Bloody Sunday

When I walked into Carey's apartment I could see the phone cord disappearing into the stack of sofa cushions.  The previous day we had buried his telephone in the middle of six cushions and then topped it off with a dining room chair to help stabilize things.  The mound was the result of an experiment to see if we could deaden the sound of his phone which had been ringing almost non-stop for several days.  Carey had tried to break things off with some girl after a brief fling but she was determined to get in the last word.  She had Carey's phone number but thankfully did not know where he lived.  Carey could have simply disconnected the phone but that wouldn't have been as interesting.  The phone had continued to ring while we were constructing our cone of silence and I had asked Carey if I could give it a try. 

Carey said, "It's pointless.  This girl can't take a hint.  But sure, go ahead.  Knock yourself out."

I picked up the phone and said, "Sherwood Forest, Robin Hood speaking."

The girl said, "Let me talk to him."

I said, "If you are looking for Rick he no longer lives here."

The girl said, "Let me talk to him."

I said, "He's gone."

The girl said, "Where is he?"

I said, "Doing God's work a hundred miles south of Maracaibo."

The girl said, "Let me talk to him."

I said, "The village has no phone service."

The girl said, "Let me talk to him."

I said, "It's a shame you didn't call earlier."

The girl said, "Let me talk to him."

I said, "Did the two of you meet at church?"

The girl said, "Let me talk to him."

I hung up the phone and within a few seconds it started to ring again.  We continued adjusting and repositioning the sofa cushions for maximum effect.  Placing the dining room chair on top helped compress the heap and further eliminate any sound.  Before I left Carey's place yesterday, we had completely muffled the sound of the ringing.  If you listened closely you could still make out a repeating murmur coming from inside the cushions but it was barely audible.

 

This morning I had returned as planned so we could go downtown to The Pantry for breakfast.  It was a cool December day and Carey was heating up the place.  It was the late 1960s and the apartment was on Cazador Street half way up Mt. Washington.  The place had electric wall heaters that were expensive to use and weren't very effective.  The front of the apartment had a single open space that included a kitchen, dining and living room area.  Since gas was so much cheaper than electricity Carey would turn on the four stove burners full blast as well as the broiler and leave open the oven door.  This system kept things nice and toasty even on the coldest days.

 

Minutes after I walked in Jack Mang stopped by.  Carey and I had gone to high school with him.  Jack had always been a mean son of a bitch.  I first noticed this during a basketball game where Jack had to guard somebody that excelled at driving the lane.  Rather than expend the effort to properly defend against this by cutting the guy off, Jack would just let him go.  Then just as the kid began to race forward unopposed to the basket, Jack would flick out his foot and trip the poor bastard, sending him face first to the hardwood floor.  Then Jack would laugh.  The kid would earn a free throw or even two when the refs would get pissed at Jack.  If the kid could still play after being tripped two or three times, he would stop trying – it just wasn't worth it.

 

It had been about eight months since Jack was released from prison.  He had served five years for breaking a traffic cop's jaw while being given a ticket for some minor violation.  He had been advised before serving his time to make a statement as soon as the opportunity presented itself to ensure the other inmates would leave him be.  During the first week somebody looked at him the wrong way in a softball game and Jack busted the guy's shoulder with an aluminum bat.  Jack said nobody else bothered him after that.

 

We asked Jack if it was difficult finding work as an ex-con.  Jack said, "Hell no, I got lucky."

I asked, "Doing what?"

Jack said, "I got a job selling wooden pallets.  It was rough going until I met Judy.  She's a purchasing agent for a big trucking outfit and took a strong liking to me and my pallets."

Then Jack smiled his evil smile and in a sarcastic tone said, "We're in love."

Before we left for The Pantry, I told Carey I wanted to go by my place on the way so I could shave.  Carey told me to just go into his bathroom where he had an extra razor that I could use.  I left Carey and Jack sitting at the dining table and found the razor in the bathroom medicine cabinet. 

 

The razor was either very sharp, very dull or a type that was radically different from what I was used to.  When I finished shaving I had a half dozen good-sized nicks.  I placed my head down close to the sink and tried to stem the flow of blood by holding my face in cupped hands of cold water.  After a few minutes I stood up and looked in the mirror.  The cuts were non-life threatening but you would have been hard pressed to think so based on the image in the mirror.  I hadn't actually lost that much blood, but because my face and neck were coated with water the blood had spread to cover every inch.  The top of my white T-shirt was also drenched and had absorbed enough of the red to make it look like I was wearing a Hawaiian lei used for human sacrifices.

 

I didn't want to get blood all over the towel that hung in the bathroom so I went into the front room to see if Carey had any paper towels.  After a startled cry of "Jesus Christ" from big bad Jack Mang, we put his head between his knees so he wouldn't pass out.  It was a lot to take in on an empty stomach.