No Clock

Every time I see one of those old toilets with the chains that hang down, I feel around behind it. I don´t know why I do. There is not going to be a gun there. And even if there is, what would I do with it? Grab the gun, wash my face, and walk out naturally? Suppose so. I walk out, straighten my fedora, amble past a few tables with red and white checkered table cloths. There is nobody to shoot. No crime boss, and no dirty cop.

So I just finish my meal, baked ziti, pay my check, and head home. Nevermind who´s missing their .38. I walk down the street as natural as I can, hands jammed into my jacket pockets, fingers maintaining contact with the gun. The metal barrel is warm now from the body heat, sticky with sweat from my fingers. I try to keep my head still and my eyes forward, but they insist on darting. My posture is good, better than usual.

Down the stairs, into the train station. I find a machine in the corner to buy my ticket. Don´t want anybody to see the heaviness of my pocket while the hand is elsewhere. Deep breath, and I make sure to act slowly, pulling the folded bill out of my pocket and flattening it against my though. Slide the bill in, hold my breath, and out comes the ticket. Transaction complete.

The first train is too full. I can wait. No hurry. I stroll down the platform, reading the advertisements on the other side of the track. Taking in the graffiti, and the sounds of a violinist upstairs. He´s playing along to some classical recording that sounds familiar, but only getting about half the notes in. The music is too fast for him. Something rumbles at a lower frequency than the karaoke violin concert. Here comes my train.

Just three stopsh ome. I feel the metal in my pocket, now even warmer and truly damp. I wish I could just transfer the pistol from one pocket to the other. Not now. Just three stops. Why did I grab that gun anyways? I´ve never shot one, and only handled one once. The Godfather. Fuck you Francis Ford Coppola. Fuck you Mario Puzo. No. Not their faults. It´s me. What a stupid habit, feeling behind toilets. Stupid and dirty. No. Not my fault either. Who the hell tapes a gun behind a toilet? This is the 21^st century damnit. Those kinds of toilets shouldn´t even exist.

Here´s my stop. Just a few more minutes and I´m off the street. How come I feel so damn nervous. I´m armed. Hell I feel safe on nights without a gun. At a crowded intersection, I feel a hand on my shoulder. It´s a big hand and it squeezes hard. Feels like one of those handshakes from guys with something to prove. It doesn´t let go, so I turn around. Slowly. The face doesn´t look familiar. Light eyes and a high forehead. Reddish stubble, but brown hair. About thirty maybe. Tells me he´s sorry, thought I was someone else. No problem. But I say nothing, just make eye contact. Mouth is seemingly frozen. He shrugs awkwardly and turns around, leaning back and pivoting on the worn heels of his work boots.

Off the mean streets and into the darkness. It´s quieter here. Apartments muffle the traffic. I walk in the middle of the alley. There are no sidewalks here and the edges of the asphalt are lined by those big plastic municipal trash bins, the black blue and green ones. There´s some other junk too.A pile of mattresses, couches and other discarded furniture has been accumulating since September. It´s getting high. Taller than me. To my left, I hear some scratches. It´s that goddamned cat. The one that keeps me up at night, hanging around outside my window. He´s yelling about something now. His happy little tail unfurls with every little shriek like one of those slap bracelets from when I was a kid. I see another cat. Romantic conquest maybe. Or a rival gangster. I remember the gun.

What time is it? I flip open my cell phone with my left hand. Then to ten. On a Friday night, whose gonna notice? I take my right hand out of my pocket as I snap the phone shut between my left thumb and index finger. I wipe the right hand on my chest, gripping come cotton between each finger to absorb the sweat. A moment of hesitation.

Fuck it. This all happened for a reason. Might as well make that reason count. I pull the gun out of my pocket and I cock it. This is too easy. Aim at the first cat, pull the trigger slowly like Pacino in the movie. Cat number two looks up at me. Stuck in time or something, it´s green little eyes not blinking. Bye.

I look at my hand, holding the gun out like I´m surprised to see it there. Then I look over my shoulders, the way you do before you´re about to tell a racist joke. Nobody. I wipe the gun off with the inside of my jacket, and hold it with the jacket as I walk over to the furniture pile. There´s a disgusting couch about three feet up that looks sturdy. Don´t want to collapse this thing like Jenga. I pull out a cushion, just a few inches though. It´s cold and heavy. Waterlogged. Trembling a little, I drop the gun behind it and stuff the cushion back in, hiding the gun like a tv remote.