Saxophone Case(with ending)

Okay, there is a little tense confusion in the story that needs to be addressed, but I feel pretty solid about it overall. Sling the criticism!

How did I get here, he wondered. Andy had never been mistaken for a genius or a model growing up, but it didn’t matter; his parents had money. Everyone knew this, especially the small-minded women who threw themselves at him during high school and college, hoping for a ticket to life without material want.

            Andy was always indifferent to women’s advances, though; he liked men. Especially John, the ostentatious saxophone player formally from Denver, whose over-the-top expression of his sexual preferences stood in stark opposition with Andy’s reserved closet behavior. It made Andy uncomfortable yet delighted to have someone so oblivious to the concerns of others.

John always liked Andy, a little dull but sincere. The first time they met, Andy was avalanched beneath the muscle-bound Mark O’Sullvian receiving a face pummeling. John did the logical thing and struck Mark in the back of the head with his saxophone case, proceeding to smash it in Mark’s face until Coach Clark pulled him off( Mark wouldn’t be wrestling for awhile). John was expelled from school for that, and he never went back. He’ll never have a chance to go back either since a bullet just passed through his skull courtesy of Indonesian heroin pusher who is now focusing his gaze on the only other person alive in the room.

Andy’s hands are drenched in sweat as he attempts to recreate what has just transpired. The dealer politely asked John for the money owed to him twice, and after twice hearing the same excuse, brandished a chrome-plated pistol and executed John with such speed and finesse that Andy didn’t register the occurrence until he realized that the warm metallic scented liquid stinging his eyes was not only sweat, but blood and the grey matter from John’s now lifeless skull. John’s dead, that man just killed John, he thought. Andy prayed even though he didn’t believe in a god, though recently transpired events had raised his suspicions of the existence of the Devil.

John was an emancipated teen at the age of 17 and spent his nights in various dives making art with his saxophone. “How long have you played?” Andy asked the first night they spent together.

“Shit Andy, I don’t know… forever?” This was a standard response from John. He didn’t remember much from his childhood and the parts he did recall always made Andy’s countenance drop and his eyes wander across John’s chiseled face in a futile attempt to search for the right words, any words to speak. “C’mon Andy, it’s all right, take it easy. You don’t see me all tore up about it, do ya? I mean, I’m kinda glad it happened, that piece of shit deserved what he got even if Momma didn’t.” Andy admired John for his bluntness, his unwavering strength. John’s strength gave Andy strength. “I miss her, but there isn’t any going back, and she doesn’t have to suffer anymore. Besides, if it never happened, I wouldn’t have even came here, and we never would have met. You understand? Imagine, being a fucking despicable coward and not stepping in and helping your mom, an angel, from that monster.” The first time John did step in, he was nearly beaten to death. “I thought I laid that fucker out and turned my back and see?” John parted the hair in the back of his head to reveal to Andy a scar in the center of his head that ran from ear-length to his shoulder blades. “After he killed Momma though, he didn't stand a chance. He was older and slower, but still as strong as ever. It didn’t matter though. I don’t remember exactly how I killed him, but I remember being blood-drenched when the police got there and tasting the blood of him with all of my senses.”

“Of course you’re right, John, you always are. I just…you know, like, I feel…mad? Yeah, mad, mad because you’re really smart and you play your saxophone so well, and you’re so kind to me. But all these bad things have happened to you, it’s not fair.”

The bad things Andy referred to are what John told Andy of his childhood and how he relocated to Maryland. Reacting to confrontation with violence was normal for John. The son of an abusive alcoholic junkie whose abuse knew no ends. Cigarettes being extinguished on naive flesh, constant debasing comments that would make a terrorist interrogator blush, bruising and bloodying; nothing was sacred for John’s father. Every awakening and every slumber was precluded with cries of pain from his mother and cries of rage from his father. “I wished for death once,” John told Andy once, “I tried killing myself once but I didn't drink enough of the bleach and turpentine and they ended up eventually savin’ me in the hospital.”

