out of his back pocket, I steal his last seven dollars. This is getting better and better. It could turn into work, though, so I’d better get some more beer.

  Four-hundred and twenty-seven dollars and three free pitchers of beer later, I’m sitting next to some frozen schmuck. A pile of empty wallets and purses are on the table in front of me. Credit cards and driver’s licenses spill to the floor. Just cash, please. Thanks.

  I lean back in my chair, pie-eyed and proud. I reach for my cigarettes and realize I left them on the bar. I take one from my frozen friend, light up, take a contented drag, and immediately start hacking. It’s menthol. God damned frozen people.

  I saunter up to the bar, pat the bouncer on the back, and slide under his fist. I stand up facing the bar and grab my smokes. They’re drenched from spilled beer, so I dig around in the pack looking for a dry one. Finding two, I’m pleased.

  As a matter of fact, I’m delighted by a lot of things; free money, free beer, and pickled eggs behind the bar to keep me fed. I have to admit that I love my oozing, magical brain.

  Turning to face the bouncer, I glance at Tom, still standing in the background with his cue stick, then at the bar girl, her face a contortion of foreign profanity. I should thank her sometime for the row she caused, showing me my new powers.

  She blinks. It starts slowly, then picks up speed. By the time her lids snap back open, they’re moving too fast to track. Sound waves, once frozen, rip through the air.

  Oh, shit.

  The bouncer’s fist zeros in on my cheek, as if using my fading bruise as a bull’s-eye. I find that frozen time temporarily halts, but does not diminish, momentum, and stumble, feet flying out from under me. My head slams onto the front edge of the bar. The thunderclap of impact causes the room to vibrate in my eyes. Falling to the floor, I hear another crack over the sudden tumult of the bar. A piece of cue stick hits the floor next to me.

  Friends. A friend is Tom, and a friend is this broken cue stick.

  I don’t lose consciousness, not this time. I’m becoming acclimated to having my ass handed to me, and losing consciousness is for rookies. Even though my tape and towel bandage offer no protection against the impact and I can feel my wound saturating my hair with my blood’s new found freedom, I maintain. Because I’m a winner, and maintaining is what winners do.

  I don’t have very long to ponder this because cue stick and I now have a new friend with us on the floor--bloody bouncer. His eyes are closed because he's not a winner. He’s a country mile from winning anything right now.

  Again, my thoughts are interrupted. Tom’s pulling me toward the door. I wonder if bloody bouncer’s dead, and ask Tom. I think I do, anyway.

  Tom doesn’t answer. He’s just carrying me and making time out of the bar as well as he can.

  * * * *

  We’re in his truck, now, flying up H-1 toward base. I’m not too sure we’ll be any safer from retribution there, though. Tom’s eyes are huge, and he’s sweating like a pig. He looks as terrified as I feel bad. I can talk now, I think.

  “Did anybody chase us?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I didn’t see anybody.”

  “Why not?”

  “Some idiot, drunk thief had a pile of wallets on his table. Nobody gave a damn about us. They were too busy kicking the shit out of that asshole to care about a dead bouncer.”

  “You think he’s dead?”

  “No, no. I don’t think so, anyway. Maybe.”

  Poor Tom. He’s a wreck, but I’m not going to console him. He waited for that punch to land bef
ore motivating the bouncer in a different direction. A little sweating will do him some good.

  Myself, I’m not worried. I’m not worried at all. My brain may be yanking me around, but it won’t let me down. There’s too much fun to still be had. Tom’s my good friend, and things are always more fun with him around. My brain knows this and will keep him safe. Well, as safe as it keeps me, anyway. I just don’t understand why my brain gets such a kick out of getting itself slammed against immovable objects.

  Oh well. I’ll have a good talk with Tom tomorrow to put him at ease.

  I look over at him to find him staring back. “We’ve gotta get you cleaned up before we try getting back on base,” he says. “You’re goddamn soaked in blood. Your hair’s drenched, your shirt’s drenched, and you’re getting it all over the goddamn seat.”

  Good old Tom. “How about you just give me your ball cap?”

