Macabre Of a Thief

I cared not for that child. He was nothing but the neighborhood thief. The neighborhood trouble maker, and I felt his time would be better spent else where.

When a window was shattered, a tire slashed, a shovel stolen, a newspaper burned, everyone turned the blame to ten year old Kenneth Brown -- the weightless kid who lived in the corner house with no friends and one grandmother (whose only view of him relied on past memory). Grandma Brown lived her days in front of the television while ignoring the accusations of her beloved grandson. When it came to Kenneth her eyes saw good; her ears heard joy and her soul felt God.

But Kenneth presented himself to us in full color. Shameless, head strong, with clinched fists pounding his bird chest -- going through one garage after the other, shorting us of our goods -- since he knew none of us would blow the whistle on his ways. He would smile his smile -- which would make me sick -- and crown himself the Prince of our once calm and peaceful neighborhood.

The last time he was seen was the summer of last year. He had an eye out for a particular bike owned by nine year old Tershawn (one of the rare kids in the area who still had both parents). Tershawn had good grades and lived on the other side of town. Kenneth took the effort, using hate as a motive, and walked to Tershawn's side of town and returned with the bike in his possession. He took it o his Grandmother's garage, pulled it apart -- down to the bolts -- where he would attempt to steel parts to the neighborhood bike riders. The only problem was he needed to give the frame a new identity, but had no paint. So when night fell upon us, and had eight hours to age, Kenneth began his search...and this search led him to me...

I am a "regular" guy. I work eight hours a day. I live alone. I once had a wife but that didn't work out. I fall asleep late, but the discipline gets me up and out the door on time -- with the help of cigarettes and coffee. I have never wanted much out of life outside of life on it's own. No perks. No thrills. Hardly even "happiness." Simply the knowing of day to day expectations and the occasional surprise to entice a laugh from my gut. I make modest money and indulge myself in books and brandy as I await the phone to ring in hopes of company for the evening. I'm a God fearing man. In fact God is my truest concern in life. I can live without a career. But I cannot live without God (it's God and spiritual matters that define my routine). A simple life with simple needs in a time of complexity and chaos; it can amaze my associates that I keep a clear mind and body. I observe my surroundings so I may form views and opinions and/or settle for facts (occasionally, I contradict myself; but what human being doesn't?). But with Kenneth Brown being the common man I was raised to be can take a turn for the extraordinary and put in plain sight a menace in need of harm.

For I cared not for that child.

And the night I heard my gate open - as I sat smokeless and indecisive, the answer made solid sense.

I remember that night, slipping on shoes, with sights of the all night liquor store that stood a mile from my elegantly run down, yet, humble home. My mind was a bit tapered from the brandy that night (a rare event for me) and four hours without smoking caused me to chomp my inner jaws in search of relief.

Although I heard the noise of my back gate - a sound which would drive most to call the law - something told me not to worry. I did what I would always do. I loaded my pockets with wallet and keys, and made my way for the front door...and that's when the noise from my garage made me come to a halt. It was then that I suspected who it turned out to be. I went out back, peering around the open side door he had entered through. There he was on his search. Kenneth didn't see me for several moments so I was able to watch hi in my own private enjoyment. He staggered and tripped over tools, while trying to find his night vision. I could see him trying to convince himself that as long as he believed he was silent, there would be no way for me to hear him.

Soon he turned around and saw me in the open door way. Kenneth screamed out loud and began to look for his way out. He tried to run but, yes, I caught him. I took him violently by the throat and held him, using my free hand to retrieve a dirty rag off a shelf I'd used a fortnight ago to change my oil. I stuffed the rag in his mouth, while he clawed and wiggled. I over powered his weightless body and took hold of a chain. I bowed the chain around his body and left him helpless (I never planned the macabre; but it worked out like brilliance of the best kind).

When I completed his restraints and fulfilled my lust of presenting pain upon him, I strung young Kenneth upside down, securely by his feet, and duct taped the rag in his mouth for insurance. There I stood by the twitching menace, malevolent, prided and without remorse. His escape was unheard of and my bed time was near; so I trotted off to the store, as planned, to get my nicotine. I was gone for an hour. I took my time on a leisurely drive, with the window cracked, smoking cigarette after cigarette with blaring talk radio rattling my speakers. During this drive I searched for reasons of mercy on behalf of young Kenneth...but I found none.

Upon my return, still young Kenneth hung upside down. He struggled and tried to plead mercy through the dirty rag. I nailed the garage door shut and fell asleep to the muffled moans and rattlings of chain, determined to continue my routine of late nights and early discipline.

Kenneth Brown's disappearance began a formal topic of conversation amongst the good people of the neighborhood. It came across, by all, as a concern. I find it odd. The remorse we feel when things happen to those we hate turning the quasi-emotion to a genuine output. It had been over a week since I checked on young Kenneth; yet the panic amongst the people of the neighborhood assumed years. Grandma Brown filed a "Missing Persons" and donated time and posters to the local church and local phone poles in hopes of his recovery. When I was approached by the, now, concerned good people of the neighborhood, my response was a simple one. I posed the identity of a concerned citizen and promised my support in his recovery.