They wouldn’t be able to save John in the hospital this time. As this thought wrapped around Andy’s mind, he began to tremble. The pusher chuckled softly at the pathetic sight of a grown man quivering in fear before him. He knew the type, a jellyfish who depended on the spine of others for strenght. “So where does he keep the money?”

“I…I don’t know, this is the first time I’ve been here, we just met at the bar earlier,” Andy replied, hardly believing the sincerity of the sound of the lie as it came out, but the dealer didn’t seem to hear deceit.

“Ok, I’m going to have a look around, sugar, do yourself a favor and have a seat on the couch right there and don’t move unless…” The Indonesian gestured to John’s corpse and Andy made a weak nod of comprehension. The pusher knew Andy would do as he was told, he knew the type. As Andy sat on the couch the Indonesian scanned the grungy apartment: a kitchen connected to the living room in which Andy sat, and a bedroom and bath separated from the connected rooms by a wall and threshold obscured by hippie beads. The drug dealer began to ransack the kitchen, oblivious to Andy. Andy probed the room. His vision fell on the shadows between the wall and couch he sat on. The saxophone case. The gun in the saxophone case. The gun John showed Andy how to use after the incident with Mark. “I’ll always protect you, Andy, but every man needs to know how to use a gun.”

The Indonesian had moved to the bedroom. This is my only chance, Andy thought as he reached over the armrest of the couch with his left arm and started to release the three locks on the case. Click, Click, Click. Andy raised the lid on the case, no saxophone, nothing. Panic set in for a moment before Andy remembered the velvet storage compartment. Andy held the dull black weapon in his eyes for a moment. The gun seemed to absorb all light around it similar, he thought, to how the black holes in space must do according to John. Andy shot another glance at the bedroom to observe the status of the pusher. A shadow began approaching the doorway and Andy swung his hand for the gun, turned to face the door, placed his hand on the trigger and fell. His knee buckled against the stone-like quality of the Cuneiform-engraved ‘coffee table’, as John called it, and planted his face into the unpolished, and thus white-glazed, maple boarded floor. As he fell, a gunshot sounded.

“Andy, what is it you want out of life?” John asked.

            “What do you mean Andy? You know I’m not good at all the stuff you talk about like life, its meaning.”

            “It’s not like any of that though. It’s about what you feel every day. When you wake up, what do you see, no, not see, feel, what do you feel? What makes you wake up every day? What drives you to live Andy?”

            “You,” the word echoed in Andy’s mind as he woke up bandaged, but alive.

Unused Room

Naturally more work needed, looking for fresh perspective.

Pawpaw rarely recognized the small items pilfered during my visits. They were inconsequential, such as the Bic lighter I once gained. Being seven, bored and with my grandfather out tending to the animals, I decided to test out my recently gained cancer-aided (as Mom called them). Why trust a talking bear replete with a baritone voice and campaign cover who is merely posing as a ranger; everyone knows bears don’t wear hats, unless they are in the circus.

The unused foyer was the grounds for my research in pyro-engineering. Small scraps of paper at first, but my curiosity and was unquenchable. A larger fire was necessary. A move to the kitchen to scan for kindling quickly proved fruitful. Pawpaw grew up in the Depression Era and shopped at Piggly Wiggly, a combination which resulted in the hoarding of anything potentially useful, namely the brown paper bags emblazoned with Mr. Wiggly’s smiling pig face in fire-red ink.

The bags proved very supportive in blaze-construction. Naturally, the ignition-experiment quickly grew out of hand as my left hand was burned by one of the bags, causing me to drop it on the other bags located on a dusty polyester-fibered lounger. I quickly learned the lounger was more conducive to starting an inferno, not a fire, and soon the room transformed to a furnace. Panic ensued, and the smoke sifting through the house alerted my Alzheimer’s addled grandmother to potential danger. Though she was unable to recall any of our names, or speak coherently, she still realized that water trumps fire. However, our drinking cups of water caddied from the kitchen sink did little to check the advancing flame, so in humiliation I finally hollered for my grandfather.

A garden house prevented complete disaster and the beating I received from my parents ensured it would be awhile before my next experiment (and that it would assuredly occur outside).