  “Yeah, that’ll work, probably.” Tom hands me his cap, which I gingerly place over my head. “Take off your clothes, too.”

  “What?”

  “They’ll think we were having sex. They can’t ask about that, and you won’t be soaked in gore. Use your pants to wipe the blood off yourself and the seat. I don’t want them to think we’re a couple of deviants, which could backfire if they start looking through the truck. We just want them to think we had the good sex. If they find out you got rolled, and later find out some white guy got rolled at a bar in Eva, causing his friend to kill a bouncer, we could be in a lot of shit.”

  I shrug. “Sure.” I strip down, then start cleaning up. After doing a passable job, I cram the blood-soaked clothes under the seat. Looking up, I see that Tom’s still staring at me.

  “Shouldn’t you be watching the road? Why the hell are you staring at me?”

  “Don’t look the gate guards in the eye.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “You’re pupils are different sizes. I don’t want them to think I’m tapping some weirdo.”

  “How about I just go to sleep?”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s good. They’ll think I’m a good pleaser-wore you right out. Good, good.”

  I close my eyes once I’m sure Tom’s watching the road and done staring at me. Going to sleep does feel like the right thing to do. I don’t think I’ll have much choice in the matter for long, anyway. My body is shutting down, I think. I’ll have Tom fill me in on how it went getting past the gate guards tomorrow morning. Regardless of whether I wake up in jail or in the barracks, it’ll be a good story. They always are with Tom.

  I hope the gate guards don’t ask for our IDs. Mine’s in my wallet, wrapped up in bloody jeans. Tom’s ID’s in his wallet too, on a table in a dirty bar.

  * * *

  Chapter Three

  Does it get better than this? God, I hope so. It’s gray outside the windshield, no sun yet. I recognize the parking lot behind the barracks. I’m lying naked across the front seat, dried patches of blood about. One of my eyes is caked shut. I try to remember how this happened.

  Slowly, coming back. All of it’s coming back--the Filipina, the bloody bouncer, the broken cue stick, the free money.

  Frozen time.

  I ponder this. Reaching under the seat, I pull out my clothes: sneakers, underpants, shirt, and pants. I’m still wearing Tom’s cap, which is glued to my head, and my socks are still on. I untangle my pants. It’s a chore because they’re balled up and hard as a rock from all of the dried blood. I find a lump of quarters in a front pocket. I check my wallet. Four-hundred and twenty-seven dollars. Definitely more than I went into the bar with.

  I am magical.

  Lurching over, I yank at the door handle, swing the driver’s side door open, lean out, and get sick. Finished, I struggle to put on my pants. I’m now presentable enough to sneak up to my room without getting arrested, as long as no one looks at me.

  I stuff my shirt, underwear, and sneakers away in the first trashcan I pass in the stairwell up to my room. I don’t want to carry them, and can afford new clothes now.

  Showering is an ordeal. My wound’s on fire and my head’s throbbing, probably from the stagnant air in the truck. I manage, washing enough dried blood off my face to get my eye open.

  Out of the shower, I roll up a clean t-shirt and wrap it around my head, tying it in the back. I’m running out of tape. The shower’s opened the wound and a little blood’s creeping out. I’d treat it with some peroxide, but I think the infection might be the source of my powers.

  Getting dressed, I cram my feet into my work boots. I can’t find my sneakers.

  Time to pack. I dig up my dress uniforms, dungarees and coveralls and toss them in my sea bag. Scrounging through my locker, I find some semi-clean civilian clothes, underpants, t-shirts and socks. I sit on my sea bag to squash everything down and make it fit. I grab my headphones for the flight, in case Tom starts talking.

  Finished, I shoulder my bag and head out. Locking up the room, I take one last look around to make sure everything's in order. since I'll be gone for almost six months. Except for a few foreign ports, the fun's over for a while, so it's time to hunker down and suck it up. I'd miss this place if I didn't hate it so much.

  I head to Tom's room, dragging my sea bag on the ground behind me. Time to find out if we're going to jail.

  Tom's in his room, sitting on his packed sea bag, leaning against the wall.

  "Don't you ever use your chair?" I ask.

