Bob Fingerman - Pariah

“They just mill around,” Abe said. “They don’t break windows.”

“They did,” Ruth said.

“I don’t think so,” Abe said.

But didn’t know if he believed it.

“I wish I had me a gun,” Dabney said as he lobbed a half brick from his perch. “And bullets,” he added. “Lots of bullets. I don’t want this to be one of them tricky ‘Monkey’s Paw’ wishes where you get a little of this but none of that and it works out bad. A gun and lotsa bullets and maybe a scope for aiming. This brick throwing shit’s all well and good if you’re a fucking caveman, but damn.”

Karl, who had risked Dabney’s scorn and come up to the roof, sat nearby, handing chunks to Dabney, like an old-time cannoneer supplying his gunner. He’d mind his p’s and q’s today. No repetitions of the “Mean Joe Green” incident, as he’d come to think of it.

“Another thing would be nice about having a scope would be I could really see the damage I inflicted,” Dabney continued. “From up here it’s too small. I wanna see the heads pop. I wanna see the chunks spatter up, the bits of bone and brain. I wanna know that I’ve put ’em down for good. Sometimes I think I see ’em get up again and there’s no way I can hit the same ones twice. I don’t have that kind of aim, least not freehand. But with a nice rifle? Shit, heads would be poppin’, son.”

“Yeah, that’d be cool.”

“You humoring me?”

“No. I think it would be totally cool.”

Karl didn’t think it was that cool, but why make waves? Rifles and scopes reminded him too much of Big Manfred, who’d been as devout a hunter as he’d been a Christian. “Hey, Bambi, have a little of this,” had been his oft-repeated jibe when “thinning the herd.” “Hunting whitetail” sounded like one of the triple-X titles Karl had yearned to see on the marquees of the Deuce, but he’d kept that to himself. Big Manfred wouldn’t have seen the humor. The same went for “buck fever,” which sounded like gay porn. Big Manfred definitely wouldn’t have found that the least bit amusing. Guns. Bullets. A scope. The truth is, Karl thought if you’re going to make a wish, why not just wish none of this had ever happened in the first place?

Dabney lofted another hunk into the crowd and it dropped between bodies. He clucked in disapproval, then turned away from the cornice, massaging his bicep, sweat spilling off him. Above, the sky was clear and bright and in other circumstances would be lovely to behold. Dabney lay on his back on the tarp and closed his eyes, shielding them with a large hand, wishing for rain. The clouds that roved the sky from time to time were a sadistic tease. Karl studied the older-but not old-man. He was still, in relative terms, beefy. When Dabney had shown up he’d weighed in at close to three hundred pounds so even now he looked formidable.

Karl’s attention drifted over to Dabney’s smokehouse. Was there still meat inside? Karl wondered if he should ask. Didn’t he deserve a second chance? Could he risk sneaking up when Dabney was asleep? No, that would be a bad idea. Lined up along the low wall on the southern side of the roof were Ruth’s flowerboxes. With seeds she’d collected from the last fresh vegetables-cucumbers, green peppers, peas, and tomatoes-she’d attempted to grow food for the building; a noble effort that never made it. Small spindly tendrils had poked out of the soil, but the lack of rain and the oppressive heat baked them before they’d blossomed.

Dabney rolled back onto his belly, then hoisted himself to his knees, crawled to the edge of the roof and looked straight down.

“You know how frustrating it is looking down there every day and seeing the top of my truck taunting me?” Dabney said. “Every day. Least those motherfuckers could do is turn it over, but they got no strength it seems. Just numbers. Turn it all the way over, onto its back like a turtle. Then I wouldn’t see it no more.”

Jutting out into the street at a forty-five degree angle languished the van Dabney had plowed into the building seven months earlier. Painted on the pale blue roof in black was the legend, D ABNEY L OCKSMITH & A LARM, then smaller, S ERVING A LL F IVE B OROUGHS S INCE 1979, followed by his phone number in really big purple numerals. The front end was crumpled, the small hood popped open, revealing a blackened engine block. The back doors hung open, jostled every few moments by figures that passed by or through them. No doubt sun-shy zombies squatted within.

“It mocks me. Reminds me I didn’t make it home.”

“Home is where the heart is,” Karl ventured.

“You say some stupid-ass nonsense, son,” Dabney said, but he was smiling.

“I know.”

“My van and that goddamn supermarket. Ain’t that a bitch?”

“Yup.”

Eddie and Dave, back when they’d been brawny, had hoisted Dabney from the roof of his van as the zombies groped for him. It was the first and last altruistic act either of them had committed, and even then, Eddie had needed lots of persuasion. “That nigger’ll just eat all our food,” he’d complained. “I mean look at him. He’s a fuckin’ house. He’ll probably rape all the women, even the old bitch. Niggers don’t care, man. Pussy is pussy to their kind.” The old “project your sin onto others and disparage them for it” routine. Talk about calling the kettle black. Ever since the rescue, Dabney was merely “that nigger on the roof,” as far as Eddie was concerned, though he’d never have the temerity to utter those words within earshot of Dabney, lest he end up pitched down to the congregation as a tasty morsel. Not that Karl would object. Eddie was every jock asshole that’d terrorized Karl over the years, all rolled into one.

He reminded Karl of his dear old papa.

Big Manfred was a sportsman.

Big Manfred was a bigot.

Big Manfred hated almost everything Karl held dear.

“I miss my music,” Karl squawked.

“Where’d that come from?” Dabney turned from his perch and looked at the slight young man. This normally placid little white boy was shivering with agitation, eyes popped wide and despairing. The right corner of his mouth was twitching.

“What kind of life is this? What are we doing with ourselves? We’re biding our time until we just shrivel up and die!” Karl’s voice was stretched almost as thin as his small body, but there was vitality in his anguish. He sprang up and, fists clenched at his sides, glared up at the sky. “What is this? What the fuck is this?” He waved his arms around, gesticulating at nothing and everything. “What? What? What is this? What is the point? What’s the fucking point?”

He began to hyperventilate.

Dabney rose and stepped toward him, unsure of what to do. Talk to him? Tackle him? Give him a hug? Karl’s face was pulled taut, like his skull was trying to escape its fragile prison of skin and muscle. Dabney reached out and Karl slapped away his hand, then punched Dabney in the mouth.

The force of the blow surprised them both.

Karl sidestepped Dabney and walked in measured, deliberate steps up the rise toward the edge. Dabney massaged his jaw and watched. He wasn’t mad at Karl. If anything, he was a bit spooked by the sudden change in his visitor. Karl stood right on the lip of the drop and stared straight ahead.

“Are you happy?” he asked the air in front of him. If the question was meant for Dabney, it didn’t sound that way. “I’m not.”