Born Again Charlatan [short story]

- i just pasted this straight from gdocs so hopefully the formatting doesnt break lol -

Around 2 a.m. on a Tuesday, right after my wife kicked me out of our apartment for what would be the last time, I found myself cornered in the alley next to our building, getting mugged at gunpoint.

“Give me your fucking wallet!” my assailant screamed. He hadn’t donned a hoodie per my preconceptions as to how an armed mugger should dress; he instead wore a ragged pair of Levis and a fraying green pullover.

“Okay, okay,” I said, reaching for my back pocket. I plucked out a battered leather billfold, clasping it between my forefinger and thumb. I extended my arm and offered it to the young man. “Take it.” 

He snatched his prize from my hand and ripped the folds open. There was nothing inside besides my driver’s license and a customer loyalty punch out card for Fred’s Liquor Emporium, the latter of which he reluctantly claimed.

“Not even a credit card?” he asked. I almost smiled.

“My woman’s safekeeping those on account of my special personal history.”

“What?”

“Gambling addiction.”

“Oh.”

“Lost everything. Ran out of money one night, so I put the house on the ante. Wife and I been living out of my old Ford ever since. Last thing I need is another avenue for debt.”

“Shit, man. I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“Our anniversary is in a few days, and I’ve got nothing to give her. Can’t even buy her some lousy flowers. I don't know why she's sticking it out with me anymore."

Guilt radiated off of the mugger. He sighed, put the Fred's card back, and dug around in his pocket. A variety of small bills came out, and he stuffed them in the wallet. He held it out for me, head turned to the side in shame. “I don’t got a lot, but you need it more than I do. Get her something nice."

I reclaimed my billfold.

“God bless you, fella.”

"No, no, bless you, sir. Sorry, again." He ran off.

As soon as the man was out of view, I jerked open the wallet and counted up his tribute, smirking. What a sucker.

My wife said that kind of behavior was why we were through. Pathological lying, she had called it. Treacherous, she said. Appalling, she said. With a few bucks in my pocket, I began my stroll over to the Hi-N-Bye, planning to flush away our sixteen years of marriage with a bottle, preferably something cheap and nasty. Those descriptors, cheap and nasty, had been among her choice adjectives, too.

As I made my way down the lane, a mangy, gaunt mutt trotted towards me, its ribs visible even in the minimal light of the dim streetlamps. It stopped and sat at my feet, whining.

“Jesus, everyone expects handouts these days. Don’t you know it’s man eat man out here?” I strode onward, forcing the stray to scurry away. “Every dog for himself, cur.” It’s not like I could aid the poor beast. I scarcely had enough for myself.

Continuing my trudge along the sidewalk, I reached the store about three minutes after my encounter with the canine. The luminescent, white building was like a lighthouse, one of the few harbingers of hope in this bleak world, steering sailors like myself away from total destruction. All manner of garbage was littered around the entrance; a Walmart shopping cart full of crushed Miller Lite cans and empty Newport cartons, a milk crate of broken bottles turned on its side, a defunct window air-conditioning unit. Cigarette butts blanketed the concrete like the first snowfall. I stood outside the window, waving at the employee standing at the register. He didn’t notice me. I viewed my reflection in the glass and swept back my unwashed, graying black hair. I tried to brush the dirt off my tan coat, ignoring the prominent holes at the shoulders and elbows. My slacks were brown, too, but didn’t match the coat—they were more of a chestnut—and I yanked them taut in an attempt to dissuade the wrinkles. It didn’t work. I sighed, pulling the door open.

Upon entering the building, my ears were soothed by the sound of Cash’s “Sunday Morning Coming Down” cover sputtering out from the shoddy speaker system.

“Hey, Stu, how’ve you been?” I said to the clerk, beaming. He looked up from his copy of the latest MotorTrend issue and glared at me. Light emanating out from the Marlboro case behind the counter congealed around the silhouette of his blond mullet like a misshapen halo. He was a stringy man of pink complexion coated in an array of freckles and moles and scars, and he never wore the sanctioned franchise uniform during his shift: he was always dressed in the same white tank-top and ratty beige work pants. A tattoo of topless woman standing contrapposto before a yellow Pontiac GTO was etched onto his left bicep.

“What’s it matter to you, huh?” he said.

“Just trying to be friendly.”

“Well, I was doing pretty good, ‘til some asshole walked in and asked me how I’ve been like he gives a damn.” He returned to the magazine, flipping it upwards so the pages would puff out, like a bird fluffing his feathers. He held it upright to obscure his face from my view.

I ambled around the shelves of junk food and walls of refrigerated beverages, taking my time, as if selecting a drink for the evening was a decision of international importance. I picked out a bottle of inexpensive whiskey, the kind with an off-white label and some anglo surname printed in elegant typography that oversold the contents sitting within. Pleased with my choice, I walked over to Stu and set it down on the counter.

“This’ll be all, young Stu,” I said. He scanned the bottle and slid it inside a brown paper bag. The register display read $10.70. I supposed he wasn’t going to dignify me by reading the total aloud.

