Promise.
Don't you look at me.
Don't you EVER fucking look at me like that.
Driving down I-95. The allignment on the POS '86 Capris Classic forcing my arms to lock the wheel slightly off from center to keep it between the lines. I think about you, McGinty, and the promise we made each other that night on Mel Ave and how I am living up to it no matter how fucked up it might be that I am after what happened.
I am sorry. I really am. I know what I did was terrible, and I know that you are mad. But, that doesn't give you the right to give me that look like I am a puppy and I just shit on your carpet.
We're driving north, to some shit upstate New York town with some Indian name I can't read, and you are in the passenger seat just looking at me. No words from Florida to Virginia. Just looking at me.
When we get to an empty truck stop in Pennsylvania, you follow me in as I grab a pack of Camels and a tall boy. As I am paying, you lean into the cashier and blow him a kiss. The kid, not paying attention to anything except the Maxim on the counter in front of him, doesn't even notice. I look over at you and, despite everything else that happened in the last day and a half, I crack a smile. Always the funny bitch, weren't ya.
As we're walking out, a Statie cruiser pulls up next to our car and I tense up--a tight ball of angst filling my chest and running down into my stomach. I move the tall boy out of my right hand and free it up in case he's currious and bored at 3 A.M. on a saturday night. His eyes lock and mine as we walk past each other, cop radar smelling somthing wrong with me.
And this, of all the fucking times, you decide to open your mouth.
"He's knows..." You whisper into my ear, making me jump a little. My hand tensing around the tall boy to make sure I don' drop it. The ball in my stomach now bouncing around inside of me like it was made of rubber. "He can smell it."
I wonder if you hate me or cops more.
The cop walks into the store and we get back into the car. I hit the gas and get back on 95 and keep heading north.
The rest of the drive you are non-stop talking to me, getting closer and closer to the truth of me with every mile. You start with inside jokes and nicknames. You then move onto my famiy and friends. And then finally, as we get into New York, you start to talk about us.
"You'll try and rationalize all of this, but you won't be able to. You're a loser. You even fucked this up, if you think about it. No wonder they don't give you anything important to do." You're looking out the window at the sun rising over the tall pine trees and hills. I look around and think about how you might be right, and I have never seen a place like this.
"You know, funny that this is where they wanted you to take me. I realized I love you about ten miles from here," You look at me, eyes flat and dead. I pull one of the Camels out and light it, the cigarette shaking between my lips. "Where were you when you realized you loved me?"
I look over, exhale, and tried to look hard "Where I shot you."
You turn and look at me, a slight smile on your face. "You're first real moment of honesty."
I really wish I could shoot you again.
Three hours later we are in the small, New York town with the name that has more letters in it that people on the street, and you are talking to me about the first kiss, the first night we slept together, the ring and all the jobs. The party at Carmine's and how you got so drunk you passed out on the porch and I had to carry you home.
"Good times, Jimmy," You say. I reach over and turn on the radio, trying to tune you out. I flip channels past talking head assholes, redneck twang, and shitty pop, until I get to the closest thing to a descent classic rock station.
"It's our song..." You say as "Cashmire" ends and "A Case Of You" begins.
"Not any more," I say, passing through the second of three stoplights in town, heading to the hills moving closer to us. Three more miles and I can fufill the promise I made to you all back in the day.
It isn't that I wanted to do it, I think you know that. I think this was the last thing I would ever want to do to you. Problem was, Carmine told me about the job, and Winter, and showed me the pictures. Not only did you stray from the crew, but you knifed me pretty good in the process. If it makes you feel any better, I didn't take the contract, didn't take te thick manilla envelope filled with bills that Carmine offered me. I did it because I knew that if I didn't, you wouldn't get the one thing you made me promise to do if you should end up like this.
And when I met you on Mel Ave the other night, and I saw you walking down the street to meet me, the black water on the street reflected in the dull yellow street lights, I almost turned and walked away from it all. Just turned tail and let you slide on all of you bullshit.
But I knew I couldn't live with that.
Two silenced shot from a Beretta 9mm on a rainy night in the ass end of town is as quite as a whisper.
I loaded you into the back of the car, next to a shovel and the lye that was going to line your final resting place, and headed out to New York and the tree on some hill that you used to play on as a child. Before the life and all the baggage that came with it, dragged you down until your life was bourbon and blow. Before the job and the nightmares. Before me and all the pain in the world that we threw at each other, thinking that the more we hurt the more we love each other, the more we proved how far we would go for each other.
As I closed the trunk, I thought I heard you whimper.....
Now here, on the hill in New York, I can see why you promised me to bring you here. Two hours of digging and I got you all set up, the lye covering you except for a few strands of your hair and three fingers of your right hand. I close my eyes, say a few words to a God that you ignore and I know has turned his back on me for the things I have done, and ask him for forgiveness.
I ask him to let you sleep soundly.
I cross myself for th first time in years, light a smoke, and beging to cover you with the brown, rich soil.
When I am done I walk back to te car, open the passenger door, and take a dozen white roses off the seat. I walk back to where I left you, place the roses on the ground, and feel tear well up in my eyes.
Sorry. I am very fucking sorry.
I walk back, your voice on the night you told me, made me promise, to leave white roses on your grave, ehcoing. I think about how I was able to keep this one promise to you no matter how fucked up it was that I did, considering how you got there. I imagine you finally at peace. I think how you might be wrong.
