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New Voices From San Francisco |
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New Voices From San Francisco |
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A Sensitive Man By Daniel Finnegan
The
O’Neil glided swiftly down the sidewalk at a smooth and steady run, his
massive reflection floating across the windowpanes on Who
the fuck is it and what da’ya want! growled a voice from the intercom. Your
rising interest rates, what’s rightfully his, he answered calmly. Frantic
shuffling and cursing from the speaker, then it clicked silent. The
O’Neil walked around to the side of the building. He quickly surveyed
the high fence surrounding the fire escape, listened for a moment, then
ran his feet up the bottom of the fence, grabbed the top of it with one
arm and vaulted himself over, landing gracefully in a crouching position.
He rose, walked to the fire escape, and ascended it quietly. He stopped on
the sixth floor landing and listened. Rustling and clicking from inside
the apartment. He kicked the back door off its hinges sending wood and
paint chips fluttering through the air. He walked in, a man was pointing a
pistol at his face. I
don’t have the fucking money yet man, get the fuck out of here! It’s
been too long. The
O’Neil kicked the gun out of the man’s hand, threw him against the
wall, and began upper cutting his ribs repeatedly with great speed. He
went over his shopping list in his head: Hmmm, let’s see… yogurt,
granola, organic cat food. When he heard things breaking inside the man he
stopped. The man fell face first into the floor. You’re
gonna pay up, The O’Neil said. …Fuck
you, the man gnarled. The
O’Neil seized him by the neck and crotch and lifted him high up and over
his head. Tell
K.O.B. I’ll get the money man, god dammit, put me down! Will
do. He
reared back and threw the man – his body horizontally flew through the
air the entire length of the living room. It came down on a futon,
breaking the wooden slats in the frame. The O’Neil turned to leave and a
squirrelly little mohawked midget man came at him with a knife. Ayeee.
He snapped the little man’s wrist like a twig, lifted him up off the
ground by his waist, and head butted him in the chest, concaving it. He
hooked his right index finger through the rear loop on the little
character’s pants and gently flung him underhanded next to the futon he
now matched. Then he left through front door of the apartment and trotted
lightly down the stairs.
He
walked out the front door of the apartment building and effortlessly
accelerated into a jog of the same steady rate in which he had come, now
motoring the opposite direction on Excuse
me dear, the woman said, would you be so kind as to help me light this? Of
course. He
walked over to her and she produced a massive cigar from her purse. He
flipped the metal top of his lighter on its hinge and proceeded to light
the end of her cigar while she puffed it cherry. Thank
you kindly sweetheart, would you like a seat? Sure,
why not, till my bus comes. He took up the seat next to her and they
smoked and took in the happenings of the neighborhood. Nice
day, the woman said and she turned and smiled at him. Do you have the day
off? No,
unfortunately I have to work. That’s
a shame. You could be out at the park or the beach with your sweetheart.
You must have a sweetheart? You’re quite the specimen of man. The
O’Neil smiled, I do, she’s at home. Hopefully I can wrap it up early
today and get home and make her some dinner. Lucky
gal, she is, with a strong handsome man-cook like you. Oh…
I’m the lucky one, but thank you. You’re looking quite radiant
yourself this morning. The woman blushed and looked down as she tapped her
cigar in the ashtray. The 44 was barreling up the street. That’s
my ride, The O’Neil said. He took one last pull before crushing his
cigarette out in the tray, It was nice talking with you, and you have a
wonderful day. You
too sweetie, take care of that lucky gal of yours. He
turned his head and nodded to her before boarding the bus. She
was smiling and puffing silver blue plumes, her face wearing the same
pleasant look it had when he’d walked into the coffee shop. The
O’Neil paid his fare in full and thanked the driver for the transfer
pass. He sized up the occupancy and brachiated to the rear of the bus. He
sat in the back row of seats and inserted white headphones into his ears
and selected a serenity mix of John Denver and Paul Simon and the
occasional ambient electronic track. The bus bounced and lurched and
creaked and swayed as it winded through hillside neighborhoods before
descending into the rustic industrial section south of town. At one point
two arrogant young men who probably referred to themselves as gangstas
swaggered on using the rear door to avoid the fair. They sat a few rows
ahead of The O’Neil and began harassing a young woman in the seat in
front of them for many blocks, groping her and muttering degrading
utterances behind her head. She moved seats often attempting to avoid them
but they persisted, moving when she did. Eventually she ended up in the
back near the O’Neil. Other passengers noticed the crimes but were too
self absorbed or frightened to do or say anything. The O’Neil calmly
stared at one of the young men. He looked back and turned to his partner
to point out the big cracker as he described The O’Neil. The O’Neil
turned down the volume of his music. He did not enjoy being called
derogatory names and also did not appreciate being misplaced into some
sort of white oppressor bracket. They continued to harass and grab the
woman. Be
nice…The O’Neil said calmly. What
bitch? Or
else. Or else what mothafucka. They both turned their attention to The O’Neil. Or
I’ll show you how to be mean. Listen
to this joker son. That’s
a pretty nice mp3 player bitch. The
men advanced toward The O’Neil and one of them raised his sweatshirt to
reveal a gun in his waist. The O’Neil rose and in a flash of movement he
palmed their heads like basketballs and knocked their skulls together. A
thunk sounded throughout the bus and many passengers voiced relief, the
two men making much more appealing fellow-riders in an unconscious state.
