Poor Dead Michael Violence. 3,200
I already miss that beautiful, loverly, loooverly, boy.
I’ll love him forreevveer!
Michael is, was, a lovely boy. A pure Adonis come down to Earth as a true human. I look out my bedroom window at the house next door. It’s the one he used to live in … until today.
Looking closely, I see a shifting orange glow inside. My fire started in the basement and will take a while yet to catch on good. I can’t take my eyes off that house — the old Simpson place. Before poor Michael, It had been empty for years, ever since Mr. Simpson died.
Michael and his buddies moved in — was it only a couple of months ago? Hard to believe. It seems like a century, at least. I sit, watching from the window of my bedroom; on the edge of the bed while clutching Theodora my teddy tightly as I watch for smoke or flames to show. They should be lover, lover, loverly and a sight to store in a special compartment in my heart … forever.
To rest my eyes, I take a moment to look around the walls of a typical teenage girl’s bedroom, posters of rock stars on the walls and frilly white curtains on the lone window. A window now facing a house where I expect to see flames erupting at any moment.
Excuse me, but I have to giggle at the thought. This will probably be the most excitement the town has ever had. It reminds me of another altercation, the one that got me to this itty-bitty town. Not so good as this one though, I think, going back to the window to watch again.
Nobody heard the guns going off. If they had, the police would be here by now — even if it is a long thirty-mile trip from Dallas.
We’re pretty much alone here at Rock Point. With nothing but a one-and-a-half lane road winding through arid land from Dallas toward State Route 43. At the edge of the district, it’s almost an hour ride by bus for me to get to school. Rock Point has two-dozen houses, sixteen barns, and a small general store run by Mr. Thompson in his house. Some of the old geeks here can’t get to town to shop, so he goes for them, upping the prices appropriately.
Altogether, about sixty or seventy people live here. If you don’t count Michael and his buddies, that is. And you can’t really and honestly count them anymore.
I don’t really like it here, not much anyway, but Mama says I make too much trouble in the city. I like to drink and take stuff, which is why we moved way out here where nothing is going on but watching the grass grow. Man, like that there bloody little stuff back in Dallas really and truly messed up my life.
But, even so, if the shooting had been reported the police would have been here by now. After all, nobody pays attention to speed limits around here — except the school bus, of course. A normal trip to the outskirts of Dallas only takes about fifteen minutes on a rainy day, and the police would be even faster. Cops don’t hang around the lonely road, and you can see them coming for a long ways if they do.
I think back to the day — yes, only a couple of months ago — when I first met pretty Michael….
I didn’t notice when he moved in. I was probably too busy with homework at the time. I remember buying a new CD of the “Damned Devils” the day before. I was probably listening to them at the time or something. The first I noticed him was at the counter of the store where I was having a soda with Tammy and Troy. We were talking about a new substitute teacher we all had for history class.
I heard a noise from behind the counter. Old Mr. Thompson came out of the back room. He looked frightened as he bounced off the back of the counter, shaking Mary Jeffer’s homemade pie display. The one kept there and filled by her, splitting the money with Mr. Thompson.
Two strange boys came out behind him, both grinning. One was Michael. In his leather jacket with big swastikas on it he looked like that Marlon Brando squeeze, a grin across a wide bearded face. My heart throbbed in my chest in seeing such a forceful man, and in our tiny town.
Mr. Thompson, who normally lorded it over his establishment — and us kids — went to the cash register and gave Michael some money, a sheepish look on his face. Then the boys left. On the way out, though, Michael gave me a wave and a big grin.
“I know I’ll be seeing…. You,” he said, cocking his finger at me as they left.
I was so thrilled I almost wet my best silk panties.
A few days later, one of the boys came to our door and talked to Papa. Papa seemed worried when the boy left. I asked him why, but he wouldn’t tell me.
“Leave me alone,” he said, as he slammed the door to his workshop in the garage.
Papa fixes cars for the town. He isn’t a regular mechanic, works in a factory back in Dallas in fact. He makes a little money by fixing them for residents, though. Well, he was soon fixing cars for the strangers, who I found lived across a vacant lot from us at the old Simpson house.
I heard they weren’t paying any rent or anything, just came one day and moved in. The Simpson family can’t get rid of the house — nobody wants to live way out in the sticks — so they just seem to have forgotten about it, not even bothering to nail up the doors or windows. Who’d come all the way out here to steal old furniture, anyway?
At first, I hoped Michael would go to school with me. He was young enough, but I guess he must have quit or something. At least I could watch him from my window, and dream….
Now, I see flames through a basement window. It’s getting dark out, so it won’t be long before someone calls the fire department. It doesn’t make a whole lot of difference, since the place sits away from the others, in the middle of an overgrown yard. Our house isn’t in any danger. I kinda wish it were daytime so I could see the smoke gooder. Yeah. I wonder why gooder isn’t a real word? I think I can smell it though….