I think I will be able to live with myself.
Don't you EVER fucking look at me like that.
Driving down I-95. The allignment on the POS '86 Capris Classic forcing my arms to lock the wheel slightly off from center to keep it between the lines. I think about you, McGinty, and the promise we made each other that night on Mel Ave and how I am living up to it no matter how fucked up it might be that I am after what happened.
I am sorry. I really am. I know what I did was terrible, and I know that you are mad. But, that doesn't give you the right to give me that look like I am a puppy and I just shit on your carpet.
We're driving north, to some shit upstate New York town with some Indian name I can't read, and you are in the passenger seat just looking at me. No words from Florida to Virginia. Just looking at me.
When we get to an empty truck stop in Pennsylvania, you follow me in as I grab a pack of Camels and a tall boy. As I am paying, you lean into the cashier and blow him a kiss. The kid, not paying attention to anything except the Maxim on the counter in front of him, doesn't even notice. I look over at you and, despite everything else that happened in the last day and a half, I crack a smile. Always the funny bitch, weren't ya.
As we're walking out, a Statie cruiser pulls up next to our car and I tense up--a tight ball of angst filling my chest and running down into my stomach. I move the tall boy out of my right hand and free it up in case he's currious and bored at 3 A.M. on a saturday night. His eyes lock and mine as we walk past each other, cop radar smelling somthing wrong with me.
And this, of all the fucking times, you decide to open your mouth.
"He's knows..." You whisper into my ear, making me jump a little. My hand tensing around the tall boy to make sure I don' drop it. The ball in my stomach now bouncing around inside of me like it was made of rubber. "He can smell it."
I wonder if you hate me or cops more.
The cop walks into the store and we get back into the car. I hit the gas and get back on 95 and keep heading north.
The rest of the drive you are non-stop talking to me, getting closer and closer to the truth of me with every mile. You start with inside jokes and nicknames. You then move onto my famiy and friends. And then finally, as we get into New York, you start to talk about us.
"You'll try and rationalize all of this, but you won't be able to. You're a loser. You even fucked this up, if you think about it. No wonder they don't give you anything important to do." You're looking out the window at the sun rising over the tall pine trees and hills. I look around and think about how you might be right, and I have never seen a place like this.
"You know, funny that this is where they wanted you to take me. I realized I love you about ten miles from here," You look at me, eyes flat and dead. I pull one of the Camels out and light it, the cigarette shaking between my lips. "Where were you when you realized you loved me?"
I look over, exhale, and tried to look hard "Where I shot you."
You turn and look at me, a slight smile on your face. "You're first real moment of honesty."
I really wish I could shoot you again.
Three hours later we are in the small, New York town with the name that has more letters in it that people on the street, and you are talking to me about the first kiss, the first night we slept together, the ring and all the jobs. The party at Carmine's and how you got so drunk you passed out on the porch and I had to carry you home.
"Good times, Jimmy," You say. I reach over and turn on the radio, trying to tune you out. I flip channels past talking head assholes, redneck twang, and shitty pop, until I get to the closest thing to a descent classic rock station.
"It's our song..." You say as "Cashmire" ends and "A Case Of You" begins.
"Not any more," I say, passing through the second of three stoplights in town, heading to the hills moving closer to us. Three more miles and I can fufill the promise I made to you all back in the day.
It isn't that I wanted to do it, I think you know that. I think this was the last thing I would ever want to do to you. Problem was, Carmine told me about the job, and Winter, and showed me the pictures. Not only did you stray from the crew, but you knifed me pretty good in the process. If it makes you feel any better, I didn't take the contract, didn't take te thick manilla envelope filled with bills that Carmine offered me. I did it because I knew that if I didn't, you wouldn't get the one thing you made me promise to do if you should end up like this.
And when I met you on Mel Ave the other night, and I saw you walking down the street to meet me, the black water on the street reflected in the dull yellow street lights, I almost turned and walked away from it all. Just turned tail and let you slide on all of you bullshit.
But I knew I couldn't live with that.
Two silenced shot from a Beretta 9mm on a rainy night in the ass end of town is as quite as a whisper.
I loaded you into the back of the car, next to a shovel and the lye that was going to line your final resting place, and headed out to New York and the tree on some hill that you used to play on as a child. Before the life and all the baggage that came with it, dragged you down until your life was bourbon and blow. Before the job and the nightmares. Before me and all the pain in the world that we threw at each other, thinking that the more we hurt the more we love each other, the more we proved how far we would go for each other.
As I closed the trunk, I thought I heard you whimper.....
Now here, on the hill in New York, I can see why you promised me to bring you here. Two hours of digging and I got you all set up, the lye covering you except for a few strands of your hair and three fingers of your right hand. I close my eyes, say a few words to a God that you ignore and I know has turned his back on me for the things I have done, and ask him for forgiveness.
I ask him to let you sleep soundly.
I cross myself for th first time in years, light a smoke, and beging to cover you with the brown, rich soil.
When I am done I walk back to te car, open the passenger door, and take a dozen white roses off the seat. I walk back to where I left you, place the roses on the ground, and feel tear well up in my eyes.
Sorry. I am very fucking sorry.
I walk back, your voice on the night you told me, made me promise, to leave white roses on your grave, ehcoing. I think about how I was able to keep this one promise to you no matter how fucked up it was that I did, considering how you got there. I imagine you finally at peace. I think how you might be wrong.
I think I will be able to live with myself.