Magician’s Prestige

I still need to incorporate more tension in the story, but am really curious about the dialogue and character believability.

“So how many people RSVP’d?” Jim asked.

            “17,” Marsha replied.

            “When is the catering service supposed to be here?”

            “15 minutes.” This is going nowhere, Jim thought.

            “I’m going up to shave.”

            “Hurry up.” Jim scaled the stairs, imagining the impending torture of that lay ahead, imaging the backyard checkered with snot-faced children scuttering around their pious parent who he had no desire to banter with.

            When he came back down the stairs, the house roared with activity. White chef-shirt clad young men bussed in rolling carts topped with linen and silver domes housing various delicacies. At the bottom step Jim could see Marsha directing traffic as it entered the backyard. He quickly averted his eyes and turned to enter the kitchen in hopes of avoiding his wife’s detection and secure a Sweetwater. “Jim.” He slowly faced the source of the voice laced with irritation.

            “Yes, honey?”

            “Why isn’t the magician here yet? He was supposed to be here half an hour ago. I told you to make sure he understood to get here at 2 so I could decide which tricks were suitable for Alan.”

“I just called again yesterday, they probably ju…”

            “Call again. Make sure he knows if he isn’t here in five minutes he will be in breach of contract.” Jim quickly retreated to the kitchen to use the phone. Upon crossing its threshold, Jim saw Alan, his 8 year-old step-son, seated at the corner seat of the bar with eyes fixed and hands busying across his Nintendo DS. “Hey champ, you ready for your big day?’

“Sure,” with barely even a half-hearted response.

            “Great, kiddo. Why don’t you finish up with your game and go put on the new clothes your Mom got you for today.”

            “Hold on, Jim, I have to beat Ganondorf!”

            “Well, make it quick, Mom will be mad if you aren’t dressed when the guests arrive.” Jim received no response and began to reach for the phone when a vehicle heading up the driveway caught Jim’s attention. A dilapidated 80s-something Ford Econoline van teetered to the house. Thank God, he thought while reading the cracked and faded decals on the side of the near window-less van: The Archy the Magnificent. John made for the front door and, “Did you call him?” was the first thing out of Marsha’s mouth after nearly colliding with her husband.

            “He just pulled up.”

            “Where’s Alan?”

            “In the kitchen.”

            “Why isn’t he getting ready?”

            “I…”

            “Alan!” she bellowed with a tone that never failed to cause Jim’s heart to slightly drop. “Alan! March yourself upstarts right now and change. Your friends are about to be here.”

            “But Mom…”

            “Now!”

            “I’ll go check on the magician and see if he needs any help getting the props to the backyard,” Jim said as he exited through the front door.

            Traversing the walkway of the house, Jim could hear activity from the van. “God damnit! Don’t do this to me you spineless rodent. I need this.” Jim coughed in an attempt to gain the attention of the magician who had his back turned to an open box. The magician slung the lid shut and spun to face Jim with a speed that would have been impressive if not for the magician losing his balance and tumbling backwards over the box.

            “I’m sorry, uh, Mr. Archy.”

            “The name is Roy. Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to sneak up on a magician? I could have sent you to an existential nether space void or light or dark. A place where time doesn’t exist and none return,” Roy scowled as he dusted himself off.

            “I, what? Are you alright?”

            Roy’s face light up like a parking deck at dusk and he let out a raucous laugh that quickly turned into a coughing fit that left his face flushed. “Hey man, I’m just fuckin’ with you. You must be Jim, right?”

            “Yeah we talked on the phone a couple of times.” Jim was beginning to regret not vetting the magician.

            “Great, so where do I need to set up?”

            “In the backyard, is that what you are going to be performing in?” Jim asked as he took in a person who could easily be mistaken for a homeless bum in Central Park.

            “This is what I always perform in Jimmy-boy.”

            “You’re kidding, right?”

            Another braying laugh escaped the magician’s gut, “You catch on quick Jimbo, observe.”