I saw Michael again at the store. Him and his friends came in and ordered all the rest of us out. All but me and Molly, that is. They said we could stay. We were nervous — let me tell you — but also curious, so we stayed.
He motioned for me to sit in the booth next to him and ordered me a burger and coke. He surprised me in that he didn’t pay or even get a bill — none of them did. Mr. Thompson seemed kinda angry, but did as they said.
It wasn’t until they started talking about the fire at the Jackson house the day before that I caught on to what was going on.
“We learned those Niggers, we sure as hell did,” Spike, one the biggest of them said. “Did you notice the Spics are movin’ too? They got our fucking message.”
“This is our fucking town, and they know it. It’s going to be an Aryan town,” another, one named Adolf, with a funny little mustache and slicked-back hair told the others, laughing.
He was trying to look like that Hitler guy but it was silly with all his freckles. I don’t remember Hitler having freckles.
“Wait’ll the others get here. There should be plenty of room once we get the deadwood out,” Michael said, turning to grin at me. “How you doin’, precious?”
I smiled back, moving closer. Man, what a hunk, I thought. A take-charge kinda man. Not like the creepy kids I see in school.
It turned out that they were collecting something they called “protection” money from both Mr. Thompson and my Papa — along with most others in town. If they didn’t pay, no protection, and Michael’s bunch would mess around with them. Just like, what’s his name? Allie Capone?
A few weeks later, the State Police came and talked to Michael. I was watching out of my window. I often watched him like that, around the edge of the curtain. A girl can’t be too, too careful, ya know? Sometimes he’d be working on something out in the yard, with his shirt off. The cops talked awhile and left. After that, the Bloomgolds moved during the night — leaving another empty house.
Michael wanted to see more of me, and I was certainly willing, but Papa didn’t want me to.
“No. Absolutely not. I better not catch you with that bastard,” he told me.
So I didn’t. I wanted to, oh, how I wanted to, but Papa brought up that darned court order from Dallas. I don’t wanna go back to juvie.
I was mad, but there wasn’t anything I could do. In such a small town, he’d be sure to find out if I did.
Goody, the fire’s getting good now. Flames are really shooting up. I still can’t hear any sirens, though. Didn’t anyone call the fire in? Wait. I see some people now. Maybe they’re going to put the fire out?
Nope. One of them is Mr. Thompson, from the store, and he’s got a shotgun. And Mr. Jeffers is with him, holding a hunting rifle. I can hardly keep my laughing inside my tummy; it wouldn’t be very ladylike. I see them and a few others shooting at the house and still no sirens. Oh, how brave of them. After the whole thing’s already settled, they come with their big macho guns.
Anyway, hold in my giggling….
Yesterday, Michael’s gang came to see Papa again. I was at school already and didn’t see it, but Mama said they beat up Papa. He was sure beat-up when I saw him, later.
“They wanted you, Ellen,” Mama told me, “to go to a party tonight at their house. When your father said ‘no way,’ they beat him and said you had better be there.”
“Did you call the police?” I asked, fearful for Papa.
“They came out and said they couldn’t do anything. There were no witnesses and those bastards said they didn’t do it.” She sobbed, and I hate to see Mama cry. “I heard that the leader, that Michael Spivek is a relative of the governor, himself,” she told me, turning to check the potatoes on the stove. “I don’t know how true it is, but I heard that the police were ordered to leave them alone.”
Well, then I was mad, very angry. Back in the city, Papa had gone through a lot. He saved me from a lot of trouble — maybe umpteen years in jail — back there. Now, I would save him, I decided, going upstairs to my room. Oh, boy, was I gonna get them dweebs.
I snuck out my window last night, just like in that old Little Beaver television show — and went over to the house. When I banged on it, Spike, the big one, opened the door.
“Come on in, little girl,” he told me, winking. “I’ll get Mike. He figured you’d want to come to the party.”
Michael seemed pretty drunk, or high, when he came to greet me. And greet me he did, pulling me up to his manly chest and trying to kiss me on the lips. But I twisted, so he only got my cheek.
“Put me down,” I yelled at him, and he did, looking sort of embarrassed. Girls can do that to guys. He looked so cute standing there like a big Theodora, but a man-type teddy bear.
Well, despite what my mother wanted, I did stay for the party, even saving my chastity — though it wasn’t easy. Michael wanted me — a girl can tell — but he tried to be a gentleman, even getting into a fight with one of the others. ‘Sides, there were other girls there, though I didn’t know them, so I didn’t feel all that alone.
“Leave her alone or i”ll kick your ass,” he told one guy that tried to feel me up, making me feel proud.