He released one man’s head and let him fall limp into an empty seat. He
continued palming the other head and walked slowly to the middle of the
bus, the man’s legs dragging behind him. He stopped at the rear door and
pressed repeat on his player and turned up the volume to hear once more
the song that was coming to an end. He looked out the windshield and
glimpsed a street name. This was his stop. He lifted the man’s palmed
noggin and smacked it into the red button on the pole to request his stop:
Ding. He let the body fall to the floor like a wet bag and slid it
out of the walk-path and under the seats with his foot. The rear doors
swung open and he exited the bus, humming softly the melody that poured
into his ears.
He seamlessly fell into a steady run across the street and started up the block, recalling an address in his mind and glancing at the numbers on the warehouses. After a few blocks he slowed to a halt at a weathered building front and knocked on the service door lightly. No answer. He heard something from inside and walked over to the metal sectional door used for deliveries. Screaming and hoarse laughing from inside. He pounded on the metal door with his fist. He heard boots walking toward it. Coming, a voice said, inflecting upwards. The sectional door slid up quickly and revealed a stalky man standing with a crow bar in his hand Time
to pay up, the O’Neil said calmly. As
you can see, we’re kinda busy right now. The man motioned behind him
with his head, grinning with eyes wide. A
man slathered in dog food sat duct taped to a chair in the middle of the
warehouse. Pit bulls looking severely beaten and malnourished were chained
to the concrete floor and lunging inches from the man’s face, drooling
and foaming from the mouth. Another man lounged in a folding beach chair
stretching and measuring an armband of a crude leathery substance. We
could always use one more if you wanna come in, or you can get the fuck
out of here. He raised the crow bar, laying the other end in his open
palm. The
O’Neil took a step forward and requested the funds that belonged to his
employer once more. The man swung the crow bar at his head. The O’Neil
blocked it with his forearm, sustaining a serious blow to his ulna. The
man reared back to take another swing but The O’Neil raised his boot
high and kicked him square in the face, sending him backwards and sliding
across the floor with the clanging crow bar. This prompted the other man
to drop his accessorizing activities, bound from his lounging position in
the chair and charge The O’Neil with arms gyrating in some form of
Caucasian karate. The O’Neil allowed his displays and sounds for a
moment before thrusting the elbow of his uninjured forearm into the
temporal region of the man’s bobbing head. The blow straightened the
man’s body briefly, his eyes and face appearing vacant, then he rocked
back on his heels and tipped linearly into the floor like a pencil. The
O’Neil gathered the crow bar and the cheerful man who answered the door.
He hooked one side of the bar through the back of the man’s collar and
used the other end to prop and hang him upright from a water pipe running
along the wall. He requested the funds one last time. The man grumbled
torturous sexual threats, the imaginative creativity of which impressed
and pleased himself and he smiled fiendishly with lost teeth. The O’Neil
began working his face like speed bag. After a short time the man’s face
began to resemble a slice of pizza with no cheese on it. The O’Neil
thought about the fourth step work he would have to do regarding his
present physical activities and he accelerated the revolutions of his
fists, throwing in an uppercut here and there for good measure. It was on
the upswing of one of these measures that he felt a hot sharp plunge of
metal into his quadricep. The amateur jeweler had risen from his slumber
and sunk a long handled flathead screwdriver into his leg. The O’Neil
turned and surprised himself by almost becoming angry, then he came to the
realization that he might have to become violent. He wrapped the palm of
his large right hand tightly around the back of the man’s head and neck
and thrust his own head into the man’s face, shattering the regretful
look on it along with any pre-existing bone structures. He let the man
crumble to the floor and quickly grabbed his ankles, turned, and proceeded
to beat the man hanging from the pipe with his crony’s body, their bones
smacking together like billiard balls with each successive swing. When
both men were sufficiently bludgeoned The O’Neil held the man he had
been wielding as a swinging tool upside down by his ankles and shook the
contents from his clothing onto the floor. He threw the man’s body aside
and picked a billfold out of the pile of paraphernalia and weaponry. He
counted out what was owed and dropped the rest, then looked at the man
duct taped to the chair. He thought it a shame that the dogs were treated
this way, that men like these even had dogs. He sat on a nearby cinder
block and pulled the screwdriver from his thigh and pressed his hand on
the wound hard. It wasn’t as bad as he thought, but he was bleeding out.