            Before Jim could explain to Roy that he preferred to only be called Jim, a cloud of smoke burst from the ground. When the area cleared, Roy stood in a three piece suit complete with a stained cummerbund and faux rose stashed in the kerchief pocket. “Ta-da! Gotcha again, didn’t I Jim-dandy?” This suit was extremely tight fitting but Jim was as impressed as he was relieved.

            “You sure did, Roy, anyways, you need some help getting your props to the backyard?”

            Archy the Magnificent needs help from no mere mortal…but if you insist, you can grab that bag behind you.”

            Archy’s first trick had not not discussed with Marsha. He took one of the initially eager child volunteers from the audience to retrieve a cigarette from his ear, created a small fire on the stage with a snap and proceeded to take a drag. “Hey, you can’t smoke in front of the children!” Martha screeched.

            “Ah, Archy the Magnificent apologizes. I simply thought it was acceptable since you, our host, is smoking as well.” Eyes dropped on Martha and a collective gasp similar to one made after a horrific injury at a professional sporting event sounded at the sight of Martha with a cigarette in between her lips.

            “That’s enough, Perform the tricks we discussed.”

            “Of course, my lady. For my next trick, I will need the assistance of another volunteer. How about you, young man?” Roy gestured to Alan. “Come up here with me lad,” Alan dragged up on stage appearing disinterested in the whole affair. “What’s your name?”

            “Alan,” he mumbled.

            “Amazing, that is the same name as the birthday boy’s. Is it your birthday today?”

            “Duh.”

            “Ah, we have a sharp one here. Ok Alan, can you tell the audience what’s behind me?”

            “Nothing, dude.”

            “Oh really, look again.” Out of thin air appeared a four foot black box lightly traced with pagan-like runes.

            “How did you do that?”

            “Mother, your child may need a vision check-up after the show,” Archy stage-laughed as he produced a typical magician’s wand from his inner-coat pocket. He tapped on the top of the box and a door opened.

            “Now I will make this young man disappear. Step in the box please young sir.”

            The trick carried on well until the prestige. “Now I will bring Alan back from the fourth dimension.” Roy tapped on the box and Alan reappeared, wearing a pink dress with lacy frills, a curly blond wig and full ensemble of make-up. Once the crowd realized it was Alan, laughter erupted throughout the yard. Alan ran off stage with his make-up running as well. Jim smiled.

            “Don’t worry about what my wife said, Roy; I’ll pay you for your time. I just wish you could make her disappear.”

            “Anyone I make disappear always has to reappear. However, for the right price, I know someone who can make her disappear for good.”

Saxophone Case

Needs a good bit of revision but here it is...

How did I get here, he wondered. Andy had never been mistaken for a genius or a model growing up, but it didn’t matter; his parents had money. Everyone knew this, especially the small-minded women who threw themselves at him during high school and college, hoping for a ticket to life without material want.

            Andy was always indifferent to women’s advances, though; he liked men. Especially John, the ostentatious saxophone player formally from Denver, whose over-the-top expression of his sexual preferences stood in stark opposition with Andy’s reserved closet behavior. It made Andy uncomfortable yet delighted to have someone so oblivious to the concerns of others.

John always liked Andy, a little dull but sincere. The first time they met, Andy was avalanched beneath the muscle-bound Mark O’Sullvian receiving a face pummeling. John did the logical thing and struck Mark in the back of the head with his saxophone case, proceeding to smash it in Mark’s face until Coach Clark pulled him off( Mark wouldn’t be wrestling for awhile). John was expelled from school for that, and he never went back. He’ll never have a chance to go back either since a bullet just passed through his skull courtesy of Indonesian heroin pusher who is now focusing his gaze on the only other person alive in the room.

Andy’s hands are drenched in sweat as he attempts to recreate what has just transpired. The dealer politely asked John for the money owed to him twice, and after twice hearing the same excuse, brandished a chrome-plated pistol and executed John with such speed and finesse that Andy didn’t register the occurrence until he realized that the warm metallic scented liquid stinging his eyes was not only sweat, but blood and the grey matter from John’s now lifeless skull. John’s dead, that man just killed John, he thought. Andy prayed even though he didn’t believe in a god, though recently transpired events had raised his suspicions of the existence of the Devil.

