Take Away the Saints

Smoke 'Em Up: Fully Assumed || Ian R. Cooper

The mid-40's woman across the counter at Ray's stares at me with disinterest as I rattle off Lisa's special order. I'm wearing Jase's aviators inside the diner to hide my bloodshot eyes, coming down off the adrenaline, cocaine, and alcohol. At least it's not some fucking teenager. There's a better than fifty-fifty shot my order comes out right.

"Sir, we don't have English muffins," she says.

"Oh, right. Just the same thing on biscuits then."

She finishes writing in her green and white pad, rips off the ticket, hangs it on a line to the kitchen and yells, "Order up!"

I sit at the barstool with my hands in my lap, acutely aware of the visible remnants from my session with Keely. That should be the least of my worries. Everything is so fucked now. Carl Bixly is rotting in some dumpster eight blocks away, but I'm here carrying on with his life like it never happened. Am I just supposed to go home from here? Could I really just ditch all of the responsibilities I've created and move on to Jase's seemingly care-free life?

My family is back at that shitty apartment, but the word loosely means nothing to me. I could slave the rest of my days to provide for them. A mortgage. Multi-car loans. A hundred grand in college debt. The American dream. I'm ill-prepared to be a father. My dad was an asshole, just as assuredly as I would be to my own son. Give him pointers on infidelity instead of his math homework. Teach him how to drink instead of play catch. How to murder a man. Then one day he can crank out a loser of his own. And on, and on, and on. A cycle of bastards.

"Here you go, hon." The waitress slides a greasy takeout bag in front of me.

I thank her and grab the food on my way to the Ferrari. The leather seats are so clean that I'm loathe to set the diner mash on them, so I place it on the floorboard. The car rumbles to life when I hit the ignition, and I slowly begin to make my way back to Lisa.

The easy way out is all I know. Take the easy girl, even though she's steadily made life hell. Those vows are for better or worse, richer or poorer, sickness and health. Nobody says anything about a soul-sucking existence. Utter, mad unhappiness. Maybe that's rolled up into the 'worse' part.

There was happiness, once. No telling when the change occurred, it was a gradual development, like a river's undercurrent carving out a canyon of despair and regret. Now we stand across the divide, and nobody cares enough to be the one to start building a bridge. That baby will just fall into the gap, a lost cause before it even had a chance. A cradle rocked by swinging bouts of remorse, indifference, and rage.

Leaving could be a mercy. Maybe Lisa will learn from her ways that drove me out. She'll meet a decent man who will be an actual father and raise the kid to do the right things in life. Maybe.

I throw the car in park and head into the apartment complex. The power is back on, but I choose to take the stairs, rather than the elevator.

Odds are, without me, Lisa will choose to have an abortion. She's used to a certain lifestyle, one which does not include hard work or earned reward. Being ripped from the womb is probably a better fate than being under that bitch's thumb for eighteen years. The world now is scorched earth, anyway. Plagued by useless motherfuckers just like me, breeding violence, corruption, and contempt.

There was a time when things were more black and white. Good and bad were well-defined when we played 'cops and robbers'. Religion made sense in a world of angels and demons. Somewhere along the way, the hand of God reached down to take away the saints. The rest of us got left behind to decay in the sin of trying to get ahead. Survival of the most vicious. Accolade for the most narcissistic. Darwin would be proud.

The craving hits as I softly stride to the apartment door. Caught up in the turmoil of the day's events, I realize I haven't had a smoke since this morning. The pack in the blazer pocket has a single cigarette left.

There's a part of me that would feel bad for leaving. Might look back fondly on the old times and what I'm walking away from. But that day seems foggy and distant. Still, I want some token of my remembrance besides a soggy sack of food.

I remove Jase's wallet from my pocket and fish out the two grand I took from the ATM. Minus the cost from the diner. I take a long drag off the cigarette, shove the bills and change into the doggy bag, loudly knock twice on the door, then turn back to the stairwell.

Jason Kimmel needs to pick up a pack of smokes.