Issue 27 - Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art

12
giant claw and the walls have shifted, jamming the windows tight.
The window I got isn't big enough to make a large table, and MJ
won't want to make just one end table. She already knows where
they'll go in her apartment. I kick the brick chips at my feet, cuss,
then swing the crowbar into the row ofwindows. Glass flies and
lead seams bend and break. If we can't have them, no one can. I
circle the house, giving each window five sharp bashes with the
crowbar. My skin is hot. My hands tingle from the impact. I bark
Shit! Fucker! Shit! with each swing, then run to the other house
and begin breaking its windows, too.
I am standing on the front porch when I see the police car
coming, a spotlight sweeping over the demolished side of the
street. I jump off and run behind the first house. The spotlight
flashes on my legs. I dive over the thick trunk of tree they've torn
down, land in a pile of branches. My hand scrapes against the
trunk and I feel warm blood well up on my knuckles. The crowbar
jabs my hip. I do not breathe, do not flinch. An ant crawls across
my face. I listen to the blood pound in my ears, watch the clouds
pass overhead, lit up by the city lights. I wait for the cops to find
me stupidly frozen behind this tree trunk, but they never come. I
count to three hundred, then poke my head up. I'm safe. I climb
back over the fence, find the windowpane and head toward home.
In an alleyway I stop under a lightpole and look the window
over. It has been spray-painted almost solid red. One glass square is
missing, two others are cracked. It's worthless. I tuck the window
under my arm like a large book, turn left instead of right at the
end of the alley. I walk to a nearby parking garage, carry the window
to the top level, stand at the edge and hurl the thing into the street.
It tumbles for two seconds, spinning slowly, like a giant nine of
diamonds flicked into the air, then lands flat on the center stripe.
A belly flop. A metallic clap. Glass scatters across both lanes. I think
what torture it would be to walk through it barefoot. It would
sting worse than my bleeding hand. The frame is a twisted thing.
No one sees this but me. I do not go home until almost sunrise.
Excessive Noise
MJ slams the door to Johnson's room, storms down the hall,
slams our front door as she leaves. They have been arguing for an
hour. She wants to go with him to his brother's wedding. He
wants to go alone. I know why: one of the bridesmaids is a highschool
girlfriend he still sees when he visits his parents. I wait
fifteen minutes. Johnson doesn't leave his room. I go outside and
walk down the block to the park bench where MJ is sitting. I sit
down next to her. Trouble in paradise? I say. "He can be such an
asshole," MJ says. "He says he's 'not ready' for me to meet his
parents." She has not been crying. I love her for that. I can smell
her sweat. I want to put my hands on her face. You ought to live
with him, I say. You think he's a jerk about this, you ought to go
grocery shopping with him. He likes crunchy peanut butter, for
Christ's sake. MJ laughs. She leans back. "You know, all he and I
do is watch movies, eat out and fuck." She stands up and brushes
the seat of her pants. "I'm going back in. Coming?" I shake my
head no and watch her walk back up the block. I sit and watch
traffic go by, the sky go orange with sunset, and wonder what role
it is that I have been assigned. I wonder if my face has started to
lose its features, or if I am fading into invisibility. I head back to
the apartment, climb the stairs to the third floor. At the door, I
hear sounds that have become as familiar to me as the purr of my
computer. Sounds I hear from down the hall almost every night.
I open the door. A flash of Johnson leaning over MJ on the couch,
of hands moving under clothing, and I slam the door closed again.
Murder
I am driving home after the seafood trucker pays me and I
stop at an abandoned feed mill near some railroad tracks. I drive
by it all the time. The building is boarded up and surrounded by
weeds as tall as I am. Spray-painted graffiti covers most of the
bricks. EVAN + JUDY COUGARS RULE JESUS SAVES I
look through a gap in the boards. Inside, the building is empty,
dusty and undisturbed. No one comes here. There are no other
buildings for at least a half-mile. This is how it works: while
Johnson is on his evening jog, I hit him with my car. I know just
the stretch of highway. I come at him from the other direction,
cross the center line and clip him with the front bumper. The look