Oliver Smith
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Just One More
Top of Page "Good evening, this is Jessica Robb bringing you tonight's news. The record breaking pace of murders in Minneapolis continued last night as the Minneapolis police department released details on the city's ninety ninth murder for 1995.” The local news droned on as John Gage sat back in his living room chair, strumming the empty can of a long drained beer. He mumbled to himself as he struggled to figure out the conclusion of the police show that he dozed through just before the news. Normally, the news slipped by without a need for contemplation but the number "99" stuck strongly in his mind, dancing dreamlike as he dwelled on the sense of incompleteness that the number evoked within him. He had become aware of the murder rate only vaguely, like something lingering from a dream without a context, sitting there quietly, gnawing at his consciousness. The rest of the news slipped by unnoticed, quickly fading in the racket of noise filling the house from radios, TVs and stereos entertaining people around the house. He had long ago learned to filter out irrelevant sound, focusing on the object of his interest, which was usually the television as the ten o'clock news rolled around. In his mind he thought of his wife laying in bed listening to that new age music she had become so fond of in recent years. It was past his daughter's bedtime so he figured she was already asleep, but she generally left her radio on as she fell asleep, leaving it up to him to turn it off as he headed to bed, flipping light switches along the way. His son was in the recreation room smooth talking some girl he met on the Internet. Ten o'clock was far from his usual bedtime so John simply ignored the rock and roll blasting through the drywall. But that "99" from the murder count on the news filled his thoughts, settling in his brain like a deep shot of whiskey, clouding his plan to lift himself from the comfort of the living room chair and head up to bed. It was New Year's eve and he wanted to do something to top off the year, make it something worth remembering, but his entire family was strangely complacent about the ending of another year. Work was dull in the days that connected Christmas with New Year's, devoid of anything of note. He was one of the few who didn't take those days off, leaving the office empty, quiet and surreal. Between his family's apathy and the dead atmosphere of his job he became restless and uneasy. Plus that "99" from the news wouldn't leave his imagination. Why "99"? Why not "100"? One hundred is a nice even number. He started to look at the Minneapolis murder rate as an uneven event in a drab, uneventful year. The company he works for had a lackluster year. His personal performance was rated as "meeting expectations" just as it had been for the past twenty five years and his kids were getting average grades. John crushed the beer can he had been fondling for the past hour and threw it into the trash can sitting next to the chair and lifted himself into a standing stretch, moaning as he exhaled. Moving toward his office in the other side of basement from where the family room is he watched his son through the slightly opened door of the recreation room. After entering the office he sat in front of his computer workstation and checked his e-mail, still pondering the number ninety nine, frustrated with his growing discontent and preoccupation with the number. The squeal of the modem hailing the Internet briefly plucked his attention from the number of murders in Minneapolis, but there was no e-mail requiring his attention so he found himself thinking of the ninety nine murders again. As he leaned back in his chair holding his hands behind his head he stared up at the wall next to his workstation and became fixated on the shotgun resting alone on a plain pine rack. He had never fired the gun, which he paid twenty years previously when an acquaintance of invited him on a hunting trip. But on the eve of the trip he was called out of town on business and never got around to going hunting after that. He wasn’t against guns, or hunting or even hunters. He just wasn’t interested, but he did buy that gun which remained as a testimony to that one brief contact with the hunting game. But tonight, the gun took on an entirely different meaning. That useless gun became a spark of excitement for him. He imagined the trigger pulling back and firing, tearing at the fiber, plastic and cinder block in the wall, breaking the path of monotony that his life had become. At forty four he had grown weary of the blur with which years plodded by, hardly pausing for a moment to etch a defining mark on the boardwalk of the past. Time itself had become one of the numb concepts that he accepted intellectually but he had long ago stopped feeling it, like he was sitting in the back seat of a limousine set on cruise control. Once again his thoughts drifted back to the ninety nine murders and the fact that it was new years eve. There were only a