The One Percenters (19 page)

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I ran, ran, ran. I don’t know why I ran so far so fast.

It’s not like people were in any great hurry to chase down a man with a loaded weapon. Even in this age of cell phones, it would take some time to get a cruiser down there. The road appeared to be infrequently used. Besides, there was a whole world to my sides.

No. I had promised myself I wouldn’t take refuge in the forest once again. I should not, could not, would not, be afraid. I represented a force of bravery and strength. I had been a coward in my past life, and I could not afford to be now. I would run quickly, yes, as standing still would get me nowhere both literally and figuratively. But I would not hide.

I heard a siren and dove into the brush. What can I say? Old habits die hard.

Jill was flawed. I haven’t told you that yet because I didn’t want you to judge her without knowing her well.

I’m running out of time now, so I have little option but to let the cat out of the bag right here and now.

Items had a bad habit of ending up in her purse, in her pockets. Nothing major, and often the items weren’t even useful. Socks, butter knives, ashtrays (and neither of us smoked at the time). That kind of stuff. Now, this is a world with a name for everything.

You know Jill’s “condition” as kleptomania, but I don’t buy all that fancy crap. Kleptomania, bulimia, bipolar, blah-blah. It’s all an excuse for a healthy fee for an hourly session. My Jill was a stealin’ bitch, plain and simple. I’m a smokin’, drinkin’, swearin’ coward. She was a stealin’ bitch. There are some things in life we just need to accept about each other and ourselves. Are you listening to me? Put down the bottle.

I find myself wondering if she really was such a hot toddy. Maybe I just convinced myself of that because I needed to feel loved and wanted. I mean, I never saw all the other guys looking over at her. Maybe she was an ugly slut who wanted attention. And maybe
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I didn’t care that she was ugly. Maybe I felt empowered because of it. I dunno, though. She looked pretty hot to me; there’s no getting around that. The woman was sex personified. She was the Madonna/whore we all seek.

Perhaps I was given too much in this instance. Jesus, couldn’t you spread out the luck a little bit?

Jill’s little problem bothered her. She swore she would just zone out in a store, a hotel, a bus station.

The items would make their way into her bag or under her jacket quite without her conscious help. Now, I wouldn’t have bought this line of bullshit from anyone except Jill. “Oh, I swear, Officer, I didn’t even realize I was stabbing my grandma 47 times. Honest.” But I trusted Jill. I tried to help her, kind of. Personally, I found her little secret to be quite dirty, sexy even. As far as I knew, it was the only truly dirty habit she had.

And as far as I was knew, I was the only one who was aware of it. Talk about a turn-on.

I loved to talk to Jill about it, to tease her about it. She would hush me, embarrassed. Every once in a while, I would take the teasing too far and she would whisper, “Quiet, Edward.” She could have taunted me for my own flaws, which are many and obvious. But, no, she only whispered her dissatisfaction. I had enough respect for this fact that I always respected her wishes.

After one incident with some stolen cookware, Jill was in tears.

This all happened about ten years ago. I told her that her little habit wasn’t so bad. She stole my heart, and my life had been all the better since. She smiled at that, and kissed me. I can still feel that kiss; truly, I can. I wonder still why she married me. Had she lost a bet? Maybe the world just figured it owed one to old Ed Caine. The way I figure it, the world owes me a lot more than a sexpot of a wife after all the shit it’s thrown at me.

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I’ve been drinking tonight (don’t tell, snuck it) it’s not even worth trying.

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I was on the road, in an old American tradition of following a dream. I was working for all the bullied people, for all the disadvantaged folk, for every dirty, down-and-out, prejudged, not-approved-for-credit fucker who roams this Earth. I was the great equalizer, second cousin to death himself. My gun was my scythe, and my T-shirt my cloak. It was an old story updated for a
BIGGER, BOLDER, FLASHIER
new millennium.

Buy now, pay later. Some assembly required. Void where prohibited.