He walked over and got the crow bar and unhooked it from the man’s shirt
and the pipe and the man’s body dropped to the floor. He sat back down
and took out his lighter and flipped it open and held it under the flat
end of the crow bar for a long time. He thought he might as well light a
cigarette, so he did. He ripped open his pants to expose the entry wound
and pressed the hot bar on hard. The cauterizing made a slight hissing
sound, The O’Neil thought of the war and made none. When the bleeding
slowed and the skin was leathery he pulled a small suture kit from the
side pocket of his work pants and began to suture the wound. It was a
funny angle and he couldn’t get it tight. He looked at the duct-taped
man. He walked over to him, pulled out his pocketknife, cut one of the
man’s arms free and told him to hold the catgut tight. The man did. The
dogs did not attack The O’Neil. Their chains slackened as they drew back
and neared the point where they were bolted to the floor. As he was
finishing the suture his cell phone rang, it was K.O.B. How
we doing? So
So, a fifty percent day. Go
Home. What? Go
Home, you’re done for today – email me your fourth step work. It’s
getting longer by the day. Have
a good night. The
O’Neil rose and left the warehouse, pulling down the door before
accelerating into steady a jog towards the train.
He
got off the train at a stop short of his house and walked into an organic
grocer, calmed by the serene acoustic album that had conveniently ran its
entirety in sync with the length of track he had just traveled over. He
grabbed a hand basket and began collecting his needs. He was reading
nutritional information on the back of a can of cat food when he noticed
an ancient man facing up the shelves in an apron. He was not a year under
ninety, maybe a tender hundred. The O’Neil thought of retirement, failed
pension plans, and of how scared and confused many old people looked to
him, men that were no doubt confident as hell one day, for many days, and
now looked like deer about to be made into headlights, in a scary new
seemingly doomed world. He thought it unfair, but the man then emerged
from the back of a low shelf he was crouched in looking very happy,
content. He smiled at The O’Neil. The O’Neil smiled back, then chose
his product and walked to the front of the store and placed his items on
the conveyer belt, using the useful plastic dividers to sandwich them in.
He loved those things. While the checker was ringing him up the old
stocker walked by with a price gun and the checker called him. Yes. Take
a break. …Okay The
man looked a little disappointed. The O’Neil respectfully inquired about
the man. He was 98. He chose to
keep working. It had nothing to do with pensions. The local newspaper did
a story on him every year. The O’Neil was impressed. He glanced at a
bulletin board on the wall near the door on his way out of the store. One
of the newspaper articles featuring Warren the workhorse was tacked to it,
he was smiling genially in the photo.
The
O’Neil chose to walk home, and a nice walk and a nice day it was. When
he got to his building he unlocked his mailbox and sifted through the
pieces. Credit card offers. The O’Neil laughed in his mind at the irony
of it all. Borrowing someone else’s money to buy things and then paying
it back by deadline in order to build credibility and prove
responsibility. He liked cold hard cash and wished it was still worth
something. Collecting the governments IOU’s from people who owed K.O.B..
He fiddled with his key, being careful not to force and break it off in
the lock, which was neglected along with the building due to an absentee
landlord to cheap and lazy even to hire a management company. He
high-stepped the stairs three by three with his groceries in hand and the
crap mail elbowed. He inserted his key and turned the knob to his
apartment slowly. He opened the door to soft squeaking sounds. Hey
little one. A
tiny orange kitten with a pinkish nose and a notched left ear was chirping
up at him and brushing against his boot. Hungry? He
lowered his hand palm up to the floor and the kitten walked onto it,
looking even smaller in comparison. He lifted it up carefully. How
are ya Nuala? The
kitten squeaked and he kissed it on the head and smiled. He walked into
the kitchen and pulled out a can of cat food from the grocery bag and
opened it and Nuala jumped from his hand. He spooned out a portion of the
food into a green bowl and placed it on the floor. He sat down in his
chair and removed a large framing hammer from the loop on his pant leg,
the business end of it wrapped and taped with napkins and scratch papers.
IOU’s. He gently placed the tool on the table before him, grateful he
had not used it this day. He relaxed back in to the seat and watched Nuala
eat. It’s
good to be home, he said softly.
After
some meditation The O’Neil decided it was time to go to bed. He walked
into his bedroom and sat on his bed, unlaced his boots and set them neatly
coupled next to the bedside table. He took of his shirt and pants and
checked his leg, which didn’t look too bad. He gently rolled his head on
its axis, drew back the covers and turned in and under them. Almost
instantly Nuala seemed to appear out of nowhere. She walked on top of him
and began to knead his stomach area, her spine rising and lowering in
waves as she pressed her paws into him, turning and purring. The O’Neil
reached for a book on his nightstand and opened it and began reading,
holding it above his situating companion. He quickly picked up his
bookmarked place on the narrator’s journey in the strange story about
men turning into bicycles and bicycles into men. The book’s psychedelic
affect mingled with The O’Neil’s tiredness and he soon left his
frontal mind for the far-reaching depths of its sub-regions, Nuala now
curled on her side like a seashell next to him. *** He
awoke in a dream. He was standing on a street corner, in an otherworldly
city that somewhat resembled his own, but not at all. He was surrounded by
thirty, maybe fifty men, sporting primeval skins and makeshift sheet-metal
armor, and clutching or swinging crude primitive weaponry. They advanced
towards him, chanting hypnotically in musical unison. You’re
gonna pay up. Oh
you’re gonna pay. You’re
gonna pay up. Oh you’re gonna pay.
Copyright © 2007 Daniel Finnegan |
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Daniel Finnegan grew up in |
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Reproduction of material from SoMa Literary Review pages |
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