“What Should Have Been a Perfect Murder….Mine.”

It was a perfect night to stay home, order Chinese, smoke a blunt, drink a few Coronas and take care of basic human needs. The weather reported hurricane conditions and looking out the window, the prediction would most likely be true. Lavender and grey skies were angrily swirling about above me. Looking towards New Jersey I could see black clouds storming my way. I almost never went out in the rain if I could help it, but less a hurricane. I was in the midst of a two month sex drought and my hormones were raging. I needed to get out and make something happen. Michelle was my home girl out in Queens and she was having a housewarming party with three female roommates. Something had to give.

When I exited my building, the streets were desolate. Even the drug dealers and crack heads took the night off. The subway was lonely for a Saturday night. As I rode downtown, there was a middle aged Dominican lady riding in my car. She wore heavy make up and was all cleavage. She was attractive and looked hornier than I. Maybe I didn’t have to go to Queens afterall. We made eye contact. I smiled. She smiled back. She ran her fingers across her cleavage. I got aroused. The train pulled into the station. She got up and slowly walked off the train. She had a crazy ass. Should I get off? Before I could answer my own question, a Latin man approached and hugged and kissed her. Fuck! Even though the lady was in her 40’s, I knew she would have been a lot more fun than any of Michelle friends who I probably would have to play a gambit of games with before even a bra clasp would get unhooked. I’ve never had much patience with gender games. To me, it’s whether you want to or not. You know, like eating or going to the movies.

I transferred to the 7 train at Times Square. I was the only person on the train. A drenched and drunk Mexican kitchen worker staggered in with crisscrossed eyes. Through his soaked white pants, I could see that he had a knot of cash at least three inches thick. Devious thoughts ran through my mind. Nah, I decided. I didn’t do these kinds of things anymore. It was better not to start old, bad habits again.

At the next station, the train entered outdoors. It was pouring and things like plastic bags were flying around the air. The rain was beating down on the train. I started having second thoughts about this party.

At the next stop, a big, husky white boy got the train carrying a boom box covered in plastic. He was listening to satanic rock music. He sat across from me. In an empty train car, why did this prick have to sit across from me with his devil music? I looked at the Mexican guy. He was having a hard time keeping one eye open. He knew he was fucked up, but was doing his best to remain aware.

When I looked away, the white boy was staring at me. I looked away. When I looked back, he was still staring at me. What the fuck? I thought. I looked away once more. Yep, he was still staring at me. Oh no, here I go again I thought to myself.

Yo, you write Psycho…right?

Oh shit, I thought. Beef.

Yeah.

You don’t remember me?

I studied his face. I didn’t.

Nah, man.

You don’t?

I just said no.

You should.

Why should I?

He lifted up his shirt, revealing some horrific stab wounds in his fat stomach. Somebody had messed this kid up really bad.

You did this to me back in the day over some paint cans.

I was speechless. I couldn’t remember the kid to save my life. Unless it was him. But that was so long ago. I guess those scars don’t forget. Not for anything, there was at least 15, maybe even 20 of them and they could have easily took the knife away from me and used it on me, which was exactly what I thought was going to happen. Which is why I did what I did. It doesn’t make a difference now. Karma is a bitch that we all have to pay, some a lot more than others.

What stop are you getting off?

The last stop.

Good, we’re going to handle this.

I shrugged nonchalantly.  The rain hit the train’s window harder.

The white boy turned his devil music all the way up and got into his zone. I sized him up. He was big. He didn’t look fast and his baggy jeans would make it difficult to move around. Punches to his body would probably be useless. I wondered how sensitive his scars were. Maybe I could grab the flesh where the scar tissue were and twist it. Nah, that was stupid. Fuck. What was I going to do? Going toe to toe with the hands was not going to work. What if I pretended to go toe to toe and dropped down and snatched his ankles from under his feet and once he was on his back, drop an elbow to the middle of his face? The way I saw it, this was my only chance.

Even with my strategy in place, I was still scared. What if it didn’t work? What if he had a knife? What if he was more vicious than I could ever be and bit half my face off? These were not pleasant thoughts. I should have stayed home and watched porn.

The Mexican guy was now passed out. The train stopped at the next station and when it did, I saw a miracle. The doors open and an angry looking black cop stuck his head in. He looked at me and asked, are you with him?

I shook my head fast, no.

He tapped the whit boy and the shoulder. The white boy looked like he’s seen a ghost.

Step outside the train.

The doors attempted to close. The officer screamed and cued the conductor to wait. It must have taken all of ten seconds to do this, but the white boy used the time wisely. He slipped a glock nine hand gun out the back of his jeans and left it on the seat. He got up and exited the train before the cop could think about looking back inside. The doors closed. The white boy and I made eye contact. His eyes were more evil than I had thought. He nodded his head, letting me know that there will be a next time. I nodded my head back, until that day. Inside my heart was pounding a hundred beats a second. I picked up the gun. One shot to the face would have rendered me dead and unrecognizable.  I tucked it into my own jeans. I rode to the last stop. The Mexican guy was snoring with his money falling out his pocket.  I snatched it out and stuffed it into my pocket. I exited the car. I looked around. There wasn’t a soul in sight. The gun shot would have blended in with the rain and the winds. My corpse would not have been discovered for hours if not morning. If I didn’t know who did it, how would Homicide ever figure out who did it? I jogged down the subway station stairs and into the street. There was a lone gypsy cab waiting to pick up a fare. I got into the car.

Washington Heights, please.

How do you want me to get there?

The fastest way possible.

As the car drove off into the dark, violent night, I sat back, counting the mexican’s money as I questioned my life.

Posted on October 24, 2007 at 07:49 AM   |   Comment  (11 comments)