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HeroThis story may contain adult content. |
| Written by Tyler Rice | |
| Monday, 19 May 2008 | |
Hero
This is how whiskey works. At first, it does nothing. You sip at the glass and grind your teeth together while parting your lips in a twisted grimace, trying desperately to remind yourself why on earth you are drinking this vile ****. Then, there is magic. Your head lightens along with the burdens of your life. You forget for a moment that you’re not a cop, a soldier, an EMT, firefighter. You’re not a hero. You’re a clerk at a store which supplies the perverted masses with their fill of hard and soft core pornography, as well as a wide assortment of lubes, vibrators, dildos, and novelty garments. You forget all this while you drive to that ******* store ten minutes late. Perverts don’t mind if you’re drunk. You used to love porn. You used to sit at home in front of the computer, naked, downloading 15 to 30 second clips. You learned to use video editing software so you wouldn’t have to click play over and over again. You did this to forget. You’re not a hero. That’s why you took the job. 7 bucks and hour, free rentals, and the right to feed your need to forget while you worked. Now you hate it all; barely legal, shaved, amature lesbians, anal, gangbang, solo, bisexual, transsexual, POV, gay, even that girl getting nailed by a golden retriever. Nothing excites you anymore. Not even a real woman. But whiskey . . . well that’s a chemical reaction, you can build a tolerance, but it works. You stumble through the door. No one even looks at you. There’s no one behind the counter. You can hear assorted moans and screams coming from the “preview” arcade in the back. You can’t tell if they’re coming from the videos or the people watching them. Neither would surprise you. Like any business you have your regulars. But out in the real world none of these freaks would probably recognize you. They always look away, avoiding eye contact, pushing their money across the counter silently. Sometimes they just toss their money toward you as they speed walk toward the door never looking up or asking for change. Once a guy tossed a hundred dollar bill at you as he walked out with two DVDS. You didn’t ring that one up. You bought the most expensive bottle you could find. You couldn’t taste the difference. You go behind the counter, sit down on the stool, and survey the store quickly trying to pick out the shifty looking perverts who might be trying to steal, or thinking of robbing the place. There’s a gun beneath the counter in the case of the latter. It’s a 9mm semi automatic with no safety. “Just point and click!” your boss said. You’re not a hero. One of the regulars is standing near the video booths pretending to look at the magazine racks. When a flush faced man walks out of a booth and makes a beeline for the door the magazine shopper quickly sprints into the booth and locks it behind him. He reappears a few seconds later with a rather disappointed look on his face. It’s only a dollar for five minutes. Another regular doesn’t have the luxury of pretension. He’s leaning against a video booth making a vain attempt at nonchalance. When someone goes into booth 12 he slips quickly into booth 11. There’s a hole in the wall between 11 and 12. You can’t see the screen through it, but you can watch the patron who’s in the other booth jerk off. There’s a sign on the wall that says this sort of behavior is unacceptable. You could stop him. You’re not a hero. Someone walks up to the counter with a few magazines. You smile as your start to ring him up and ask him how his day is going. “Not bad . . .” he says while staring intently at his shoes. He hands you his cash and you hand him his change. As he walks out a man walks in and gives you a big toothy smile. He’s one of the regulars. A pimp from uptown you’ve dubbed “Crazy Eyes”. “How’s it goin’ big man!” he says, making eye contact so hard it feels penetrating. You let him know your doin’ ok while you look quickly at something, anything, else. You choose to stare at a video monitor displaying what someone’s watching in one of the booths. It’s a young looking woman with braces and pigtails sitting on a pink comforter in a room that looks like every junior high school girl’s. She’s naked and ramming a pretty pink dildo into herself hard and fast. She’s saying things you’d never heard before college. You want to crawl into the screen. You want to slap that girl in the face and tell her she’s endangering millions of 14 year old girls with this charade. You’re not a hero. You step outside to have a smoke. You pull one out of the pack and light it, inhaling deeply, savoring the sweet release that comes with knowing you’re pretty much killing yourself. You will die. You look back and forth quickly to see if anyone’s looking at you. You’re in front of a sex shop, no one’s looking. In fact, all the neighboring lots have gone vacant, no business wants to be described as, “next to the porn store”. Thus assured of your solitude you pull the bottle out of your pocket and drink. You were starting to not feel dizzy. You toss the cigarette and the newly empty bottle aside and turn to walk back in. You open the door and are nearly run over by an older gentle man wiping his hand with a paper towel. He doesn’t look up, and you don’t say anything. You sit back down on your stool and try to focus on nothing, try to avoid that TV screen, all the magazine covers, DVD Covers, the eyes of everyone who’s trying to avoid yours. “Why’d you wanna meet here?” This voice belongs to Crazy Eyes, and forces you to find out who he’s talking to, terrified it might be you. “Look, I didn’t want my wife to know about it and I knew she wouldn’t see me here, hell, she won’t even drive down this street.” You don’t recognize the owner of this voice. He must have slipped in the back door while you were smoking. You try to tune them out. “So your wife doesn’t know about the *****?” Now you’re interested. “Oh I mentioned it, just to gauge her reaction. She seemed cool with it so I gave you a call. You brought her here?” “Yep, she’s sittin’ in the car, six hundred dollars and she’s all yours.” “Wait, we said five hundred.” “Yes sir that’s true, when we were talking about an eight year old, but out there tied up in my back seat, I’ve got a six year old waitin’ just for you.” “Damn, really? Then let’s do this, I got your money right here.” The guy you don’t recognize hands a thick envelope over to Crazy Eyes and then pulls out his wallet fishes, out a hundred dollar bill and hands that over too. They’ turn toward you and start to walk. You can feel a hot rage building in your veins that you haven’t felt in years. You’re not a hero. They’re walking past the counter and headed toward the door. You look down at the gun. You’re not a hero. As they step out the door Crazy Eyes speaks up. “You and your wife are gonna have a lot of fun with her.” You reach down and pick up the gun “Just point and click” he said. You’re not a hero. The door shuts behind them and you start to follow. You’re not a hero. You walk out the door, Crazy Eyes is walking toward a big black S.U.V. with his new customer following behind him. You’re not a hero. You point. You click. It’s louder than you thought it would be, making you go deaf to all but a thick ringing sound. Crazy Eyes pitches forward as the bullet tears through the back of his neck and blows a hole the size of a grapefruit out of his throat. The second guy turns and looks at you his eyes go wide and you pull the trigger again, hitting him in the stomach. He crumples over and falls on his ass. He looks up at , right in the eye. His mouth is moving but you still can’t hear. You pull the trigger again. And again. And again. By the time you stop you realize the gun has been empty for awhile and the man in front of you is well beyond dead. You can hear again. You can hear a dog barking in Crazy eye’s car. You’re not a hero.
Copyright 2008 Tyler Rice |
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