A Night Out

Story by: David Ortiz

Written by: Tony Ortiz | July 4th, 2022

Prologue

“We don’t have a choice”…that’s what I told Jaime when she said we should have gotten the fuck out of there and called the cops.  “We don’t have a choice.”  Thinking back on those frantic moments leading up to that trigger being pulled though…I wonder.  It made me question the fragility of it all.  How effortless it could be to tug on the loose ends of the fabric of society.  How quickly things can unravel.  When your back is to the wall and you’re coerced at a moment where being between a rock and a hard place seems like an improvement of circumstances.  Right then…decisions truly are life changing.

“So what’s this place supposed to be, exactly? Like a hibachi spot?” I asked.

“No, nothing like that,” replied Jaime, “you cook your own food.  They bring whatever you order out to you, fresh and organic. And you sit in private booths that have a little stovetop in the middle.”  

“So you want to go to a restaurant and pay them to let us cook our own food?”  I added.

“Stop it.  It’s part of the charm, you’ll see,” Jaime replied, “and the drinks are supposed to be amazing.”

“Great, so we’ll be paying even more to go out and cook our own food.  Are we picking up your brother?”  I asked.

“No, he and Maria are just going to meet us there after work,” Jaime responded.

“Ok cool.  I was thinking of inviting Christian, too.  He’s been dating a new girl, so might be down to triple date,” I replied.

“Yea sure, I like Christian,” Jaime Replied, “whatever you want hun, it’s your day.”

“I’ll call him,” I added.

*** 

“Birthday boy, what’s going on?” Christian said when he picked up the call.

“Chris, what’s up, bro?”  I asked.

“Not much looking to wrap things up here at work within a couple hours,” he replied, “you?”

“Nothing much,” I responded, “took off today and going to dinner tonight at 7.  Some spot Jaimie picked out.” 

“Nice,” Christian stated.

“Are you still with that girl you told me about?” I asked, “let’s triple date.”

“Yeah, things are going pretty well too,” Christian responded, “I’m down for that.  Who else is going?”

“Just us, Carlos and Maria,” I answered.

“Nice, ok cool.  Text me the spot and we’ll meet you there.”  He confirmed. 

“Sounds good, peace.”  I responded.

*** 

“Hi, we have a 7 o’clock reservation.  Under Jaime.” She told the Matradee.

“Jaime for 6?”  He asked

“Yup, that’s us.”  Replied Jaime. 

“Would you like to wait by the bar for the rest of your party, or go to the table?”  He asked.

“What do you think, babe?”  Jaime asked as she turned to me.

“The table is fine. They should be here soon, anyway,” I replied. 

“Oh look, there’s Maria by the bar already,” Jaime said as she spotted her.

“Hey guys,” Maria said as she came over with an exotic drink in hand.  “Happy birthday Benny.”

“Happy Birthday, my guy,” added Carlos. 

“Thanks, thanks.”  I responded.

“Here, hold on to this,” Carlos said as he handed me an Old Fashioned.

“Jaime, you have to order this drink called the blue midnight or something like that—“ Maria started.

“It’s blue velvet,” Carlos corrected.  “See, she’s drunk already,” he added jokingly.

“Whatever,” Maria responded, “the point is it’s so good that I want to reverse engineer the shit to make it at home.”

The restaurant was bustling.  It had a dark, smokey look to it that was both sleek and quaint.

“Who else is coming?”  Asked Carlos as he saw the 6 seats. 

“Oh, I invited Christian,” I replied, “he’s supposed to come with this new girl he’s been dating.”

***

Christian and his girl made their way to our table. 

“Hey everybody, this is Carolina,” Christian introduced, “that’s the Birthday boy, and I’m sure you’ll catch everyone else’s name, eventually.”

“Boy, don’t you have any home training?  You know better than that.  Hi Carolina, I’m Jaime, this is Maria and her husband Carlos, which is also and unfortunately my brother.  I kid, I kid.”

“Hey everybody, so nice to finally meet you.  So that must make you the one with the good taste to pick this place,” replied Carolina. 

“You don’t have to be nice and lie to her,” I chimed in laughing.

“No honest, I heard the drinks here are amazing,” added Carolina.

“I’m just playing,” I replied, “they are pretty good, I can’t front.” 

***

“Is it just me or was everything delicious,” asked Maria?

“I liked it all too,” I added, “great pick babe, thank you.”

“Aww, I’m glad you did babes,” Jaime responded, “I’d definitely come again.”

“Yea same,” we all seem to have simultaneously said in agreement.

Christian walked back over from the restroom.

“Yo, we’re about to shut this place down.  It’s a ghost town.  Nobody’s even on the other side,” said Christian.

“Yea, let’s break out,” replied Carlos.

The server approached the table. Although the term server seemed somehow beneath the level of service that was being provided.  He was more like a butler.

“I trust you enjoyed your experience tonight?”  He asked.

“We did. Thank you very much,” Jaime replied. 

“If you all would oblige,” started the server, “Mr.  Shinto would like to treat you all to one more complementary, off menu drink in his VIP lounge.”

We all agreed.  Excited.  And followed him toward the back walled area, which had a speak-easy style concealed door leading to the VIP lounge.  We really hadn’t noticed how deserted the place was by then.  Like it had been closed for hours. 

We each grabbed a drink from the bar. There were a dozen drinks lined up for us.  We enjoyed them while we walked around the room, looking at an array of artwork, antiques and memorabilia.

“Hey, check this out,” Carolina told Christian.  “It’s a Monet.”

“Wow, it seems legit too,” he replied.

“Not seems.  Is.  When I say it’s a Monet, I mean it’s a Monet,” she added.  

“Get the fuck out of here,” said Carlos, noticeably sauced up, “that ain’t real.”

“Since when do you know about art?”  Maria interjected. 

“I’m just saying,” replied Carlos. “Who has that?  And what would it be doing in the back room of a restaurant?”

“Dude, did you see what’s behind that memorabilia case?”  I asked Carlos.  “There are stacks of PSA 10 rookie cards, including multiples of Kobe, Jordan, Mantle, Gretzky, LeBron’s.  There’s a Pete Maravich for God’s sake.” 

“I get it,” replied Carlos, “that’s nothing to sneeze at.  But that’s not the same as a Monet.” 

“Bro, she majored in Art,” said Christian. “She knows what she’s talking about.”

“Minored,” Carolina corrected, “not majored.  But it is a passion of mine, and I can tell you with the highest degree of certainty that Claude Monet himself painted that canvas.  It’s actually one of his earlier works.  Pay attention to his use of natural light within the frame.  Seemingly unremarkable, until you notice his use of shadows and dark tonal shades.  He’s masterful in showing how the moonlight embraces each reachable crevice of the landscape.  His brush strokes are reminiscent of a time when he only worked in charcoal and the frequency of the bristles on the canvas echo the speed of those strokes, which is signature Monet.”

“I bet you didn’t even know Claude was his first name,” Christian taunted as Carlos stood there corrected.

We all seemed to notice someone who’s been there the whole time, simultaneously.  There was a person sitting over by a dimly lit corner with their back to the rest of the room.

“What the fuck?”  Christian asked under his breath.

“I know,” I replied, “who’s that weirdo?  Is that the owner?”

“How’s it going?”  Carlos asked out loud.

No response. 

“Would you like a drink?”  Jaime asked.  “We have a lot extra over here.”

Christian started walking over.  “Excuse me?”  He said as he approached.  “Excu—Oh, shit!”

“What?  What is it?”  Asked Carolina, frightened.

“He’s tied up.  Help me get him out.”  Christian replied, flustered.  

The person seemed even more shook up than we were.

As we approached to help, we see ‘do not remove’ written on the duct tape that sealed his lips and a white envelope on his lap that had ‘Read Me’ written on it.

“What the fuck is this, guys?”  Maria asked.  “Let’s just go.” 

“One step ahead of you,” said Carlos as they started toward the direction we came. 

“Where’s the door?”  Asked Carlos.

“I thought it was over here too,” said Carolina. 

“Hold up,” said Christian as he walked over.  “It was like one of those secret door type designs on the way in.  I didn’t notice it close behind us, but it was right here.”  He said as he started banging along the wall, looking for a hollow point.  “Hey, hello!  Let us out of here.”   

No response. 

“Maybe there’s something in that letter.  Let’s open it,” I said. 

“I don’t think we should,” said Jaime.  “Let’s just get the fuck out of here and call the cops.”

“We don’t have a choice, babe,” I replied. “And are we really just going to ignore the fact that there’s a terrified guy over there tied up and duct tapped to a chair?”

We all reluctantly agreed with reading that letter and seeing what the guy in the chair could shed light on.  Did he even know why he was here?  Maybe he was in the same boat as us.

I signaled to him that I was going to take off the duct tape on his mouth and he nodded in agreement. 

As soon as I did, he began pouring his heart out emphatically.  He spoke for 2 minutes straight, barely stopping to take a breath or to let any of us slip a word in for a chance at dialogue.  But it didn’t matter.  None of us understood a word of the language he was speaking and he didn’t speak a lick of English or Spanish. 

Carlos reached down and tugged on the zip ties that bound his hands behind his back and to the seat, but no luck. 

“Wait, should we be trying to untie him?” Asked Carolina.

“What do you mean?” Asked Jaime, “of course we should.”

“Wait, she’s got a point,” I interjected, “what if he’s dangerous or something?”

“He’s tied to a chair, and more scared of us than we are of him,” Carlos replied.

“Calm down, calm down,” replied Christian. “Let’s read the letter to see if it says anything about who he is and then make a determination after.”

I slid the paper out of the envelope and began reading out loud:

“This man’s name is Guojing Zahn.  He is a black market trader specializing in arms deals, some of which are linked to terrorist acts, human trafficking and a significant 18% portion of the poisonous fentanyl that has flooded the underground drug scene in the U.S.”

“Woah,” said Christian.

I took a beat and then continued reading.

“These are your instructions: Behind the bar you’ll find an untraceable .38 caliber pistol with no serial number.  Put a bullet in his head and you’ll be free to go.  Do not worry about his body or cleaning up.  Those inconvenient logistics will be taken care of for you.”

“This has to be some sick prank,” Jaime said.  “This can’t be happening right now.”

“We are not killing someone guys,” said Maria, “that’s fucking murder!”

“Of course we’re not,” I replied, “let’s get the fuck out of here.”

We fervently looked for a way out and, as a looming sense of hopelessness approached, a projector screen came down in front of the bar area.  The man that appeared introduced himself as “Mr. Shinto’s executive assistant.”  We could speak back to him and he would hear us.  However, after a cacophony of cuss words being lopped at him like water balloons, he did most of the talking.

“Your instruction here tonight is a simple one,” he started.  “A simple task that carried out by either one of you will result in the freeing of all of you.”

“Why don’t you do it yourself, you twisted fuck?”  Carlos blurted out.

“Your moral apprehensions should not be a factor here, Mr. Rivera.  I assure you that my employer does not want to bring harm to any of you.  He simply wants the world to be rid of this vile individual.”

“Wait, how the fuck do you know my name?”  Carlos replied.

“We know each of your names, Mr. Rivera.  As well as your recent whereabouts and who your closest friends and family are.  Like your Mother residing on 111th street in Queens.  Or your grandfather Charles, Mrs. Ortega.  Cousin Teresita,” he said to me as we locked eyes.   “The fact of the matter is that my employer has dedicated time and resources to making sure this happens properly and precisely as instructed.  I assure you that no harm will come to you and your loved ones as long as you comply with the ask.  Make no qualms about it, there’s one way out of here… he leaves this world, and you get to leave this room.”

“Why should we believe you, huh?”  I shouted at the screen.  “What if we don’t do shit and just wait it out?”

“You see those 6 empty shot glasses sitting under those spouts?  After one of you decides to stop dragging their feet and pulls the trigger, they will be filled with the last drink each of you will have tonight.  Think it a celebratory toast of sorts.”

“1. Who said we would comply,” replied Jaime, “and 2. Why would we drink some mysterious shot that might be cyanide or something that’ll just kill us and keep us from going to the cops?”

“I assure you they’re not poison, dear.  Funny you should say that, though.  Because they are the only thing that will counteract the slow release poison each of you has already consumed.”

“What the fuck?  What poison?” Asked Christian.

“The free rounds of drinks you’ve been enjoying, Mr. Torres.  From the first sip each of you consumed, a slow acting but 100% deadly amount of arsenic trioxide has been coursing through you.  In precisely 1 hour post consumption, your hearts will gradually grind down to a near halt.  Your airways will constrict by an unsustainable 50% at which point the most durable of you may live for an excruciatingly uncomfortable extra 15 minutes or so.  Unless, of course, you complete the task at hand, at which point the antidote to the poison surging through your bloodstreams will be poured into those 6 shot glasses.”

We stood there in absolute shocked silence.

“And with that, I trust the necessary motivation has been provided for you to fulfill my employer’s ask.” 

Before the screen went blank, he added, “Oh and in case you were wondering, your first sips were about 45 minutes ago.  Giving you just shy of 15 minutes to decide.”

The silence was so loud that it stunned us into motion.

“Where the fuck is that gun?”  Carlos asked as he started toward the bar.

“Yea, I think he said it’s back there,” added Carolina as she followed behind.

“Wait, you guys,” Jaime said, “what if it’s bullshit?  What if there is no poison?”

“If you want to stick around and find out, by all means.  Me, I’m down to put this sex trafficking, drug poisoning fuck out of his misery,” said Carlos.

Those of us who said little else that night quietly agreed.  But in that moment of silent despair, our lives were altered forever.

True to his word, once the lifeless body of Guojing Zahn slumped over in the chair and his blood pooled onto the ground, the antidote to the poison poured out of the spouts and into shot glasses.  Each of us drank it exactly as you’d imagine; as if our lives depended on it.  Then a unique set of doors appeared after an entire wall slid open to show a long narrow hallway leading out to the street.

“Follow me back to my place so we can figure this thing out,” I told the guys. 

“Your place?”  Exclaimed Maria.  “Shouldn’t we be heading to the nearest precinct or hospital or something?”

“To tell them what?  That a guy on a projector made us kill someone after we self-administered poison?”  I replied.

“He has a point,” Jaime agreed.  “I don’t like it either, but he has a point.  If this guy is as connected as he seems, who knows who he has paid off and how high his influence goes?  If we rat him out, we’ll be tied to chairs next.”

“Honestly, I wasn’t even thinking about that,” I added, “but that’s a good point.  Let’s go to my place and find out as much as we can about this son of a bitch.”

That night was a wash.  All of us were in shock and filled with uncertainty and doubt about our futures.  But in the days and weeks to come, that all faded away and was replaced with a deliberate resentment that fueled us.   It took some doing, but we came to find out who the owner of the restaurant was.  His name is Hiroto Shinto, and he hid it well.  But through my contacts at the registrar’s office and some dots that Jaime connected by leveraging her law firm, we were able to trace the LLC from one shell company to the next until the eventual parent company listed him as the sole beneficiary and principal.  A few of his companies had accounts registered at Christian’s bank.  With that, we got a glimpse of how deep his pockets were.  His routine deposits were as steady and consistent as a government check.  Maria was an attorney at the DA’s office.  She had all types of law enforcement and judicial relationships which were able to tip her off to all the characters he allegedly conducted business with.  He was spinning so many plates in both the legal and illegal arenas that it oddly warranted appreciation.  Shinto was a boss in every sense of the word.  If he wasn’t directly involved with something, one or more of his subsidiaries were facilitating on some level.  This guy was the connective tissue that stitched together every unsavory transaction in this town.

He did business with the Italian and the Irish mobs.  The shot callers of every major street gang like the Bloods, Latin Kings, Crips and even a few biker gangs had some sort of dealing with him as well.  He was a personification of the Silk Road.  He’d facilitate money laundering, drug dealing, tax evasion schemes, murder for higher and so much more.  You name it; he did it or knew a guy or gal that did.   As time went on, it sank in.  The more untouchable he became, the more our chances of holding him accountable diminished.  Most of us began giving up our hopes for vigilante justice as the days became weeks and our joint research and brainstorming sessions were few and far between. 

Carlos and Maria became fanatical about the guy for months after what happened.  They kept tabs on his whereabouts, events and functions he’d attend.  They traced political contributions and the favors that were reciprocated.  It became too much for Maria and she eventually let it go.  But it wasn’t as easy for Carlos.  And it put such a strain on their relationship that to this day there’s a palpable tension betwixt them.  That’s based on how Jaime sees it, anyway.  She still spoke with Maria every few weeks or so.  The rest of us drifted further apart.  I think it made it easier to cope.  One less reminder of that night out. 

Then one day, we all got the call.

“First and foremost, I wanted to thank you all for coming,” Carlos began, “it truly means a lot to me that even if we’re not as close as we once were, I could still reach out and count on you.  I hope each of you knows that I’d do the same for you in a heartbeat.”

“Don’t mention it, brother,” I said.  “It has been a minute since we’ve all been together.  So what’s this all about, anyway?”  

“I wanted to tell you that after that night, I spent months wanting to kill myself,” Carlos said.  “I kept dreaming about how Guojing’s blood spattered on the wall and pooled up on the floor.  How that putrid stench of death danced with the smell of blood and bowl movements.  And I swear that if it wasn’t for the fear of how God was going to judge me for what I did that night, I would have gone through with offing myself.”

“He was a horrible guy,” I interjected.  “We verified it ourselves.  Everything that asshole told us he was, he was.”

“Yea, you can’t beat yourself up like that,” Christian added.  “You had no choice.  We had no choice.” 

“I know,” replied Carlos, “but it still weighs on me. And I know it must be on you guys as well.  It has been borderline unbearable, but knowing that untouchable cocksucker is out there has just compounded the entire experience into a crippling weight on my shoulders.  What he did to us, he’s probably done to half a dozen people since then.  Figuring out a way to get back at him has been my saving grace.  And now we have a way to fight back.  Now we can take that boulder sized weight off of our shoulders and crush the sonofabitch with it.”

“How do you mean?”  Maria asked, as we were all thinking the same thing.

“He involved us all the day he lured and locked us in that room and drove us to kill Guojing,” started Carlos.  “It’s going to take all of us to execute my plan and make things right.”

“Carlos, are you speaking about going after this guy?”  Asked Maria.  “Killing him?  That’s insane.”

“Yea bro, the guy is a piece of shit and God knows he deserves it, but we’re way over our heads,” Christian added.  “It’ll be a suicide mission for sure.” 

“No,” Carlos said sternly, “I’m saying that if we execute my plan with the requisite precision, we won’t have to kill him.  That part will work itself out.” 

“So this is how it breaks down,” Carlos began, “five key members of separate crime organizations known as the five Capos work with Shinto and are going to meet with an associate of his.  We’re going to break up that meeting and arrest the associate.  He’ll be taken in for questioning.  The group doing the arresting and interrogating are part of a joint NYPD and FBI task force that not only owes Maria a few favors, they have a legit gripe with Shinto, his organization and all of their own colleagues that are on the take.  We expect those five shot callers to say they don’t know Shinto or will deny any involvement with him.  The point is, though, that they’re going to leave each of them with the seed of an idea that Shinto won’t be paying them anymore because they got hemmed up.”

“Ok, but won’t that all fall apart when they continue to receive their payments?”  Asked Jaime.

“That’s where phase two comes in,” Carlos replied.  “Each of those shot callers receives their payments from Shinto as money laundering.  He takes the illegitimate dollars they make from selling the drugs that he imports, and pumps clean funds through their respective clean cash heavy businesses like restaurants, laundromats, supermarkets, etc.” 

“The son of a bitch is getting paid on all sides,” I said. 

“Exactly,” replied Carlos, “he imports and sells them the dope wholesale, then charges them a fee for laundering their profits.”

“That’s fucking ruthless,” added Carolina.

“They’re all criminals,” Jaime chimed in as a reminder.

“Yea, they fancy themselves businessmen,” Carolina added, “you’d think they’d have a code.”

“A code against greed?”  Asked Christian, “what businessman has that?”

“Yes, they’re all businessmen, yes they’re all greedy and yes they’re all criminals,”  Carlos said sternly.  “All of that shit is inconsequential, though.  We can and will use that information against them by fanning the flames of resentment that they’ll already be feeling toward Shinto after they stop getting paid.  What we want to do is plant the seed that the authorities know enough about the corruption to take him down.  After that, the rest should fall into place.”

“And how exactly are we supposed to do that?”  I asked.

“They hold a quarterly meeting with that projector screen sidekick bitch.  In person, in the same hotel suite, without fail.  That’s when we’ll grab him.  The task force is going to interrupt that meeting and take the sidekick out of there.  But he’ll undoubtedly have enough juice to get himself released within a couple of hours unless we have him taken to an undisclosed location,” Carlos continued, “either way, he’s not the actual play.  When the rest of them leave that hotel, we’ll begin surveillance.”

“We?”  Carolina questioned.

“The task force,” Carlos rebutted. “Given what they all saw happen the previous day, it won’t be too farfetched for them to believe that the projector bitch began singing like a bird.  What’s even more important is that they’ll know that he wouldn’t dime anyone out without Shinto’s say so and that’ll start them questioning the current structure of the regime.”

“And I doubt these are the kinds of men that take getting double-crossed lightly,” said Jaime.

“Right,” affirmed Carlos, “and that’s exactly what we’re counting on.”

“I don’t get it though,” I stated.  “What happens next?  Won’t they just sort out the misunderstanding like a Three’s Company episode and move onto business as usual?”

“No.  One of two things is going to happen,” Carlos replied confidently.  “Either the infighting causes a destabilization that will collapse their organization or…”

“Or what?”  Christian asked after the pregnant pause.

“Or they do Shinto the same way he made us take care of Guojing Zahn,” Carlos replied, “it’s a win-win and don’t think it’s not.  Do you guys think we’re unique here?  This is his MO.  He coerces people into doing his dirty work while simultaneously compromising them so that he can leverage that shit in the future.  You want to wait around for him to call in that favor?  I sure as fuck don’t.”  

“Damn, you remember his full name?”  Carolina asked, surprised.

“How could I forget?”  Carlos replied solemnly.

“You’re making a lot of assumptions though, bro,” I stated.  “What if they move their meeting this quarter?  What if the task force isn’t able to take projector bitch while they’re all watching? What if they get their money via some secondary fail safe that is already in place?”

“What if, what if, what if,” Carlos mockingly interrupted.  “What if any of us could get a good night’s sleep since that night?  What if Maria didn’t need to be hopped up on Xanax just to function throughout the day?  It’s going to work.  I know it is.  But it’s going to take all of us.  Are you in or not?”  He asked.

“I don’t know about this Carlos,” replied Christian.  “If things go wrong and any of this gets out, I could lose my job over this shit.”

