Novel Chapter 1 (Title Undecided)

CHAPTER 1


Half past midnight on gloomy Saturday morning; the streets of Custerton were sodden, desolate, and hushed. Gloomy as are the majority of things after a storm, and the only light emerging from the few street lights give off more shadows then one can be comfortable around. Comfortable in a sense of security and opulence, neither will be found. Darkness gives home to the cavernous sorrow, desperation, and uncertainty that we dub the human experience. It calls out wanting residents. Akin to a dog and its master, we come. Unknowing of the seduction and addiction it provides.
The shadows on the side of Morgan’s Irish Bar, fallen to the temptations, in a hole so deep no light can reach, no happiness can prosper, a man contemplates. Drawing in the last possible hit—before there’s nothing but filter—on his cigarette.

. . .


The cold dark alley, lined with puddles, gives off an eerie—do not enter—sensation; but is the solitude in which Carl has chosen. Leaning against Morgan’s like the crutch he desperately needs; staring into the dark puddle, wishing the answers would come to him.
He exhales the smoke, watching it weaken away in front of his face. Admiring the underlying beauty that is smoke; how it dances through the air, free to shape itself into whatever it pleases. All hope is truly gone, the desire to continue, the ambition to get help…
Carl reminisces on the days of happiness, a great marriage, a stable job; all of which are crumbling down underneath of him. To destroyed to mend. He hasn't always been an addict; gambling was introduced into his life nearly three years ago when he attended his brother’s bachelor party. The weekend consisted of getting hammered, partying, and gambling; till either passed out drunk, or broke. Anticipating the rowdy weekend to celebrate Paul’s last days as a single man; Carl read up and practiced blackjack. Not think he was going to win at all, but just enough to not look like a fool at the table. However Carl did everything but lose. Winning a few hundred dollars here and there, and at one point bringing in close to nine hundred dollars at one table—he was hooked.
It didn’t take long after the trip that everyone soon realized Carl was spending too much time and money at the casino. The constant desire to play on, it was the adrenalin rush of his dreams. His lovely but simple, cliché, feeble life wasn't filling the void inside of him. The casino bright and attractive with promises of riches is the poison Carl thrives on. In his opinion a good week isn't complete without hours put in at a table, which always resulted in him coming home with the stench of cigarettes and failure; which He would quickly justify as a hobby.
Earlier on this gloom night, Carl laid down his last five hundred—out of the remaining four grand left in his life savings—and threw it down on the table. His heart beat rushing, oh this has to be the one, I can’t loose every hand, Carl continuously telling himself. Anything over eighteen would be godsend. As the dealer flips around the table, people are flipping tens and aces off the back. Carl’s first card comes up an eight of hearts. OK not bad, just need ten or ace, Carl thinks reassuring himself. The dealer flips up a ten—not good; he has a much better chance of winning hand now. Blackjack! Blackjack! All around the table, it gets to him. His heart beating so fast, he fears it will fly out of his chest, all noises are obsolete, every molecule of his being was on the card that was about to be flipped. The dealer makes his way to Carl, and then the flip—a nine. All hope is now gone he waves it off, like any sensible player would, and he watches the dealer flip a ten, a total of twenty, and inevitably beating his hand.
Carl slowly got up and made his way out, and an all too familiar numbness arises, his stomach completely dropped. “What have I done,” the only words Carl could muster out load to himself. He couldn't go home and tell Jen that all their savings was gone. It would destroy her, and what every infinitesimal thread that was holding their marriage together. She had been working double shift at the hospital just to make up for his losses, something he never thought to thank her for. Nursing was always her passion, she graduated from Michigan State University and moved to Custerton, New York, where they met and began their love story. Carl remembers perfectly after six years of being together, the first time he saw her. He had just started his career as a banker, at J Hartfield Bank & Trust. She had walked in during her lunch break in her purple scrubs. Carl seeing her before she even entered the doors, and already knew he needed to talk to her. She was the most gorgeous woman he’s ever seen, her long brunette hair tied up behind her head, and a figure like that of a bikini model; a girl that guys only dream about.

“Hey Ms. How are you today?” Carl says trying to sound as polite as possible. She looks up from digging in her purse with smile,

“Oh great, thank you” she replied with her soft angelic voice.

“What can I do for you today?”

“I need to open an account, Im new to the area.”

“That’s fantastic, GREETINGS!” Greetings, really Carl? Stop sounding like an idiot. Carl thought to himself. She giggled at the enthusiasm in his hello and they continued to set up her account. During the process Carl couldn’t concentrate on anything but trying to build up the confidence to ask her out. She’s a ten you’re a seven at best, she will never say yes, He thinks to himself pressing the computer keys, and entering in her information. Carl never considered himself ugly, but definitely not anything worthy of her. His past girl friends have always complimented him on his blue eyes. That and his conditioned body from college baseball are what he has to work with. He never thought his face was anything more than an average.

“Hellooo,” She says catching him in a daze.

“Oh um, im sorry what was that?”

“The names Jen.” She says in her soft kind voice. Carl puzzled by this, why did she tell me her name? Does she know I want to ask her out?! “Jennifer Wells…You asked for my information?” she says with a confused face.

