Jason Pinter - The Mark

You stand up. There’ll be milk in the fridge, day-old coffee in the pot. It must be a dream. Where will the day take you?

Then you remember the corpse lying at your feet. The pool of blood you avoided stepping in. The kickback as the gun fired into the man who came this close to killing you and two other people.

And then you know it wasn’t a dream.

The homeless man stared at me as I wiped the dirt from my hands on a discarded newspaper. He held a crinkled coffee cup that held a nickel and three pennies.

“You new here?” he asked. Four rotted teeth jutted out from his black gums. “If you’re new here, you gotta pay a toll. I’m the tollbooth collector. Have been for two years. Last guy died. Tragedy. You can’t live on this block unless you pay the toll.”

I absently went for my wallet, then thought better and headed toward the street. A voice behind me yelled, “Hey, you didn’t pay the toll!”

Morning had broken. The sun was hot and bright. A beautiful early summer day. I checked my watch. It was eight fifty-three. I was due at work in seven minutes.

Every breath brought pain. I stopped in front of a building with a waist-high brick outcropping. Lifting up my shirt, I saw a mild discoloration under my armpit. Nothing too bad, nothing broken. Just black and blue where I’d been savagely kicked.

As I stood there, regaining my composure, winking away the dizziness, visions of last night came to me like a swarm of locusts. A man was dead because of me. Whether I’d pulled the trigger or not-it was all so fast, but I remember his finger in the trigger guard-I was responsible for another man’s death. It hadn’t sunk in yet, merely hovering around the fringes of my subconscious.

I tried to help Luis and Christine. And now a man was dead. In my heart, I knew I wasn’t to blame. He could have killed them both. He would have killed me.

My first stop had to be the police. They’d understand the situation, know the Guzmans were in mortal danger and I acted in their defense. He had the gun. He attacked two people. If I hadn’t been there, he might have killed them. I was a hero. My picture would be in the papers, bold-faced copy that could never be erased.

Pride swelled in my chest as I stumbled down the street. I checked my backpack, took out my cell phone. It wouldn’t turn on. It must have broken during the fight. I looked for a pay phone to call 911. Then I began to notice something odd.

Pedestrians were staring at me, vague recognition on their faces, mouths pursed like they were trying to pick someone out of a lineup. An unsettling feeling crept over me, but I dismissed it, assuming last night had shocked my senses into overdrive.

But still…

The body kept popping up in my head like a jack-in-the box with a busted spring.

A man was dead because of me, and nothing else mattered. Two people were hurt, severely perhaps, hopefully being tended to. But there was still an 800-pound elephant in the room. What was that man looking for last night?

He was at their apartment with a purpose. Christine seemed to know what he was talking about, but denied having anything in their possession. Luis was incoherent. But still, she knew…

Perhaps there was a story in all of this. Maybe I could talk to the Guzmans, find the answers to the questions I’d gone back for last night. Approach Wallace with the story of a lifetime. A story few reporters my age would have the guts to go after. It could make my name. Maybe there really was a silver lining in all of this.

But first I needed to call the cops. The truth had to be told.

I found a pay phone on the corner of 89th and Broadway next to an aromatic delicatessen, and stepped into the booth. A couple walking a tiny dachshund eyed me suspiciously. The man, wearing a visor and Black Dog shirt, put his arm around the girl and hurriedly ushered her away, dragging the yelping dog behind him.

Something was wrong. New Yorkers weren’t shocked that easily. It’s not like I was covered in blood, or tarred and feathered. If anything I was a bit disheveled, but nothing to elicit that kind of reaction. Something spooked them, but I couldn’t figure out what. My heart began to beat faster.

The deli on the corner reminded me of how hungry I was. Maybe I’d get a bagel after setting the record straight. Food would feel good. Something to fill the empty feeling in my gut.

Looking through the deli’s window, I saw an Arab man with a thick mustache and thinning hair talking on the phone. The hole in my stomach seemed to spill out burning acid when I noticed that he was staring at me as he spoke, his mouth moving in exaggerated, cartoonish gestures. Flamboyant nods. He mouthed the word “yes” several times. His eyes were deadlocked with mine.

I was going crazy. That was the only explanation. After last night, paranoia was a normal response. My senses were overloaded, jumping at the slightest buzz. There was nothing to be worried about.

Deep breaths, Henry. Everything would be fine.

I picked up the phone and dialed 911. One ring and a woman’s voice picked up.

“9-1-1 emergency response. How can I help you?”

“I…”

Then I saw it.

My mouth fell open. My saliva dried up. I forgot to breathe.

This wasn’t possible.

Oh, my God. Please, no.

No.

Slowly I sank to my knees, tendons and muscles melting. My breath came in short bursts. My head felt light, as though a helium tank had been emptied into my skull.

I heard a tinny voice from the receiver.

“Hello? Sir? Hello?”

The phone fell from my hand and swung aimlessly.

The man in the deli had hung up the phone, but his eyes were still fixed on me.

Run.

A woman walked by, chirping on her cell phone. Her eyes found mine, a flicker of recognition in them, then she picked up her pace and rounded the corner. Fear. There was fear in her eyes.

“I’ll call you back,” I heard her say.

Run.

The man in the deli had come outside. He was holding a baseball bat. Three younger Arab men were standing in front of the store with their sleeves rolled up. They were all staring at me.

Run.

My eyes reverted back to what had caught my attention in the first place.

A newspaper vending machine sitting on the corner. Fifty cents on a weekday. I had no change on me.

I walked over to the newspaper rack in front of the deli. The Arab men watched every step I took.

“Just leave,” one of them said.

“Take what you want and go,” said another. The owner gripped his bat tighter.

I grabbed a newspaper from the top of the pile.

This was impossible. It couldn’t be happening. Looking at the front page, I felt like someone had scooped out my insides and replaced them with hot lead.

Staring back at me was my face. I recognized the picture from my driver’s license.

Next to my smiling, youthful grin were two words, printed in big, black, bold letters.

Cop Killer.

Blanket walked through the wrought-iron gate, said hello to the ugly guy whose name he could never remember-fucker always wore a beret like he was Irish or something-and heaved open the unmarked wooden door. He ducked down so as to not smack his head-the last lump was subsiding, thank you very much-and was met by Charlie, the odor of heavy designer impostor cologne pouring off him in waves.

“Charlie.”

“Blanket.” The two men shook hands and exchanged a brief and solemn embrace.

“I assume Mike’s seen the paper.”

“Never seen the guy read the New York Times before. Think he spent twenty bucks buying every paper he could. Spilled his Folgers all over the carpet, first time he seen it.”

Blanket took a cigarette from his pocket, lit it. “I’m guessing that saying he’s pissed is a mighty understatement.”