“Your job?”  Carlos replied.  “Who got you the fucking job in the first place? Look,” he continued after an awkward silence, “I wouldn’t ask you to do any of this if it wasn’t airtight.  I wouldn’t want you to jeopardize your job, either.  For any of you.  But I am asking you to put your trust in me.  Because I’ve been meticulously crossing every T and dotting every i every day for almost a year now.” 

Then after about a minute Jaime chimed in with; “I wish I would’ve picked another restaurant that night.”  That made us smile and ease up a bit.  How could any of us not be in?  We were in it until, however, it was that this was going to end.  I mean, we were all already accomplices to murder.  A forced murder that weighed in the favor of justice when balanced against the deeds Guojing Zahn committed, but it was still murder.  A murder that required closure.  Albeit for some of us more than others.  And so we were in. 

Just shy of a week later, Carlos’ plan worked.  Like a charm, you might say. Everything he said would happen, did.  It couldn’t have gone any smoother if the whole thing was scripted.  The task force posted up on all four corners of the Four Seasons hotel and had their surveillance van running point, right across the street from the entrance.  The five Capos pulled up as expected and were matched up to their surveillance photos. They arrived in close succession to one another. Each in a fancier car than the last. Each with 1-2 body guards a piece.  Shinto’s right hand showed up alone.  Before moving in, the task force waited about 20 minutes so that the meeting would be underway.  The lookout security guard that they left in the lobby was isolated and cuffed first, before he could alert the others.  A copy of the room key was procured at the front desk.

“I don’t know which guests you’re referring to, sir,” the concierge said.

“You see this?” He replied while flashing his badge, “this means I can break down every door in this place until I find who I’m looking for.  And you can explain to your boss why you interfered with official police business and why he now has dozens of broken doors to repair.”

“Oh, you meant the penthouse meeting room.  I’m terribly sorry I misunderstood your question.  Let me get you a copy of the room key,” he replied obligingly.

The first unit moved up to the penthouse suite.  They were expecting a bodyguard after seeing him on a monitor that was in the lobby, and quickly neutralized him by the elevators.  They proceeded toward the suite door, slid the keycard and tactically let themselves in, weapons drawn. 

“Nope, you won’t be needing that,” one officer said as he disarmed a guard on the inside of the door. 

“I’ll take that,” another officer stated as she disarmed another.

“Gentleman, I assure you this is not a violent visit.  It is a simple extraction mission,” Officer Johnson stated as he scanned the room. 

“You,” he said as he pointed to Shinto’s right-hand man, “come over here.”

“What is this about?”  He responded nervously as he complied and started in their direction. 

“We’ll discuss that downtown,” the arresting officer replied. 

“You’re making a grave mistake, do you know who I am?” He replied.

“We know exactly who you are, shit bird.  Tell Shinto you’re not coming home tonight,” Officer Johnson interjected. 

All the men in the room looked at each other nervously at the mention of his name. 

“I assure you all this is a misunderstanding,” Shinto’s right hand told them as the officers took him out of the room. 

Right before stepping out himself, Officer Johnson turned back to the group and sarcastically said; “I wouldn’t count on him coming back anytime soon gentlemen… you know, the cloth he’s cut from and all.”

The arresting officers pressed forward as planned and drove Shinto’s right hand away.  It didn’t take long for each of the five Capos to leave.  The surveillance crew that stayed behind had enough time to track them after another crew finished stashing GPS trackers on each of the vehicles they scoped out on the way in. 

Back where Shinto’s right hand was being held, a solid 20 minutes had passed while he had one hand cuffed to a cold metal table in a windowless 10 x 10 room before two officers walked in.  Shinto’s right hand immediately blurted out: “I want my attorney!”

“You think we give a shit what you want?  You think you get to run around doing what you do and still keep your fucking rights?” Officer Bustamante replied.

“Easy there,” Officer Johnson said to his interrogation partner to balance out the tension. 

“Easy?” Officer Bustamante replied, “you know damn well that this son of a bitch deserves nothing resembling easy.”

“I assure you I’ve done nothing wrong.  I furthermore assure you that I do have rights, good sir,” Shinto’s right hand rebutted. 

“The fuck you do,” Officer Bustamante defied.

“Be that as it may,” Officer Johnson continued, “you were arrested while in the presence of known king pins.  Each of which has a wrap sheet long enough to cover you up from head to toe, twice.  Each one of them is personally responsible for at least half a dozen murders and their crews can be attributed to a dozen more easily.  You have no identification on you.  You won’t tell us your name.  Can you please at least explain to us what you were doing there?”

“I don’t think I’m making myself clear, officers.”  He replied.  “I do not belong here.  And I want my lawyer to help make that make sense to you.”

“Fine.  If you insist, let’s see how it plays out,” he replied as he and officer Bustamante started for the door.

Officer Johnson turned back and said; “tell me something though, Mr. Ocampo, how long is it going to take your attorney to get here if we’ve only been able to get in touch with his office answering service?”

“And you know we can’t leave sensitive information like this with a third party,” Officer Bustamante added.

Hearing that, they knew his real name wiped the smug look off his face immediately.  Officer Johnson closed the door and let him stew a while longer.

Two surveillance units picked up on the GPSs coordinates of the vehicles they were monitoring and noted that they were headed to a specific rendezvous point, so they headed that way as well.  They posted up with binoculars and a telephoto lens camera in hand.  The Italian and the Irish mob Capos showed up first, followed by the Bloods, Latin Kings, & Crip shot callers.  They couldn’t get in close enough to make out any of their conversations, but their body language seemed to echo their frustrations and showed their concerns about Mr. Ocampo giving them up to save his own ass.  They left after about ten minutes.  Nothing seeming any more or less settled.  They were definitely frazzled though, and that’s what the units reported back to Johnson and Bustamante, who were still holding Mr. Ocampo. 

“Any word on Shinto?”  Johnson asked.

“Negative,” Agent Santos replied. 

“We’ll smoke him out,” Johnson responded.  “His accounts get frozen at 0800.  Once those dry up, a lot of people are going to start looking for him.  It’ll behoove him to keep the temperature on the streets cool."

We all met up that evening at Christians’s apartment to prep for the next day.  Officer Johnson came by to brief us and let us know he was still holding Mr. Ocampo at an undisclosed location.  But they had to cut him loose soon.

“Can you keep him a bit longer?” Carlos asked. 

“What’s a bit longer?” Johnson replied.

“2-3 days,” answered Carlos.

“2-3 days?!  Are you nuts?”  Johnson replied.  “I was thinking 2-3 more hours.  We’re damn near kidnapping the guy as is.”

“No, you’re absolutely kidnapping the guy as is,” interjected Jaime.

“Don’t waver now,” Carlos rebutted, “the brass of a crime family that is responsible for untold tons of smuggled drugs and countless murders will not prioritize ratting you out for kidnapping one of them.”

“We’ll stretch for 2 more days,” replied Officer Johnson.  “After that…well, I hope you have a Plan B.”

Christian went to work the next day and nervously went through his usual routines like normal.  He ordered his usual two breakfast wraps and large coffee with almond milk, no sugar, via the app on his phone.  Christian picked them up, seemingly in stride, as he walked out of the subway, into the adjacent shop and then walked the half block to his office building.  He smiled and greeted the security guard like he always did.

“Hey Fred,” he said as he walked by the turnstile after scanning his ID card, “tough loss last night, wasn’t it?”

“Mr. Torres,” Fred replied along with a hat tip in his direction, “they just don’t play defense man. And don’t get me started on the coaching staff.”

When he finally settled at his desk, he pulled out a small sheet of paper that was folded in half.  He unfolded it to reveal each of Shinto’s account numbers.  He used the account numbers to plug them into an SQL code that would flag and freeze all the accounts for a mandatory 30 days while a suspected terrorist investigation took place.  The SQL also masked his user Id from showing up in the audit trail.  Then he sat back, sipped on his coffee, and ate his breakfast.

The task force grew impatient as the hours pressed on.  They were holding Mr. Ocampo at a nearby warehouse, while the members of the five organizations continued to be surveilled.  Still no signs of Shinto, but with his mouthpiece temporarily out of the picture unable to answer questions and his money dried up, the five shot callers were plotting a coup of his organization. 

“Can you believe these mopes?” Officer Childress turned to his partner and asked while on surveillance duty. 

“What do you mean?” She replied.

“These mopes,” he continued, “they’re part of one of the most successful and entrenched crime organizations we’ve ever seen, and at the first sign of instability, they’re looking to overthrow the boss and take over shit.”

“Power vacuums man,” she replied, “you take out a major player and the remaining ones get sucked into that void and come out of the other side with asinine plots and plans.”

“Fuckin’ ingrates is what they are,” he replied.

“That’s a weird way to look at it,” she said.

“How do you mean?” Childress replied. 

“Well, for starters you’re acting as if these are normal people,” she began, “they’re not law-abiding citizens that operate with logic and reason.  They’re sociopaths that on a good day weigh their crime options against their risk tolerance.  They’ll do anything for financial gain.  Psychopathic killers that don’t skip a beat between ordering dinner and ordering a hit.  Being grateful for anything isn’t an emotion I’d expect any of them to even be capable of, let alone show.”

“Fair point Robertson,” Childress replied to her, “fair point.”

That’s when the call came in. 

“Look, look something’s happening.  I think he’s calling them,” Robertson said.

“What? Who?”  Replied Childress.  “Shinto?”

“Yes, just look at the one on the phone,” she said.

“Yea, so?”  Replied Childress.

“He’s shutting the rest of them up while he talks.  What do you think that’s about?” She added.

“Maybe it’s his wife or something,” Childress replied. 

“Not everyone is as chicken shit scared of their lady as you are,” Robertson answered back, “let’s see what they do after this.”

The group dispersed after the call.  Each of their GPS’s were tracked to the Losmina Inn hotel where they reconvened.  Whoever was on the other end of that phone call must’ve setup this meet.  The expectation is that Shinto himself would show up to ease the tension on the street. 

“Hit up the others,” Robertson told Childress, “tell them to meet us at the hotel.  Shit’s about to get real.” 

“Copy that,” he replied.

Each team took their original positions on three of the four corners since Officer’s Johnson & Bustamante were babysitting Mr. Ocampo.  Childress and Robertson covered the front entrance and have accounted for each of the shot callers and their security details.  The thing was, they didn’t know what to look for when it came to Shinto.   He was a ghost.  Legend had him being anywhere from 5 foot nothing to 8 feet tall and everything in between.  No one ever dealt with him directly.  There was always a go between like Mr. Ocampo.  The only constant in his descriptions was a large facial scar.  It didn’t take much for Johnson & Bustamante to coerce Mr. Ocampo to corroborate Shinto’s scar. He even gave them a description.  They didn’t know how viable the description was, but it’s all they had to go by.  An hour later, still nothing.

“How many did we say went in there?” Officer Robertson asked.

“Twelve,” replied Officer Childress.

“I’m counting fifteen,” Robertson replied 

“What?  Let me see,” Childress stated as he looked through the binoculars and counted for himself.   “Son of a bitch.  How'd he get past us?”

“Call it in to the rest,” Robertson said.

“Copy,” and he did.

“What’s the game plan?” Childress asked, “just wait until the fucker comes out?”

“No, we can’t wait on him to come out if we don’t even know how he got in,” replied Robertson. “We have to get inside and near that room.” 

“And do so without tipping off the staff either,” replied Officer Childress, “there’s no telling who’s on the take and able to tip him off.”

“I’ll do it,” said Robertson.  “But I need you to be my eyes up here, and two units need to go in and cause a front desk distraction so that I can get by them unnoticed.  Do we have a confirm on the room number?” She asked.

“It’s the penthouse, P2100” replied Agent Flores via their two-way communication, “there are 3 other rooms on the same floor, so you don’t have to worry about private single entrances.” 

Robertson made her way to the hotel bar that was adjacent to the front desk.  Agents Flores and Santos walked up to the front desk attendant and demanded money back from a supposed previous stay.  While they were busy distracting him, Robertson nonchalantly slid toward the elevator bank. She grabbed a service cart that was nearby and took it with her.  She hung around an adjacent penthouse entrance and reported back to the team outside.  They advised Shinto was still in there, holding court.  The entire team was in plain clothes, so tying her sweater around her waist and putting on a name tag she found on the cart helped her blend into the background.  When the meeting broke and the crews began exiting, they didn’t pay her any extra attention.  She kept a mental tally of each member leaving and accounted for each shot caller and crew.    All 12.  All except Shinto.  Once the hallway and elevator banks cleared, she quietly reported back to the team outside.  They continued to surveil the room and confirmed he was still there, along with 2 other individuals. 

“Let us know when he heads to the elevators and we’ll take him as soon as he steps foot into the lobby,” said Childress.

“Copy,” Robertson replied. 

Shinto and his crew never came out into the hallway, though.  After being out of the surveillance view for 20 minutes, Robertson knocked on the door under the guise of housekeeping.  There was no answer. 

“Do you see anyone on your end?”  She asked.

“No, they must still be in that other room opposite the window,” Childress replied. 

“Robertson, I have an idea,” Agent Flores chimed in.  “Sit tight for ten minutes,” he added.

He and Agent Santos were still in the lobby.  After making a fuss to speak to management about their reimbursements, and even got the regional manager on the phone to help sort out the mess.  Agent Santos reengaged the front desk concierge and asked if there’s anywhere they can speak privately, away from all the strangers in the lobby so that they can sort this out.  To quell the negative vibes, the concierge obliged and took Agent Santos to his office.  In doing so, Agent Flores was able to slip behind the desk undetected and began navigating the hotel keycard system.

“Robertson, you still with me?”  Agent Flores asked about 4 minutes later.

“Yea, still no sign of Shinto,” she replied.

“I’m coming up,” said Agent Flores.

 “What’s the plan?”  She asked when he made it up there.

“I have the keycard.  I’ll swipe you in and cover you.  But keep up the housekeeping routine and be ready for anything.  Agent Santos will wait for us in the lobby, and the team outside will stay posted.  Everyone copy?”

“Copy,” said Officer Childress.

“Copy,” said Agent Moledo

“Roger that,” said Agent Sterling

“Copy,” Agent Santos replied shortly after wrapping things up with the concierge.

They went in. 

“Hello, housekeeping.”  Robertson said.   Then repeated it a few seconds later while they kept searching the perimeter of the penthouse and working their way through. 

“It’s empty,” Agent Flores reported back.

“How’s that?”  Said Childress.  “What do you mean, empty?  It can’t be empty.”

“John,” Robertson replied addressing Childress, “he’s not here. We’ve looked everywhere.”

“No, that can’t be.  He has to be there.  Look for another way out, a laundry chute, something!”  Childress replied franticly. 

Agent Flores and Robertson scanned the walls in the room that Shinto and crew went into.  Knocking on them searching for a hollow sound indicating a secret passageway or hidden door.  Sure enough, they found it.  The walk-in closet had a false back wall.  Pulling down on the rod made it slide open, exposing a direct entrance to the next penthouse apartment.  It was filled with surveillance equipment and monitors that showed every inch of the original apartment where all meetings were held.  Robertson called it in. 

“We cleared the apartment and found a secret door adjoining two of the penthouses,” Robertson said.  “That’s how he could slip in and out undetected.”

“But don’t they all lead to the same hallway outside and elevator vestibule? None of us have seen them come out from here,” Childress said.

“This one’s empty too,” said Agent Flores.  “There has to be a separate way out of this apartment.”

They opened door after door, closet after closet.  Searching for another hollow wall and nothing.  But opening up the double doors to the main suite revealed a freight elevator. 

“Wholly shit,” said Robertson.

“What?  What is it?”  Replied Childress.

“There’s a fucking freight elevator in this apartment,” she replied.  

“What?  That’s not in the building plans,” Agent Moledo chimed in.

“We’re taking it down to see where it leads,” Robertson replied. 

“Moledo & Childress, meet us on the north side of the building for backup and keep your eyes peeled in case you see Shinto and his crew still around,” said Agent Flores

“Copy,” replied Agent Moledo

“We’re on it boss,” replied Childress

Officer Robertson and Agent Flores went into the freight elevator and pressed the singular down button. 

“You ready?”  Agent Flores asked as he drew his sidearm. 

“Ready,” Robertson confirmed, as she did the same. 

The freight got to the lower level, and the doors opened.  Officer Robertson and Agent Flores stepped out slowly, guns drawn and began quietly securing the perimeter. 

Agent Flores signaled Officer Robertson to stop, as if he had heard something.  They quietly listened to a faint conversation carrying on in the distance while peaking around a corner and saw Shinto having a conversation on his cellphone.  They made out the silhouette of the two guards he was with through the rear tinted window of the SUV, which was facing a closed garage door. 

Robertson called it in.  “They’re still here, repeat, still here.  Circle to the southwest part of the building.  Look for a closed steel garage door that will probably open up to a remote area.” 

“There’s an alleyway on the south side,” Agent Flores whispered. 

“Look for an alleyway,” Officer Robertson echoed on the call.  “Do not, I repeat, do not let the black SUV leave the premises.  Our three suspects are all here and all are considered armed and dangerous, so take all necessary precautions.  Shinto is the shorter one and we need him alive.  I repeat, Shinto is the shorter of the three and we need him alive.  We will flank from behind once they make a move, so pause your fire unless absolutely vital.”

With that, Agent Flores and Officer Robertson waited for Shinto to finish up his call and get ready to go, while hoping their reinforcements were in position.  Shinto gets in the back seat of the SUV and closes the door as his driver triggers the garage door to rise.  The exit was clear and they drove out.

Skuuuuuurrr - Bwoop bwoop the sirens sounded as two vehicles peeled out and in front of the Shinto’s SUV to block them in right on time.  The driver hit it in reverse, almost as a reflex.  There was only one way out, though. 

“Police!  Stop your vehicle, shut off the engine and throw the keys out the window,” said Agent Santos over the loudspeaker. 

“すぐに私たちをここから出してください,” Shinto yelled.  The driver put the vehicle in drive and punched it towered the exit, smashing into both task force vehicles.  In anticipation of this reaction, there was still a driver behind the wheel of each police vehicle, who sped up and rammed right back into the SUV to try to match its force with an equal and opposite reaction.  They were at a standstill and both the driver and passenger reached for their weapons.   Before they could pull them out, however, Agent Flores and Officer Robertson swooped in.

Click, click…“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Robertson said as she cocked her Glock 19 and aimed it at the passenger’s head.  

“Nuh-uh, I wouldn’t try that if I were you,” said Agent Flores as he neutralized the driver. 

“性交, what do I pay you for?!?”  Exclaimed Shinto, “kill them now!”

“If you make any sudden movements, your brain’s going to be splattered all over that nice jacket your buddy’s wearing over there,” said Agent Flores to the driver. 

Officer Childress and Agent Moledo moved in and opened the back door.   “Mr. Shinto, you are under arrest,” stated Officer Childress, “please step out of the vehicle, sir.” 

“Do you know who I am?”  Shinto replied.  “Who is your commanding officer?  Call him right now.” 

“Sorry, this is more like overtime work for us,” replied Officer Childress, “no one’s available to take your call at the moment.”

“Ahh, I see.  Who hired you?”  Asked Shinto.  “I’ll pay you ten times whatever they are.”

“What?  And ruin the fun?”  Replied Officer Childress as he cuffed him and escorted him out. 

“What do we do with these two?”  Asked Agent Moledo. 

“Take their weapons,” replied Officer Robertson, “and put these on,” she added as she tossed over a pair of tie wraps. “We’ll leave them in here and have a unit pass by to cut them loose tomorrow morning.”

“Hey wait, you can’t do that.”  One of them exclaimed. 

“Really?” Replied Robertson.  “You really think you have a say in the matter, motherfucker?”

“Let’s go,” she told Agent Flores.  And so they went.

“We have Shinto in custody and we’re on our way toward you,” Robertson texted Officer Bustamante, “we’ll be there in 30 minutes.  Make sure they see each other when we walk in with him.”

“Copy,” Bustamante replied in his text back.

They walked Shinto in, down a hallway toward a back room.  On the way, they slowed down as they passed an open door. They each looked in habitually. When Shinto did, he locked eyes with Mr. Ocampo, which had a sheet of paper with writing on it and a pen set down on the table in front of him.

“Sir, I haven’t told them…” Mr. Ocampo began to say, flustered, as Officer Johnson shut the room door closed.

“Have a seat,” Agent Flores instructed Shinto. 

“I want my lawyer,” Shinto said sternly. 

“Oh, you still don’t get it, do you?”  Said Agent Flores, “this isn’t your typical situation.  This is purely to show you that the untouchable can be touched.” 

“Fair enough,” Shinto replied, “10 million American dollars for you and your team to split up as you see fit.” 

“This isn’t about money,” Agent Flores replied. 

“Ok, 50 Million,” Shinto said defiantly.

“You can’t buy your way out of this one, asshole.”  Robertson added. 

He sat for a minute, trying to discern if these officers of the law were being earnest. 

“100 Million,” he stated emphatically, “wired to any account you want within 12 hours.” 

“Ok,” replied Robertson…"now I’m just offended.  What if we would have agreed to the 10 million?  Now I can’t accept it out of principle alone,” she continued sarcastically.

“Besides,” added Agent Flores, “I thought you weren’t able to wire any funds to anybody anymore?”

With that, the smug smirk he had on his face faded.  His eyes widened and seemed to darken like a shark’s.  He slammed his free hand on the table while the other remained shackled to it.

“Release my funds,” he said defiantly, “or I’ll see to it that even your grandchildren curse you for the day you ever decided to cross me.”

In that moment the door burst open, Officer Childress bee lined to Shinto and walloped him across the face with the grip and magazine of his gun.  Instantly spraying Shinto’s blood all over the table and floor. 

“You done fucked up now,” said Officer Robertson. 

“Please, it’s not me.  The man you have in the other room is the leader.  I am for show,” Shinto pleaded surprisingly quickly.  

“Funny,” replied Childress, “that’s not his tune. He sang like a canary and told us all about the ins and outs of your organization.” 

“Yup,” said Agent Flores, “the cops you have on the take, the judges you helped get elected, politicians…those last two alone make this a big federal issue.  The first one just pisses off good police like my officer buddy over here.” 

“It didn’t take much at all to get him to speak either,” Childress continued between strikes, “you must not treat your people well.”

“Shame on you Shinto,” added Robertson, “you should know better than that.  If you don’t feed your people after an inevitable amount of time, you become the main course.”

“And your buddy in the other room has been on a feeding frenzy over the past few hours,” said Childress, “dishing on cats that we didn’t even know were in the mix.”

“The signed testimony he gave us is enough to lock you up under a prison for life,” Robertson added.

“What is it you want from me?  Name your price,” replied a defeated Shinto.