It took me three hours to bury hi that day. The whole time I juggled the "what ifs" that could take place. I worried the smell would attract the good people of the neighborhood and bring some one with, let us say, a more forgiving disposition than myself out in the open and turn me over to the authorities. I also pictured the positive in having one of the good people of the neighborhood follow my example and assist me in the task at hand, while I would happily provide the brandy. But ultimately, to be truthful, I hoped for none of the above. The latter turned out to be the case. I was left alone to tend my hard work and bubbling stomach.

when I un-nailed the garage door the sweet and sour aroma hit me in cords. It caused me to sneeze and cough on contact. Kenneth dangled, just as I'd left him. But his blood shot eyes - that stared of shock - were filled with fluids. His stiff jaw and face dried out the gag in his mouth. Flies and other insects nickel ed and dim ed him to raw flesh. I disregarded the horror by taking him down. I dragged hi across my yard to thepre -dug grave in my rock garden and put his troublesome corpse where he could only create beauty. When I finished - perspiring painfully - I went in to my humble home and showered until the hot water ran cold.

The summer passed and the heat waves turned gloomy. Drops of rain and fog shown from the heavens like anger. Kenneth Brown's "Missing Persons" posters, once fresh and hopeful, turned yellow and hard. Grandma Brown passed away that winter - some say out of worry - in front of her television with her Grandson's picture in her lap. Her house, now, sits on that corner boarded up and spray painted...

("Here lies Rosemary")

...haunted and used as a Hotel for underage sex.

My routine continues without a ripple. As a man of eight hours a day, filled with concerns of God and spiritual matters, I hardly have time to look back. Although I did acquire one of the "Missing Persons" as a personal trophy (it rests in my office next to my awards for Swim Team and Chess matches). I still get the Mailbox Values in the mail with Kenneth Brown's photo on it, asking "Have you seen me?"

It makes me giggle...but a touch insulted because the "Missing since" date is always wrong by a week, and I have to correct the date for my own sense of accuracy.

The feeling of guilt does not linger with me. Especially with prescribed death. Kenneth Brown, though in my eyes - if circumstances permitted - would be worth the years behind bars, if say I had been caught. I imagined how proudly I would wear theburden as though I had provided a service to the good people of the neighborhood.

But I was never caught. Never suspected. I spoke not to an Officer of the law, a Lawyer of the court, nor was I troubled by the evils of media. I was free from life's karma, though facing consequences in the afterlife. Until then, I'm left with peace. Routine. My beautiful rock garden. Kenneth Brown hasbecome a myth in our lovely homes, told to misfit children before bed time, to set them straight and allow parents to rest easy.

For I told you...I cared not for that child.

Potent American Black Boy (part 2)

It wasn't the -- as an old buddy of his would literate -- the "regular'ness" of life that confused him. It was the voices in his head. The nightly drinking. The isolation between the bare walls of his apartment that got him down. Nothing made sense. Even his certainties. His beliefs hardly gave hope. He converted to atheism to lighten the responsibility of worship which, by standards of his loved ones, made him a failure. A "failure" because he failed to believe. He kept track of his failures. He wanted to refer to them for comfort. In times of cheap booze and costly banter. He wanted to take these failures and remember the pain, so that he may never judge as those around have judged him. He managed a sense of sanity, through his insanity, by way of "street intellectual" self proclamation. His observations of the world were all that mattered. In his mind he could silence a room by proposing an idea --

-- "True wisdom lies in admitting ignorance," he once told a lover.

He knew he'd paraphrased it from a greater thinker than himself. He just could not conjure the brain power to cite the reference. So he claimed it as his own.

His lover -- a petite pale Irish girl with locks that assumed pubescence -- would only give a nod to such wisdom. She did not fool herself into believing she understood. Nor was she about to lead on agreeance. She was more interested in the essence of his statement.

-- "To not know is a form of intelligence?" she asked. "Is that what you're saying?"

-- "Yes."

He lit a Kamel Red and laid on his back. For she wished to know more but he refused to push on. In his mind he had made his point. The very fact that she did not get it was -- in accordance to his jargon -- an understanding of her brilliance.

-- "So by that rational" she persisted. "One does not need to say a word and they've conveyed their intelligence? Is that what you mean? And then by saying that," she mused, "it would, then, remove all needs of opinions? Is that what you're saying?"

He smiled and pulled from his Kamel Red. Then with an exhale of smoke he nodded "Yes."

She thought this to be silly. It was this conversation that put a damper on their future. She knew he was not interested in much beyond the physical. Nor was she willing to be more to him than he were to allow. She simply accepted the limited contact between them, while loathing the blur of the upcoming months.

He did not see it this way.

He hardly contemplated the future but rather suffered in the light of the present (his gift). Even with his run away mind he could not allow an ounce of "what if" since to fall in this form of thinking would create a level of stress he was not willing to hold on to. Nor by gambling his freedom for the likes of a girl with (in his mind) a low intelligence would he rise above his limited progression.

No, dear friends, no. He was not willing.

He was, however, willing to use and be used until the smoke cleared. He was willing to take joy in the happiness of "this moment" that save towards "the big picture." His only strength was in his instinct. His only expression was through the physical. The rest was the air between the gaps he clawed for. The rest was an illusion garnished in secrets. The rest was the smoke that left a trace of it's presence, but unburdened the eye through ulterior flight.