Not too proud to stir a box’a Sure Shot rat poison in’ta a large pot of soup in their refrigerator, though. They had a big bunch of hamburgers and stuff for the party, even a charcoal thingy to cook them, and I hoped they’d save the soup for today. I don’t know, but guess they did….
Oh! Look at all those brave men out there, shooting into a flaming house. I guess they expect someone to try to get out? Even if any of them are still alive, I doubt if they could make it now. The thing is blazing a million, zillion, miles into the sky.
Anyway, let them have their fun, I think, watching the brave fools….
When I knocked on the door this afternoon after school, nobody answered, so I banged some more. I heard someone yell from inside,
“Is it the ambulance? Come on in … and hurry the fuck up.”
Well, I’m not an ambulance, but went in anyway. I found those guys lying around all over the living room and kitchen — an empty soup bowl on the kitchen table.
“Where’s the ambulance?” Michael almost pleaded from where he was lying on an old mattress, puke all over and around him. Didn’t look so hunky anymore. “That fucking storekeeper told Spike he would call one for us. Wait’ll I get my hands on the bastard.”
Spike? He looked like one of the worse, as he sat at the kitchen table next to that large bowl, head folded over, large hands tattooed with swastikas dripping with pukey pukey vomit.
Ignoring Michael, I went over to Spike, curious about him. I nudged him with my arm and he fell over onto the floor and groaned. I grinned. There were a few guns lying near the sink. They had been there overnight. Adolf and some of the guys had been out back shooting into a wheat field the night before. It looked like someone had been cleaning them. I found one that looked put together.
“Hey, sweetcakes,” Michael called to me from the living room, “get your cute little ass out of here and get us some fucking help,” he ordered, then hacked like he was trying to throw up some more.
The gun was one of those big heavy ones that are supposed to shoot a lot if you hold down the trigger — an ugly looking thing. I saw a bunch of full box things for them and found one to fit in the bottom. It made a loud click when I put it in. Now I could really have some fun, I thought.
I went over and kicked Spike. He looked up at me with sad eyes and groaned, spit spurting from an open mouth. Gross. Not for long though. I had never shooted’ one of those things, only my father’s shotgun — and a boyfriend’s pistol once back in Dallas, and I din’t wanna think about that time. The memory made me shake my head, remembering all that bad stuff back in Dallas, the reason I was here right now.
Why not? I thought, aiming between those big sad eyes. I steadied myself with both hands, closed my eyes, and pulled the trigger. All it did was click. Oh! I remembered to pull back the sliding top, then tried again.
It only shot one time. I thought it would shoot all the bullet things at once, and was braced for it. I saw Spike jerking around down by my feet, and had to jump back to keep him from knocking me down.
I looked the gun over better and saw a little switch up above the trigger. Pushing it up, I aimed at Spike again and pulled the trigger. That time it didn’t do anything, not even click. But I could tell what was wrong by then. I pushed the three position switch down all the way.
Not wanting to waste any more bullets, I grinned and shook my head at Spike. He was still jerking around a little, so I kicked his pukie face and he stopped. Another nudge of my foot, and he started whimpering again. Screw him, I thought, going back toward the living room.
I heard another shot and splinters from the doorway hit my cheek. Scared, I jumped back into the kitchen, thinking of those television shows I watch. Darn it, I could feel blood on my cheek. Now I was madder than scared, and did like on the television. I jumped back into the living room, crouching to the side of the door and aiming with both hands. I don’t know why they do that, since it feels silly.
Michael, pretty Michael, had really shot at me. I couldn’t believe it. I could see him lying there, even kinda felt sorry for him, with a gun drooping from his hand, looking at me with those beautiful eyes. I so wanted to hold his head up, looking into those lovely blue eyes … while he died. The gun shook in my sweaty hands and I almost dropped it to run over and help him — almost.
When he brought up his gun again, I raised mine too, only I shooted’ first, hee-hee. I saw his beautiful body shake and shudder as the bullets hit him. Boy, that thing even shook me when it went off. I’ll tell you, it wasn’t like on television. That thing bucked around and almost busted my ears with the noise.
With tears in my eyes, I went from punk to punk. Remembering to put the switch in the middle for one boom at a time, I shot each of them in the head. Bippity. Bippity. Bippity, one after the other.
Then I went out to the garage and found a gas can. Also from watching television, I knew to set a fire in an inside room, one with no windows. Also that the basement was best. That way, by the time the fire was spotted, it would be going too good to put out. There was a little furnace room, with plenty of junk lying around and no window. I wished I had done that in Dallas. It was perfect….
So here I sit, watching some now-brave fools shooting at dead bodies in a burning house. I’ll bet they take credit. Well, let them, for all I care. I still have to do my homework. Mr. Transki, in math class, will kill me if I don’t.
I’m awful sorry you had to die, pretty Michael — but you’ll live forever in my dreams.