“For you to take a nap.  A nice. Long. Nap,” replied Agent Flores as he jabbed Shinto with a syringe in the upper right shoulder of the arm that was shackled. 

Shinto slurred an incoherent sentence while his eyes glazed over and his head spun around the room.  He keeled forward and his head dropped onto the table. 

Agent Flores made a call.  “We’re ready. Are you setup?  Ok we’ll be there in 20.  Let’s go,” he told Childress and Robertson as they helped pick Shinto’s slumped over body up. 

“How about Ocampo?” Robertson asked. 

“After we leave, we’ll have Johnson and Bustamante cut him loose,” Agent Flores replied.  “Tell him something like Shinto bribing us to let him go and that he thinks Ocampo gave up the entire organization.  That’ll be more than enough for him to skip town for good.

When Shinto came to, he woke up in the same spot where Guojing Zahn was killed. He struggled a bit before giving up in hopelessness.  He looked over all of us, sitting there in the booth in-front of him.  Jaime, Carlos, Christian, Maria, Carolina…all of us were there seeing how our implementation of Carlos’ planning bore fruit.

“Who let you in here?  Who are you?”  Said Shinto.

“The owner let us in,” replied Carlos.

“I am the owner!” He replied defiantly. 

“Not anymore.  Actually, you never really were,” said Jaime.  “It’s a funny thing when it comes to LLC shell companies and using someone with a clean name to be the owner on paper…they can legally sell your shit.”

“Or, in your case, give it away,” added Christian. 

The projector screen came down with Mr. Ocampo on it again.  But this time it was a recording of the interrogation room that Officers Bustamante & Johnson were holding him in. 

Shinto’s eyes widened as the gears in his head began to turn in realization of what had happened.  The paperwork in front of Ocampo wasn’t a signed confession, they were deed transfers. 

“Yep,” said Jaime, “we handed every one of your 16 laundering companies over to the five Capos.  The restaurants, the warehouses, the laundromats, the shipping company and car dealerships.  All of it.  Gone.”

“You see, what you called providing them with convenience using your laundering and distribution services,” said Carlos, “they saw it for what it actually was. Price gauging them with fees.  They formed a cooperative and now have a truce around that part of their business.  Each of them gets to expand their territories and they’re still going to be making more money than they ever did with you. You’re obsolete, chief.”

“Greed, as it turns out, isn’t that good after all,” added Christian. 

“You think you’ve covered everything, do you?”  Replied Shinto.  “You think those savages can maintain the stability and consistency that I’ve put in place?  The comforts that your colleagues in law enforcement and those self-serving politicians seem so fit to cushion their lives with?”

“Stability and consistency?”  Interjected Robertson, who was still in the room, “the stability of your drug distribution and the consistency of unsolved John Doe murders are not the stability and consistency we’re interested in here.  We’re restoring the natural order of things.  Removing your cancerous ass from continuing to affect those within our ranks so that we can get back to being real Police again.  Good Police.” 

“And a truce, for however long that bullshit lasts, means less violence on my streets,” said Childress, “so we win all around.  You finally lose fucko.” 

“Untie me,” said Shinto defiantly, “or by this time next week, each of you will be investigating the disappearances of anyone you’ve ever cared about. Patiently waiting for a break in the case as I mail pieces of their bodies to your homes week after week after week.”

“Oh, you still haven’t processed the gravity of the situation you’re in, have you?” Asked Agent Flores.  “Let me make this very clear to you…you will not see next week.” 

Shinto’s eyes widened as Agent Flores, Officers Robertson and Childress walked out of the room.  The rest of the crew followed soon after, while Carlos lagged behind.  If looks could kill, Shinto would have dropped dead right then and there.  But he didn’t, and Carlos walked away as well.  The Latin King Capo was making his way in and greeted Carlos warmly.

“Yooo, what’s up B?” he said. 

“Not much Swifty.  Damn, how long has it been, man?”  Replied Carlos.

“Since the funeral, I think, right?” Swifty replied, “so like 4 or 5 years.”

“That’s crazy man, time flies.”  Said Carlos.

“I gotta tell you B, when you first hit me up about this, I didn’t think it would work,” began Swifty.  “But you always been a savvy dude.  Everything is flowing like never before, and I want you to know that I’m thankful.  We all are.”

“Nah bro, don’t mention it.” Carlos said.

“Seriously, if you ever need anything, you just hit me up.  We owe you.”  Swifty affirmed.

“What you’re doing for me now is more than enough,” replied Carlos, “trust me.”

“Don’t worry B, I got you.”  Said Swifty.

“Let me ask you something, though.  You ever wonder how things would have been if Derek was still around?”  Asked Carlos.

“Shit, all the time.  I wouldn’t be doing this, that’s for sure,” Swifty replied, “he would have had us all setup lovely.  Making ends legit-like, you know?”

“You know you can still do it yourself, right?  You ever think about leaving all this shit behind?  Getting out alive.  You got money.  You can do it,” replied Carlos.

“Nah man, this is it for me.”  Replied Swifty.  “Wherever this road leads, I’m walking it.  I made my peace with that a long time ago B.  And I appreciate the hookup here.  I want you and your people’s to know that.  Again, if you ever need anything, just say the word.” 

“Nah man, thank you,” replied Carlos.  “We couldn’t have pulled it off without you and your guys.” 

“You sure you don’t want to come and let that thing go yourself?  Get some closure?”  Asked Swifty.

“Nah man, that’s not me anymore,” replied Carlos.

“You right, you right.  Shit, to be honest, that wasn’t you even when it was you.  Don’t worry about a thing,” Swifty added, “we’ll clean this all up real nice.  Be safe, my guy.” 

“Thanks bro,” replied Carlos as he gave Swifty a pound, “you too.” 

Carlos walked toward that long corridor he hadn’t seen since that night with Guojing Zahn as Shifty executed the last piece of the elaborate plan.  He walked up behind Shinto and fired two rounds into the back of his head.  The shots echoed throughout the corridor and blended into the sounds of the City at the moment Carlos stepped foot outside, took a deep breath and sighed in relief. 

By: Tony Ortiz | November 10th, 2019

Remember that period of time before school started again, when summer vacation was almost over and the excitement of getting new school supplies temporarily drowned out the memories of having to do too much homework, while you rather be watching Power Rangers, VR Troopers, or Batman (the animated series, not the Adam West reruns, although I’d have an affinity for those a bit later in life)?  That’s the set and setting of this story.

There was this one summer, between second and third grade, when I used to go with my Dad to the Supermarket he used to work at.  He managed the Deli within the Supermarket and opened up the place way before he actually needed to be there.  Being punctual to him meant being somewhere an hour or two before you're expected to be.  You know, in case you get a flat tire on the way, or your car explodes.   This way you can get it fixed and still be on time to handle your responsibilities.

I didn't mind getting up early with him though.  My seven year old brain was so jacked-up from all the adrenaline coursing through me, that I barely slept the nights before, anyways.  I'd wake up, brush my teeth, get dressed and be ready to leave on time.  We drove the 10-15 minutes it took to get there and opened up shop.   A couple of the dudes that worked as shelf stockers were already out front, sipping on their fifty cent, cart coffees.  Not my Pop though, he got his Bustelo out of the way at home.  My Mom prepared it for him the night before, and he brewed it before the sun was up.  He had it along with a piece of Entenmann’s butter loaf pound cake, while he listened to either 1010 WINS or Radio WADO 1280 on the AM radio dial.

He said what's up to the guys, who seemed happy to see him and patted me on the head.  

“¿Quien es este chikiyo?”  One of them asked. 

“Este es el hijo mas pequeño mio,” my Pop responded. “Saludalo a Ramón, Tony,” he instructed.

“Hola,” I said timidly.

“Pero con la voz alata, para que te pueda oir,” my Dad added, “y dale la mano.”

“Hola,” I said a bit louder as I shook Ramón’s hand.  

“O, se llama Tony tambien?  We’re going to call you Tony Junior, para no confundirnos.  ¿Vas a trabajar con tu papi?”  He asked. 

“Sí,” I responded.

“Que bueno,” he said.

My Dad and the other guy that I would later come to know as Miguel, finished rolling up the metal gate in front of the supermarket.  My Dad went in alone, to shut off the alarm and flick on the lights.  He was the only one that the owners trusted with the keys and alarm code.  I stayed outside with Ramón and Miguel for a bit until all the lights came on.

To this day, I still remember walking in for the first time.  I mean, I've been in supermarkets before, this one in particular a couple times while it was bustling with shoppers and workers.  But being the first ones through the door, watching the lights begin to go on, felt like I was in on a secret.  I was privy to the behind-the-scenes of how this place transitioned every night from dormant to lively.

We walked passed the cashiers, around the lotto station, which I later learned is where the owner hung out at so he could keep his eye on the money and cashiers.  We made our way to the deli that was in the back-right corner from where we were standing.  My Dad flicked on the light switches to the display fridges where the cold-cuts and cold salads were, while I roamed around his workspace.  His work domain.  Excited to be on this side, with an opportunity to see how the sausage was made.   There were notepads and scraps of paper sitting  on a small table.  Others hung with magnets on the side of the standing fridge and all seemed to be lists of different deli meats.  

Soon after, my Dad washed his hands thoroughly and put on an apron that he had hung up on a hook the day before.

“Vamos a buscar el pan,” he told me.

“¿El pan?” I asked surprised to hear there was more.

“Sí, tengamos que hacer el pan fresco cada día.”

With that, we went up one of the aisles toward the back of the supermarket.  My eyes scanned around in awe like I hadn't seen a cereal aisle before, while I tried to keep up with my Dad’s speed walking.  There were these double doors that said ‘Employees Only,’ and he pushed through them like he owned the place.  

“Ven por aquí,” he instructed, “ten cuidado con las escaleras.” 

We walked down a dingy flight of stairs, into a poorly lit basement filled with broken down cardboard boxes and cases of the products that would eventually fill the shelves of the aisles upstairs.  Ramón and Miguel were hard at work, lifting cases, breaking down boxes and then tying them up and sending cases of goods up a flat escalator looking thing, so that they can be stocked on the shelves upstairs.  

“¿Cómo va eso muchachos?” My Dad asked. 

“Hey Tony y Tony Junior,” Ramón replied as he continued on with his work. 

My Dad opened up a walk-in-box refrigerator and grabbed a big bag filled with frozen dough-like cylinders, and gave me a slightly smaller one.  

“¿Tú puedes con esa?”

“Si,” I responded quickly, to not let him down, but I wasn't so sure that I could carry it.  I lifted the bag awkwardly in front of me with both hands and followed my Dad back the way we came.  

“Tony, vio el juego de los Mets anoche?”  Miguel asked.  

“Si, que barbaridad.  No tienen pitcheo.  Sin pitcheo mejor no van para parte ellos,” my Dad responded as Miguel nodded in agreement.  

“Nos vemos en lonche muchachos,” my Dad added, as we went back up the dingy staircase.

When we made it back to the deli, my Dad cranked up one of the two long ovens, to a specific temperature that he had marked on the knob with black permanent marker ink because the actual numbers had rubbed off already.  Then he reached into his right pocket and pulled out a pocket knife that he used to slice open both the bags we brought up.  He put down three flat trays and instructed me; “ok, empieza a pasarme el pan.”

I went into the bag and began handing them over to him quickly.   “¿Por qué están tan duros?”  I asked.  I've never seen hard, icy bread before.  

“Porque tengamos que cocinarlo todavía,” he clarified, “estas son la masa del pan y las congelamos para que no se dañen antes de cocinarlas.  Vamos, más rápido papi,” he instructed, and I picked up the pace accordingly.   

Once they were all on trays, he pulled out a windex looking spray bottle that had a clear liquid in it and he began spraying the first tray of bread.  

“¿Que es eso?”  I asked

“Agua,” he responded, “para que se cocinen bien.  Tóma, échale a los otros,” he told me as he handed me over the bottle while he grabbed and slid the completed tray into the oven.  

I began spraying and after a bit he said; “no lo mojes tanto.  Y házlo más rápido papi.”  I tried doing it as fast as I could but started losing grip strength after about half a dozen rolls.  He took the bottle and said, “Ven para ayudarte,” and sprayed each roll from both remaining trays, precisely three times each, faster than the machine gun from Contra.  He put them in the oven.  “Ok,” he said, “Vamos a sazonar los pollos y ya estaremos listo para cuando abran el supermercado.”  

“¿Tu haces pollos también?”  I asked and he nodded in agreement.  

My Pops was Superman.  He woke up earlier than wakefulness.  He ran the deli in a Supermarket where he was also the most trusted employee.  He made bread, shot the shit with his coworkers that obviously liked him, and made whole chickens that I saw him season, marinate and slide onto spinning metal spits five at a time.  Then he put them into an oven that I now knew was the culprit behind a few burn-mark scars that he had on his hands and forearms.  He worked through lunch every single day and he serviced every single one of his customers with a smile, regardless of if he was sick that day, or in a shitty mood.  In retrospect, I realize that I internalized those traits and attempt to replicate that type of work ethic and discipline in my own life.   

”¿Tienes hambre?”  He asked me around lunch time.  I said no based on his body language not looking like he was letting up any time soon and I didn’t want him to think any less of me for wanting to take a break.  I was hungry though. 

“Tienes que comer algo mi hijo, te voy hacer un sándwich.  ¿Con que lo quieres?  Elige lo que quieras,” he said as he pointed to all the cold cuts I could choose from.

My brain filled up with combination ideas as my eyes glazed over all the options; ham, honey ham, Munster cheese, turkey, salami, bologna. 

My Dad offered a suggestion after seeing my indecision; “¿lo quieres con jamón y queso?

“No, no jamón,” I replied. 

“¿Y bologna?  He offered, “a ti te gusta eso.”

“No, tampoco quiero eso.”

Ultimately I settled on a buttered roll, with American cheese, and I shit you not, to this day, it was the best sandwich I've ever had.   I don't know what it was.  Maybe the fresh, warm roll contrasting with the cold cheese and creamy butter.  Maybe it was the love my Dad put into it.  Whatever it was, I haven’t had one that good since.

This lady walked by and behind the deli where we were.  

“Hola Carmen, ven a conocer a mi hijo,” my Dad told her. 

“Saludo,” she responded.  “¿Oh este es el Tony Jr.?  ¿Este es el grande o el pequeño?  ¿Tienes dos, no?”

“El pequeño,” my Dad replied. 

“Si ya estas vuelto un hombre,” she said, “hola papito yo soy Carmen, la amiga de tú papi.”

“Hola Carmen,” I said, loud enough this time.  Then I bit into the last quarter of my sandwich.  I love that my Dad cut it in fours, by the way, maybe that’s what made it taste better.  It made the sandwich last longer for sure.

”Tony que hai de bueno hoy?”  Tengo hambre.

“Bueno, le puedo hacer un sándwich,” my Dad told her.  

Good choice I thought to myself.   

“O le preparo una ensaladilta de papa con pollo, cuando esten listo,” he added as an option. 

“No, no quiero nada de eso hoy,” Carmen replied.  Voy a ir a los chinitos del lado a comprar una sopa.  ¿Quieres una?”  She asked my Dad.  

“No, no, ya yo comí,” my Dad said even though he hadn’t eaten.  He was just telling her that so he could get back to focusing on work.  He never ate lunch.  He worked straight through and ate a big meal when he got home.  My Mom would have a spread prepared for him every day as he walked in around 2:30-3:00PM sharp.  A mixed salad, plate of rice, bowl of beans, and a plate of a protein like pollo al horno or bistec encebollado.  Sometimes tostones too if plátanos were on sale that week and we had some left over from weekend breakfasts.

“Ok, después vengo a buscar a Tonito junior para que empaque y se haga unos chavitos,” Carmen said as she walked away.  “Nos vemos.” 

I was about to ask my Dad what she meant, by taking me with her to go pack, but he had a couple customers waiting, and the attention span of a seven year old, is not far off from that of a goldfish.   

After he finished giving them what they asked for, my Dad pulled out two rolls, and started making a couple sandwiches.  I wasn't sure who they were for until he wrapped them in aluminum foil, put them in a plastic bag and called me over.  

“¿Te recuerdas dónde trabajan Miguel y Ramón?”  He asked me.

“¿Abajo?”  I responded for confirmation.

“Si.  ¿Sabes llegar para mandarle estos sándwichitos contigo?”

I nodded yes but my Dad saw the doubt on my face.  

“Ok ven para encaminarte,” he said.   

He walked me over to aisle 12, which had the double doors we had gone through at the opposite end.  

“¿Ves la puerta allá?”  

“Si,” I said excitedly, and began walking with purpose.  

“Llevaselo y ven para atras enseguida.” 

“Ok Papi,” I responded.  

My heart rate sped up as I pushed through the double doors and went down the dingy staircase.  I counted the steps as I walked down.  Whenever I got nervous, or anxious I used to start counting things as a way to distract myself from the nerves.  Stairs, white sneakers, cracks on the wall, anything that was within eye shot.  When I got to the bottom of the staircase I looked around  and didn't see them at first.  Then I heard some boxes being tossed down from a delivery truck outside and slid across the room on this really long waist-high shelf that had metal wheels all over it.   Ramón looked over and saw me standing there.  

“Hey Tonito, nos trajiste el lonche?”  Ramón asked, noticing the bag I was carrying.  

“Si, mi papa le mando sándwiches,” I responded while raising the bag up.   

“Oh good,” Ramón said in English.   “That's my favorite lunch.  Put it over there, ensima de esa caja please.”

“Ok,” I obliged.  I know my Dad told me to go right back up, but you know, attention spans.  I was in awe of the fluidity in which the truck driver tossed Miguel boxes, which he slid down to Ramón, who caught them, put them on the long waist-high shelf with metal wheels and slid them across the room.  Ramón noticed and asked; “you want to try?”

I nodded and he called me over.  

“La caja viene dura cuando el la tira, ok.  Yo la agarro y te la paso a ti.  Then you slide it down that way,” he said as he pointed.

“Ok,” I responded.   And the first box came down, hard and fast like he said it would.  He stopped it with the hand he had a glove on, spun around and placed it on the shelf for me.  “Ok, take it away,” he said.   I kept my hands on the box as I ran alongside the rolling shelf and slid it across almost all the way to the end before I let it go and watched it land where all the other boxes were.  

“Good job, but you got to be fast.  Ven para atrás,” Ramón said as he already had two more boxes waiting.  I slid the first one down, which didn't make it all the way to the end and then the second that landed right behind it.  I was clearly stifling their progress, so I wasn't surprised when Ramón said, “ok, one more papa.”  He handed it to me and I ran alongside with it and finished pushing all 3 boxes the full way.  

“Good job, Tony Junior.  Dile gracias a tu papi,” said Ramón.  

“Ok, bye Ramón,” I said as I ran up the stairs, excited to tell my Dad how I helped out.  

I got up the stairs, ran down the aisle and around the Deli counter.  My Dad was servicing a customer.  

“Half a pound of boars head ham,” he asked with a monotone voice.

“Sure, sure.”  My Dad responded as he quickly grabbed a hunk of ham, placed it on the slicer machine, that he told me never to get near, put down a sheet of parchment paper which he had pre-folded a bunch of during his morning preparation and began slicing.   I wanted to wait for him to finish but I couldn't contain myself.  

“Pa, yo ayude a Ramón y a Miguel,”  I blurted out. 

“¿O Si?  Wow que bueno.  ¿Qué hiciste?”  He asked while he weighed the sliced meat on the scale, looked over at the customer and said; “this is my son.”

The customer seemed to be as uninterested as his voice sounded.

“Anything else?”  My Dad asked with a smile.  

“No,” the grumpster responded, as he grabbed his ham and waddled away.  

“¿Y que hiciste?  Dime,” my Dad asked me.  

“Me dierón cajas que vinierón en un delivery, y yo la lleve en el slide al otro lado,” I said. 

“Oh, ya llego el delivery de Krasdale?”  He interrupted.

“Uhuh,” I said as I nodded in agreement even though I didn't know where the delivery was from.  “Y yo tire la caja lejo en el shelf largo que tieno wheels.”

“Que tiene ruedas” he corrected.

“Si,” I responded. 

”Que bueno mi hijo, va ser buen trabajador tu.”  

“Aja,” I agreed and added; “I want to work here one day, just like you.”

“No mi hijo,” my Dad responded as he shook his head and smiled, “tu tienes que ir a la escuela, seguir siendo un estudiante sobresaliente, grauduarte de la universidad y despues vas a tener un trabajo profesional.  Con corbata puesta, y en una oficina.  Y ahi, tu vas a ser un buen trabajador.”

I let that marinate for a minute.  That was the first time I can remember internalizing that my fathers efforts, hard work, and sacrifices had more to do with his goals for me and our family than with his goals for himself.  

Carmen walked over sipping a juice.  She slid open one of my Dads’ fridge doors and put it in.

“Tony, voy dejar el juguito aqui  para que no se me caliente,” she said. 

“Ok,” my Dad responded.  

“Tonito, quiere hacer chavo?”  She asked me.

I gave her a stare that was half ‘I don't know what you're talking about’ mixed with ‘but I'm in.’

“Ven ayudarme un ratito, te voy a enseñar a empacar,” she said.  “Tony me lo voy a llevar para que me empaque,” she told my Dad.  

I looked over to see if it was ok with him or not, as he turned away from servicing another customer, “si, si vallen,” he said, and I did.  

Carmen was cool.  She quickly became one of my favorite people at the Supermarket.  She was a cashier and taught me how to pack bags for the customers she rang up.  She taught me to double-bag, to place heavier items like cans and jars on the bottom and lighter items on top.  Meat should always be individually wrapped in a single bag, before putting it into the double bag.  This is to avoid it leaking blood onto other items.   Eggs and bread, always went in separate single bags.  No matter what.  Even if the customer only bought two things.   Even if they only bought bread and eggs ... separate them.  

I liked that she didn't speak to me like I was a kid and even cussed sometimes around me.  Whenever an aggravated customer didn't like how I packed or complained, she'd defend me to them and helped me fix what I did wrong.  

“Tonito, no puede poner el pan debajo de algo duro.  Lo vas a machucar.   Todo los que es asi va en una bolsa separrada,” she would instruct.  

”Ok Carmen,” I responded politely.  

When a customer didn't tip, or was stingy, she'd let them have it.  

“No me le va dar nada al niño?  He's working hard too,” she'd say.  

It was towards the end of my Dads shift already, he got off at 2.  So I told Carmen I had to go.

“Ok Tonito, gracias.  Ven ayudame mañana,” she said.  

Her inviting me back made me happy, because I figured I must've not done that bad of a job.  I was about to walk away and she said, “esperate, llevate tu chavo, eso es tuyo papito,” she said as she pointed to my small bucket of change.  “Ven, para cambiartelo.  Pero siempre cuenta tu chavo primero,” she instructed as she spread it all out, counted it up, opened the register and gave me the equivalent in bills.  

