Life is Just a Game of Russian Roulette

Silently, I watch two men beat a third to death. Both assailants are black, their lithe bodies seeming to purr with efficiency as they hammer their victim with baseball bats, moving smoothly and professionally; hard, quick swings downward, a brief rest, and then two more vicious blows. They may as well have been clocking in a shift at the housing project on 120th, just nailing down the foundations. Both men appear to be no older than twenty or so; one is tall, wearing a backwards Yankees cap, his companion is shorter, but more powerfully built. Their victim is unrecognizable, his face so damaged that it no longer appears human. Snowflakes cascade down from above, forming a sheet on the ground. A squirrel runs onto the street, pauses to watch the proceedings, and then scurries on past.
Backwards cap’s youthful face is twisted into a scowl by some unknown emotion; whether anger or pleasure I cannot say. The question is why this nameless, unknown victim was chosen, was he a rival gang member? Did he look at these two the wrong way? Or was he simply born to walk across this street at five in the morning, and be murdered by a pair of sociopaths looking for something fun to pass the time? Whatever the reason, it seems apparent that his entire life, whatever it was, was directed towards this one end, to die for the pleasure of these others. Panting, bats sweeping through the air, horrible thudding sounds like the beating of a slab of meat. I try to imagine what it’s like to kill just for the hell of it. Satisfaction? Gratification? Some physical reaction to the act of killing, maybe.
And the prey. A moment of shock as his attackers’ intent becomes obvious. Pain, which I cannot feel. Fear? Of course, during and…after, as the blackness descends.
Sirens, and then two squad cars whipping around the curb, followed by an ambulance. The two youths cease their grisly work, look at each other, seem confused. How did it all come to this? Last night I just had a drink with friends, a joint. And then there was this guy, made a pass at my girl, whatever. We were high, went after him….
Can you go to jail for being stupid?
The cops step out of their cars, two men with a stretcher move towards the body. I doubt they’ll be much use. The short man pulls a pack of Marlboros out of his front jacket pocket, lights is, smokes. His companion sneers defiantly, probably fearfully. He spits at the lady cop walking towards him with a gun in one hand, handcuffs in the other. Maybe he saw it in a movie. The woman snaps on the handcuffs with unnecessary roughness, yanks backwards-cap into the backseat of her patrol car. Oh, for Jesse Jackson to see this…But I have to go to work.

***********************
The problem with factory work is that it doesn’t exactly get the creative juices flowing; you can’t method-act a glass bottle. Johnny’s icy blue eyes narrow when they land on my face. “Where the hell have you been? Shift started half-an-hour ago.”
“I was just watching a murder.”
He rolls his eyes. “Asshole. Don’t be late again, or I’ll dock you.”
“I won’t.” Smiling, I fall into line packing jars that will someday, if they are lucky, be filled with pickles. Being late isn’t such a big deal when your manager is also your best friend.

*************************
Break. Johnny and I take a seat near the counter in the cafeteria and eat our lunch. The weather’s cleared up a little; the afternoon sun shines through the windows. Johnny drinks from a bottle of water, wipes a drop off of his pointed chin. “So, did you get the part in that Shakespeare play?”
A flash of pain in my abdomen. “No. They wanted me to overact. I won’t overact.”
He shrugs, “Well, better luck next time. Why don’t you just do a horror movie? Isn’t that how most of you guys get started?”
“Marlon Brando never did a horror movie.”
“Marlon Brando’s the best actor there ever was,” he replies. “Besides, he started out as a stage actor, although I guess that’s the point, isn’t it?”
I nod gravely. I take my obsessions seriously.
Johnny stands up, sighs, stretches out his arms and says, “Well, when you do get a part you want I’ll come and watch you. But now we have to get back to work.” He blows a whistle, signaling the end of break.
Once again, I busy myself filling up the crates, lifting them onto wheeled carts, pushing them underneath winches that load them onto the trucks. But something seems to be wrong with the winch, the crate it reigns is wobbling in the air, Johnny runs over to fix things, and the crate falls on top of him and kills him instantly. Or at least that’s my initial horrified reaction, no one could have survived that.
His co-workers milling about him call a doctor, get that thing off of him. I don’t want to look at his face, I will not look at his face, I look at his face. Eyes open, wide and staring, mop of blond hair flapping pointlessly in the wind. But he’s smiling. What are you smiling at, Johnny boy, you’re dead, don’t you know that?
I can’t take this, I have to go home.

***************************
Hopefully I won’t be fired for taking off like that. But I felt terrible after seeing that happen; I just had to get out of there. But I’ve found that sleep always makes me feel better, and nine hours of it seem to have done the trick. I pour some water into a tea-pot, place on the stove to boil. The clock reads 10:33 PM. I wonder what it will be like to stay up all night and then go to work; if I still have work to go to that is, no phone message, but with what happened today, that’s not surprising.
I think about poor Johnny again. I really should go see the body….
Wait.
Why exactly should I go see the body? Is that customary before the funeral? I mean, obviously his wife will see it, but why should I? I will not see the body.
I go to see the body.
Johnny…. Covered up by a white sheet. He really was full of life, so much zest it made me want to go sit down just watching him. Loved his wife, his job, the Knicks. But that’s it isn’t it? You live until you die. We go smiling into death, is it because we want to leave this world so much? A world where two boys can kill someone in the street without being stopped, a world where a good man such as this can die in a stupid accident?
No, forget about the stupid moralizing. We smile because nothing has changed. Because we’re already dead.
One more visit to make. At the jail, a tubby white guard leads me to backwards-cap’s cell. “You got a visitor, killer,” he says, and laughs as if he’s funnier than even he can fathom.
Backwards-cap stares up at me from his seat in the dank cell. His eyes are hostile, like those of a caged animal. “Who the hell are you?”
I hold up a notepad I had bought ten minutes earlier from a convenience store for ninety-nine cents. “I’m a freelance reporter. I’m doing a story on urban crime and I wanted to ask you a few questions.” Dumb cover, but hopefully he’d cooperate.
“Whatever, man. Shoot.”
“That man you killed this morning. Why’d you do it? He in a gang?”
“Nah, man. The brother wasn’t in no gang. He just happened to be walking on that street at the wrong time; you know what I’m sayin’?”
“You mean you and your buddy beat a man to death because he was walking on the same street you were?”
The boy shrugs. “We were high, man. What can I say?”
“Don’t you even care that you ended someone’s existence? That somebody’s family will never see him or talk to him again?” Again, with the moralizing.
“A little. But we were stoned; it weren’t hardly me swinging that bat.”
So that’s the answer folks. Random chance. The whims of fate, if you will. They were high, and so they killed. For kicks.
Walking out of the jail, I try to feel, but I can’t. I just can’t. Maybe I should call management and make sure I still have a job. I think I’m going to need it.
At home, I look into the mirror, run my fingers through my dark hair, and with a shudder see thin lips smiling. I stop looking in the mirror.