Not The First Mistake (September)

Robert Bennett is in his room at the Eastman Hotel, a single-room occupancy, watching television.  Watching isn’t necessarily the best description, as the screen is frozen in the test pattern, but he seems to be dozing off, more asleep than awake, occasionally jerking his head as he drifts in and out of consciousness.  The sound of the TV is all the way down, so he cannot hear the high pitched whine that accompanies the color bars on the screen, just the low level hum of the old set.  The only other sounds in the room are the constant hiss of the neon lights outside his window, which he leaves permanently cracked, and the occasional rattle and bang of a Night Owl bus, or sanitation truck, thrashing its wheels over the street grate three stories below. 

He is sitting up on the bed, leaning back against the wall, propped on the shitty pillows that he found stuffed under the flea-ridden mattress when he took the room.  His sawed-off Remington shotgun sits on the seat of the chair near the door, with several boxes of ammo near it.  He is still wearing the double shoulder holsters, the left one still holding a .45 semi-auto, and the other empty, with a matching handgun lying next to him on the bed.  There are several extra clips, fully loaded, with more random bullets scattered around him on the bed.  He has been here for a while, though even he isn’t sure how long anymore.  The overflowing ashtrays, empty packs of cigarettes, and nearly dozen empty beer bottles on the table beside his bed serve as a testament to the passing time.  He abruptly wakes from his slumber and sees the test pattern playing on the television.  Irritated by it, he quickly stands and turns it off, then immediately sits back down at the foot of his bed, clutching his skull and regretting his sudden movements.  The last four hours are black in his mind again.  That always unnerves him.

Robert walks up to the Grab N Go just before three a.m.  Outside of the store are four bangers, three Mexican and one White.  They all look the same to him: dumb punks.  He looks the same to him: an old drunk.  He fingers his trusty sawed-off in the left pocket of his greying beige overcoat, the shoulder holsters worn over the charcoal vest and tie, and though he isn’t wearing his suit jacket, they remain hidden by the duster, as he walks into the store.  He walks to the beer cooler, seemingly unaware of the teenager looking suspicious in the candy aisle, and the worn down, middle-aged woman working the counter, halfway through her shift for the night.  She is the type of woman who has obviously had a hard life, and has done little to make it easier on herself.  She sighs at every request made of her at work, and says, “I wish this was over.”  Most people assume she means her shift, but some wonder if she isn’t just talking about her life.

“Freeze bitch!  Gimme all yo money!  Now muthafucka!” 

The white banger has run in from outside and started yelling.  He is in his early twenties, just barely able to grow enough facial hair to sculpt it into a ridiculous beard, but has already spent several years behind bars.  He is pointing a chrome-handled pistol at the woman behind the counter.  He looks around nervously, and yells out “Yall muthafuckas stay the right the fuck where yo at!” while his friends stand just outside the door, strapped, but still concealing.  He looks back at the woman behind the counter and yells, “Hurry the fuck up bitch!”

Robert walks up behind the robber, as if there was no robbery taking place and he is just getting in line.  The robber, suddenly aware that this old man has just walked up behind him, slaps the beer out of Robert’s hands while waving the gun at him, shattering the bottles on the polished concrete floor.  Robert’s eyes focus in on the punk, as if seeing him for the first time, then immediately turn to a pure white.  The robber looks hard as he can, completely unnerved by the total lack of color. 

“Who da fuck are you?  Bakdafukup!” 

Mr. Bennett takes a step back, as if obliging the punk, who has now completely lost his cool, but is trying to hide it as best as possible.  The other three are starting inside, staring in disbelief at the old guy, and ready to get this robbery over with so they can jet before the cops are alerted.  The punk turns back to face the woman, ready to repeat his demands. 

Just then his chest blows open, spraying the counter and the woman with blood.  Through the hole in the robber’s body, she could have seen Robert and his trusty shotgun, had her mind not completely turned to mush.  The body falls, and Mr. Bennett shoots the clerk in the head, which shatters with the impact; her body collapsing behind the counter.

The robber’s friends immediately grab for their guns, all three of them jammed together in the doorway.  Too little, too late, as Robert has already pulled one of his semi-automatic pistols, and, in a neat, professional, display, shoots them each in the head and the chest: one, two, three.

The teenager, who had been ducking down in the candy aisle where he had been stuffing his pockets moments before, suddenly takes off running towards the back of the store.  Mr. Bennett turns away from the door and fires one more shot with the Remington, launching the young man through the glass cooler door as it kills him.

The only living person in the room holsters his pistol, shoves the shotgun back into his pocket, walks to the back stepping over the teenager’s body, grabs another twelve-pack of beer, cans this time, and walks up to the counter.  He steps over the body of the dead robber and looks at the remains of the woman behind the counter.  The counter is splattered with blood, as is most of the store at this point, and Mr. Bennett places a ten dollar bill on the blood.  He then casually walks out with his beer in one hand, his other on the shotgun grip, past the bodies lying halfway out the shattered remains of the door, and heads home.

As he makes the turn onto his hotel’s street, five blocks from the store, police sirens can be heard in the background.  He lets the security gate shut behind him, when the first squad car races past, heading to the slaughter.

Roy turns the television on as he walks into his room.  The screen warms up to a test pattern, and he smacks the side of the set.  It’s one of those old tube sets that are more impressive to see actually working than interesting to watch anything on, with fake wooden sides, and three knobs on the front.  He cranks the top knob and the picture stutters and jumps to an old Technicolor movie about World War Two.  Setting his overcoat on the chair, he loosens the shoulder holsters, then removes and drapes them over the back of the chair.  He grabs a beer, pops it open, turns it up and jams a penknife into the side of the can.  After finishing three this way, he settles back on the bed, sitting upright, just as he was an hour ago, and begins to nurse the next beer.  He stares blankly at the television screen, until slowly his vision begins to collapse at the edges, and sleep takes it turn.  Real, genuine, calm sleep.