I didn't really think I was gonna get to keep the money.  I made about $3.85 in a couple of hours.  I ran over to my Dad, ecstatic.  

“Papi, mira” I told him, as I held up the bills and loose change.

“Wow, te ganaste todo eso?”  He asked. 

“Si!” I responded.  

“¿Y trabajaste bien?”  He asked.  

“Si, y Carmen me dijo que venga mañana a trabajar otravez,” I added.

“Mañana no papi,” my Dad responded, “el día es muy largo los sábados.  Pero yo te traigo el Lunes.”

“Ok,” I said as the news momentarily burst my bubble, but then I remembered my fist full of cash and started smiling again.  

“¿Que tu va hacer con el dinero tuyo?”  My Dad asked.  

“Le voy dar uno a ti, uno a mami, uno a manito,” I responded as I was splitting up my earnings in my head without really doing the math.  

“No papi, a mi no me tienes que dar nada,” my Dad responded.  “Mejor guardalo para que quando comienze la escuela, tenga tu dinerito.”

“Ok Pa,” I said as Norma walked in.  She worked the Deli from 2pm to closing time.   She was nice and gave me a big hug as if I knew her already.  My Dad told her about the orders he was going to put in for stuff that was running low, and reminded her to write down anything else that she thinks they may need.  With that we left and were on our way home.  Two hard working dudes after a long day.  

That weekend was a blur to me.  I couldn't wait until Monday came back around so that I could go with my Dad again.  If it were up to me I would go every single day.  When I went back on Monday, I hung out with the guys downstairs around lunch time, packed bags for Carmen again and best of all, bonded with Dad.  It was slower on Monday so I only made $2.65. Tuesday I made $4.25 and Wednesday $3.50.

On Wednesday when I went to take the guys their lunch, there wasn't a delivery coming in that I could help with.  They were breaking down boxes and tying them up. 

“Hey Tonito, quieres aprender un acertijo?” Miguel asked.   

“¿Que es eso?”  I asked. 

“¿No sabes que es eso?”  Responded Miguel, “es como una canción o una poema pero mas pequeña.”

“Es un riddle,” added Ramón.  

“Oh ok, si yo se,” I responded. 

“Ok, repeat it with me,” Miguel said in broken English.  

“Entre melón y melambe,” he said.  

“Entre melón y”… I repeated but blanked out on the last word.  

“Melambe,” Ramón chimed in as he continued breaking down boxes with his box cutter and stepping on them.  

“Entre melón y melambe,” I said. 

“Matarón un pajarito,” Miguel continued. 

“Matarón un pajarito,” I repeated. 

“Melón se comio las plumas,” continued Miguel

“Melón se comio la pluma,” I repeated. 

“Y Melambe es el pajarito,” he finished with a big smile and Ramón began laughing. 

“Y Melambe que?” I said as I laughed along even though I didn't get it. 

“Melambe es el pajarito,” Miguel repeated.  “Ok te lo aprendiste para que se lo diga a tu papi?”

“Dejame ver,” I said as I recalled the riddle.  “Entre Melambe y Melón, no no,” I quickly self-corrected, “entre Melón y Melambe, matarón un pajarito.  Ummm, Melón?”

“Si, Melón se comio las plumas y Melambe es el pajarito,” Miguel added. 

Then I said it from beginning to end three times back to back, with each time Miguel and Ramón laughing even harder.   

“Ok Tony junior, ve dile a tu Pai,” said Ramón.  

I ran back upstairs to tell my Dad the new riddle I learned.  

“Papi, papi!”  I shouted with excitement.  

“Dime mi hijo,” he responded. 

“Aprendi una nuevo poema.”

“¿Si?  ¿Quien te lo enseño, Carmen?“ He asked. 

“No, Miguel y Ramón,” I responded. 

“Oh ok, dime la.  ¿Como es?”

“Entre melón y melambe matarón un pajarito.

Melón se comio las plumas y melambe es el

pajarito.”

I waited for my Dad to burst out in laughter like the guys did, but he didn’t.  He did smile and shake his head though, and that’s about the same thing coming from him.  He shook his head in a “they pranked me” sort of a way.   

“Estuvo buena esa,” he told me, and although I still didn’t fully get the riddle, he made me feel like I was part of their inside joke. 

The next day I had a Doctors appointment that my Mom took me to, so I couldn’t go to work with my Dad.  I was eager to get back on Friday, especially since I knew I wasn’t going to get to go all weekend.  It was a good day for me, I made  $8.00!  My biggest take to date.  The supermarket was buzzing and Carmen was telling me how much busier it gets on Saturdays.  

“¿Vas a venir mañana?”  She asked.  

“No,” I said sadly, “mañana Papi trabaja tarde y dijo que yo me cansaría si vengo.”

“Oh ok.  ¿Y tu crees que te cansaría?”  She asked. 

“No, yo puedo trabajar mucho también.  Todos los días,” I responded.  

“Pues ve dile a tu papi, que Carmen necesitas tu ayuda mañana, y que quieres que tú venga,” she suggested.

“¿De verdad?” I asked to make sure she wasn’t messing with me.  

“Si, ve dile,” she replied, “vamos a ver lo que el dice.  Si dice que no, no perdemos nada con preguntar.  Ya tienes el ‘no,’ tengamos que buscar el ‘si.’”

I started to make my way toward the deli, heart racing.  I usually didn’t ask my Dad for stuff, not directly anyways.  I’d try my Mom as a litmus test first.  These were extreme times though, I thought.   If I waited until I’d get home, he and my Mom would both say no for sure.  Here, I could speak to him man-to-man.  Coworker-to-coworker.  He’d be proud that I’m willing and wanting to work so hard.  Plus, Carmen having my back was like having an ace up my sleeve.  I didn’t think I could lose.  

“Pa,” I said in a tone that hinted at me wanting something. 

“Dime papi,” he responded.  

“¿Yo puedo venir mañana?” I asked.  

“Tu sabes que mañana es sábado papi,” he replied, “el día es muy largo.  Y tú no puedes dejar a mami sola el día entero.”

“Es nadamas un día,” I said, “y Carmen dijo que necesita mi ayuda.”

“¿O si?” My Dad responded.  “¿Y no vas a llorar o cansarte mucho?”

“No!” I said excitedly at the thought of him considering it.

“Bueno,” he responded, “vamos a ver lo que diga mami cuando lleguemos hoy.”

After we got home, my Mom proved to be a harder sell.  I nagged her all afternoon, offered to do chores and said I’d go to bed super early.  My Dad eventually co-signed, probably because he was tired of hearing me whine about it, and she finally gave in.  I was ecstatic.  I washed the dishes after we ate, showered, picked out my clothes for the next day and laid them out. I skipped playing Sega Genesis with my brother, and went to bed early, just like I said I would.  I wasn’t tired, and was super excited so I didn’t fall asleep right away.  I wanted to though, so that I could pull tomorrow into today that much sooner. 

When dawn became dusk and our day began, we were off to the races.  It was a hard workday for anyone I’m sure, and I was pulling it off at 7 years old.  I was packing like a pro.   I had a stack of double bags setup from my own little version of morning preparation and I added to that stockpile whenever there was a fleeting lull between customers.  If Carmen went on break or didn’t have a customer, I’d hop over to her neighbor Gloria’s line and bagged for her.  I was in a grocery bagging flow state.  It was my fight night.  My game day.  And I crushed it.  I was hopped-up on the sugar and caffeine I had from two cans of soda that I bought from the vending machine.  I spent $1.50 of my own money on a Sunkist and a Welch’s grape, which were exotic compared to the Coke and Pepsi that I was used to at home.  I also spent $0.25 on a gum-ball and $0.50 on one of those sticky, stretchy hand toys that came in those see-through plastic  bubbles with a red bottom.  Still, even after all that, I raked in $17.88!  I was through the moon.  Exhausted and had a brand new appreciation for my Dad’s ability to wake up early and put in the work for his family day in and day out ... but ecstatic nonetheless.  

The summer was coming to a close and the new school year was a couple weeks out.  That epic Saturday wound up being the second to last day that I went to work with my Dad that summer, and one of the most memorable for sure.  

During the last week before school started, my Dad gave my Mom some money for the school supplies that my brother and I needed.  My list was longer and contained things like 3 black & white marble notebooks, two number 2 pencils, 1 red pen, which excited me because I’ve never used one before.  I always thought they were strictly for teachers.  

We were walking down the aisles of one of the stores on Liberty Ave, when I saw it.  The pencil case of all pencil cases.  The red rider BB gun of pencil cases.  It was a rectangular box like most, but had a plastic trapper-keeper like padding on it and had a rad design.  It was blue and it had these light gray draws lining the base of it, which ... wait for it ... sprung open with the touch of a button!  How dope is that??  There was even a button on the side that made a 6-inch ruler pop out.  I could use one of the draws for my eraser, another for a sharpener, one for paper clips, and I’m sure I’d find use for the others.  I turned it over to look at the price tag and it was $15.99.  There’s no way my Mom would be able to get it for me.  That was almost half of my entire school supply budget.  I put it down and began to walk away dejected, before I had a mini-epiphany.  I had $17 of my hard earned dollars in my pocket! 

I continued to walk around the store with my Mom while I mustered up the gumption to shoot my shot and ask her if I could buy it.

“¿Cuanto cuesta?”  She asked. 

“$15 pesos,” I responded leaving out the $0.99 plus tax.

“¿Tu esta loco muchacho?  Eso es demasiado caro para eso.  Compra unos de esos,” she said as she pointed to a bulky rectangular plastic pencil case, that was as devoid of style as it was empty inside...but it only cost $3.99. 

“Ma,” I responded with my last-ditch effort, “pero yo tengo mi dinero tambien,” I reassured.   

“Bueno,” she responded, “tu debería guardar ese dinero.”

“¿Para que?” I asked.  I just learned about earning, but as the money was burning a whole in my pocket, saving was an alien concept to me.  

“Siempre se debería guardar algo mi hijo.  Uno nunca sabe lo de mañana,” she said, “pero, tu trabajaste por ese dinero, y puedes comprar lo que quieras,” she added.

My eyes opened up as wide as my smile expanded ear-to-ear.  I thanked her then ran over and grabbed my pencil case.  The most exhilarating thing was that it was the last one left! 

At the register I reached into my pocket, pulled out my black and red velcro wallet, and handed over my slightly crumbled and folded $17.00 to my Mom.  

She took $10.00, and handed me back $7.00.  “Toma mi hijo, guarda eso para que pueda comprar algo en la escuela,” she said. 

My Mom figured she would have spent $4.00 - $5.00 on a pencil case anyway, so she decided to subsidize the one I wanted so that I didn’t blow all of my money on one purchase.  She was resourceful like that.  

That pencil case was my pride and joy.   On day one of school, I placed it at the top of my desk, perfectly parallel with the edge while some class mates, I was sure, gazed over in astonishment.  To me, a glow was radiating off of it.  It was the most amazing thing I owned.  It was the most fulfilling purchase I’ve made to date.  The culmination of hard work yielding results that cultivate my desires.  

As the excitement of starting a new school year faded it was replaced with the mundanity that came along with a long year of lessons and endless homework assignments.  What became of that pencil case as the year churned on is as good a guess of yours as it is of mine.  I’d like to say that I still have it.   That it occupies a spot on some prized-possession shelf, but I vaguely recall it eventually beginning to deteriorate as the things of children do.  Springs became sprung, some of the gray plastic draws wouldn’t open, others wouldn’t close.  I’m sure I ruined the exterior with stickers that I had second thoughts about and removed while leaving behind that sticky cotton-like residue.  Where the physical pieces of it wound up however, wasn’t as important as it’s lasting impact.  It was the first major purchase I made with money I earned and it watered the seed that my father planted via his exemplary work ethic.  It reinforced the importance of responsibility and highlighted the fact that hard work really did pay off. 

Elevator

By: Tony Ortiz | January 19th, 2017

Honey guess what, Angela said.

What? Asked Daniel.

You got another letter.

Another rejection, you mean?

C’mon, don’t say that.  Be positive.  Besides, I have a good feeling about this one.  Here open it.

         Angela handed Daniel a letter that came in the mail, from one of the dozens of Agents and Publishing houses that he submitted his latest manuscript to.  Most of them never responded.

I guess you’re right, he said as he started to tear it open.  Maybe the 16th time is the charm right?

Mommy? - Their child’s voice said from his bedroom.

Shoot.  Let me go make sure he’s ok.  But open it, open it.  I’ll be right back.

         Daniel slid the tri-folded letter out of the envelope and began to read as his heart rate began to elevate:

Friday, January 13th, 2017

Dear Author,

Thank you for giving us the opportunity to consider your manuscript. We read it with interest but I regret we will not be making an offer of publication. We do not feel that it is the right fit for our publishing house.

Thank you for thinking of us, and we wish you every success in finding a publisher for your work.  Keep on writing.

Yours sincerely,

Rough House

He’s fine, he just wanted his stuffed whale.  So?  What they say?

They said that the 17th time might be the charm, responded Daniel.

Awe, babe.  I’m sorry.  Come here, she said as she wrapped her loving arms over his shoulders and gave him a kiss.  I love your writing … and I hate reading, so if you can pull that off, they’ll wise-up eventually.

Thanks babe.  I’m not sweating it.  I mean, J.K. Rowling was rejected 12 times before she got published.   

See, so no need to worry. 

And Jack Canfield with the Chicken Soup for the Soul series had a whopping 140 rejections.

Lets try and keep it on the lower end of that spectrum, she said smiling. 

I’m not worried.  It is what it is, I just need to work harder and get better.

Good attitude babe.  Just make sure you don’t beat yourself up though.  As it is you wake up early, go to sleep late & work weekends.  You can’t kill yourself either. 

What do you think about me starting to write full time?

If we could afford it, that would be great.  But we can’t.

I know we can’t right now.  I’m not just going to quit my job.  I meant if we actively save for it.  Plan for it.

We barely make it out ahead of our mortgage and bills each month as is.  What are we going to be able to save?  Be realistic.

I’m just sick of my job Angela.  So much that it’s frustrating me to the point of affecting my writing time. 

So change your job.  I don’t know; maybe get a job in something writing related.  Or I can go back to work but we discussed this.  Most of my pay would be going to the stranger that would be raising Carlos. 

I know, I know.  I just feel like I have to get away from everything and really give it an honest go.    

We have a two-year old in the other room and you're asking me this now?  What are you running from?

What are you talking about?  I’m not running from anything.  I’m still putting in 50-60 hours per week aren’t I?  It just feels like I’m climbing 2 rungs up and 1 down the corporate ladder.  C’mon, you know how I feel about writing full time.  How I've always felt about it.

And you know I've always supported your dreams. All the nights and weekends when I felt I didn't exist while you were typing away our companionship. But this is different.  We have a baby now. You can't just quit your job to follow some dream.  Be real. 

Some dream?  First of all, the writing in and of itself is my dream yes, but what I'm striving for is ours.  More family time.  The Independence to live where we want.  Travel when we want.  And best of all not having to rely on some corporation that utilizes me no differently than a copier uses its paper tray.  I’m a functional piece of equipment, in human form.   You know this isn't just coming out of the blue. I've been doing the responsible thing and burning the candle on both ends, for years. 

I know and I've been with you every step of the way, remember?  Your timing just couldn't be more wrong. 

There will always be reasons not to do it. Reasons why I shouldn't start writing full time.  And I won’t do this if you’re not on board but think about it … how much longer should I keep letting those reasons win?

What if you don't make it?  What if your sales don't go up?  What then?  Is it worth not being able to put food in your baby's mouth?  How about the health insurance?  We can’t be impulsive about this, Daniel.

Since when do you know me to be impulsive?  I never said I was going to quit next week.  Just that I wanted to gear up and plan for doing so. We have to work all that out beforehand.  We can go on public insurance.  We have some savings.  I'm not saying it would be easy but there are answers.  Alternatives.  They may take 6 months or a year or even more to establish.  Just think about it will ya.  I gotta go, I'm running late. We’ll speak about it more at dinner. 

         He leaned in and gave her a kiss goodbye. 

I don't think there's anything to think about she said.

Don't be irrational. We’ll speak later. I love you.

         Daniel left and walked four blocks towards his reoccurring hour-long journey that takes him from his home, to the bus that then transfers him to the train that takes him into the city and his 9-5.

         Back home his wife was watching cartoons with the baby and she focused in on a bit of dialogue:

         I don't ever want to be a grown up!

         Why is that Molly?

They never have time to have fun! It's always work, work, work.  And when they're not working they're too tired to play with me!

Well Molly, grown ups have to work so that they can be able to feed you, clothe you, and buy you the toys you want.  One day you’ll be a grownup and you'll enjoy working to provide for your kids.  That's what family’s all about.

Some playful background music chimed in as Molly broke out into a song and dance routine.

Being a grownup isn't always what it seems.

When I grow up, I'm gonna dream.

Having to work is over rated, so when I   grow up, I'm gonna dream.

We’re going to play all day and enjoy or snacks and even look forward to taking naps!

When I grow up, I'm gonna dreeeam.

And I'll never lose sight of what it means.

You know what Molly? You might be right, maybe it wouldn't be so bad if grownups dreamt every once in a while.

         Angela looked at her baby boy and asked: you're going to follow your dreams aren't you Carlito?

         Daniel missed his stop on the train because it was so packed that he couldn't get to the door on time before more people rushed in and the doors closed behind them.  During rush hour, if you're not strategically positioned within the train car, you have to develop quartz-like timing, along with an elite acrobatic ability to get past the book bags, baby strollers, and people that either aren’t paying attention or just don’t give a fuck that they’re in the way.

         After a long day of work that included about 4 cups of coffee, the deli giving him the wrong over-priced sandwich for lunch (he hates tuna), his shirt ripping on the elbow from rubbing it on his desk and about an hour of unpaid overtime … he headed home.  The subway platform was so full when he got there, that he had to stand half-way up the staircase and just wait until enough trains passed by to alleviate the amount of people.  Four trains came and went by the time he was close enough to squeeze into the crowded fifth one. There he was stuck between a teenager blasting some god-awful music through his headphones, and a mouth breather with subpar personal hygiene.  The train stopped on five separate occasions in between stations, due to train traffic ahead.  He eventually made it above ground and to his stop.  He checked his phone and his wife had text him:

‘Everything ok babe’?

He responded: ‘Yea.  Train was packed and delayed.  Just got above ground.  About to wait for the bus.  Start eating dinner without me.  Love you.’

         Angela waited for him to arrive and then warmed up dinner for them both while Daniel settled in and spent time with Carlos.  Even though he insisted, she never liked eating alone.

Dinner’s ready, said Angela.

Let’s go eat buddy, Daniel told Carlos.  Then we’ll play, ok?

Ok daddy.

         Carlos hopped up and into his high-chair, as they sat at the dinner table.

Long day huh?  Angela said.

Yea babe, but it is what it is.  The train was just OD backed up.  You should’ve seen that platform.  It was like a sea of people.  I literally had to stand on the stairs and wait for it to empty out enough for me to get closer.

Damn, I’m sorry Hun. 

Dinner looks great though, thanks sweetie.  Eat your food buddy, if not then no playtime.

I was thinking about what you said earlier Danny, said Angela.

Yea me too actually, and I’m sorry I even brought it up.

No, I’m glad you did.  Don’t be sorry about that.  We should always be able to speak our minds and express what we’re feeling to each other.  No matter what.  Warts and all.  If we can’t be vulnerable with each other, then who can we be that open with?

Yea I guess.  But it is way too risky of a thing to think about now.  Maybe when Carlos goes into school and if you decide to go back to work, maybe then we can revisit it.  In the meantime, I’ll focus on getting better.  Quality can't be denied. That’s where my focus needs to be.  

That is a way to go but if you want to figure something out, I’m with you babe.  Like, if we cut back on everything for a while like dinners and movies, save up a few months worth of bills and then give it a shot.  Or any other way that we can make it happen sooner.  I won’t ever be able to forgive myself for stopping you from chasing your dream.  And I know you could do it.  Without a doubt I do.  I support you and am willing to do anything I can from my part because like you said, it’ll lead to our dream life and more importantly it’ll show Carlito that he can truly be anything he wants to be.

I really appreciate that sweetheart.  But honestly the more I thought about it, the more I agreed with what you said this morning.  I mean, you know the responsible side of me wouldn’t ever let me do it without having an established, ironclad backup plan and nest-egg, etc.  The thing is that, in a worst-case scenario situation, which is what I believe we’d have to plan for, what if it doesn’t work out and I can’t get a job when I need to?  I can’t put you or Carlito in that situation.  I was thinking and if I wake up a half hour earlier than I am already and wake up just as early on the weekends, I'll be able to put out at least an extra couple thousand words per week.  The more I write, the better I'll get. I’ll just keep grinding babe, and we’ll see what happens.  That in itself will show Carlito the diligent discipline and dedication he’ll need to be whatever he wants to be.  Also, we won't have to rely solely on the off-chance of me writing a blockbuster hit to teach him that, he said smiling.  This is really tasty by the way, thank you.

         The next day Daniel went through the same arduous morning commute. When he arrived at his office building, he greeted the security guards as affably as every other morning and then walked over to the elevator vestibule.  He saw someone he hadn't recognized or ever seen in the building before.  It was an older gentleman that looked noticeably disheveled.  Not in a homeless kind of way but just sloppy and unkempt.  The dress shirt he had on under his colorful knit sweater was half tucked in, half out. One shoelace was untied, his hair was messy, and none of his clothing seemed to have a coherent matching or even a contrasting sequence.  He was carrying two bulky bags that didn't seem as heavy as they were uncomfortable to carry.  He got onto the elevator and Daniel followed. There was, oddly enough for this time of the morning, no one else in this vestibule.  The gentleman dropped two pristine white pieces of paper folded in the exact same way, behind him.  Daniel picked them up.

Excuse me sir, you dropped these.

Oh thank you young man, the older gentleman responded as he pressed his floor number on the elevator panel.  It's just a note with a saying.  A reminder of something. Good thing it wasn't cash, huh?

Haha, very true, Daniel responded.

Which is more important though?  The older gentleman asked before he answered his own question. - Depends where your going I guess.

         That resonated with Daniel but he didn't respond.  He was lost in thought.  Thoughts of security and money versus writing his dreams into reality were swirling around in his mind.  He snapped out of it when the older gentleman said, “Looks like it's stuck” referring to the elevator.

Daniel looked up at the floor numbers and then at the older gentleman confused, because the numbers were going up as they normally do.  They arrived at Daniel’s floor first and the doors opened. 

Oh look, I’m right above you, said the older gentleman. 

Daniel turned back and smiled as he walked out.  Have a good day sir.

Yes, yes, he responded with a wry little smile, it is a good day.

