Installment Two
As you jump off the bus and scuttle across the street, you wonder where it all went wrong.
It’s not that you never imagined yourself getting off of a bus. Specifically, you never imagined yourself hopping onto a bus, asking someone for loose change so that you can pay the fare, stuffing the bills or change into your pocket, and tearing off into a crowd hoping that your victim will be too befuddled or too lazy or too weirded out to come chasing after you.
You turn the corner and slow down, walk briskly for a block, and then turn into a Border’s Books. They don’t like you in here - last week you went off on a rant, berating a woman and her two small children. You accused them of stealing your shoes. Sure, it was kind of a stretch . . . but on the other hand, she couldn’t prove she didn’t steal your shoes, could she? Or her kids, who were clearly in on it from the beginning.
You’re not happy with that outburst - in fact, it scares you. You’ve been having more than your share of those lately, and you’re not quite sure why.
Your name is Charles Cairo, and you are 27 years old. You have been living out of your car for the last fourteen months; your car has not actually functioned for the last eight of those months. It would not matter if it did, as you have no money for gas, and nowhere to go.
Anyway, Chuck -- as you breeze past the central counter in the Border’s, you hear a loud CRASH back on the street, followed by the sound of metal grinding against metal. There are screams of the loud I've never seen so much blood and Merciful lord, grant me quick release from this horrible agonizing pain variety.
A dozen or so customers, mostly students, race to the window. The middle-aged man at the counter moves to follow them, but is stopped by a young blonde woman (also a Border's employee) holding a portable radio.
“You’re not going to believe this, Steve!” she whispers loudly.
Man of action that you are, a number of options present themselves.
1) Take advantage of the blonde’s (seemingly counterproductive) loud whispering, and find out what it is that Steve simply will not believe.
2) Run to the window, push the students aside, and look at what all the fuss is about re the crashing and the screaming and the grinding of metal.
3) Leave the bookstore and walk back to your car, which is hidden in an abandoned lot about a mile away.
4) Yawn. Use this distraction as an opportunity to browse through Border's fine selection of quality merchandise without fear of being kicked out by surly bookstore employees.
As you close your eyes to center yourself and consider your next move, you think back to the good ole days . . .
1) . . . when you were a sniper in Iraq in 2002 during the beginning of Operation What-The-Fuck? In a Tom-Hanksian Saving Private Ryan bit of foolishness you quit your job as a schoolteacher to Fight the Good Fight in Iraq. And you were damned good at picking off young Iraqi soldiers from 1000 yards away. Maybe you could have kicked the heroin addiction, if that had been your only problem upon your return . . . but the nightmares of scattered brainpans of young, foolish Iraqi men were just a little too nasty, and catching your wife in bed with your two best friends wasn’t helpful either.
Especially not in those positions . . . and was it really necessary to have the dwarf filming the damned thing?
2) . . . when you were a schoolteacher in central Boston. Your kids weren’t too fond of you. First, they threw spitballs at you. Then, they threw rocks at your house. Then, they threw some M80s into your car. All they while, you grinned and bore it. And went here.
You did what you needed to do, fast enough to save your own life but not fast enough to save the life of your beloved dogs, Zaphod and Trillian.
After it happened, they were never able to prove anything, but they suspected enough that you thought it might be wisest to leave your position in the Boston school system. They found the bodies of those four boys about a year later, but by that time you had been living on the street for two months.
3) . . . when you were a kid in North Carolina hunting with your father. If it walks on four legs and lives in the wild, you’ve put a bullet in its heart from more than 50 yards. Life was pretty damned good back then. In the last few years you’ve learned that most folks that end up on the street are there because of particularly shitty childhoods, full of physical and emotional abuse, but you have no such complaints. Your genesis as a bum stems from events far more recent.
At least, it must, because you don’t remember anything bad happening back then. Of course, you don’t remember anything bad happening in the recent past, either. How did you end up homeless, anyway? Your mind stretches, strains up against a barrier, and recoils.
You know what? It’s not really important right now.
4) None of these work - post an idea in comments. (If this option gets the most votes, I’ll pick the most intriguing idea given.)
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Sorry for the long delay, folks. I'm back on a regular schedule, and will update each Sunday night/Monday morning.
The voting was close on both your protagonist's profession and strength. "Homeless Guy" took an early lead, and while interest in a Soccer Mom was noticeable, especially late, it was not enough to overcome the appeal of playing someone smelly and mentally disturbed. (Sorry, Sheila & Jeff!)
The voting on your greatest strength was similarly close. Practically speaking I think that being a good shot with a gun was appealing, hence the reason this choice got the plurality of votes -- being super-smart came a very close second, again with a last-second rush that didn't quite get there. Ironically, I don't think it's realistic that a homeless man would have a gun, at least not on his person, but it's possible that you have one back in your car. If you manage to return there at some point, I'll roll a die to determine if you do, putting the chance at 1-in-3 or so.