Chameleon

Forever No More

It’s late December and the cold makes my breath look like Indian smoke signals. Even though I have on only a thin cotton shirt. I can’t feel the cold. I’m as numb to the cold as I am oblivious to sanity. There is a wailing in the background coming from the incessant meandering of a train. Its wheels screech along the metal tracks and – as if to proclaim to the city an impending horror – the sound booms and shoots through the atmosphere.

It being well past midnight and relatively silent otherwise, this sound is as close to my ears as my conscience. My conscience, as insistent as the blaring whistle of that train, annoyingly grates at me, tapping me on the shoulder.

"Hey, psst, what the fuck are you doing, Don?"

I can hear it, but I can’t stop. It’s as if I’m outside of myself, watching the climax of an old western movie. I know, though, that this is real, just as surely as I am aware that I am reaching under the seat of my truck to get my Glock 19. Its weight is substantial – cold and heavy.

What’s even stranger is that for some God-awful reason, I feel confident and powerful, even though I am going toward sure danger and possible death. A sliver of insanity instigates the question, "How will you live with yourself if you do not end this now? Surely, you’d rather be dead."

I think again, "In due time... in due time."

I am no longer afraid, not of life, not of failing, not of being unaccepted, worrying about blending in. I am not afraid to be seen, and definitely there is no fear of Jermain Quartier. Not anymore! Forever, no more!

I leave the truck and cross the street toward him and things really start to slow down, as if everything is under water. Horns wail in a distorted slow moan as cars skid to miss me, and the pounding in my heart rhythmically coincides with each moment. When I reach my destination, and know what I’m going to do, everything kicks into hyper speed. I hear myself ranting,

"Put that f------ gun down!"

Jermain Quartier leans back against a fence and laughs so hard he loses all body control. Like a rag doll he goes limp and almost falls over.

"Doc, whatchoo doin’ with that big ol’ gun? You gonna shoot someboday?" he slurs.

Before I can do anything, he laughs and goes limp again.

"Watchoo gonna do?"

Then his eyes dart toward Hobo, the dog, my dog, who has led me here this night.

"Li’l sumbitch."

"I speak!"

Jermain’s smile disappears from his face. He begins to take shots at any and everything that’s moving. The sound of the gun exploding and echoing in the horseshoe shaped apartment court just behind us does not stir a soul. Not so much as a drape is pulled back. Then the shriek of pain slices through me like lightning. I find my poor mutt was one of those things moving. Jermain laughs again. He is actually tickled at the sight of the poor dog yelping and crying, dragging its hind leg on the ground. By now my body shakes so hard I can barely hold on to my gun. I feel sorry for the dog, but I feel no remorse for what I am about to do to Jermain.

I raise my gun and point it squarely at him. Jermain looks at me and flashes a drunken toothy grin. I feel as if my eyebrows touch, I grimace so hard. I can feel my face contort, aquiver, as I aim and unload every bullet in my gun into his chest. I watch him fall back. He grabs the handrail to the staircase behind him trying in vain to hold himself up. I stand there and watch him clench the blood soaked shirt in his hand. I turn to look at the destruction like a child at the shore of an ocean that needs to be crossed without a boat. I hear one more shot ring out, then there is a sharp pain in my neck and I collapse to my knees. It takes a while to figure it out. I lie there for a minute thinking - baffled.

"Sh--! I think I’ve been shot." I can feel my lips tighten as if I have swallowed a sour lemon. My eyelids flutter and I try to think things through but I am too confused. So I kneel there thinking, "So this is what it’s like when someone gets shot and dies." "I am dying," is all I can say.

But no one can hear me. I can feel the warm blood ooze between my fingers when my pulse quickens.

For some odd reason I am calm. I’m fine with it - dying, you know – for it is for a worthwhile cause and brings, in some strange way, peace.