Fly

By Tony Ortiz | December 28, 2015

1. Hello?  Oh, hi Miguel.  Why are you calling me blocked?  -  Because I’m not at my desk.  Some people have lunch at work you know.  Yea.  Yes, I said.  I’m with Maritza.  Ok.  I have to stay a little later again today.  Why are you ‘whatevering’ me?  Should I just quit my job?  Are you going to pay all the bills?  -  I didn’t think so.  I am doing what I got to do.  Ok, bye!

2. Oh so I’m a girl now?

1. To him everybody better be a girl, trust me.  I’m not in the mood for his shit right now.

2. What are you in the mood for?

1. Well, you heard what I said.  I’m ‘working late’, right?

2. Good answer.  We’ll relieve all of that stress a little later sweetheart.  I’ll call for a reservation now.

1. Don’t use the same place as last week.  Those sheets were so uncomfortable.  I can leave today like around …

Bzzzzzzz

3. Bro, if this deal goes through, we are set!  Do you know how big an investment from them will be?

4. I know man.  I don’t want to jinx it but I think …

Bzzzzzzz

5. Next on line, can I take your order?

Bzzzzzzz

6. I’m so sick of this guy.

7. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a positive thing about him I don’t get how he still gets to manage.

6. You’re lucky he hasn’t worked with your department yet.  If he knew what he was doing I’d be fine with it all too.

7. And I heard he acts like he knows it all too.

6. That’s what I’m saying; dude just admit when you don’t know something.  That makes us not want to deal with your smug ass.

7. Tell me about it.  I can’t work with people …

Bzzzzzzz

8. Tracy where’s order #57 please?  Mike when you see three like this on the screen, you know they’re ‘to stay’ orders so you can prep the three trays now with the lining and set them up here, before the food is even …

Bzzzzzzz

9. You guys going to 8th period?

10. Nah, fuck that.  I didn’t do Mr. Fox’s homework anyways.

11. I’m down to chill, I don’t feel like going back today.

9. I’ll chill for 8th too but I got a Trig test 9th  

11. Pussy.  Fuck Trig.  What do you need that for?

9. Yea, yea.  So I can get the fuck outta school man.  I don’t want to wind up working in a place like this forever.

Bzzzzzzz

5. Here’s your change.  Thank you.

12. Thank you beautiful.  What time you get off today?

5. What?

12. What time you get off beautiful? - So I can pick you up.

5. Uhh, 5:30 but I don’t need you to pick me up.  Next on line please.

12. I’m not moving until you say yes to me.

5. You crazy.  The people in line are gonna kill you.

12. You’re worth dying for.

5. Oh my god, I can’t with you.  You’re crazy.

12. Just give me your number real quick and I’ll be on my way.

5. Ok but only so you move and don’t hold up my line.  917-643 …

Bzzzzzzz

13. Excuse me, do you know how much longer it’s going to be?  I only have a half hour lunch break.

8. What’s your order number?

13. Fifty one.  Did they forget?

8. No, it should just be a couple of minutes.

13. C’mon man, its been 13 minutes already.

8. It’ll just be a couple more ma’am, I’m sorry.  We’ll give you …

Bzzzzzzz

14. Danielito, comase todas sus papas.

15. Ya me comí mucho mami.

16. Despues del Freedom Tower y el museo de las torres gemelas, ¿para adonde quieren ir?

15. Vamos a la tienda de juguetes!

14. ¿Que juguetes ni juguetes?  Comase su almuerzo.

16. O vamos a la estatua de liberated, o a ver a el empire state building, que queda por allí también…

Bzzzzzzz

5. Next online.  Can I take your order?

Bzzzzzzz

17. Uh. I thought I told you cats I’m not a rapper.  Can I live?  I told you in ’96 that I came to take this shit and I did, handle my biz, I scramble …

Bzzzzzzz

8. Order #51.  Here you go ma’am.  We’re really sorry for the delay.  Here’s a $5 coupon for your next visit.

13. I can’t come back here.  I don’t have time to eat in this place.

Bzzzzzzz

18. We need bread at home, right?

19. Nah, I got some after my jog this morning.

18. Oh ok, nice.  I was going to say we could swing by the bodega after the movie.

19. One step ahead of you boo.  Here, try my milkshake, it’s …

Bzzzzzzz

6. This burger sucks man.

7. Yea, it’s not that great.  We have to try a different spot.  Mix it up a bit.

6. Yea.  It’s crazy how hot it is today too right?  Have you seen all the people on Instagram and Facebook with pics of them in shorts and T’s and shit?

7.  Mhmm, yea.  Hashtag shortsleevedecember or something like that?

6. Yea, they went a touch too far with shorts though.

7. Watch it be snowing in April now.  Fucking climate is all out of wack…

Bzzzzzzz

8. Here’s your order sir, enjoy and have a great day.

20. Thanks, you too boss.

Bzzzzzzz SWAT! Silence.  

Permalink

]]>Tony OrtizThu, 02 Jul 2015 04:03:15 +0000https://www.spuntoday.com/shortstories/lecturehall5397d160e4b051df24e54c86:5404a65be4b05f700aaaf4a8:5594b5f1e4b0c83b4925e82aLecture Hall

By Tony Ortiz | June 27th, 2015

Will the great recession be on the Midterm Professor?

Absolutely, and here’s the type of essay I’m looking for folks.  Show the understanding that the catalyst was the burst of the tech-bubble in the early 2000’s.  People began to search for safer investments, and settled on real estate.  In turn home demands rise while supply falls.  And what does that do to the price, class?

It drives it up, responded a student from the back of the lecture hall.

Correct, whoever that was, responded the Professor.

It drives the price up, which artificially inflates home values.  So what then?  Houses across the nation are now “worth” more than ever before –in recorded history. And here’s where individual greed comes in.  People owe less than what their homes are now artificially inflated to be worth.  That spread, between the value and what is owed, is called equity.  And what do they do?  They can’t leave well enough alone, no.  They borrow against that equity.  They buy other houses, cars, boats … luxury items that they don’t need.  Greed is good, huh?  Not in this case.

But Professor –

Hold on David, let me finish this point first.  As the spread continued to increase, some of these people took out second mortgages and lines of credit, using their homes as ATM machines.  We were in the midst of the next bubble folks, and most of us didn’t see it.  Values kept going up.  Skyrocketing in some regions.  But we missed the forest for the trees.  Then Wall Street which was fueled by their own greed, created financial instruments known as Mortgage Backed Securities.  Think of them as stocks or bonds that were made up of a collection of mortgages that were all bundled up and sold by the share to the general public.  The thing is that these Mortgage Backed Securities weren’t just made up of mortgages that were in good standing.  They’d also include these doomed to fail sub-prime mortgages.  They bundled them up together and sold them to the world.  Infesting the globe.

This leads to the next point that your essays should cover.  What exactly is the sub-prime mortgage market?  Well, Wall Street wasn’t satiated with the millions of dollars this market was generating.  Nope.  They wanted even more.  Their greed needed to be fed.  So the Banks that you and I go to for a Mortgage, began to loosen up their guidelines for mortgage qualifications.  This way they’d have more mortgages on their books to feed Wall Street with.  You no longer needed a 720 Credit score, a 680 score would do.  You didn’t need 20% down payment plus closing costs, just come up with 10% plus closing costs.  If you build it, they will come, and so they (the borrowers) came.

But why is that the consumers’ fault, blurted out a student from the back of the lecture hall.

Because there’s something called personal responsibility, that’s why!  Nobody can exercise that for you.  As I was saying, after the banks lowered mortgage qualifying requirements and Wall Street successfully sold off those securities, they lowered requirements even more.  Soon you didn’t need a down payment, and closing costs weren’t required either!  They rolled up all of your costs into your mortgage loan.  Can’t pay for the appraisal out of pocket? – Don’t worry.  We’ll roll that cost in too.  Some big banks like Countrywide, which to give you a bit of context; In 2006 Countrywide financed 20% of all mortgages in the United States, at a value of about 3.5% of United States GDP, as well as a handful of lesser known fly-by-night banks that popped up to exploit, even offered up to 106% financing.  I’ll say that again. One-hundred-and-six-percent financing.  That means that in some cases you were paid to take a mortgage!  They paid you, to buy a house!  I shit you not.  But we the consumer, kept taking and taking and taking.  Word to the wise folks, if it seems too good to be true … it is!  Questions?  Comments?

David raises his hand again; “I have a question.”

Go ahead David, said Professor Nachman.

You say that consumer greed is at the root of this issue, right?

Not just consumer greed, responded Professor Nachman but greed in general.  Bank greed.  Wall Street greed.  Human greed.  The blame goes all around.

Well, I don’t’ think I agree with you Professor. 

Fair enough, tell us why you don’t, responded Professor Nachman as he leaned on the front of his desk to listen.

I guess greed does play into it, David continued, a general ‘people wanting what they can’t have’ coupled with being told that they can now have all those things … but I wouldn’t blame it solely on greed.

There are absolutely other factors at play young David, just none as strong or as underlying as greed.

That’s just it, I don’t think every one involved is necessarily being greedy.  There’s plenty to say about predatory lending.  About lack of regulation, about manipulation and exploitation of a weak system.

David.  If you’re a minimum wage worker at the local supermarket for example, you should have the common sense that you have no place purchasing a four hundred thousand-dollar home.  And then, on top of that, an additional hundred thousand dollar line of credit against that same home, which you use to buy a new car and big screen T.V.  That’s living beyond your means.  That’s exercising zero personal responsibility. 

But don’t Banks have a fiduciary responsibility to be truthful?  Don’t Banks have a personal responsibility not to fuck over their customers?

Watch that tone.

I’m sorry Professor, it’s frustrating.  That mentality.  My aunt for example, came to this country 12 years ago.  She worked 10-12 hour days, 6 days a week.  Making sure my cousins never wanted for clothes on their backs or food in their mouths.  She even took me in for a year when my parents died in their accident.  And she did it alone.  But I guess she should have had the personal responsibility to pick a better husband right?

What’s your point David?

The point is that she is a hard worker that scraped together her life savings of $10,000 to buy a house.  She put all her eggs in one basket because that’s all her local mortgage Broker told her she needed.  She would finally be able to fulfill the ‘American Dream’ for her and her family.  He told her that her mortgage would be even less than she was currently paying in rent, because of an interest rate special he could get her for being a first time homebuyer and for being a single hard working Latina woman.  He even told her that he could get her a line of credit for a new car too … but she didn’t’ bite on that one.

She got the house with only 10K down on the sales contract.  Closing costs were rolled into her new loan.  He didn’t tell her however, about the several hundred dollars more per month, that she would have to pay for PMI (Private Mortgage Insurance) because she didn’t make a down payment of 20%.  And of course didn’t mention the taxes and insurance because everyone, including 1st time homebuyers, should know that right?  Instead he misleads her by quoting only the principal and interest payment and conveniently leaving out the rest.

But it’s ok; she’s hard working and knew things couldn’t just go 100% smooth.  Fine.  She picked up a part time job on Sundays, to make ends meet.  In her mind, working 7 days a week is worth her children having a taste of the American Dream.  You want to know what he didn’t tell her though?

What’s that?

That the type of loan he gave her was a 6-month arm.  She had an introductory teaser rate.  Meaning her interest rate/mortgage payment was locked in for only 6 months.  Thereafter it would more than double!  She went back to the Broker thinking surely this has been some kind of mistake.  He told her he’d look into it, strung her along avoiding her calls for over two weeks.  After that when she showed up at his office again, he told her that there was nothing he could do, except refinance her into a 30 year fixed rate loan but it would cost her another 10K in closing costs, and her total monthly payment would go down by only about $150.  Long story short, the Bank foreclosed and she lost the house.  She lost it all.  Now she’s back in the Dominican Republic with her 2 kids.  And her story is far from unique by the way.  What happened to the Bank having a fiduciary responsibility to their customers?  What happened to walking into making the biggest investment of your life and not having to worry about snake-oil salesman?

Let me ask you something David.  What happened to your aunts’ personal responsibility?  What happened to your aunt knowing the limits of what she could afford?  Folks … there are bad people out there.  They’ll always be there.  We can’t nerf the world in order to shield the rest of us from them.  That’s not how we win.  We win by being accountable for our actions.  For knowing what we’re getting ourselves into.

You’re being disingenuous professor.

Excuse me?

And unrealistic too.  What you’re saying makes sense for us.  The younger generation.  Those of us lucky enough to be learning this stuff in College.  But what about my aunt?  What about the immigrants that are preyed upon?  What about the hard working Americans even, that left school because they chose to nobly put their families needs’ before their own and went to work in order to provide for them.  They obviously don’t have the same information.  So fuck them?  Survival of the fittest basically?

Watch your language in my classroom.

Sorry … I guess I just don’t know any better.  But you know what professor, it shouldn’t be ok to screw over the less fortunate and squeeze out every last dime out of them just because you can.  And what’s worse, is that they continue to do so without repercussion.  That’s the issue.  You say that bad people will exist.  Agreed.  But we shouldn’t have to write that off as the cost of doing business.  Assholes need to be checked.  Bad business practices, regulated.  In a direct and unilateral way.  Attacking the root of the issue instead of hacking away at the symptomatic branches, to paraphrase Thoreau. 

Big Government and regulation stifles progress and ingenuity.

Does it always?  Can’t it also allow progress and ingenuity to be free to thrive without corporate special interest intervention like the New Deal did with Social Security and other programs after the Great Depression?

In the long run, the invisible hand prevails and the markets balance themselves out.  So long as people remain content with knowing that ditch diggers and maids can’t buy mansions.

I agree with personal responsibility to a degree, but the underlying issue with that is that everyone can’t know everything.  The maid that walks into a bank with her life savings, shouldn’t leave thinking she has a home and find out 6 months later that she barely has a shirt on her back.  And her children shouldn’t have to decide between either breakfast or lunch because some unregulated Banker wanted to add a diving board to the pool at his family’s summer home.

Tread lightly on that regulation slippery slope that you’re on David.  You may regret it in the future.

Your generation doesn’t get to tell ours what to do anymore. 

Ok that’s enough, said Professor Nachman.

No it isn’t enough, responded David.  We still have skin in the game.  You played it your way and lost.  Now it’s on us to clean up the mess we’ve inherited, in order to survive.  And it starts here, with this conversation.  With doing what we can to help shift the collective consciousness into a space where we don’t have a ‘pass the buck’ mob mentality.  Where personal responsibility is balanced by unilateral repercussions.  A dash of good old common sense could go a long way. 

Bell Rings. Class Ends.

Permalink

]]>Tony OrtizMon, 23 Mar 2015 02:24:52 +0000https://www.spuntoday.com/shortstories/nostrandave5397d160e4b051df24e54c86:5404a65be4b05f700aaaf4a8:550f7940e4b051bbaffba156Nostrand Ave

By Tony Ortiz | March 22nd, 2015

Henry woke up and went through his morning routines as quietly as possible, so that he wouldn’t wake Dolores.  But no luck.  As usual, she barely got any sleep the night before.  Too busy worrying.  He graduated the Academy barely 6 months ago and has a late night to early morning shift during his patrol.

Did you put on your vest? She asked.

I did babe.  Don’t worry, he responded.

You know I can’t stop worrying until after you’re home, and still … hours later you’re gone again.  Said Dolores.

Come here babe, he told her as he sat down at the side of the bed.  I won’t be on this shift too much longer.  Once I hit the one-year mark, I’ll be able to put in for a transfer, Henry told her.   

The next six months can’t pass soon enough, she replied.  Be safe out there.  And call me every chance you get.

Will do babe.  I love you.  Try and get some sleep.

Out he went to his post, where he met up with his Partner.

Martineeez, he greeted his Partner.

What’s going on brother? He responded.

Not much said Henry.  Here, got you a coffee.

Who’s better than you?  Thanks man, responded Martinez.  The Lieutenant wants us covering the A-Line, and walking the perimeter of some of the red-zone stations.

Okay, cool.  Lead the way, responded Henry.

You’ll like it.  Ride some trains, look at the pretty ladies going to work, bullshit on the platforms.  Easy money, said Martinez.

On the other side of town, Tracy was being woken up for school by her loving mother.

Wake up you fat lazy bitch, yelled Ms. Walker.

Mom! What the fuck.  I’m up.  Damn.  Why you always gotta be so damn loud?  Tracy responded.

This my house.  I’ll be as loud as I want, she responded.  You aint gonna wind up like me[1], she continued while taking a sip of her morning cocktail (Gin & Sunny DeLight).

I hope not, Tracy said with an attitude.

Don’t make me slap the shit outta you.  Get your fat ass up and go to school.

            As she was leaving the house for her hour and a half commute, she asked her mom for some money for the train.

Where the fuck is your school Metrocard?

I lost it, Tracy responded.

Well, that sound like a personal issue, said Ms. Walker.

How am I supposed to get to school?  Tracy asked.

Figure it out.  And what you need to do is stop eating them damn candy bars and get you an apple.  That’s why you look like that, commented Ms. Walker. 

Whateva, Tracy said as she walked out and slammed the door.

        Tracy walked over to the Nostrand Avenue A-Line.  She went downstairs and pretended to buy a Metrocard at the machine, waiting for both the attendant to become distracted and for her train to approach the platform so she could try and hop the turnstiles.  Officer Martinez was taking a 15 minute john break.  Henry was there, but she didn’t notice him because he was a bit off to the side, and on his phone texting his wife; ‘Everything has gone smooth today babe, and my shift will be over soon.  Love you.’

Announcement: There will be a downtown bound A-Train approaching the station in approximately 2 minutes.

            Tracy looks around to access the situation, while more passengers’ swipe through the turnstiles.  The rumblings of the approaching train begin to crescendo as her heart rate elevates in unison.  She’s not the most athletic girl, and hasn’t really tried anything like this since she was a kid and her mom used to make her duck down underneath the turnstiles.  She fumbles it.  Telegraphed her intent to the attendant, who sounded the alarm before she began to hoist herself up and over.  Henry quickly ran over to meet her on the other side.

Officer! Officer! The attendant yells as he steps out of the booth to point Tracy out.  It was her.  Arrest her!

I aint do nothing, says Tracy.

Excuse me ma’am, do you have some ID? Henry asks remembering that his training advises he should always identify first.

No, I aint got no license I’m 16 and I’m in school, Tracy responded. 

I’m going to have to ask you to come with me and sit over here then ma’am.  We’re creating a bit of traffic, said Henry.

Tracy sizing up the Officer who was about her height and much thinner, says:

I told you I aint do nothin and I need to go to school.  That man crazy.

At this point the train had come and gone and there were less people around.

Arrest her Officer.  Giver her ticket! Shouted the attendant.

Fuck you asshole, Tracy shouted back at him.

You mother bitch, you.  Says the man. 

Henry is calling in this escalating situation on his radio, to alert his Partner.  This is the first time he’s alone and dealing with a something like this.

Sir, Henry tells the attendant, I’m going to have to ask you to please go back into your booth and let me do my job.

The attendant was visibly upset, but he obliged.

You gone make me miss my next train too Officer?  Shoot!  I got a quiz 1st period.

Ma’am I want to get you on your way as soon as possible, but I need you to work with me.  You’re getting a citation for jumping the train, he says as he pulls out his summons booklet.  So I need you to cooperate and give me your full name, date of birth and address, Henry stated.

What’s that?  A ticket?  Tracy asked.

It’s a summons.  You will receive a Court date in the mail to which a parent or legal guardian will have to accompany you and pay a fine, responded Henry.

Oh my god, are you serious?! She said with her throat knotting up and a tear swelling up in the corner of her left eye.  That man is lying.  Why you only believe him?  You know what my Momma will do to me if I get in trouble here?  Says Tracy.

Ma’am, this will go a lot faster if you cooperate.

Announcement: There will be a downtown bound, express A-Train approaching the station in approximately 4 minutes.

You hear that?  Do you want to make that train or do you want to miss your quiz and have your mom upset about that?  Asks Henry.

Man, I aint even gonna take the damn train then, Tracy says as she stands up and begins towards the exit.

Ma’am you’re not free to go, says Henry as he reaches for the wrist on her right hand.

Get off me!  Get your hands off of me, she yells calling even more attention to the situation.

        Henry gets in front of her and she slaps the summons booklet from his left hand and she tries to run for the emergency exit door next to the turnstiles, but the attendant disabled it.  Henry grabs her by the arm and reaches for his cuffs.  She’s hysterical.  Screaming and crying pulling her hands away as he’s trying to restrain her up against that exit door.

I can’t get in trouble!  I didn’t do anything.  Leave me alone.  Stop it!  Stop it!

       She knocks his handcuffs down.  Henry’s protocol now allows him to enact force.  He reaches for his club and she begins flailing her arms frantically.  She accidentally hits his firearm and removes the safety clip on his holster.  Henry hits her on the leg with his club to try and get her to the ground.  Several people on the platform have begun recording this on their phones, while chiming in:

“Leave her alone”

“She didn’t do anything, this is abuse”

“You can’t hit her.  Get her his badge number, this is brutality”

        Henry’s reacting to everything nervously and Tracy’s crying and shouting aren’t helping.  He hits her with the club again and she drops to the ground as the crowd gets more rowdy.  He grabs the cuffs and is able to get one on her right wrist. 

         The attendant is on the phone with 911, reporting the incident, and more units are on the way, including Martinez who’s near by.  Tracy continues to kick and scream wildly and winds up scratching Henry in the face, who’s having obvious trouble restraining her.  Martinez makes his way downstairs and is running over as Tracy hits Henry in the nose.  He instinctually draws his weapon.  It slips and he drops the gun.  Tracy and him both go for it instinctively.  One of their fingers is on the trigger and it goes off.  Martinez, close enough now to witness this, draws his firearm as well.  He sees his partner clinching his waist-side and falling backwards.  Tracy is screaming nervously and still holding onto Henry’s gun.  Without hesitation Martinez unloads 5 shots at her torso…fatally wounding the high-schooler.

            Within 24 hours, Dolores is weeping bedside in the post-opp Hospital room, while half a dozen of his brothers in blue, including Martinez, are in the waiting area, waiting for Henry to wake up.

            Two uniformed Officers were sent over to Tracy’s home to inform her family of what happened.  Ms. Walker all but attacked the Officers as she broke down crying.

You killed my baby!  You killed my little girl!  Nooooo, noooo.  You sons of bitches, when are you going to leave us alone, you evil devils. 

Ma’am we’re deeply sorry for your loss, said one of the Officers as he was able to get a word in edgewise.

She was a good girl, Jesus why?! She continued.

Mrs. Walker –

It’s Ms. you no good piece of shit, she responded.

Here’s the address to the Hospital where you need to go and claim your daughter, we can take you if you’d like.

I don’t want nothing from you, I can take myself, she responded.