few hours left before the end of the year. That wasn’t much time to reach the one hundred mark and give Minneapolis a chance to finish the year with a nice even number of murders. He had become driven make a mark and the pressing deadline of midnight became the force which drew him into a rapidly evolving panic. The number ninety nine danced on the handle of the shotgun which seemed to be calling him now. He knew that he had drunk several beers but never had he felt quite as numb and excited at the same time. The number ninety nine. The gun. The need for Minneapolis to even the murder count. All of these things became the center of his life in these final hours before 1995 disappeared forever. Rising from the chair in his study he approached the wall where the shotgun filled his gaze. The cold, dark steel smoothly stretched before him, they dull reflection of his head pouting on the curve of the barrel, shifting as he shuffled to the wall and raised his hands to lift the tube of power. It felt alien in his hands. Never once had he fired this gun. Never once had he fired any gun. Caressing the curved barrel his fingers wrapped themselves erotically in loops, stroking slowing front to back, settling on the varnished wooden handle that nestled sweetly in his palm. At once his body quaked with adrenaline, surging from his fingertips to grind his groin and brain. He lifted his gaze from the gun as he scanned the shelves around the office. Somewhere he had a box of shells that he purchased when he bought the gun, but he wasn't sure where it might be located. The office had been rearranged countless times over the past twenty years and he wasn't even sure if they were still around. I place the gun on the desk next to his computer and began shoving books around on the shelf. He suddenly felt choked with urgency. It rose from deep within his lungs and clouded his vision as he roughly pushed and pulled the books from shelf to shelf, occasionally knocking one in a noisy flutter to the floor. “Yo, dad” his son cried out, “what’s goin’ on in there?” John paused, breathing with labor, “uh, nothin’ son,’ he muttered, “I’m just lookin’ for a book that I wanted to read.” Not hearing any response from his son he figured that he answer was acceptable and that Greg had gone back to talking to some girl on the phone. Then he remembered that his wife made him place the shotgun shells in the garage. She was uncomfortable having any kind of ammunition in the house so he placed it on a shelf over his work bench. John lifted picked up the shotgun and held it to close to his side as he left his office and stuck his head into the doorway of the recreation room where his son was lying with his back to him on the couch that was just a few feet from the door. “Greg,” John stated matter factly and waited from a response from his son, “I’m going to go for a New Year’s eve ride. I’ll see ya later.” Greg nodded impatiently and waved hand over his shoulder. John quickly crossed the space of the recreation room doorway and approached the stairs which lead up to the front door. He didn’t want to take the chance of waking his wife up so he headed directly to the garage, which he hoped was already open so that he wouldn’t have to run the garage door opener which vibrate throughout the house. He sighed in relief as he opened the door to the garage and took note of the fact that the sliding door was left open by his son when he returned home earlier. He quickly located the box of shells that were still sitting on the shelf where he placed them years before and removed several shells. After some experimentation he figured out how to place several shells into the gun, which held six shells. He was aware of the possibility that the barrel could be dirty since he had never cleaned it, or even looked at it for that matter, but he decided that he was just going to take that chance. Reason was not going to spoil this night. Quietly opening the passenger door to his car, John placed the gun in the seat and pressed the door closed softly. Then he climbed into the driver’s seat, leaving his leg dangling out the door so that he could push the car out of the garage before starting the motor. He wanted to minimize the chance that his wife would wake up. Soon he was on the road, contemplating his next step. He took not of the time reading on the digital display that glowed in the dark depth of his cars dashboard. “10:06” read the display. “Two hours,” he whispered to himself as he looked up at the rising night time skyline of Minneapolis. He really wasn’t sure how he was going to give Minneapolis the present he had in mind. But he was determined to get that one hundredth murder by his favorite city. He felt a supreme sense of purpose as he made his way through the streets of Minneapolis neighborhoods, business parks and strip malls. He started to reason that drive by shootings were becoming more common and that it would be readily associated with gang activity, so he convinced himself that his action was have no consequences. But he was sure that he