The world was crumbling around me. Lawsuits filed friend against friend. Four-page, multi-signature, trilingual contracts to take your skis on a mountain.

Need to rent? That’s another contract. Everything requires directions, submissions, or releases. You almost need a lawyer in order to wipe your ass. The very freedoms our ancestors fought so bravely to assure us, are being taken away by. . us!

There are advertisements on outfield walls, on mountainsides, everywhere you could conceive. Christ, if it were cost-efficient there would be a big fucking billboard for “X” beer splashed across the moon. It would blink each night in neon lights: “Drink X.” Dark.

“Drink X.” Dark. “Drink X.” Dark. And lovers would be left looking at it from lake front shores for eternity.

People with pink hair are scoffed at. They’re either freaks or they’re trying too hard. At least they’re trying while the rest of us feel content to live in an alarm-clock world, where smog-filled streets must pass for a breath of fresh air, and where the warm glow of the sun has been replaced by sterile, humming fluorescent light. Where’s the humanity? And that’s just it. The humanity was in me. If people had lost their will to find it within themselves, well, I would help them find it, or die trying. The chance for a better human existence lay, ironically, at the end of my gun’s barrel. Addition by
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subtraction. It was time to tip the scales.

From Tigris and Euphrates to Madison and
Park,

the place might change, but we’re still
strangers in the dark.

Start in fluid, end in dirt, confusion in between,
It’s time we end the madness, leave the grisly
scene.

Take my hand, my naive hand, admit we’ve
gone to seed,

Humans great in theory, despicable in deed.

Indeed.

I kind of like it. It’s the closest thing to art I’ve ever produced. Even if it does rhyme. La, la, la, la. Big tit? Eat shit! Mwa ha ha ha.

We all have something to hide
. Short. Fat.

Poor. Acne. Herpes. Dentures. Scars. Warts. Hairy
nipples. Drugs. Liquor. Bad breath.
Two hours in the bathroom trying to hide our faults, not to mention the hour at the store to get the shit to do it. And what does it get us? Lonely, unfulfilling indoor lives. Run for your life.

But wait, there’s more. Right now, for a limited time, you too can be exposed to rhetoric and propaganda.

Pick up your phone and call now. Operators are standing by, sucker. Or we’ll call you. Anything for a credit card number.

I was walking for myself. I was walking for all the Thelma Vicaros. I was a warrior, an artist, a hero. My caste was not set in stone. No, it was fluid and malleable and, most importantly, self-created. I ran probably a mile before I came upon some houses. I reloaded my weapon and shot at mailboxes and windows and fence posts. Old women came to their door and fence posts, and I shot at them. Some I hit; some I didn’t. I had a neighborhood in my grasp, and indeed the world.

Thirty minutes had passed since the beach scene.

At last I heard the sirens coming up behind me, and I
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was mixed with both dread and relief. It was a creepy feeling, comparable in its duality to that when you are
almost
drunk. Your grasp on the world is still fairly firm, yet you are looking at it with a new perspective, seeing things differently. You wonder with your glass in your hand how you could ever think the way you do under sober circumstances. You feel friendly and open and wise. This feeling of wisdom grows within you as you continue to drink and then—CRASH—your body maxes out and you suddenly feel very, very stupid. You feel left behind in the conversation. You wish you could participate in reality once again. But you have to wait for the inevitable sickness to pass. The sickness and the sleep. So tired.

When I heard the sirens behind me, I realized my destiny was fulfilled, my job completed, but I also realized I had maxed out. I was about to crash.

And again, I felt very much alone and all too mortal.

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Officer Catbalm asked me if I understood my rights.

I told him I did. Far be it from me to disrespect a man in uniform. They had done too much for me in times past. But like I said, if you haven’t seen one in a while, life’s peachy.

I gave Catbalm no trouble. I tossed my gun as he pulled up, and I lay flat on the ground, arms crossed behind me. He took no chances and exited his car with his gun drawn. He was joined by another squad car.