Okay, well here’s our card.  Contact us when you’re sobered up if you’d like to make a statement, he said.

Fuck you! I aint drunk.  Get out of my home.  Get out! Ms. Walker responded.

        Several months later a woman walks into her neighborhood Police Precinct, in her Sunday Church dress, right after that mornings service.  She engages an irritated Police Officer that’s working the front desk.  He seems to be angry at life and she can smell alcohol on his breath as he speaks;

Yes ma’am, how can I help you, Officer Henry Kurth asked the woman.

Hello sir, my name is Tiffany Walker and I wanted to get a list of all of the after school Community Centers in the area, she requested. 

        It’s been several months, and although he still had nightmares of the incident, he didn’t make the connection as to who this woman was, right away.

All of the Community Centers in our jurisdiction, are posted over on that bulletin board over there, he responded as he lack-lustardly pointed at cork board by the entrance.

Oh okay, thank you, responded Ms. Walker.  Do you happen to have a sheet of paper and a pen I can borrow to jot down the names and phone numbers?

Hold on, he responded grumpily.  Henry rolled his wheelchair out from under his desk, and rolled over to the supply draw, to grab a legal pad and pen.  Here you go, he said as he handed them over to her.

Thank you kindly Officer … Henry Kurth, is it?

That’s right, Henry said as she walked over to the bulletin board.

        He looks at the nameplate on his desk, wondering how she knew his first name because the name tag on his uniform only shows his last name.  The nameplate on his desk reads: P.O. Kurth.  He looks up at her while she’s jotting down some of the information and she starts to look familiar.  He makes the connection, remembering her name from the loads of paperwork for the Tracy Walker case.  He’s immediately suspicious as to why she’s here.  Feeling that there has to be an ulterior motive.

         She walks back over to his desk and hands him over the legal pad and pen after ripping out the two sheets she used.  Smiling she says;

Thank you Officer Kurth.  I’m going to give this information to my Pastor.  See if we can get these kids engaged in some positive activities after school, so that we can avoid the inexcusable harassment that has been going on.

We do our best to service the productive members of our community such as yourself Ms. Walker, Henry responded.

As she was about to turn away and leave, Tiffany says:

I almost forgot, I’ve got something for you. 

She reaches into her purse, and Henry tenses up for half a second.

                        I recon you’ll be needing this more than I ever did.

She pulled out a stainless steel, liquor flask and places it right in front of him, on his desk.  He stares at it and says nothing.  She stops smiling, and leaves.

[1] Tracy’s father was an abusive alcoholic who left 3 days shy of her second birthday.  Leaving them without notice and with bills upon debt.  He’s the one that drove Tiffany Walker to drink.  And those are the only remnants he left behind. 

Permalink

]]>Nostrand AveTony OrtizSun, 01 Mar 2015 21:06:56 +0000https://www.spuntoday.com/shortstories/ballchain5397d160e4b051df24e54c86:5404a65be4b05f700aaaf4a8:54f37c22e4b0b6eeae99a2b6

Ball & Chain

By Tony Ortiz | March 1st, 2015

They sat across from each other, on either side of the ballistic glass.  Rotary style phone receivers in hand.  He listened intently, as he usually does during these weekly visits, and she did most of the talking.  “Time’s up Inmate”, said C.O. McNeil, “Wrap it up”.  Sarah looked over her shoulder at him with a sarcastic acknowledging grin.

Charming guy, Charles said.

They pressed their hands up to the glass, as they traditionally did at the end of these sittings. 

We’ll be together soon enough, said Charles in an attempt to re-assure her that their next appeal attempt would pan out, and they said their goodbyes.

        C.O. McNeil re-shackled Sarah to lead her back to her cell.  After inside, with the steel door shut, she stuck her hands out of the opening that she receives her meals through and had those cold metal bracelets released.  Aside from Charles’ tri-monthly visits, a daily shower and an hour a day allowed for walking around in the prison yard…alone…this 6 by 8 foot cell was her world.  Accompanied only by one book per week that she could order from the prison library, and by the reoccurring nightmares she’d have about her sentencing.[1]  You’d think she’d be bat shit crazy by now.  Shouting, being irrational, acting out, like the other lifers in this Block, but she wasn’t.  She was actually a model inmate.  There was an eerie calm about her.  Like she was in on a joke that went over everyone else’s head.  It’s only been eight months since her sentencing, but that’s about seven and a half months more than other inmates take to lose their shit.

        On his way home, Charles ran a few errands as he routinely did after visiting his incarcerated wife.  Although the trips back home were shorter now after the move, it still seemed like a lot to leave behind; a house (which he inherited after the brain aneurysm induced seizure claimed his fathers life three years prior) the staff Accountant position at Wilton Capital and the neighborhood he grew up in.  He wasn’t passionate about his work, but his job was actually enjoyable at times.  Still, it was a bit much to give up for the sake of more frequent visitations.  But he was in there with her.  He was loyal to a fault (if there is such a thing).  Selfless.  Obedient, one might even say.  Plus, Sarah rarely ever didn’t get her way.  She wanted him to re-open her bakery, but closer to her.  All he needed to find was a storefront and she would teach him all her recipes during his visits.  Life revolved around her before, why should it not now?  Charles’ world was now scheduled to exist outside and around every other Wednesday and the final Friday of each month.  All days in-between were just fillers.  His days now consisted of submitting appeal requests to re-open Sarah’s case, consoling his estranged wife and carrying out her wishes to make her happy.

        Before this new reality, they led normal enough cookie-cutter lives.  Charles was an Accountant and Sarah ran a small, but thriving, bakery in town.  She was known for her complimentary raspberry-drop sugar cookies that she would indiscriminately give away to anyone who asked.  Even non-paying customers.  Many-a-day, frustrated parents came in to yank their freeloading eight year olds out of the bakery.  The kids would sneak away to get their sugar fix when the Elementary school across the street would let out for the day.

Ms. Sarah! Ms. Sarah! Can I have a cookie? They would ask excitedly. 

OK but just one more.  I wouldn’t want you to ruin your supper, she responded while giving them a playful wink.

        She was loved.  Even the aggravated parents would take one of these delicious bite sized sugar cookies to go when they came to get their kids.  Most of the parents, school staff and faculty were regular customers.  All birthday cakes and bunches of cupcakes to reward a class for good behavior, were purchased at Ms. Sarah’s Bakery.  Business was good and she was happy doing what she did.  She was much happier than when she worked at the hospital.  Charles on the other hand, didn’t hate his 9-5 but he didn’t love it either.  After work he would clock in a couple more hours per week taking care of the financials for Sarah’s Bakery – pro bono of course … but this, he did love.  Gave him a sense of purpose.  He was really good at it too.  Meticulous like no other.  Sarah was an amazingly artsy baker but the business wouldn’t have been ‘in the green’ without Charles’ oversight.

            In about two months’ time, with the savings they scraped together, the rental income from Charles’ fathers home and a part-time gig as an adjunct Accounting Professor over at the local Community College, PACC, he leased out a storefront!  Her determination and his tenacity were making the dream of Sarah’s Bakery II come to fruition.  It was about a quarter of the size of the original but meant the world to her.  Her happiness was his main priority so he shared in her elation.  On that Wednesday she gave him detailed instructions on how to set up the place. - What equipment to order, paint, decoration and just general organization.  It turned out to be a cozy little bakery.  A mini replica of its predecessor.  In just under three weeks, he brought pictures in to press up against the bullet proof glass.  She loved it!  She was very pleased.  Charles learned a couple of her muffin recipes (corn & blueberry) and a handful of recipes for assorted cookies that same day.

            After the grand opening, business wasn’t what you would call ‘booming’ but it was doing rather nicely in their new less densely populated location.  Charles estimated that they should be turning a profit inside of 6 months.  He had this strange quark about never tasting anything he baked but his baking wasn’t half bad.  Who would’ve thought? 

When are you going to teach me the sugar cookie recipe?  He asked.  I think they’ll be a hit again.   

In time, Hun.  And I know they’ll be, she responded.  I just don’t want that to be the primary reason customers are coming in, this time.  We need to win them over first … and we will.

        They were both right.  Midway through month four, Sarah’s Bakery II was in the green.  Barely covering all of its costs, but building up a loyal client base and turning a small profit nonetheless. 

It’s time to debut our Raspberry drop sugar cookies babe.  And I’m so proud of you by the way.  You’re doing a great job!  She told Charles. 

We’re doing a great job babe, he corrected her.  You know this doesn’t exist without you.  So tell me how to you make those delicious bites of bliss.

You can’t be upset with me, she told him.

Upset?  Why would I be upset? Charles asked.

Because I never told you about my secret stash, she said, but I couldn’t afford to let my recipes get out.  I never told a soul.

Okay, he said shortly and with a surprised look on his face, where is it?

        Sarah went on to explain that she locked away certain recipes, along with some rare ingredients (some spices & sugars that were imported from overseas) in a storage garage a few miles from their old home.  Charles was definitely surprised and upset.  This type of deception made him livid.  But given the circumstances, he let it go.

         Following her direction he was able to retrieve the key to this secret location from an unused old mailbox behind the shed of their old home.  He went to the 24-hour access storage place a few miles away and located her lot, #109.  It looked like those little garages you see on reality shows like Storage Wars.  He opened it up and went inside.

          It was pretty well organized.  You can tell she frequented fairly often.  There were a few shelves with color coded, unlabeled bottles and jars on them.  Some were filled with a sugary-like consistency, and others looked to have a flour-like texture.  There was a desk and a small filing cabinet where she apparently safeguarded her recipes.  He was taken-a-back by some of the medical supplies she had there.  Stethoscopes, scrubs, syringes, and boxes of latex gloves – he wrote it off as supplies she took from her hospital gig before she began to bake full time.  But how long has she been hiding this place then?  It’s been a long day filled with information he was still processing, so he decided to call it a night and get some rest.  He went home and to sleep.  Tomorrow would be another day.

            Charles was upset about Sarah’s secret place, but knew he could never stay mad at her.  Still, on his next visit (the final Friday of the month visit) he let her know he wasn’t going to make it to the next one.  She knew his passive-aggressiveness all too well, and without skipping a beat she told him what he needed to hear, in order to go through the motions of his little revolt a bit faster; she pouted and batted her ocean blue eyes at him and in an innocent little girl voice asked:

Why baby?

Because the Fall Semester starts in two weeks and orientation is a bit earlier than usual.  With most of my time dedicated to your Bakery –

Our Bakery, she interrupted in that same manipulative voice.

He continued; I haven’t been able to put a lesson plan together yet.

Sarah gave him a sad face through the double-pane glass, and Charles cut his eyes away in dissent.

I’m so proud of you baby, she told him.  You’re juggling so much.  I’d be lost without you.  I know you have other responsibilities and can’t just focus on keeping me happy.  I’ll miss you terribly, but I understand (Damn, she knew how to run that game so well).

I’ll definitely be here for the next Wednesday visit afterwards though, he assured her.

I knew you wouldn’t break my heart for too long baby, she responded; just remember that you’re mine.  These kids are lucky to borrow you.

I know Hun, he responded, and you’re all mine.

That’s right! She said smiling back.  I hate them for taking you away from me, but I do want you to make a good impression on your first day.  Let’s make them a batch of the Sugar Cookies.

Think I’m ready to make those? He asked.

I know you are.  My baby can do anything he sets his mind to (a little ego stroking never hurt anyone, right?)

Okay, I’ve always made two different types.  They taste similar enough but one uses more of the high-end imported ingredients and is only for special occasions.  The other is just as good but less costly to make.  Let’s make your new students, the special batch.

        She went on to meticulously explain the two different recipes.  Having him repeat it to her several times to make sure he knew the right combination of color coated jars. 

Okay I got it, he said frustrated.

I’m sowwy, she said.  You know how important these cookies are to me.

Yea I know, he responded.

Lastly, my filing cabinet has some paperwork I need you to mail in to the D.A. for me.  I told my public defendant about it, but you know how they all but ignore appeal requests for cases they feel they can’t win.

OK, sure, what’s in it?

Just some information I started to put together before my trial that I never had a chance to give the attorney.  But maybe it can help with the Appeal request.  There are two thick manila envelopes already sealed and ready to go.  One is a copy, and says copy on it, just so I could keep track of what was already submitted, so you just have to mail in the one.  

Times up inmate, chimed in C.O. McNeil. 

I’m on it Hun, I’ll make you proud.  Promise.  Charles responded.  And they said their goodbyes.

        C.O. McNeil put the cuffs on and led Sarah back to her cell as always.  She stopped in front of her cell and turned to face him before walking in, making sure her straight blond hair brushed his face as she spun around.

I see the way you look at me McNeil, she told him as she stared raptly into his eyes.

What are you talking about Inmate?  Go into your cell, he responded.

        He did check her out though.  All the guards did.  Visitors did too.  She was easily the most attractive woman in the Prison.  The type of woman that would own a room, just from walking into it.

Yes sir, she told him … I’ll do anything you say, she said salaciously as she moved half a step into his personal space.

        He cracked half a smile.  She reached down with both hands, still in handcuffs, and gently grabbed onto the, now obvious, bulge in his officer-blue pants.

Oooh, she said with a seductive rasp in her voice as she fondled him for a bit, you know … you could do whatever you wanted to me if it weren’t for all these cameras around.

        She licked and bit her bottom lip, then she let go and took a step backwards into her cell.  C.O. McNeil didn’t say a word as he slid the red steel door shut.  She poked her hands out through the doors’ opening and he removed the restraints … caressing her hands before letting go and closing the opening.

         On his way home, Charles passed by the storage unit to pick up what Sarah told him he needed for the cookies, and also grabbed the manila envelope to mail in.  The day before orientation he followed her instructions precisely and went on to make a large batch of Raspberry drop sugar cookies.  They were a hit at orientation.  Most of the students in the lecture-hall took one on the way in and another on the way out.  He thinks they may have even distracted some of them from taking part in the usual rumors – but he still overheard a few of the Students on their way out after class;

Did you know his wife is in jail?!  I heard she killed kids or something.

Yea I know, but I heard she was insanely jealous and she caught him cheating with a student and she killed her!

Hmm, I think I’ll flirt my way to an A then (they all giggled and laughed).

You’re both wrong, I looked up some old newspapers last semester in the library, from around the time it happened.  She was fired from being a Nurse at a local hospital where they used to live.  They said it was negligence or something.  Then months after, they investigated and found that 3 or 4 of the patients that died under her watch were actually poisoned.

Wholly shit, are you serious?

Yup, you can look it up too.

Wow, what a sick bitch.

        This was actually less commotion about his wife, than he was used to overhearing.  So all-in-all it was a good day.  He grabbed his messenger bag and noticed he never mailed Sarah’s evidence for the appeal.  On his way off campus, he passed by the main office and tossed it in with the outgoing mail batch.             

         In the days that followed a few flirty looks and winks were shared between the inmate and C.O., but aside from that it was business as usual at the Muncy D.O.C.  Charles missed the next Wednesday visit, as expected, but was (predictably) already on the visitors list for the third Wednesday of the month.

          Soon enough it was visiting Wednesday again and Charles approached the double-Pane glass eagerly waiting for Sarah to walk through the double doors that separated the visiting area from the housing units.  The room was filled with inmates, visitors and measured levels of mixed emotions.  She walked in and locked eyes with him instantly as she approached him with an ear to ear smile.  He lit up like HIDs with the phone already up to his ear.  She sat down and picked up the phone on her side:

                        Hey stranger, she said playfully.

   Hey you.  I’ve missed you, he responded.

   How’d your orientation go? She asked.

It went great!  And your cookies were a hit.  I did hear murmurs of the usual rumors though, he told her.

            It’s ok, she responded.

           After their visit, C.O. McNeil led Sarah back to her cell as he normally did.  This time, when they got to the front of her cell he grabbed her waist on either side and pressed himself up behind her.  She welcomed it with a flirty moan.  He took in a deep breath of her essence and then whispered into her ear right before he began to nibble on her neck:

I disabled that camera up there.  Put in a work order for it, which won’t be looked at until the Sunday after next … and C.O. Jenkins is on a 15-minute break.  What was it that you were saying about me doing anything I wanted with you?

        Sarah turned around to face him, with a mischievous smile on her face.  She used both hands (which were still cuffed) to grab McNeil by the belt and pull him into the cell with her.  They maximized that 15 minute window of privacy and quenched the pent-up sexual frustration they’d been flirting with for weeks.  By Saturday night there were at least half a dozen of these visits, mixed in with plotting and scheming.

Are you sure that the evidence you had him submit is enough? He asked her as he zipped up his pants and she wiped her mouth. 

I’m Positive.  There’s so much self-incriminating information in there that he should be arrested before next week is out, and I’ll be released pending his prosecution.

That could take weeks.  Months even, he responded.  What if I can’t wait that long?

Be patient baby, she told him, we’ll be together in increments longer than 15-minutes soon enough, she reassured.

I have a better idea.  We’ll stage an attack, of you on me, he explained.  My carelessness coupled with your cunningness would make for a good escape.

What about your job?  You can’t be on the run with me, she said. 

That wont be an issue.  The most that will happen is a fine and/or suspension.  Then by the time they arrest him, they’ll be so eager to sweep your escape under the rug, that they’ll acquit you of all charges and streamline his sentencing.

I love a man that can take charge the way you do, she agreed.

            They settled on Friday during her yard time.  He came back later that evening before his shift was over and they hammered out an outline.  By Thursday night they had every angle measured and every wrinkle of doubt ironed out.

            Friday morning routinely came and went.  When the Sun fell midway down the Sky, McNeil went over to Sarah’s cell to escort her outside.  As he loosely placed the bracelets around her wrists (without securing them in place) he tells her:

Remember what I told you.  Don’t crawl back into the car until after I go back in to ring the alarm.  It’s very important that I follow protocol.  Stay low to the ground then wedge yourself between the back seat and the trick trunk I told you about.  Just pull down that yellow strap to open it up.  They will search my vehicle so don’t make a sound or move around until I let you out.  This could take hours.

Sir, yes sir, she said playfully.

        They walked out to the yard as they normally did.  McNeil unlocked the gate that led to the employee parking lot to “get a pack of smokes” from his red ’02 Mustang.  On cue Sarah loosened her cuffs, wrapped it around her fist like brass knuckles and clocked C.O. McNeil twice (drawing blood from the back of his head which would later require 8 stitches) while his back was turned, and she ran towards and into the three-miles plus of forest opposite the parking lot, which surround the Muncy D.O.C.

        McNeil eventually sat up and stumbled through the mess hall with blood trickling down his ear and neck, into the C.O. control room to sound the alarm.  “Inmate escape, inmate escape”, he repeated out of breath in an Oscar-worthy performance.  The other C.O.s fell in line and followed the proper protocol to begin the search.

        There would be failed escape attempts at Muncy on a Quarterly basis.  Some stressed out inmate would try and climb the fence or get boosted over a wall.  But it would always end the same way.  The dogs would sniff them out of the bush and they’d spend a month in the hole.  Not this time though.  By the time Warden Glenn came down to give the search order and speak with McNeil about what happened, Sarah had safely crawled into the back of the Mustang, entering from the far side away from the camera and wedged herself into the concealed compartment which was scent proof (McNeil purchased the car at the PAPD Repo Auction.  The previous owner was an “importer/exporter”).  After an exhaustive search that yielded no results, including the thorough search of all the employee vehicles in the lot, Warden Glenn interrogated C.O. McNeil one last time, while the Prison Nurse finished stitching him up:

The media is going to have a field day with this!  How could you be so fucking careless?

            I was attacked Boss.  I didn’t even see it coming.

By a woman half your damn size, that you failed to properly inspect and secure.

I did inspect and secure the inmate.  I have no idea what she hit me with.  A rock maybe?

A rock wouldn’t cause a wound this narrow and deep, Nurse Kelly chimed in.

Regardless, this happened on your watch.  You can’t be trusted to do your Job properly right now, and we need to show a swift and precise response to this situation for when the media gets a hold of this.

I understand Boss, McNeil responded remorsefully.

You’re suspended for a month without pay effective immediately.  Upon your reinstatement you’ll go into two weeks of the inmate protocol refresher training, also without pay.  Understood?

Yes sir, and again I’m sorry.

        By the time he finished that sentence, Warden Glenn had already walked out of the room.

        After gathering a few of his things from his locker, he went out to his car.  Opened up the trunk and placed the box in it, got in, started it and went off as he normally did.  After clearing the guard at the Muncy entrance, he pulled over so that he could go back and speak to Sarah:

                        Babe..?

     I was beginning to think you forgot about me, Sarah             responded jokily.

Do you need anything?  I’m sure they’ll be a checkpoint further ahead, and we can’t risk a camera spotting you, so I can’t let you out until we get to my apartment.

No, I’m fine.

        He kissed her on the lips and closed the compartment back up.  There was a checkpoint about a quarter mile after the forestry surrounding the prison.  McNeil approached, slowed and lowered his window:

                        How’s it going Torres?                       

    McNeil…tough one today huh?                       

     Yea, you wont be seeing me around for a while.                    

     They finally get rid of you?  Torres said jokingly.

   Ha, not that easily man.  A month and a half, no pay, McNeil responded.

                       Ouch! Torres said.  Keep your head up buddy, shit happens.

                       Thanks man, good night.

        They made it to the apartment unnoticed and laid low for a few days.  Between their 50 Shades of Grey-ish sexcapades, they would watch television waiting on breaking news of the escape to materialize…but it never did.  The Muncy D.O.C. was under code-red lock down.  That meant no one in or out.  They had a skeleton staff that was housed on premises for a few days, and kept every inmate caged 24/7.

        They’d search for news online, and nothing.  Sarah also accessed Charles’ emails (he used the same password for everything) and read through some of the flirty emails he had going back and forth with a student (Amy Lessig) who was in search of some one-on-one tutoring.  She recognized the address Charles gave Amy from the return address on the Holiday cards he had sent her in the past.  Sarah, now a shorthaired brunette, took the Mustang and drove over to Charles’ apartment after stopping by the storage facility (she had another key stashed close by it).  It was right before dawn on the fourth day after her escape, and the day where her grand plan, years in the making, would finally come to fruition.

            Charles woke up and made his way into the kitchen to drink a glass of water from the tap.  His eyes look worried as he stares out of the window above the sink.  Like they haven’t gotten enough sleep and know they’re not going to.  Sarah has already made her way into the apartment at this point.  She slides up behind him and he feels the precise piercing pinch of a syringe on the right side of his neck, Dexter Style.  About 30 minutes later he comes to as his vision deglazes enough for him to evaluate his surroundings.  His arms and legs are tie-wrapped to one of his dining room chairs and his mouth is clichély duck-taped.  Next to him, Amy is similarly secured, but still not conscious.  Sarah is facing them, while sitting on top of the island in the kitchen.

