Stuart Dybek - I Sailed with Magellan

“Why wouldn’t you stay home with a primo lady like that? You’re out of control, man. Your fucken Pancho’s leaking oil. With your fear of cages, next you’ll be talking to the wrong people. You’re a punk-ass bullshitter and a bad risk.”

“Joe, I swear to you—”

“You swear?”

“On my mother’s grave. Swear it on my children.”

“You cross your heart and hope to die, too?”

“Huh?”

“Like little kids say.”

“I know how kids talk, Joe. I got a baby girl and a little boy, Johnny Junior.”

“So, swear it like you mean it,” Joe says, exhaling smoke and flicking his cigarette out the window. “I cross my heart …” Sovereign looks at Joe as if he can’t be serious, and Joe stares him down.

“Cross my heart …,” Sovereign says.

“No, you got to actually cross your heart,” Joe says, crossing his own heart, and when, to illustrate further, Joe reaches with his left hand to open Sovereign’s sport coat, Sovereign flinches, then smiles, chagrined at being so jumpy. Instead of making a move to resist Joe touching him, Sovereign drags on his cigarette. “Nice pricey sport coat, nice monogrammed shirt,” Joe says, holding Sovereign by the lapel. “Sure there’s a heart in here to cross, Johnny?” Joe brings his right hand up to check for a heartbeat. “Relax, I’m just fucking with you.” Joe smiles, then touches the trigger on the stiletto he’s palmed from his argyle sock, the blade darting out as he thrusts, slamming Sovereign back against the car door, the cigarette shooting from his mouth as he groans uuuhhh.

Sovereign’s hands are pressed to where the blade is buried. He looks down at the bloodied pearl handle of the stiletto sticking from his chest, his eyes bulging, teeth gritted so that the muscles knot out from his jaw.

“Don’t move, it’s in clean,” Joe says. “Just let it go.”

“Oh, my God, oh, oh,” Sovereign exhales, and an atomized spray of blood hangs in the sunlit air between them. The 3 V’s birds raise a junglish chatter against the everyday chirp of sparrows. The hot car fills with Sovereign’s gasping for breath and with the smell of garlic, of the mortadella sausage on the blade, and then an acrid smell, calling to Joe’s mind a line of kindergartners. Sovereign has peed his pants. His right hand, smeared with the blood soaking through his monogrammed shirt, slips down his body, weakly feeling as if to brush away a burning cigarette. There’s no cigarette, his cigarette has slipped between the seats. Joe guides Sovereign’s hand back to his chest and Sovereign grits his teeth again and groans from the soul, then closes his eyes. Tears well out from under his red lashes. His skin has gone translucent white, making his liverish freckles stand out like beads of blood forced through his pores.

“Not Vi,” Sovereign says. “Oh, please, not Vi. I got little kids.” Blood gurgles in his throat, he tries to clear it and begins to choke and Joe clamps a handkerchief over his mouth and Sovereign keeps swallowing, breathing hard, but otherwise not struggling, as if the pain of the knife has pinned him to the door.

“I told you not to talk. Just let it go. I tried to do you a favor, man. Whitey wants you turned into hamburger. I let you off easy,” Joe says, removing his bloodied handkerchief from Sovereign’s mouth.

Sovereign is shaking his head no-no, trying to form words with his open mouth. A bubble of bloody spit breaks on his lips. All he can do is whisper. His body has slouched so that Joe looks into Sovereign’s dilated nostrils, which are throwing cavernous shadows. Joe leans closer to hear what Sovereign’s trying to say.

“Bullshit,” Johnny Sovereign manages. The word sends up a hanging, reddish spray. “You just wanted to see if it worked.”

“Fuck you,” Joe says. “You got a reprieve you didn’t even know you had. What did you do with the time?” But even as he says it, Joe realizes Sovereign is right. He wanted to see what the knife could do, and how stupid was that, because now he’s stuck talking with a dying mook. He should have just put a couple into Sovereign’s brain and walked the fuck away instead of getting cute, sitting here listening to birds chatter, beside a guy with his jaw grinding and red eyelashes pasted shut by the tears leaking down his cheeks as his life hemorrhages away, the muscle that once pumped five quarts a minute, a hundred thousand heartbeats a day — how many in a life? — no longer keeping time. Joe’s not sure how long they’ve been here. He wants the knife back but worries that if he pulls it out Sovereign will start to thrash and yell, and the wound will gush. Sovereign makes a sound as if he’s gargling, syrupy blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth as his head rolls to the side, and then he’s quiet. Tears dry on his cheeks.

“Sovereign,” Joe says. “Johnny? You still here?” Joe can hardly speak for the dryness of his own mouth. He’s aware of how terribly thirsty he is, and of how suddenly alone. Heat rays in as if the windshield of the Pancho is God’s magnifying glass. Now Joe can hear the name Sovereign was talking about — some 3 V’s bird repeating betty betty betty. He can’t sit any longer listening to the nonstop jabber of the last sounds Sovereign heard.

“Johnny.”

Joe digs the shotgun out of the gym bag. His handkerchief is bloody so he uses his jockstrap to wipe down the sawed-off shotgun he’ll leave behind, jammed in Sovereign’s piss-soaked crotch. He tries to ease out the stiletto. Blood wells up without gushing. Joe tugs harder but can’t dislodge the knife, maybe because his hands have started to shake. He’s drenched with sweat, and takes his jacket off. How did his white shirt get spattered with blood? He removes his shirt. The lapels of his powder blue sport coat are speckled, too, but the splash pattern that’s good for eating spaghetti makes it look as if the blood might be part of the coat. He wipes the car and knife handle down with the shirt. In the gym bag, there’s a wrinkled gray tank top with the faded maroon lettering CHAMPS over an insignia of crossed boxing gloves. Joe pulls that on and slips his jacket over it, and then, for no reason, fits the jockstrap over Sovereign’s face so that it looks as if he’s wearing a mask or a blindfold. At the shotgun blast, flocks rise, detonated from the factory roofs, and Joe imagines how on the top floor of 3 V’s the spooked birds batter their cages.

Friday afternoon, a red clothespin day at the Zip Inn. Ball game on the TV, Drabowsky against the Giants’ Johnny Antonelli, top of the fifth and the Cubs down 2–0 on a Willie Mays homer. The jukebox, Zip apologizes, is on the fritz. No “Ebb Tide,” no “Sing, Sing, Sing,” no “Cucurrucucu Paloma.”

Teo sits on a stool, balancing the quarters that he was going to feed to the jukebox on the wooden bar.

“One more, on the house,” Zip says. His white shirt looks slept in, his bow tie askew, his furrowed face stubbled, eyes bloodshot. It’s clear he’s continued the pace from yesterday. Teo turns his shot glass upside down. Zip turns it back up. “To Friday,” Zip says.

“We already drank to Friday.” Teo turns his shot glass back down. “We drank to Friday yesterday, and to Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.”

“We missed Thursday.”

“Yesterday was Thursday, we started out drinking to Thursday.”

“Yeah, but today’s fucking special.”

“Every day’s special. Isn’t that the point of drinking to them?” Teo asks.

“There is no point,” Zip says. “That’s the point.”

Teo shrugs. “So why’s today special? An anniversary?”

“Special’ s the wrong word,” Zip says. He looks as if the right word might be doomed .