I was taken in that day, and there’s not all that much I can tell you from that time on. You’re all very aware of the courtroom process. The media makes sure of it, even if you are aware in only a skewed and biased fashion.

I was booked, and there was no bail set, of course.

Judges don’t take kindly to alleged multi-murderers who are found with the weapon practically smoking in their hand.

It must be strange to be a judge, to determine fate. And think of the drawbacks. All those hours on the bench cannot be any good for their hemorrhoids.

Funny little buggers hemorrhoids are. I remember the first time I bled; I thought I was dying. My doctor told me as long as the blood was fresh and wet, I’d be okay.

It’s the dry stuff that’s the problem. God rest his soul.

Died young at 50: colon cancer. Dr. Hilbram was a good man. Just not a very good doctor. Not like you, friend.

I slept well in the cell. There was no chance for me to reconsider suicide. They make sure of that, the bastards. You’d have to run your head into the wall hard as you could. Not a pleasant option. I’ve heard of people chewing through their wrists, but you know what? I don’t think I could hate a place that badly. I’m more of a passive suicidal. I’ll take one for the team, but only a nice off-speed pitch to the buttocks.

Dr. Hilbram recommended surgery, but I decided not to do it. What’s life without a little discomfort?

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Why not gather a little moss, my Grandma used to ask as she sang show tunes to me in my bed. Wow, it’s dark in here. And my Grandmother is not here to sing to me—she with the sagging breasts and the mismatched shoes. Sleep.

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The death sentence. I thought it was a good idea.

I would have voted for it, had they run such an election, straight up on the issues. And that’s the way it should be, I think. Pull the right lever if you prefer big business, left lever if you’re more environmentally conscious. If business won, we’d rip out every tree in the nation at the roots and be done with it. There’s too much wishy-washiness in the world today. Too many namby-pambies. Less say, more do. Also, let’s get rid of traffic lights for a day. Traffic lights and speed limits.

Let’s make it
fun.

I wonder where they all are. I wonder where the other one-percenters are. What methods have they developed to carry out their mission? Somehow I felt humbled by the fact that my own efforts were so minimal. A chimpanzee can fire a gun, for crying out loud. Where was the drama, the intrigue, and the creativity you’d expect from one of your own?

Now the tide turned, and mine was the death sentence. It’s different on this side. Now
you’re
the executioner, Doctor. You’re the judge, the jury, the butcher, the baker. You have all the parts. The unfindable actor. It sure makes you think more clearly, death row does.

Suddenly all of the red and black scrawl on the calendar has no meaning. There are no appointments and birthdays and health hazards to stress you out. It’s really quite soothing knowing you’re going to die
when
you know you can do nothing about it.
Cancer? Heart disease? I wouldn’t wish them on anybody. ‘Cause there’s always a chance, a hope. There’s always a chance that you’re
just missing
the cure. That you might live.

You want to squeeze all the life that you can out of life.

Here it’s different. Nothing I might say or do has any chance of saving me. I can say anything I want to say without repercussions. Like I said, you can’t die twice and you only live once. It’s actually quiet
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peaceful. I feel like I’m in a very special Hall of Fame, where entry requires only extreme hideousness. In that regard, I didn’t deserve the honor to be bestowed upon me. I was no evil bastard. I was just Joe Regular who happened to be given a very special task to complete. I wasn’t about to tell them that and spoil their little death party. Why leave them feeling guilty?

I know what you’re thinking, you son of a bitch. It first occurred to me when I started all this, and it is still eating me up inside. I realize the nature of my words thus far. The truth is, this world is not all rainbows and butterflies, although those are very nice parts of it.

Rather, the world can be a dark and pragmatic place.

Within all that pragmatism, I had a purpose, and my purpose involved death.

So, yes, I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong, Doctor. I did not kill my Jill. As I said, that was the work of a man with an accountant’s name. There is so little light in here, it is difficult to write this. That was the work of a man with an accountant’s name. Ed Caine is no accountant. Ed Caine is no killer.