So who’s this?  The student-of-the-month? Sarah said sarcastically.  You selfish son of a bitch.  Is this what you’ve been doing while I’ve been suffering alone?  You should be ashamed of yourself.  You told me you changed.  You told me Beth was the last one.[2]  What?  You want to explain?  Sarah hopped down off the counter, walked over to Charles and yanked the duct tape off his mouth in one fluid motion that almost took his lips.  He yelled.

    What the fuck did you do to her?  Amy!  Amy wake up!

    Oh I’m sorry.  Amy can’t come to the phone right now, Sarah says.

    What did you do Sarah?  Amy!

She can’t hear you, asshole.  What I injected you with was a nap.  What she got…well, lets just say it’s a bit more permanent than that.  That slutty cunt won’t ever hear you again.

I can’t fucking believe you.  You’re a monster.  The cops are going to find you.  I know everything.  I won’t keep my mouth shut, you crazy bitch.  What are you even fucking doing here?  How are you here right now?!  Said Charles.

News flash cheating Charlie, I’m out of prison, permanently.  Besides, they didn’t find out why a perfectly healthy Beth, suddenly had health problems, did they? 

        She smirked maniacally as Charles gasped silently in disbelief.  She walks around behind him, and slides her hands down the front of his chest.  She leans in and whispers into his ear:

    And your fathers’ aneurism … that was me too.  She duct      taped his mouth again as he squirmed and screamed and cried about what he had just heard.

I’ll tell you exactly what’s going to happen here.  Within the next few hours or so, you’ll wake up surrounded by cops that have a warrant for your arrest, based on an anonymous call from yours truly.  They’ll read you your rights and book you.  It will soon enough come to light via the manila envelope that you mailed in “for me”, that you are responsible for each of the deaths that I was convicted for.  You did meet me at the hospital for lunches within three days of each of the deaths of my patients…remember that?  You used me to finagle connections at the hospital behind my back to get the ricin and syringes that you use.  It was a shame about poor Beth too.  She was tired of being the other woman, and was going to expose you and your affair…there’s the motive for her unexplained death.  Should I continue?  Did you happen to notice your class size go down for a bit after cookie day?  That’s because you began experimenting on students by dosing them with non-fatal portions of ricin.  Oh wait, but there’s nothing here in the apartment linking you to any of this, right?  Oh yea…you also gave them the location of the storage facility you’ve been going to fairly often, which has syringes like these, and dozens of containers with different levels ricin doses.  And the best part? – Your fingerprints, and only your fingerprints, are all over the place.  And little Amy here, her death will be the cherry on top for them to build their case.  As for me, it won’t matter that I’ve slipped out of jail a bit sooner than expected.  It’ll all be swept under the Wardens’ rug.    

Over at Muncy, Warden Glenn was on the phone with the district Judge. 

I’m calling in that favor Terrence. 

Again? The Judge responded.  How much leverage do you think you have with me exactly?

Enough to call this in.  And trust me, the alternative would be worse for all of us. 

All I need is a signed arrest warrant and your word on a swift, no jury sentencing, said the Warden.

Even if I was willing to cut through the red tape and expedite this, you know I can’t give you an arrest warrant without PC.

I’m looking at all the PC you’ll ever need, in the form of a full confession letter along with corroborating evidence which my guy is already checking out, responded Glenn.

Ok, so why not go through the proper channels? The Judge asked.

It’s better you not know, responded the Warden. 

I’m not sure what you think I owe you for introducing me to your buddy with the underground casino and massage joints, but it’s definitely not enough to get you a blank check in the form of an arrest warrant.  So tell me, what’s the urgency about?   

Judge, there was an escape a few days ago.

           A successful one?  The Judge asked surprised.

Yes, Warden Glenn continued, remember the Nurse that killed a handful of patients last year?  Her.  But if this confession from the husband and evidence checks out, he’s taking the wrap for all of it, and more. 

And you buy this bullshit? The Judge asked.  Seems a bit convenient.

Belief isn’t a requisite of my job Judge, if it checks out, it checks out.  She’ll be released, he’ll be sentenced, and nobody will be the wiser.

Ok Glenn, you have a verbal arrest warrant granted.  If this blows up in your face, I won’t back up or document this though, said the Judge.

Don’t worry Judge, we’ll clean this up on our end.  Soon you can go back to your table games and happy endings, stress free.  Oh and, Terrance…

Yes?

Give my best to Marie and the twins. [Hangs up the phone].

Back at the apartment, Sarah grabbed a fist full of Charles’ hair and yanked it back.  They lock eyes. 

You did this to us.  Don’t you forget that, she told him as she leaned in and kissed him on the lips, over the duct tape.

        She squoze out a few drops from the syringe as she flicked it, and then shot it into his neck.  Sleep tight baby, she whispered.  She tied Amy’s wrists to headboard in the bedroom, to make it look like an intense sex scene gone awry.  She made sure his fingerprints were on the ricin needle, and then she vanished.  He came to, as his apartment was being raided for his arrest.  He tried to explain but they saw it as resisting and clubbed the back of his knees.  Dropping him to the ground and they cuffed him.

8 Months Later

        Charles laid on a cot in a cell not dissimilar to the one Sarah was once in, reading The Count of Monte Cristo.  A prison Guard approaches. 

DeFranco, you have a visitor, said the Guard.  But Charles didn’t respond. 

DeFranco! He said as pulled out his club and banged it against the cell bars.

I heard you the first time Jimenez.  I’m trying to read here, he responded.

It’s not a request, you smug asshole, said Jimenez.  In ten minutes you’ll be escorted to the visitors room.

        Charles thought it was another reporter or attorney trying to make a name for himself with a high profile appeal case, albeit an un-winnable one but in the public eye nonetheless.  Boy was he wrong.

As he walked into the visitors’ room on his side of the ballistic glass, the C.O. on duty tells him;

                        Your visitor is hot as fuck, by the way.

                        Oh yea? Charles responds uninterested.

                        Yea, you miserable prick, the C.O. responded.

        Charles signed into the room and walked over to window #9, where a red headed woman with big sunglasses on sat on the opposite side.  He knew who it was in the depths of his soul before his brain finished processing.  As he sits down and picks up the phone, she removed her glasses.  Her piercing blue eyes unapologetically staring back at him. 

                        You heartless bitch!  I could kill.  Charles opened up strong.

Oh Charlie, so much aggression.  Haven’t you done enough killing already?  What would you father think if he saw you this way?  Sarah responded.

           You’re a sick and evil person.  How do you have the gall to              show your face?

            I just didn’t want you to worry about me darling.  I wanted                 to let you know that I sold the house and am moving to                     Florida. 

            What?!? My fathers’ house?  You didn’t.  You couldn’t,                       Charles responded in disbelief.

             My house actually.  Remember how ‘transferring the deed                into my name’ would benefit my appeal?  Well it did, she                  said mockingly.  I’m leaving tomorrow, just wanted to say                goodbye, Charlie.  Make sure you sit and think about what                you’ve done to me and if any of them were worth it, said                  Sarah.

        She hung the phone up, stood up, blew him a kiss, put on her glasses, and walked out of his life forever.  Charles was livid.  Yelling and screaming, slamming and breaking the phone against the glass. 

             You fucking bitch!  Come back here!  Come back here!

         The Guard runs over after calling it in on his walkie-talkie.  Charles nails him with a right hook to the jaw, which catches the Guard by surprise, but only stuns him.  The Guard pulls out his club and jams it into Charles’ stomach and then elbows him in the nose.  Two other guards rush in and help to wrestle Charles to the ground.  He’s still irate.

It was her!  She was here!  It wasn’t me goddamit, listen to me!  He yelled out as he cried from passionate rage and physical pain.   

        The Nurse was called and comes in with a syringe that they used to sedate him.  He wakes up in a slightly bigger room, restrained to an unfamiliar bed.  The time that has lapsed between is a mystery to him.  Has it been hours?  Weeks? Months?  He can’t recall a thing between then and now.  But he picks up where he left off;

It was her…She was here…it wasn’t me…let me out.  Let me out of here!

A Nurse turns to the Doctor in charge of this Psych-ward for instruction.

Continue to sedate him as long as these hallucinations continue.

                    Yes Doctor, she responded. 

As she approached Charles to sedate him, all that was said before things went dark again was

Don’t you stick me with that.  I need to go to Florida.  Let me out.  It was her, it was really her.  She needs to be stopped.  

        Hours later on Interstate 64, a redheaded woman could be seen alone at the wheel of a Red 2002 Mustang flowing through the traffic carefree, heading towards Florida.  With all that she needed in the trunk, and some of what she no longer had use for in a scent-proof compartment.

[1] Will the defendant please rise, said Judge Muhler.  Mrs. DeFranco you stand here before us seemingly remorseful.  But your endless stream of manipulative tears couldn’t drown the sorrow that these family members feel.  They have lost a loved one by your hand.  The fact of the matter is that four people lost their lives while another remains in a vegetative state.  We have reason to believe beyond the shadow of a doubt, that you poisoned your patients with the ricin that led to their eventual deaths.  You plead ignorance but I see deliberate malpractice.  You plead inexperience but I see malicious intent.  I hereby sentence you to Life in prison without the possibility of parole. – She’d relive this moment almost every night, expecting a more lenient outcome each time, and would wake up in a cold sweat when she didn’t get it. 

[2] Beth was a co-worker of Charles back at Wilton Capital.  After snooping through his credit card statements and emails, Sarah pieced together and pretty much caught him red handed.  He was having an affair with her.  After a brief separation, Sarah wound up forgiving and consoling Charles when she found out that Beth died suddenly of Liver and Lung failures.

Chopper City

By Tony Ortiz | August 31st, 2014

        It was a Saturday Afternoon.  A nice day too.  Sunny but not too hot & a cool refreshing breeze blew at welcoming times.  We were walking down Rockaway Boulevard by the new Casino.

“Have you been there?” Dave asked me.

“Once” I replied. “How about you?”

“Nah, I haven’t.  I always lose when I gamble”, he said.

“When do you ever gamble?” I asked.

“Like when I buy lottery tickets.  Scratchy tickets and shit.  Stuff like that, you know?” he responded.

“Oh, please” I said, “That’s hardly the same thing.  You actually have to think in these places.  Put some thought into the games and try and beat them”, I explained.

“Oh really?  How much did you beat them for?” he asked.

“I lost twenty bucks”, I admitted.

He burst out in laughter and asked; “What happened to thinking and all that jazz?”

“I didn’t say I beat them, dick.  But that’s what people in the know say.  People that know their shit and that play poker for a living”, I told him.

“Yea, yea Galileo.  How was the place though?”

“It was alright I guess.  A Casino.  I just walked around the main floor for a bit.  Didn’t explore too much but it was decent”, I told him.

“Cool.  We should go back.  Are you down to go tonight?” he asked.

“Nah, I can’t.  I have plans with my girl already”, I told him.

“So they have $20 tables? Or $10? Dave asked.

“I have no idea”, I responded.

“What did you play then? He asked confused.

 “Some nickel slots", I said.

And almost as if it were as involuntary as a leg extension during a patellar reflex test, he burst out into unmeasured laughter, where in between breaths he was able to muster: “You were giving me shit about scratchy tickets and you’re over there playing nickel slots like a 72 year old lady that took a break from knitting?!  Give me a break!  You great thinker, you”.

“Yea, fuck you too dick.  My point is still valid”, I said back to him (although I doubt he heard my response under his whaling laugh).

        The only reason that laughter stopped, was because of the loud noises and commotion we heard behind us.  It wasn’t the usual New York – type of loudness.  It was a ‘what the fuck is going on? – we’re in this together’ – cacophony of unfamiliar sounds, sprinkled with people shouting and screaming.  It kept getting louder and whatever it was, was flying in the sky and fast approaching.  And then it was hovering directly above us.  It was a cross between a fatigued-out military tank and an Apache helicopter. 

        Dave and I stood there, immobile.  Paralyzed by fear and general awe.  We were directly across the street from the Casino Parking lot, in front of the entrance to the Hilton, which readily housed Pilots and Stewardesses that were between flights from JFK.  This entire episode seemed like something out of a movie.  I didn’t know if I should run or take out my iPhone and start recording.  The suspense didn’t last long before we heard the clear but accent-rich voice pierce through some sort of speaker system coming from the Chopper:

“Every one of you is guilty!  Exclaimed the angry voice.  From the CEO of each Airline, to their board of directors, down to the laborers that allow themselves to be exploited by working for measly wages.”  His voice seemed to get increasingly frustrated and agitated as he continued.

“From every Citizen that uses your overpriced and oppressive services to every Pilot doing their bidding.  Collectively you’re all symptoms of the same diseased system!  With a heavy heart, I will be the cure…”

        There was a suspenseful thirty-second or so pause.  A larger crowd began to gather; nervously awaiting the outcome of this, while some quickly fled the scene.  Approaching Fire Engine and Police Cruiser sirens began to get louder as they got closer to the scene.  What happened next was something straight out of a ‘Call of Duty’ video game.  The chopper shifted and some side compartment opened up.  A portion of the metallic side rolled up and in like a garage door, exposing what was easily the biggest most futuristic cannon of a gun that I have ever seen.

            Within moments, sound-barrier breaking bullets pierced through the air and through the glass exterior of the hotel.  Glass shattered and flew towards us with a similar ferocity to those shard-creating bullets.  Parked cars were hit.  Broken glass punctured tires and dented fenders also resulted from the impacts.  People ran screaming, some hit by glass, and others lay there immobile with pools of blood increasing in diameter beneath them.

            I could not hear a thing.  Even though the automatic non-stop shooting was so loud I could feel the sound-wave ripples, everything went silent.  The screams, shattering glass, people who were getting hurt, killed, cars peeling out to get away.  All of it seen.  All of it witnessed.  None of it heard.  The silence served as a cloak, shielding me from the harsh reality around me, but I never felt so vulnerable.  As I stood there motionless, Dave reached up with his left hand and tugged at my shorts as he half lifted his tucked down head: “Get down here!” he said, instructing me to join him behind the mint green Buick LeSabre he was leaning on.  And I did.

“What the fuck bro?!  How are we going to get out of here?” I asked Dave.

“That crazy fuck seems to only have it in for this building.  We’ll be OK.  We’ll be OK.  We need to wait it out here” Dave replied.

        At that moment and for the first time since the incident began, the Chopper stopped shooting and began shifting in its place with the long barrel of the gun pointed toward the people and cars in the street.  After what must have been a re-loading break the shots began to fire again.  This time the targets were random.  The Police cruisers that we could only hear at first were now visible but shot into oblivion as soon as they arrived.  A couple of them instantly burst into flames as the Officers ran out looking for cover.  They drew their weapons as soon as they could crouch down behind something and began to fire at will.  A noble attempt, but their bullets seemed like mosquitoes that the Chopper just shooed away.  Other cars and near-by buildings were hit too.  Colorful bulb-ridden awnings of surrounding businesses that looked like mini-casinos themselves were getting picked off like empty beer and soda cans on a wooden fence in Texas.  People were being slain.  Bullets sliced through limbs like a rolling pizza knife.  Innocent, defenseless women, children, seniors and men all gone.  Shot down and killed in cold blood.

            When all hope was lost and death seemed imminent to all of us that were left…at a distance behind the Chopper, five Fighter Jets were fast approaching the scene.  They were in perfect triangulated form, completely in sync with one another.  Pointed/flying toward us with crisp precision.  With no warning and zero hesitation, the lead Jet began to unload rounds from the circular machine guns on either side under its wings.  Most hitting the target dead on and only a handful passing it and hitting the mostly evacuated grounds all around us.  Almost instantly, two of the flanking Jets separated from the triangular formation dropped down and went forward simultaneously.  Each shot out a missile.  Both of which approached the Chopper which was barely aware enough to react, and they each hit their target with unparalleled accuracy.  It, along with anyone and everyone on board it, exploded in the sky.  This time I heard it.  Dave and I were both pinned down to the ground by the blast, but shielded from debris by the valiant Buick we hadn’t strayed from. 

            I looked up from the ‘head between my legs’ fetal-like position I was in.  It was a confusing moment.  It seemed to have instantly gone from afternoon daylight to dusk.  The entire sky began to ripple as if everything were under water.  In the distance I kept hearing someone call out: “Sanchez! Sanchez! Sanchez!”  “Wake up Jarhead.  It’s O-800.  You’re on watch duty.  There was another drone strike in Datta Khel.  We’re moving out to go secure the area,” said Corporal Jones.

“Oorah” I responded as I came back to my senses.

It was all a dream…Well, being on that helpless, voiceless side of this mess, was.      

Insight

By Tony Ortiz | July 26th, 2014

“It’s a beautiful clear-skied Saturday morning folks.  The time now is 9:38am and you’re jamming with Jamin’ 102.8 FM.  Here’s Tracy with your weekend weather.  Tracy…”

“Thanks Mike.  Hello New York and hello warm, sunny-Summer!  Your low today is 73 degrees with a high of 84 and nothing but Sun, Sun, Sun.  Go to the beach, soak up some rays, or have a BBQ.  Whatever you do, enjoy it because the Eastern cold front is moving in quickly and our beautiful weekend will be short lived.  High humidity is expected which will bring with it nothing but rain and thunderstorms.  You can expect this damp weather for the majority of the day Sunday beginning in the early afternoon, and continuing through your Monday morning commute.  So get out there today and make it a good one.  Back to you Mike.”

“You heard her folks…” 

[Yawn/Stretch] Damn that Alarm is loud today, I thought to myself.  I need to get up, brush my teeth and shower.  Iron a T-shirt, throw on some shorts and then some breakfast. Maybe a sandwich or some scrambled eggs with toast or something.  Or maybe just a bowl of cereal.  Yea, that’ll be quickest.  I have a bunch of running around that I need to get to.  I’m supposed to meet up and go bike riding with James around 3 o’clock.  Before that I need to go to the ATM, go to the mechanic and have him check out that weird banging sound the car’s been making every time I put it into reverse - that’s always followed with a forced jerking motion.  Then I need to pick up my laundry, pass by the Pharmacy, then the Supermarket to pick up what I need to bake that cake I’ve wanted to try.  Actually I should go to the Supermarket before the Pharmacy because it’s closer to the Dry Cleaners.  Then it’s a straight shot to the Pharmacy, which is a quick stop anyways, so I don’t have to worry about the butter melting or anything like that.  Yup, that’s the plan.

I got up, out of bed and out of my head, and then started for the bathroom.  Time’s ticking away.  After my morning routines I finished getting dressed and went upstairs. 

“Good Morning Pop”.

“Morning son”, he responded.  “Did you sleep OK?  You look tired”

“Yea-yea, I’m fine” I responded as I zoomed by heading toward the kitchen where operation Cinnamon Toast Crunch was about to commence.  I glanced up at the clock in the kitchen as Dad asked me; “Do you have a minute to read this letter that came in the mail?”

“Not right now” I responded.  “But give it to me, I will a little later when I come back from picking up my laundry (and from doing the half dozen other things I know I need to do, I thought to myself).

“That’s fine, I know you’re busy. Whenever you have time”, he responded.

I grabbed the letter, headed back downstairs, and dug into my bowl of cereal.  Looking at the clock after every few minutes and re-adjusting my mental time table with approximations of how long each errand will be taking.  I opened up the letter to get it out of the way now.  It was the same Home Owners Property Tax summary that they send every quarter.  The same one that Dad always asks me about each and every time, thinking its an unexpected Bill.

I slurp up my sugary-cinnamon flavored milk as I walk toward the sink.  Rinse my fingers with water and wipe my mouth.  Damn I forgot to use the auto-start for the car to warm up.  Could’ve saved myself a couple minutes there.  I turn it on now, grab my laundry bag, to give myself something to pick up next week, and head back up stairs.

“Going out?”

“Yea Pop, I’ll be back later” I responded.

“Ok, drive saf-”

I cut him off in my usual ‘time is of the essence’ fashion; “Ok thanks Pop.  Here’s the letter back.  It’s just a summary of the House Taxes that were already paid.  You can toss it”.

Happily he said; “Oh thank you, thank you.  I thought it was a bill.  But it didn’t make sense because we pay the taxes through the Mortgage right?”

“Yea Pop, exactly.  It’s the same thing they always send every three months.  I have to go, see you later.”

“Ok son, see yo--

I shut the door behind me and quickly walked to the car.  Put the laundry in the back seat, and got into the drivers.  Put the car in reverse, waited for that jerking - ‘ok, now I’m actually in reverse’ – sound, and headed out of the drive way.  The mechanic was actually across the street from the Bank, which is where I spotted it last weekend.  The guy said I could pass by today and that he’d take a look and give me an estimate for free.  Hopefully it’s less than the $3,500 one that I got a couple months ago.  I left the Bank and headed toward the mechanic.  I was there for about a total of 20-25 minutes between him finishing up with the guy that got there before I did and him giving me a $2,700 estimate.  Better, but not good news.  I thanked him, got in my car looked at the clock and readjusted my projections now that I could swap two errand estimates with actual figures.  I still had enough time to do what I set out to do.

After picking up my Dry Cleaning, going to the Supermarket, Pharmacy and remembering I also had to go to the corner variety store to buy razor blades, I only had about an hour and a half to Bake this cake before I needed to head out to meet James at 3 o’clock to log in some biking miles at Forest Park. 

I got home, grabbed my pressed shirts and groceries from the back seat and headed into the house.

“Hey, how’d it go”? My father asked.

“Good Pop” I responded, “I’m going to make a cake for you to have some before I go bike riding in a little while”.

“Oh, ok great.  Thank you” he said.

I went downstairs put my stuff down and I changed my shirt.  Went back upstairs to the kitchen, prepped all of my ingredients and in the oven my All White Almond cake went.  Time is starting to run tight.  When it comes out of the oven in about half an hour, it’d be 25-20 minutes to three o’clock, which wasn’t enough time for it to cool and for me to frost it.  I text James and pushed it back to 3:30pm.

It was about 3:15pm and I had changed into my biking gear while the cake was cooling down, and I was ready to go as soon as I frosted it.  It wasn’t completely cool, still a bit warm actually.  I thought about letting it cool completely and just frosting it when I got back from the Park in a couple of hours…but I promised Pops a cake and I had to keep my word.  So I waited til 3:30 on the dot. James was already at the Park I’m sure.  He told me he was on his way about ten minutes ago and he was closer to it than I was.  I need to get out of here asap.

I quickly leveled out the cake and cut it in half so that I could frost the middle too.  I wasn’t happy with the way the frosting came out though.  It was more gooey than thick, and the cake still being warm didn’t help matters much either.  The frosting just melted into and all around the cake.  It did taste pretty good though – it gave the cake a ‘Tres Leches’ like moistness.  Next time I can’t rush this much though.  It came out way to sloppy.  I sprinkled some Almond slices onto it, took one look at the clock showing 3:34pm and yelled out “Grab some cake Pop, I have to go”.

