Bronx Noir

Final snapshot. Yesterday I was sitting on this bed that I’m sitting on now and I hear the door crack. It fucks me up how these things just happen. I know it’s the front door. Living here all these years, I remember the whole house coming to attention when one heard the click and clang of the front door being opened. Gary’s at the door and he’s laughing loud. This is strange. I lived here most of my life and never felt like I belonged, but this man who has never been here already sounds like his name is in the will. He laughs out loud again and I’m thinking he’s either mad or with somebody.

I’m forcing myself not to give a shit. Sitting on the bed, staring into space as if downstairs is some new dimension entirely. Fuck it. I have to see who…No, I hate how this bothers me and I wish it didn’t.

Damnit.

Damn him.

I get up and move to the door. Then turn back. It’s none of my damn business. He laughs again. She laughs with him. Louder, longer. I’m out the door before it can even swing back, feeling the cold concrete and hearing my own feet. The bedroom door bangs shut and rats me. Downstairs nobody seems to notice. Damn that son of a bitch. I don’t want to look, but I deserve to see who’s having so much fun in this miserable house.

She’s already on the floor smiling broad, with white teeth. Her hair is a big red Afro. I hate her already. She’s got these huge breasts with big black circles on each nipple. He grabs one of her legs and slaps her pussy a couple times with his cock. Then he pushes it in and begins to fuck her. She screams immediately. Of course she’s faking it, she could never know what true pain from being fucked feels like. He lies down on top and I see muscles in his back and buttocks flex and release as he moves in and out of her. She looks as if she’s being battered to death. They don’t say a word, only grunt like dogs or something. How does he do it? How does he fuck both ass and pussy but can’t stand either? He rolls over and sees me.

“Ohhhh, Rock. Big, bad Rocky.”

He’s looking at me with a big grin and humming the tune to that fucking Sylvester Stallone movie.

“Baby, look up, some people watching the show. Ooooh, slow down, baby, this train soon reach the station. Rock is one bad girl this you know. You know how bad? She talking ’bout how when pussy getting fucked, ass must get fucked too!”

I hate him.

“Hers or yours?” I say.

I watch the albino man go red. The woman laughs out loud. He jumps up and starts to kick her in the belly. She’s screaming, but he grabs her by the hair.

“You know say me a bad man, bitch? You know say me a bad man?”

He pulls her up and tells her to get the fuck out. She runs, pulling down her dress and forgetting her shoes. I run to my parents’ room, but before I can close the door he kicks himself in. He grabs me and I’m kicking and fighting and trying to hit his balls, but he’s not feeling anything.

“What the fuck wrong with you, eh? What the fuckin’ fuck!”

He pulls me on the bed and straddles me and starts to punch me in the face and slap me and cuss me. And I can’t do anything but fumble around the night table beside the bed, reaching for something, anything, to hit this son of bitch. He’s still slapping me and cussing about me fucking up his business and how it’s my fault that people looking for him and white people just love to fuck up ghetto man life, and he’s still hitting me. I grab around the table and knock the lamp off and pull the crochet off and finally grab onto Mom’s letter opener. Then he swings his hand back to give it to me this time, his final superfuckin’ colossal shot, and as he swings his hand to my face I swing the letter opener to his palm and crucify the motherfucker.

He’s looking at me all shocked and shit, and I’m shocked too. And I think about saying something, and he’s pulling this puppy dog thing that disappears as soon as he notices that I notice. He climbs off me and leaves and I’m watching the door.

That’s why he’s coming back for me.

I’m beginning to think that there’s some deep shit to loneliness. People think loneliness is the absence of people, but I’m starting to think that it’s the opposite of people. And if that’s the case, then loneliness is just as real as having a warm john next to you. Think about it. If you look at loneliness as this perfect state, like this universe of just yourself, then it’s like perfect. I’m impressed with myself, this is some deep thinking. Clever, clever shit. Gary said I think too much.