Charlie Huston - A Dangerous Man

I spin again. Stop spinning.

Anna reaches over and presses her hand over the wound in my chest.

– I’ll get someone. An ambulance.

I look past her, through the window, and see the water beyond the boardwalk.

– That’s OK. That’s. Here’s what. OK, I’m gonna go and. I’m gonna go. I’m. I think I’m gonna just go down to the beach, OK? I think that’s what. Jesus. Jesus. I’m gonna go to the beach.

She still has her hand pressed against my chest. I put mine over hers.

– What you. There will be people. David has other people. They’ll want to know what happened. So the best thing. What you should do is. There’s money in the trunk. There’s a lot of money in the trunk. You need to take it. Take the car and go somewhere. Take the money and go somewhere. Back to Russia. Somewhere. Go away.

She’s staring at the blood seeping between her fingers.

– Don’t look at that. Don’t.

I put a finger under her chin and tilt her face up to mine.

– Don’t worry about that. I can. I know how to fix that. You just need to go. Just go. OK?

Her upper lip is glazed with snot.

– OK. OK.

– Good. Good for you. OK. So.

I open the door. I swing my feet out. I stand up. My head swirls. The parking lot swirls with it. I lean over and puke. It hurts. I look into the car. Anna is still in the passenger seat. I reach in and pat the driver’s seat.

– Here. Scoot over here.

She looks down at the seat. Some of my blood is pooled there. I brush at it, smearing it over the material.

– Don’t worry about that. That comes out. Just come on over here.

She lifts her legs over the gearshift and scoots her bottom into the seat.

– Good. That’s good. You can? Can you drive?

She nods.

– OK. Great. So start ’er up.

She turns the key and the engine starts.

– Good. OK. So. So. So. Out of town. That’s where you want to go. Drive. Boston. Maybe Philly. One of those places. Get a bag on the way. For. You’ll need it for the money. And go to an airport. And buy a ticket. And go away. Go away. It’s OK. You can go away. And. You just don’t come back. And. Oh, hey, and Anna?

– Yes?

– Don’t worry about this.

I point at the hole in my stomach.

– This is. I’ll be fine. This is nothing. OK?

– OK.

– Good. So. OK. Bye-bye then. Bye-bye.

I push the door closed. She sits there, staring at me through the window. I wave bye-bye to her. Bye-bye. She puts the car in reverse and pulls out. I wave again. Bye-bye. She looks at me, raises her hand. Her lips move. Bye-bye. And she drives away.

I look up, over at the beach. Wow, that’s a long way away. If I want to get there I better start now. So I do. I start walking to the beach.

And close my eyes long before I get there.

I OPEN MY EYES.

I’m sitting on a beach.

I’m sitting in the sand watching a dog trailing its own leash as it runs through the surf. It barks madly, running from the waves as they crash in, chasing them as they roll out. The dog bites the waves, swallowing seawater, crazed by the ocean. It runs around in little circles, jumps into a pile of rotting seaweed and rolls around on its back. It jumps up, chases and bites another wave, then sprints up the beach toward the dry sand, squats and starts spraying diarrhea.

– Don’t shit on your leash!

I look back over my shoulder and see a middle-aged couple holding hands and walking toward the dog. The man is yelling at the dog.

– Don’t shit on your leash, for Christ sake.

The dog ignores him and shits seawater on its leash.

– Ah, Jesus, that’s gonna be a pain in the ass.

The couple is next to me now. I look up at them.

– That’s good advice.

They look at me. The man smiles.

– What’s that?

– Don’t shit on your leash.

The woman laughs.

– Oh, she’s a good dog. She just goes crazy at the beach.

The man nods.

– Goes maddog on us.

I look at the dog. It has returned to harassing the waves.

– Yeah, I know the type.

The man and woman sit down a couple yards away. The man picks up a piece of driftwood and starts sketching something in the sand.

– You a dog person?

I nod.

– Yeah, mostly. But I had a cat once.

He shakes his head.

– Could never stand cats.

– Well, this was one hell of a cat.

The woman looks at me.

– Are you local?

I shake my head.

– No. Not really. Just moved here.

The North Pacific wind gusts and she pulls her jacket tighter around her shoulders.

– We moved here a few years back.

I feel at my pockets and take out a pack of cigarettes.

– My folks used to bring me here every year. That’s how I know the place.

– We used to come here. With our son.

She looks at the sun dipping into the ocean.

I shake a cigarette loose.

The man passes the piece of driftwood to the woman and she takes over the sketch. He points at the pack of Benson & Hedges in my hand.

– Bad habit.

– I know. I quit for awhile, but something about the weather up here, it makes me want to smoke. You mind?

He shrugs.

– We all got bad habits.

I light up.

– Yes we do.

The dog is slowing down, wandering after the waves now rather than chasing them, a stream of thin, green fluid leaking from its backside.

– Dog looks sick.

The man nods as he gets up.

– Yeah. She’s a good dog, but she has to learn the same lesson every time we bring her here. Don’t drink the water.

I take a drag on my smoke.

– And don’t shit on your leash.

He smiles, helping his wife to her feet.

– Yep, that one, too.

The woman plants the stick of driftwood in the sand next to their sketch.

– Nice to meet you.

I wave.

– Nice to meet you, too. Take care.

She smiles, waves back, and they walk together, calling to the dog as it wanders toward them, tired and sick, but still lolling its tongue and barking happily at the ocean.

Stupid maddog.

I smoke and watch them walk back up to the road where their car is parked. When my cigarette is done I grind the cherry out in the sand and tuck the butt back in the box. The sun is almost gone now, sliced in half by the horizon. I close my eyes and try to feel what little heat it gives.

The sun is down.

The wind cuts deeper. I stand up and tuck my hands in the pockets of my jeans. I take a step over to where the couple was sitting and look at their sketch.

A heart with an arrow piercing it.

In the middle, a word.

Henry.

Funny they didn’t recognize me. I touch my carved face. But I guess not. Not really. I think about going after them. But that would be a bad idea. They already have one maddog to deal with. I think about smoking another cigarette. But I don’t. I think about going home. But I don’t. I stand here and watch the stars come out.

And then I close my eyes.

I OPEN MY eyes.

I’m sitting on a beach.

The sun shines. I can feel it baking my face, the heat occasionally relieved as clouds sweep across the bright blue sky. A wave crashes and the surf washes up over smooth dark sand, stopping just short of my toes. “Easy” is playing somewhere behind me.

I look at the people on the beach.

There are kids, mostly Latino, playing in the surf. Off to my left is a woman in a lime green bathing suit and pink headscarf, knitting something orange. A man with skin tanned like an old, brown penny jogs past. A tiny, round Mexican woman is pushing a shopping cart filled with mangoes through the sand.

I raise my hand to her. She pushes the cart over. The mangoes are on sticks that are stuck into a giant Styrofoam block. She plucks one out and offers it to me.