I got my bike from the garage, text James “omw” as I rushed toward the Park.  About ten minutes and a quarter of a mile’s worth of residential streets later, I met James at the top of the hill we usually meet up at.

Slightly out of breath I gave him a pound and said “what’s up bro?”

“Better late then never, huh?” James said jokily.

“Sorry man” I responded, “I was rushing over here bro.  I was baking a fucking cake that was still warm when I was frosting it right before I bolted out of the house to get here and it came out like shit”

“Haha, I’m sure it’s fine and tastes good though.  C’mon lets get this ride in” and we did.

My mind is usually racing.  Thinking about what needs to be done, should be done, was done, could’ve been done differently, etc.  I’m focused, but not in the moment at all.  Whether it’s making sure I hit the exact coordinates of my pre-plotted daily course, unnecessarily rushing conversations, or meticulously and methodically following a cake recipe, I’m just going through the motions.  Speeding through.  Here I am at the Park, trying to keep up with James and focused on the millage on my odometer.  Oblivious to the beautiful sights all around me, forestry areas, hiking trails and other cyclists.  People jogging, walking & talking, picnics, BBQs, kids playing, laughing and enjoying life.  Here I am pedaling away and to ‘busy’ to stop and actually look around.  It’s always go, go, go with me.  At about 8.5 miles I reach the top of a long declining hill (my favorite to just let the bike pick up speed via gravity, peddle free) and I notice two little kids that couldn’t be more than three and four years old a piece, with who I assume is their Dad, both on their little bikes walking up the hill on the opposite side and watching me and James in awe as we fly down this hill.  And with the insightful wisdom of a thousand Monks, this four year old kid whose helmet was still to big for his head, yells out as we zipped by; “Slow down people”.

Bully

By Tony Ortiz | June 21st, 2014

Setting: 4th Grade Public School class room in Queens, New York circa 1994

“Today is a very important day”, said Mr. K.  “As you all know we voted last Thursday to make this years class Play, Cinderella and today we find out who our Cinderella and Prince Charming will be!”

A nervous murmur sprinkled with excitement made its way around the classroom amongst the kids as Mr. K continued: “Let me explain the selection process to you.  Anyone can volunteer for these two roles.  I will put a passage from the play, up on the chalkboard.  One by one all the volunteers will come up to the front of the class and read the passage to us, the same way you would on stage.  The rest of us will be making mental notes on how well you do, so that we can all vote to select the best person for the role, later.  After all the volunteers have had a chance to showcase their acting chops, I’m going to ask them to step outside into the hallway, while the rest of us quietly vote.  The person with the most votes will win the starring role.  And when you become big movie stars in Hollywood, don’t forget who discovered you, ha-ha-ha” he laughed with that deep-breath-pausing laugh of his. 

I sat nervously at my hard wooden desk in the middle-right side of the room, looking around at all of the shy, awkward soon to be volunteer faces, and all of the seemingly more confident ‘there’s no way in hell I’m going up there’ faces.

“Speak amongst yourselves and decide if you will be auditioning for the rest of us today, while I write the passages for both Cinderella and our Prince on the chalkboard.  Remember that all of us will play a part in the play on or off stage”.

Should I audition for the starring role?  I thought to myself.  It is the first step to being discovered and on my way to Hollywood.  Then I can be in a movie…or maybe even the Power Rangers!  Or should I be the stage-hand guy that opens and closes the curtains on the stage with those long, thick ropes that look like the ones we climb in gym class?  That could be fun too I guess.

“Hey Anthony” the most angelic voice in the whole wide world whispered.  “Are you going to audition to be the Prince?”

“I will if you audition for Cinderella”, I told Stephanie as I patted myself on the back, in my mind, for such a smooth comeback. 

“Yea right”, she says.  “I’m to much of a scardey-cat for that.  I wouldn’t be able to speak in front of the whole 4th, 5th and 6th grade!”

Oh man, I hadn’t even thought of that.  I’m worried about speaking in front of the class…imagine the actual Play in six weeks?

“Take 2 more minutes to make your decisions kids”, said Mr. K.  “Who is the board monitor for this week by the way?” 

“I am, Mr. K” said Sue-Ellen. 

“Please make sure you clap the erasers outside the window at the end of the day.  They’re filthy”.

“Yes Mr. K”, as she rolled her eyes.

Why she signed up to be board monitor, beats me.  She hates it and is always complaining about the dusty chalk making her cough.  I like being board monitor and trying to make big clouds of chalk when I clap the erasers together.  Two weeks ago I clapped them so fast that even Leo was impressed and didn’t try to take my cookies at lunch that day. 

“Ok my lovely Cinderella’s, ladies first.  Stand up at your desks if you’d like to audition”.  All of us eagerly scanned the room waiting for the brave souls to stand up.  One by one they got up.  Both of the twins, Vickyana and Iliana even did.  Then Tiffany, Angela, Pamela and Renee got up too.  Six girls in all. 

“Ok Cinderella’s, stand up in the back of the room, and I’ll call you up one by one to the front.  Read the paragraph for us and then return to your seats.  Angela, we’ll start with you”.

She walked up to the front of the classroom, nervously giggling.  Everyone likes Angela, she’s sweet and she’s Stephs best friend, so that means she’ll be like my sister-in-law or something one day.

Angela, twirled her braided hair around as she read the paragraph on the board, and giggled.  The class would laugh with her every time.  She finished, we all clapped and smiled and with a huge look of relief on her face, she went back to her desk and started talking with Steph right in front of me. 

“You’re so cool Angie”, Stephanie told her.  “I wish I could do that”. 

“Thanks”, responded Angela as she turned around to me and said: “Ant, you should go up there.  You’ll do great”.

I nervously nodded my head and smiled, completely tuning out Tiffany’s read. 

“Thank you Tiffany”, said Mr. K.  “You can go back to your seat now.  It’s your turn Pamela”.

Pam is cute, and has really nice blond hair, and last year in 3rd grade, she was Ariel from the Little Mermaid in Ms. Soto’s Class. She was awesome, and knows what she’s doing.  But my heart belongs to Stephanie and always will.  Right then it dawned on me.  The plan of all plans.  If I got the part, Steph would have to love me back.  Who doesn’t love a Prince?  That’s my motivation; I have to win her over somehow.  Even if I don’t get it, she’ll think I’m just as cool as Angela, and that’s one step closer to making her my girlfriend.

The roaring clap in the room snapped me out of my plotting mind. 

“Great job Pamela,” said Mr. K.  “Very impressive.  Please take your seat now”. 

After the remaining girls went up, Mr. K asked them all to step out into the hallway as he whispered to us:

“Ok my little Siskel and Eberts, by a show of hands, how many of you want Angela to be our Cinderella?”  He counted the votes, and tallied them up next to where he had written all the volunteers names.

We all knew that Pamela was going to win, but my loyalty vote, together with Stephs, went to Angie.

“Ralphy, please let the girls know that they can come in now”, said Mr. K. 

Ralphy’s seat was right by the door, so he reached over and opened the door.  “Mr. K said to come back in”, he told the girls, and they did.  As they walked in Mr. K says:

Everyone give a round of applause to our Cinderella, Pamela.  As she smiled with an excited look on her face.  Good for her, I thought.  She definitely deserved it.  

“Ok, everyone back to their seats.  Quiet down.  Now, time for our leading man.  Which of you brave young men will be auditioning for the role?

My heart is racing like a marching band snare drum solo.  Leo gets up, Ralphy, Mike, Joey, Curtis, Charlie even got up and then Steven did too.  Steph turns around to me and gives me a pouty sad face and I darted up like a whac-a-mole in a town fair. 

“Ok guys, to the back of the room you go.  Curtis, we’ll start with you.”

Curtis went up and could’ve given an Oscar worthy performance for all I know.  Drowning waves of nervousness overwhelmed my consciousness.  What was I thinking?  Last year I had a one-liner in the class Play, as Peddler #2 in a Pinocchio parody and nearly shit myself.  Now I’m auditioning for a staring role in my sophomore performance?  Talk about being over zealous.  She better love me after doing this, I swear.  And not some ‘love me today, knew me tomorrow’ kind of love.  I mean love-love.  Love me like Topanga loves Corey or how Kelly loved Zack before Jeff came along, kind of love. 

“Ok, who wants to go next?”  Mr. K asked as Leo nudged me forward in the line. 

“A brave volunteer” says Mr. K.  “Come on up Anthony”.  I look back at Leo with a look that must have been a fusion of disdain mixed with the look of a deer caught in the headlights.  “Stupid jerk”, I murmured as I walked away from him and toward the green chalkboard.  He smirked at me with that maniacal, devilish smile of his that only accentuated his horn like eyebrows.  I look at Steph as I walk by her desk and she points at something she wrote on her desk.  It was a heart that she drew with our initials in it! A+S it said.  And it wasn’t written in pencil, it was in pen!  She’d have to spit on it to wipe it off.  After that, I had the confidence to take a role away from Macaulay Culkin.

“Read the paragraph off of the board and project your voice toward the audience as if you were on stage.  Ready? Action!” said Mr.K.

I cleared my throat and gave it a whirl:

How foolish of me to think that I can throw a grand Ball for all of the fairest eligible ladies of the town to attend, and expect to find my true love in just one night.  What was I thinking?  I’ve been somber and alone for far to long causing me to result to these drastic measures.

[Enter Cinderella as the Ball Room doors open up wide]   

Wait!  There is my Princess.  True Love has finally answered my prayers.  She is as beautiful as an April morning.  ‘Come, let us dance’.

[The Prince takes Cinderella by the hand and proceeds to a solo slow dance]

There’s my debut of some pretty impressive acting chops if I do say so myself.  The class clapped and everything.  They may have clapped for everyone else, but I was too nervous to remember.  I even caught Leo turn to Joey and say something to the effect of; ‘that was good’.  I walked back to my seat with my head held high and with extra pep in my step.  Angie turned to me and said; “you’re so gonna win”, Steph nodded in agreement as she blushed.  I smiled back at them in an ‘I know I’m awesome way’ and said, “nahhh.  We’ll see what happens”. 

Leo tried pushing Joey up next like he did to me, so that he would go last, but Mr. K actually noticed this time. 

“Leo, since you’re so kind to let people go before you, how about we return the favor and let you go first?  Come up”, he said sternly.  Then Leo walked by and kicked my chair on his way up to the front of the room.  Hard enough to make me lose my balance while sitting and not expecting that jolt, but soft enough to act like it was an accident.  What an evil douche.

Leo reads his lines with a lack luster ‘I’m to cool for school’ attitude.  Looking at the floor the whole time, sucking his teeth, messing up and repeating his lines.  Then went to his desk saying “that was stupid.  I didn’t feel like doing it good”.  Joey went up after and gave a similarly forgetful performance and off we went to stand outside in the hall as the class voted.

We’re all slightly on edge anticipating the results of the votes being cast.  Leo turns to address us all and surprisingly says; “guys, no matter what, none of us can get mad.  We’re all friends and it don’t matter who won”.  We all nodded our heads and agreed.  “Yea” said mike, “we all gave it our best shots”. 

This was great, as I stood there thinking to myself.  I know I did great.  Like that feeling you have when you Ace an exam before you actually receive the results.  I think Mike did really well, and he’s Pamela’s boyfriend so he might get a lot of votes just based on that.  He’s cool too, so I’m ok with that.  But I know for a fact that I smoked Leo and Joey.  Curtis I was too nervous to pay attention to, and the other guys did so-so.  Me and Mike have to be top choices.  So Leo, the class bully being ok with all that, was perfect.  The door opens up with Mr. K at the other end of it.  “Come in my little Prince’s”.  All of our names and votes were on the chalkboard, and I had to do a double-take as the class clapped to welcome us back in:

Curtis 2

Steven 3

Charlie 3

Mike 8

Ralphy 1

Anthony 14

Leo 2

Joey 1

It was a landslide!  Woah, I really did win.  “Give it up for our Prince Charming everybody”, said Mr. K as he had us take our seats again.  That’s so cool.  Scary.  But good-scary.  We all took our seats as Mr. K gave an overview of how many practices we we’re going to have in the classroom and on which days we would get the auditorium to actually practice on the big stage. 

“See I told you so” Angie said.

Steph followed that with; “I knew you would do it for me”.  I winked at her and scanned my eyes around the room.  Steven gave me a nod and a smile, Mike gave me the thumbs up, Pamela smiled and looked eager to begin going over our lines.  I then make it around to Joey and Leo.  Joey’s disinterested as usual, sloppily folding up a piece of loose-leaf into a paper airplane.  Leo is looking at me like a rabid pit-bull who’s having his meal taken away from it.  Nostrils flaring, horned eye-brows pointing upwards like two little pyramids. Snarling, and pounding his right fist into the palm of his left hand like a Major League Baseball Catcher whose anticipating the final pitch of a no-hitter.  I turn around, straight in my desk, acting as if I hadn’t seen what I had just seen.  Like an ostrich sticking its head in the sand, I found solace in sitting as still as if I was avoiding to be seen by a Tyrannosaurus Rex, while in plain sight. 

Partly surprised at the hypocrisy of this kid and the other part of me feeling as if I was completely in the know all along.  While sitting there and perfecting my statue pose, I spent the next two Subjects in class before lunch, talking myself into the possibility that he was joking around and I had just turned around a half second before he started smiling and did the ‘I’m just messin’ with ya” - gesture. Then I see the first one fly by the side of my head in a forward trajectory past me and between the two girls, headed toward the windows and over the table of plants that we planted in Styrofoam cups last Wednesday.  Pam and Steph both turn around and face me at the exact same time that I’m thinking ‘what the fuck was that’ and begin turning my head back.  “Wham!” – spitball number two hits me and sticks…it sticks to my cheek, right by my mouth.  Everyone that witnessed this, including the girls, burst out into a laugh as I squirmed in a shocked and disgusted frantic way to slap it off of my face.  “Yuck! That almost went in my mouth, stupid” I told Leo.  I don’t even know if anyone heard that over all the laughter. 

“Hey, hey settle down back there.  This isn’t recess.  Who wants detention?  Who wants detention?!?”, and when Mr. K actually raises his voice like that, we all listen.  Even Leos bully ass.  Right before lunch, about 8 minutes before to be exact, I strategically raise my hand and ask:

“Can I go to the bathroom?  My stomach really hurts”.

“Can you hold it?” he responded.

“Nooo”, I said.  “I really can’t”.

“Ok, but if we’re not here when you return, meet us in the cafeteria, it’s almost lunchtime” he said.

I nodded in agreement, having not the energy or will to utter an unnecessary word.  I felt weak in the knees as I walked out of the room. 

I waited til lunch was more than half over and I walked to the cafeteria.  Mr. K asked me where I’d been and that I can still go grab lunch.  But I told him my stomach was hurting too much and I wasn’t hungry.  I sat there with my head half way down, on the opposite side of the table from Leo, and closer to Mr. K.  Maybe he had forgotten that he wanted to kill me, I thought to myself.  Then Mr. K walked away to go speak with Ms. Maloney, a fifth grade teacher.  From the corner of my right eye, I see Leo get up and start towards me. 

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked.

“I’m sick” I responded, “I think I have the flu”.  (Could it be that he was joking all along and I’ve just been overreacting?  Did he genuinely care about my well-being?)  I turn my head towards him, cause I was avoiding eye contact at first, and noticed him looking in the direction of Mr. K, who was still distracted with his conversation and with Ms. Maloney flirting with him.

“I’m still going to fuck you up", he said as he pushed my head down and bounced my forehead off of the cold white surface of the fold-a-way lunch table.  I shoved his arm away in a pathetic attempt to ‘fight-back’ as he walked away and laughed. 

Mr. K walked back to escort us outside for the 15 minutes of after lunch recess they give us so that we burn off some of the sugar we’ve ingested at lunch and tire ourselves out enough to be tolerable for the next three hours of class.

“Hey Ant, you want to play kick ball with us outside?” Adam asked me.

“Nah, I don’t want to go outside,” I responded.

“Come on, you love kick-ball, and you’re one of the best at it.  Don’t worry about Leo, he’s not playing.  I think he’s playing ‘Asses-up’ on the handball court with Joey and the 5th graders or something”, rebutted Adam.

Was everyone already aware of my impending doom?

“No, you guys go ahead.  I’m going to stay in” I told Adam.  He shrugged his shoulders and left with the burgundy kick-ball under his right arm and a half squeezed apple juice box in his left. 

Some of the nerd kids always stayed inside at recess, to play checkers and battleship, and some to start their homework!  Ugh, is this what is going to happen to me?  Is this my future?

The next 3 torturous hours sitting in class were a blur.  The bell was about to ring for dismissal in like 5 minutes, and I was out of excuses, plans or ideas.  I looked at Leo with one last piece of hope that he would admit to have just been messing with me all afternoon…and he gave me the finger.  Yea that finger. 

“Lets start lining up now, in size order guys and gals”, said Mr. K “so that we can walk out double file as soon as the first bell rings”.

(Great, he’s speeding up the inevitable, I thought to myself). 

The multi-tonal bell rings.

“Ok lets go kids, walk out to the front of staircase B and wait for me to shut off all the lights”, said Mr. K.

I stood there, with a look on my face that must’ve been oozing worry.  Then it dawned on me.  My older brother was picking me up, as he always did after he got out from High School.  I was saved!  He can put an end to this, or at least scare Leo away.  He’s in the 9th grade.  He’s usually outside by the time I walk out to the street too.  There was a class in front of us so we were lined up in the staircase, waiting for the second bell, followed by the announcement by Mr. Laparo (the Dean) of opening up the doors. 

Leo was above me in the staircase and leaned over Mikes shoulder and says: “I’m gonna fuck you up”.

“No you’re not, my brother is outside”, I responded confidently.

“I’ll fuck his fat ass up too” Leo responded.

“No you can’t stupid asshole.  Shut up.  He’s bigger than you” I responded defiantly.   

“Shhhh! keep it down and face forward” said Mr. K

Could he really beat me and my brother both up? I thought to myself as the worry began to sink in again.

Stephanie was right across from me in the girls line and turned to me, and asked: “are you really going to fight Leo”?

I quickly gave a knee-jerk reaction response; “hell no”, with an ‘of course not’ look on my face.  I actually thought for some reason, that she would respect me taking the admirable ‘high-road’ and not succumbing to Leo’s bullying taunts and tactics.  The love of my life and future mother of my children (as I hoped it to be one day) leaned back over to me and with an angelic whisper said: “you’re a pussy”, and turned away from me in disgust.  At that moment I felt as if the whole world came crashing down around me.  Everything became dark.  I felt as if my heart had leaped up into my throat and was making its way out of my body through my mouth, because it didn’t even want to me affiliated with me any longer.  At that moment, Leo kicking my ass didn’t seem like such a bad idea anymore.  Maybe he’d knock me unconscious and I’d get amnesia and forget any of this ever happened. 

“Ok kids, see you tomorrow” Mr. K said after Mr. Laparo’s OK to dismiss us.  He pushed open the brown painted metal doors “get home safe”.

I walk out and scan the sea of parents, babysitters and older siblings waiting there to make their pick-ups.  Searching for my brother that’s nowhere to be seen.  Where the fuck is he?!?  Seriously, today out of all days he’s not here on time?

I get yanked by the top loop of my plastic blue and red Power Rangers backpack and dropped to the floor like a Leaf in the Fall.  It was Leo!  I quickly looked around and not many people noticed.  The ones that did thought that we were horsing around and didn’t make much of it.  Mike and Adam and even Joey came up behind Leo and held him back, as I stood up and Leo charged forward with the strength of a raging bull.  They could barely hold him back!

“Run, go!” Adam said.

“Just get out of here”, said Mike.

“Let me go, I’m going to kill him!” Leo exclaimed. 

I turned around and ran away toward the rear of the school, where the back yard was.  Frantically dodging people in my way and simultaneously looking for my brother.  I get to the back yard and look back to see the guys holding him back and waving me off at the same time.  Yelling but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.  I dart across the yard to the other side of the school.  I’ve never run so fast.  I re-entered the school on the other side.  I was safe, for now.  But now I had no way of getting in touch with my brother so it was like I was trapped inside. 

After the longest ten minutes of my life, I walked over to the other side of the school, from the inside, looking over my shoulder with every step.  I cracked open the brown medal door, and stuck my head out.  There was barely a handful of people left.  Just a couple parent friends catching up before going their separate ways.  In the distance I see my brother making his way up to my school.  I step out and look around one more time to make sure the ghost was clear, and I run towards him with tears in my eyes, but relieved. 

“What the hell is wrong with you”? he asked.

“Leo wants to beat me up” I shamefully responded.

“What?  Why?  Where is he?” He asked.

“I don’t know, lets go home” I said insistently.

“No”, he responded sternly, “lets go find him”.  “I think I saw his brother Alvin in school today.  He probably came to pick him up.  I’ll go talk to him”.

Like a dog with his tail between his legs, I walked half a step behind my brother. 

“There they go over there, standing by the crossing guard”, my brother said as he spotted them half a block away.  We approached them and I felt as if we were about to negotiate some type of gang-war truce over turf or something.

“Yo what’s up?” my brother said to Leo’s brother.  “Something happened with these two and he tells me Leo wants to fight him, and I want to squash that and make sure we’re cool here”.

Alvin turns to Leo and says; “that true?  Why you wanna fight this kid?”

Leo, half looking up and half looking at the floor while he lightly kicked at a few pebbles on the ground, says: “he took my part in the play”. 

“nah-uh” I responded quickly.  “I won the part fair and square”. 

Alvin smirked and told Leo; “c’mon man, you can’t be bullying kids acting like a tuff guy.  You do that shit when you get to Junior High, not now.  Don’t be doing stuff like that”.  How screwed up is this family?  Put off your bullying til you’re older?  Like it’s some sort of rite of passage.  What kind of advice is that? (Mental note to self…don’t go to the same Junior High as this lunatic).

“So are we good here?” my brother asked them, with a no-nonsense tone in his voice.

“Yea, we’re good” Alvin responded and gave my brother a pound.  “Shake his hand and say sorry” he instructed Leo as he pointed to me.  And he did, he slapped me five and said see you tomorrow, and they walked away.  It was finally over.  My brother had successfully negotiated my freedom.

“You’re the best!” I told him.  “Thank you!”  As I happily walked beside him on our way home.

“When we get home, you have to clean my white sneakers with the soap and toothbrush” he told me.

“Ok, no problem”, I said willingly.  Small price to pay for saving my life, I thought. 

“And clean my room for the next month too.  If you don’t, I’ll tell Leo to beat you up”.

FML