John was an emancipated teen at the age of 17 and spent his nights in various dives making art with his saxophone. “How long have you played?” Andy asked the first night they spent together.

“Shit Andy, I don’t know… forever?” This was a standard response from John. He didn’t remember much from his childhood and the parts he did recall always made Andy’s countenance drop and his eyes wander across John’s chiseled face in a futile attempt to search for the right words, any words to speak. “C’mon Andy, it’s all right, take it easy. You don’t see me all tore up about it, do ya? I mean, I’m kinda glad it happened, that piece of shit deserved what he got even if Momma didn’t.” Andy admired John for his bluntness, his unwavering strength. John’s strength gave Andy strength. “I miss her, but there isn’t any going back, and she doesn’t have to suffer anymore. Besides, if it never happened, I wouldn’t have even came here, and we never would have met. You understand? Imagine, being a fucking despicable coward and not stepping in and helping your mom, an angel, from that monster.” The first time John did step in, he was nearly beaten to death. “I thought I laid that fucker out and turned my back and see?” John parted the hair in the back of his head to reveal to Andy a scar in the center of his head that ran from ear-length to his shoulder blades. “After he killed Momma though, he didn't stand a chance. He was older and slower, but still as strong as ever. It didn’t matter though. I don’t remember exactly how I killed him, but I remember being blood-drenched when the police got there and tasting the blood of him with all of my senses.”

“Of course you’re right, John, you always are. I just…you know, like, I feel…mad? Yeah, mad, mad because you’re really smart and you play your saxophone so well, and you’re so kind to me. But all these bad things have happened to you, it’s not fair.”

The bad things Andy referred to are what John told Andy of his childhood and how he relocated to Maryland. Reacting to confrontation with violence was normal for John. The son of an abusive alcoholic junkie whose abuse knew no ends. Cigarettes being extinguished on naive flesh, constant debasing comments that would make a terrorist interrogator blush, bruising and bloodying; nothing was sacred for John’s father. Every awakening and every slumber was precluded with cries of pain from his mother and cries of rage from his father. “I wished for death once,” John told Andy once, “I tried killing myself once but I didn't drink enough of the bleach and turpentine and they ended up eventually savin’ me in the hospital.”

They wouldn’t be able to save John in the hospital this time. As this thought wrapped around Andy’s mind, he began to tremble. The pusher chuckled softly at the pathetic sight of a grown man quivering in fear before him. He knew the type, a jellyfish who depended on the spine of others for strenght. “So where does he keep the money?”

“I…I don’t know, this is the first time I’ve been here, we just met at the bar earlier,” Andy replied, hardly believing the sincerity of the sound of the lie as it came out, but the dealer didn’t seem to hear deceit.

“Ok, I’m going to have a look around, sugar, do yourself a favor and have a seat on the couch right there and don’t move unless…” The Indonesian gestured to John’s corpse and Andy made a weak nod of comprehension. The pusher knew Andy would do as he was told, he knew the type. As Andy sat on the couch the Indonesian scanned the grungy apartment: a kitchen connected to the living room in which Andy sat, and a bedroom and bath separated from the connected rooms by a wall and threshold obscured by hippie beads. The drug dealer began to ransack the kitchen, oblivious to Andy. Andy probed the room. His vision fell on the shadows between the wall and couch he sat on. The saxophone case. The gun in the saxophone case. The gun John showed Andy how to use after the incident with Mark. “I’ll always protect you, Andy, but every man needs to know how to use a gun.”

The Indonesian had moved to the bedroom. This is my only chance, Andy thought as he reached over the armrest of the couch with his left arm and started to release the three locks on the case. Click, Click, Click. Andy raised the lid on the case, no saxophone, nothing. Panic set in for a moment before Andy remembered the velvet storage compartment. Andy held the dull black weapon in his eyes for a moment. The gun seemed to absorb all light around it. Andy shot another glance at the bedroom to observe the status of the pusher. A shadow began approaching the doorway and Andy swung his hand for the gun, turned to face the door and