“OH of course! Yes, im sorry,” Carl says embarrassed to the bone. They finished up the banking business, throughout which he learned she was single. As she placed her things back in her purse, she said goodbye and turned to make her exit; Carl quickly without time to think about it blurts out,

“Would you like to get a drink with me sometime?” His face as red as his tie, and the anticipation of rejection flood him. Im such an idiot, it will be awkward every time she comes here now, Carl thinking to himself, standing in horror waiting for her response. Turning around slightly to meet his eyes she replied with,

“Sure,” not an emotionless, depressing sure one might use when asked to do an unfavorable task, but instead a cute, uplifting, sure, that was covered in enthusiasm.

That of course is all history and nothing but a memory; but one Carl thinks back on allot, and holds dear. How could he do this to the girl he once was too embarrassed to ask out? The girl of his dreams; he couldn’t help, but ask himself this. With that, the thought about how much she must wish she would rather have just said no, that day at the bank. There has to be a way to get the money back, each time he brainstorms, he keeps coming back to the same thought; he needs to steal it.


. . .

Crumbling the cigarette filter between his fingers and his eyes fixated on the wall across the dark wet cement path. He takes in a deep breath, tasting the humid air as it passes through his mouth. Carl now becoming extremely disgraced with himself; constantly thinking if only he didn't let this get out of hand; he would be home with his once loving wife, sitting on the couch enjoying a movie, or spending time with his nieces and nephew--whose parents no longer allowed them over. He didn't blame them; his house once a comforting, inviting home, is nothing but a war zone. He knows divorce is coming. Why wouldn’t she leave me, he wonders; I’ve emptied the savings, the constant fighting, and I’ve made no effort into getting better. It hurts him to think about it. Carl deep down has never blamed Jen for the fighting or gambling. She was in fact putting in the only effort between the two of them. He couldn’t count how many couple therapies sessions he had to endeavor, not to mention the vast pile of rehab pamphlets that reside on top of the refrigerator. Rehab was out of the question. It is for out of control people, Carl would say, something he never considered himself.

“Hello der!” says a voice coming from the front of the alley in a rough Irish accent. The bald chubby bartender; coming out for a smoke break, peers into the alley trying to catch a peek of the man. Carl to profound in thought to hear him coming; jumps a little.

“Hey there Vern,” Carl says in a gloomy manner.

“Carl…is that you?”

“Yeah” Carl mutters.

“Well are ye coming in fir a drink? It’s cold and miserable out here”

“Ohhh, not tonight im afraid,” says Carl; wrapping his fingers around the cold metal handle of the cheap pistol, that lied in his pocket. The pistol was old and silver, never shot personally, it was a gift from a relative; an inheritance he never understood. His mind fills with options; none however result in money—only in pain, and regret. Not believing what was about to happen, to shocked, and the constant debate in his head, has him feeling the most uneasy he has ever felt. Keeping his eyes fixed on the pavement. He couldn't bear to look Vern in the eyes.

“That was a hell of a storm…” Vern starts coughing violently from the cigarette. Clearing his throat and spitting it onto the cement. “I need to quite these damned things” he says still trying to catch his breath. Carl has always intimidated by Vern. He remembers one night another Irish fellow, probably some distant relative of his, told a depressing story of how Vern made his way to the U.S. Growing up an orphan, to becoming a member of the IRA. It didn’t surprise Carl. Vern probably in his fifties towered over Carl. Vern was very big, somewhere under the fat had to be pounds of raw power. Scars covered his face; no doubt he had his fair share of fights. “So what the hells so special about my alley?” says Vern. Carl doesn't respond. He hesitantly draws the gun. Nervousness spread over him like a plague. He’s known Vern for a few years, could I really shoot Vern? No! I won’t have to, he will get the money and Ill get the hell away from here, Carl thought.

“What you got there?” the bartender says with a concerned look.

“I'm sorry Vern,” Carl says while drawing the pistol up. Shaking from the worry, holding it the same way he saw cops on television clutch their guns.

“WHOA what the fuck are you doing?!” Shouts Vern.

“I'm sorry….but I need all the money”

“Just put the gun down lad! We’ll talk…” says Vern slowly backing out of the dark alley.

Getting scared and anxious Carl replies “VERN just get the fucking money!” Having been to Morgan’s Bar nearly every Friday it wasn't out of the norm for Carl to drink one to many and spill is life story to Vern.

“What has gotten into you...? Put that gun down, what makes ye think I keep money in an alley anyways!?”

Flushed with the embarrassment of not thinking his grand plan through, his anger boiling from frustration, “I'm sorry but, I need the money and I’ll be on my way…We can go in the back” Carl says with nervousness in his voice, he hated how his voice crackled like a child who's about to cry.

“You were out gambling again weren't ya?” says the now concerned bartender. Why is he asking me questions? Carl thought, resetting his aim. Maybe he wants to help me.

“Yes” Carl muttered.

“How much then?” Vern now inching his way to Carl.

“…four grand”

Vern says with a now irritated tone, “Well you certainly got yourself in a predicament, didn't ya? I can tell you one thing though; you are pointing that gun at the wrong person.” Vern edging his way closer to Carl; in a way one would to approach a scared dog.

A fire now building in side of him, the longer he waits the more suspicious, and more prone to being caught he becomes. What am I doing here? Out of all the places I choose Morgan’s. I can't just leave the police would be sure to follow. Vern would call the police and I would be arrested within the hour. Carl thought. He will why wouldn’t he? The idea of prison flashes in his mind, his wife moved on to another man, and no life worth living for; he grows a serious blank expression; the look of a man, willing to do anything. He grasps the gun tighter, feels the groove of the trigger on his pointer finger, and pulls.