Jose Rodriguez - Snapshots of Modern Love

Sitting on my butt is new to me and the free time is rather handy at filling my head with doubts, admonitions, wild dreams and all kind of garbage that does nothing to let me think straight. For starters, what the hell I’ m doing? Even if I were to see Debbie, or the woman I think is Debbie, walking across the parking lot, what am I supposed to do?

She didn’ t recognize me at the party, or if she did she paid no attention. Maybe she didn’ t recognize me because she wasn’ t Debbie. Maybe she doesn’ t work here but somewhere else, or she quit and is now hooking on Colfax, doing what she does best.

I chastise myself for having such thoughts. I, better than anybody, should know what it is like to have made mistakes in younger years and then having to live with them everyday, and no matter how straight and trouble free your life had been since then, they still haunt you and people expect you to fuck up again because that is you, the loser that will always be a loser. But if I got my shit together, so could have Debbie. I know that my marriage is not worth the paper the marriage license is written on but I’ m not living under abridge and I haven’ t seen the inside a jail since the Feds let me out over twenty years ago. There is no such thing as a perfect life, and when I think somebody has a perfect life, that somebody ends up in rehab or committing suicide.

Day and night I ask myself why I want to see Debbie, why I’ m pursuing a woman who may not be who I think she is, and if she is, she may not be the person I used to know over twenty years ago. Perhaps I’ m not chasing after a woman but after a past that is gone, after my wasted youth, acting under the pretense that if I somehow connect with this person, I will have my wasted years back.

What a crock of shit, like if by meeting this woman, this obsession of mine, life would become what it should have been but it is not. I get exasperated with these thoughts. Bad karma I call them. I try to think positive, but what can be positive about sitting in a truck slurping oversized drinks and eating Slim Jims while waiting for…waiting for Godoth.

Her life is upside down. The way she sees it, she has two choices. Run with her cat and the few clothes she has bought in the last few days, or stay and live her life where and how she wants to. The first option is the less stressful in the short run. Debbie finds the idea of starting anew again not very palatable and as a matter of principle, unacceptable. But staying put, God, that is not easy either.

She has to toughen up, she sees no other choice. Enough of running, of cowering and crawling for the next exit. Debbie lives like a gunslinger, with her revolver by her side day and night, loaded and at the ready. She takes her showers with it inside a sandwich bag so it is next to her. She sits on the toilet with it in her lap and goes to bed with it under her pillow, her hand next to it. She bought anew box of shells with more powerful hollow point bullets; the new ammo is now loaded, and she cleans her revolver every day with an Teflon coated rag. She now has a clip holster for it and she wears it at her waist. Her life depends on her preparedness. Funny, she thinks, after all that time she had spent with drug dealers and other assorted scum, she had come to learn by osmosis how to live under the gun, a skill she once thought she would never have a use for.

There is price to pay though. The stress of sleeping with one eye closed and one open, of driving while checking every car behind to make sure Billy is not following her, of walking with her back towards the wall and her eyes scanning every shadow, her ears listening for the slightest of sounds that may warn her of approaching danger, of living like a paid assassin with a contract on her head, that stress tires her and robs her of any peace.

A detective called her, asked her a few questions about Billy, told her they are looking for him. If caught he’ s going back for parole violation plus a few new charges such as assaulting her at the bar. If they can prove he trashed her place, they will nail him for that too. Be careful and watch your back, had said the detective before he hung up. A very pleasant voice, Debbie had thought, but the message had been clear, she needed to watch her back.

She parks her car between Maria and Ana’ s. She takes a good look around before getting out and stars walking towards the catering business employee door. The revolver weighs on her waist, clipped to the inside of her pants. She wears a too long and loose shirt to hide the revolver’ s bulge and its grip. She hopes that nobody at work will notice it. If they do, tough tities. She doesn’ t want to get fired, but she doesn’ t want to be without her gun. Many times a day she wonders if it is worth staying, if it is worth living like this. Next thing she will be wearing body armor, and a back up piece wrapped around her ankle, and she is a convicted felon without a carry permit.

“ Debbie!” a voice calls from behind, an unknown voice. She turns around fast and her hand is behind her back and under her shirt, touching the revolver’ s grip. A middle age man is approaching. She doesn’ t recognize him but he’ s smiling; still, she doesn’ t let her guard down and her hand is on her piece.

“ Debbie?” the man says, asks, and he looks at her with what she thinks are weird eyes.

“ Yes?” says Debbie, squinting to see if there is a ruse behind this encounter. Her eyes dart to the side, she looks over her shoulder. Anybody ready to jump her from the sides, from behind?

The man is now standing in front of her with a stupid look on his face but still smiling. Debbie’ s hand has pulled the revolver half way out of its holster.

“ Debbie, it’ s me, Ken.”

Debbie doesn’ t recognize him, doesn’ t remember the name, not under the stressful circumstances she is living. In a better day, perhaps she would have made the connection.

“ Ken, from Daytona Beach… and Atlanta… and Dallas… the fly boy.” He smiles like a dupe, a hopeful one, as if he were looking at what cannot be real. In Debbie’ s head memories flood and whirl inside; she feels dizzy but then gains her composure although her legs feel like rubber. Her revolver goes back into the holster.

The way Billy sees it, he can get away with it not because the cops don' t know who did it, but because they can' t prove a thing. He has been through the system enough times to understand how it clicks, or it doesn' t. He doesn’ t doubt that everybody knows he trashed Debbie' s place but he is also sure he left no clues behind to tie him to the deed. Fucking cops can' t touch him. He jumped parole, that' s true, but once he' s out of the state, even if caught, Colorado doesn' t have the money to pay for his extradition so they will let him walk. A small fish like him is not worth the time and the money involved. Nothing is ever set in stone, as the cliche says, but Billy is convinced the odds are that he will never set foot in Colorado again, at least not in handcuffs.

Debbie, that stupid cunt, Billy thinks while smoking in bed, he needs to let her have it.

The place stinks of urine on the sheets and rotten wood under the bed but none of it bothers him. The parting shot has to be a good one because after Debbie is dealt with he will hit the highway and won' t stop until he’ s well on the other side of the state line. There won' t be a second chance to fix a botched job. A gloomy end of day light filters through the dusty windows. The traffic noise from Colfax Avenue comes in strong but doesn' t bother him either. It is like being in his cell in Canon City, in perfect mental isolation despite the crowded halls and corridors and their rackets. Here or there, Billy thinks, what difference does it make? Here I' m free, but free to do what?