  "This is more comfortable. Good to see you cleaned up."

  "Yeah. Thanks for leaving me in your truck, by the way."

  "The last I thing I remember is you getting naked and hitting on me."

  "How did we get past the gate guards?"

  "I don't know. We did, and that's what matters. I haven't heard about any murders and I've been listening to the radio all morning. As long as we get off this rock pronto, we may be okay."

  His radio's not on his dresser. I see pieces of it all over the floor, though. Brown plastic bits scattered about. I get the feeling I should run away. If I wasn't on an island, surrounded by the Pacific Ocean, I would. But I am, so there's nowhere to hide. I'm too white to blend in, and not very good at taking care of myself. I'll have to see this little episode through.

  "So what happened to your radio?"

  Tom shrugs. "I broke it."

  "You said you were listening to it all morning."

  "'That was a stretch. I listened last night, before I passed out. All I hear now are screaming repercussions."

  My stomach hurts, and I want to cry. I'm such a tool, sometimes. Why is he making me drag this out of him?

  "We're in trouble, aren't we?" I know the answer before he gives it to me.

  Tom winces. "The fucker's dead."

  Knowing something isn't any help when it's this ugly, laid bare in front of you. "Why are you fucking yanking me around, asshole?"

  Tom's staring at me. "I didn't want you to break down before the cab came."

  Oh, thank God. Tom has a plan. "I need some water."

  I flee for the bathroom and splash water on my face. I hear something through the back window. Peering out, I see a base security guy with four Hawaii State Troopers, looking over Tom's truck. The security guy starts talking into his radio.

  I close my eyes, concentrating so hard they hurt. I need to stop time so we can get away. I'm thinking and wishing and praying to God that everything will just fucking stop.

  After a few moments, it seems to start working. The darkness behind my eyes is replaced by splashes of color, kaleidoscoping. My heart slowly drops from my throat, slowing down to an almost normal pace. I start calming down.

  I can still hear the voices outside.

  I throw myself to the side, dashing my one-trick head, wound leading, against the painted cinderblock wall. The voices outside are replaced with a loud buzzing, raking my eardrums and making them itch. The second impact, my head colliding with the floor as I complete my fall, clears that right up. There are still voices outside. Ti
me's still flowing, as it does. Couldn't they at least catch fire?

  Tom's standing over me. He has a sea bag in each hand. "Come on, Cranston, you fucking moron! The cab's out front."

  Out front is good. Much better than out back.

  Tom helps me up, then jumps back as I get sick. Finished, I follow him out the door. He doesn't lock up. We skirt quickly down the stairs and jog to the cab, climbing in and resting our sea bags on our laps. I notice that my bandage had fallen off my head.

  "Where to?" the driver asks.

  "Not out back." I’m insistent.

  "The airport," Tom adds. He's giving the driver, who's turned around and staring at us, his best smile.

  The cabby turns back around and we drive off, away from the barracks. Tom digs through his bag and pulls out a sock and a black, knit winter cap. He wipes the new stream of blood from my face with the sock and presses it against my apparently normal, non-magical wound. He pulls the cap over my head to cover the sock and hold it in place. My skull is on fire, and my eyes won't stop watering.

  Tom pats me on the shoulder. "Stop crying."

  I want to tell him that my eyes are just watering. I want to tell him about my powers, and how they let us down. I want to tell him that he's the one who killed the bouncer, and I shouldn't be running at all. I want to tell Tome a lot of things, but I can't because I'm crying. I'm sobbing like a goddamn baby.

  Tom gives me a little shove. "All right, that's enough. We’re coming up to the gate guard. Get your game face on."

  I take a deep breath, my little cry overcome by more pressing concerns. I suck in my snot, wipe my eyes and sit up, staring straight ahead. I’d never realized how hard it is to not make eye contact without looking guilty. I guess I do well enough because the gate guard waves us out without stopping us. They don't usually check IDs on the way out, which is a good thing.

  This reminds me of something."Do you have your ID?" I whisper to Tom under the music playing on the cabby's eight-track.

  "No. That thief last night must have lifted my wallet."