malt liquor. It was
cold and sharp. Wiping his mouth, he said, “Hey thanks, man, that
hit the spot,” and handed the bagged forty-ouncer back.
That’s when Declan saw
it.
The guy was pointing a .45
automatic, military issue, at his chest.
Lady ordered up your
raggedy ass, man. You prob’ly didn’t see the bombing on the news
from Belfast?
Pulse racing, Declan just
shook his head numbly.
I.R.A. action last night at
a pub in the downtown protestant section. Bomb wasted three,
including a member of parliament, and wounded another dozen. No
telling how many’ll get whacked during payback.
Declan opened his mouth to
speak aloud and complain that the Lady hadn’t contacted him. He
wasn’t a volunteer for this end of the operation, even though he
was indeed Irish-American. Was this how his role in the operation
ended, so suddenly? His last contribution to the cause a
self-sacrifice? He smiled wryly and nodded acceptance, closing his
mouth without speaking. After all, who was he really? An
unemployed, scruffy, disabled vet—probably even mentally ill, like
the shrinks all agreed. He was indeed insignificant. Even so, he
was still a small cog in a much greater mechanism.
The .45 flashed in the
darkness.
Declan never heard the
shot.
Despite his gritty
resignation to a grim fate, Declan didn’t
die instantly in that alley. The .45 round hit him in the chest,
breaking a pair of ribs, puncturing a lung, tearing a saucer-sized
exit wound in his back, but remarkably missing his heart and all
other vital organs. Three hours after being shot, Declan still
clung to life, in critical condition, on full support in the trauma
ward at San Francisco General Hospital.
Alive, but unconscious and
completely unaware of the 6.4 earthquake that rattled the city that
morning at 12:25 a.m.
The Apotheosis of Nathan
McKee
Jelly Doughnuts
Nathan McKee sat
completely naked , except for his taped
ribs, on the foot of his bed in his drab room in the Hotel Reo.
Tiny beads of sweat popped out on his pale body, forehead, and
upper lip as he waited with a rising sense of nervous anticipation.
He wondered if the altered state would hit him again that evening—a
rare emotional and speculative state of mind.
Nathan hadn’t felt or
thought much of anything since his wife, Geri, and their son, Davy,
had died in an automobile accident near Kezar Stadium ten years
before. For most of the past decade he’d aimlessly wandered the
Tenderloin district of San Francisco in a numbed daze, his
sensibilities usually anesthetized by liberal dozes of Old English,
Gallo Tokay, and Wild Irish Rose. Once a hard-charging tailored
suit on Montgomery Street in the financial district, he’d
squandered everything since the accident, lucky now to even own a
threadbare, greasy navy blue topcoat. If it weren’t for the monthly
SSI checks, he would have been sleeping in a cardboard tent in an
alley. As it was, Nathan always found himself panhandling at the
end of each month just to make ends meet—a fifty-year-old drunken
bum.
He’d been booze-free for an
entire week, ever since he’d been badly beaten and experienced a
grand mal seizure over on O’Farrell Street near Homeboy’s on
Friday. The ass-kicking had resulted in a heavily medicated
four-day stay in San Francisco General. Yes, indeed, still clean
and sober after being back on the street unsupervised for three
days—in- fucking- credible.
Nathan waited, relishing
his accelerated pulse rate, the slight adrenaline rush, and his
heightened sensibility. He gazed with interest out the sixth story
dirty window that faced westerly over Jones Street, watching the
sun as it began to drop out of sight behind the buildings along Van
Ness hill, streaking the clouded sky with neon oranges and
violets.
He knew he didn’t have long
to wait.
As dusk settled over the
‘loin, Nathan again experienced the familiar onset of the
anticipated seizure, exactly like the two nights since being released from
cold and sharp. Wiping his mouth, he said, “Hey thanks, man, that
hit the spot,” and handed the bagged forty-ouncer back.
That’s when Declan saw
it.
The guy was pointing a .45
automatic, military issue, at his chest.
Lady ordered up your
raggedy ass, man. You prob’ly didn’t see the bombing on the news
from Belfast?
Pulse racing, Declan just
shook his head numbly.
I.R.A. action last night at
a pub in the downtown protestant section. Bomb wasted three,
including a member of parliament, and wounded another dozen. No
telling how many’ll get whacked during payback.
Declan opened his mouth to
speak aloud and complain that the Lady hadn’t contacted him. He
wasn’t a volunteer for this end of the operation, even though he
was indeed Irish-American. Was this how his role in the operation
ended, so suddenly? His last contribution to the cause a
self-sacrifice? He smiled wryly and nodded acceptance, closing his
mouth without speaking. After all, who was he really? An
unemployed, scruffy, disabled vet—probably even mentally ill, like
the shrinks all agreed. He was indeed insignificant. Even so, he
was still a small cog in a much greater mechanism.
The .45 flashed in the
darkness.
Declan never heard the
shot.
Despite his gritty
resignation to a grim fate, Declan didn’t
die instantly in that alley. The .45 round hit him in the chest,
breaking a pair of ribs, puncturing a lung, tearing a saucer-sized
exit wound in his back, but remarkably missing his heart and all
other vital organs. Three hours after being shot, Declan still
clung to life, in critical condition, on full support in the trauma
ward at San Francisco General Hospital.
Alive, but unconscious and
completely unaware of the 6.4 earthquake that rattled the city that
morning at 12:25 a.m.
The Apotheosis of Nathan
McKee
Jelly Doughnuts
Nathan McKee sat
completely naked , except for his taped
ribs, on the foot of his bed in his drab room in the Hotel Reo.
Tiny beads of sweat popped out on his pale body, forehead, and
upper lip as he waited with a rising sense of nervous anticipation.
He wondered if the altered state would hit him again that evening—a
rare emotional and speculative state of mind.
Nathan hadn’t felt or
thought much of anything since his wife, Geri, and their son, Davy,
had died in an automobile accident near Kezar Stadium ten years
before. For most of the past decade he’d aimlessly wandered the
Tenderloin district of San Francisco in a numbed daze, his
sensibilities usually anesthetized by liberal dozes of Old English,
Gallo Tokay, and Wild Irish Rose. Once a hard-charging tailored
suit on Montgomery Street in the financial district, he’d
squandered everything since the accident, lucky now to even own a
threadbare, greasy navy blue topcoat. If it weren’t for the monthly
SSI checks, he would have been sleeping in a cardboard tent in an
alley. As it was, Nathan always found himself panhandling at the
end of each month just to make ends meet—a fifty-year-old drunken
bum.
He’d been booze-free for an
entire week, ever since he’d been badly beaten and experienced a
grand mal seizure over on O’Farrell Street near Homeboy’s on
Friday. The ass-kicking had resulted in a heavily medicated
four-day stay in San Francisco General. Yes, indeed, still clean
and sober after being back on the street unsupervised for three
days—in- fucking- credible.
Nathan waited, relishing
his accelerated pulse rate, the slight adrenaline rush, and his
heightened sensibility. He gazed with interest out the sixth story
dirty window that faced westerly over Jones Street, watching the
sun as it began to drop out of sight behind the buildings along Van
Ness hill, streaking the clouded sky with neon oranges and
violets.
He knew he didn’t have long
to wait.
As dusk settled over the
‘loin, Nathan again experienced the familiar onset of the
anticipated seizure, exactly like the two nights since being released from
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