wanted to be the one to get that one hundredth murder. Every time he noticed a cyclist, a jogger or any one just standing on the street he evaluated the isolation of the situation. In most cases he could see where someone had the chance to witness his presence so he moved on, playing the part of the innocent but becoming increasing thrilled at the prospect of his intended deed. Then he saw his first real opportunity. As he turned a poorly lit corner he noticed a young woman making her way along the sidewalk headed in his direction. By her dressed he decided that she was a prostitute who either was having a bad night or was just finishing a shift of hustling on the street. But the logistics were perfect so he parked the car next to the curb which she would be passing in just a minute or two. He shut off the lights on the car and reached for the shotgun in the dark, searching with his finger for the handle and the trigger which was going to give him some relieve for his current consuming passion. Drawing the gun to his lap, he cradled it like a child and noticed that the digital display on the dashboard clock read “11:45”. “Well, it is now or never,” he thought to himself, and turned his attention to the approaching woman. He was hoping that she would ignore him and just pass by, but close enough for him to be able to accomplish his goal. The street had no functioning street lights so the scene of his grand action was appropriately bathed in darkness, but he was uneasy with the odds of getting a good shot off in such darkness. He was surprised that he was thinking so logically and clearly. Everything was seemed to be slowing down, taking on the appearance of one of those artistic slow motion scenes that have become so popular in action films. Which made the prospect of his actions even more exciting. “Hey mister, want some action?” John had become distracted with his thoughts when the voice pierced the darkness. Vaguely, he could make out the profile of a face. The voice was feminine so he assumed that the woman he had planned on targeting had approached the car looking for some work. John was stunned, became concerned that the gun was visible, but it was apparent that if it was visible the woman wasn’t afraid, or at least concerned about it. “Are you alright, mister?” John was slowly starting to blurt something out but he could did not have any idea how he was going to handle this situation. “Hey, bitch!” came another voice in the darkness. This one was masculine and sounded angry. The woman vanished from his window but he could hear the sounds of mumbles, curses, slaps and a particularly harsh, wet thump as a body fell heavily to the cement. John reached for the key in the ignition as the back window of his car shattered from something big and hard crashed through. He didn’t have any idea what was being used on his car but he was quite thankful when the motor started readily and his lights responded to his pulling on the switch. As he placed the car in gear he heard a couple more thumbs on the back of his car, but he his way down the street, panic gripping him as the cars, storefronts and houses formed a hazy blur. He was alone on the streets, but he watched the rear view mirror intently as he looked for sights of pursuit. When it became obvious that he was safe he pulled into an all night convenience store and approached one a drive by telephone kiosk. Nervously he sought out a quarter to place into the phone and dialed 911. When the operator answered he quickly informed the operator that he witnessed an attack on a woman and gave the street coordinates where he saw the woman in his window. Not wanting to be recognized or traced, he hung up and started back home. Several blocks away from the all night convenience store where he made the phone call he notice a trash dumpster sitting beneath a security light behind a darkened office building. Driving slowly up to the dumpster, he reached over to the shotgun and pulled a handkerchief from his pants pocket, which he used to clean whatever fingerprints may by on the gun. The he tossed the gun into the dumpster which clanked with metallic clarity into the bottom of the metal container. John pulled back onto the street and headed for home as he struggled to think of an explanation for the broken rear window. As John crawled into be with his wife he sank into her arms without a sound. The next morning John walked out to the newspaper box and opened the first paper of the new year. The headline read “Minneapolis breaks the century mark in murders at 11:59PM”. He closed the paper, tucked it beneath his arms and headed for the house. As soon as he entered the house he picked up the phone and dialed his insurance agent to whom he reported that someone had thrown a stone through his car window. Making his way back to his family room chair he stretched out on the laid back chair and placed his hands behind his back, breathing deeply, fully and with a strong sense of fulfillment. The number “100” formed in his mind as he closed his eyes and fell back to sleep. |