I ungraciously dumped my wad of cash onto the counter. He placed the assortment of small bills under a UV counterfeit detector, individually scanning each note.

“What’s that, some new corporate policy?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Just an Everett policy.” My name fell out of his mouth like it was an unutterable epithet, like he was ashamed he had to say it all. My receipt printed. He shuffled the dollars around, laid them in the register’s drawers, and doled out my change. The Cash song was apparently on repeat, coming to a close only to immediately play again.

“Why don’t you put on a different song, Stu?”

“Cause I happen to like this one. Gonna get anything else?”

“No, not right now.”

“Then you’re done here?”

“Yes. I’m done here.”

As I was about to grab the bottle, the mugger from earlier busted through the door, waggling his handgun in the air.

"This is a robbery! Hands up!” he yelled, his voice cracking.

Stu and I complied with his demands and put our arms above our heads. Under the fluorescent lights, I was finally able to inspect the man. He was pale, as if he was ill, and droplets of sweat slid down his white face. Strands of black, greasy hair were strewn about his forehead. His nostrils were raw, red, and inflamed, and his pupils were dilated as his eyes initiated a frenzied scan of his new surroundings. His gaze settled on me, and after a minute of standing around in mutual discomfort—and presumed deja vu on his part—I saw a glint of recognition in his face. Uh-oh.

“Wait,” he said. “It’s you! Motherfucker!”

“Hold on. It’s not what you think.”

“You liar!”

“No, no, no. See, this’s my wife’s favorite," I said, lifting the bottle out from the paper bag to show the robber. "She loves drinking this. She’s a, uh, a whiskey connoisseur. What a catch she is, my wife!”

“Quit it! No more lies, sonofabitch!" He shot the bottle out of my hand, the piercing sound of the gunshot and shrieking shattering of glass momentarily overpowering the music. Flying rugged shards took precedence over everything else in my field of vision, cutting the palm that once held the whiskey and soaring dangerously close to my face. Stu took refuge below the counter. I realized I might not be able to bluff myself out of this position. “You’re gonna pay!” the robber said.

"Look, I don’t have anything right now, but I can write you an I-O-U, okay?" I said, bent over, cupping my injured hand. I earnestly believed I could’ve pacified him if I had cash, but I didn’t; oh, God, if he had come in just a minute earlier, I’d still have his money and a modicum of plausible deniability!

"It's not about that, man! You lied, you fucking lied!"

“Don’t we all, sometimes?”

“Not like you, no!”

Stu popped back up.

“Oh, he conned you? What’d he do this time around?” he asked the robber, frazzled and

quivering yet too nosy to remain hunkered. The thief lowered his gun and looked at Stu.

“He made up some bullshit story about how he couldn't buy his wife a birthday gift!”

“Sounds like Everett,” Stu said with a nervous titter. He turned aside to look at me.

“Hoo boy, you’ve really fucked up this time, haven’t you? Oh, haven’t you!” He made a perverse smile, his brows digging downward, and seemed gratified, vindicated, like one of his greatest fantasies was coming to fruition. A wave of nauseating disgust surged through me; how could he relish this, my demise? I asked myself the question again, and my sense of resentment redirected itself. I’ve always been revolting, repulsive, repugnant. I’ve never tried to be anything else. Whatever he felt was justified. I made him this way.

“It was an anniversary gift,” I said, panicking, trying to deescalate the situation the only

way I knew how. “Liars don’t know how to keep their stories straight, right?”

The robber twisted his neck, turning his attention away from Stu and towards me. He raised his gun once more. He pointed it at my head.

“Shut up! Shut up! I bet you don’t even have a wife!” he said.

“You’re right. I don’t.”
“That’s it, man! You’re gonna pay, now! Right now!”

He trembled, fumbling with his weapon, no longer able to maintain a steady grip. In anticipation of the oncoming shot, Stu ducked again. I didn’t believe the kid could do it, shoot me. My wife always said that, one day, I’d mess with the wrong man; that, one day, I’d piss someone off, and it’d be my end. But it wasn’t going to be this guy, on this night, in this store. He wasn’t going to be my wrong man. It was a close call, sure. I’d be more careful. I had learned my lesson. 

I thought that I could go home, tell her about my escapades, my near death run-in with a coked-up armed robber, and beg for her forgiveness: oh honey, oh darling, I’ve seen the error of my ways! I would go straight, find a real job, make some real friends. And everything would return to the way it's supposed to be, the way it should’ve been all along, since the beginning, since the very beginning. This is my wake-up call, yes, yes! I'd volunteer at the animal shelter, I’d feed the homeless—chrissakes, I’d take a vow of sobriety, if I must. I have been so selfish, so unrepentantly selfish. Bless this boy for showing me the truth; bless the common criminal for reviving this old Lazarus! In my moment of clarity, I felt as though he saved my life.

His hands were shaking. He let out a final cry, unintelligible, and pulled the trigger.

The bullet ripped through my chest, and I fell to the ground, blood pouring out from my limp body like water spurting out of a garden hose: steady, consistent, on-tap. I didn’t feel pain. I only felt cold, numbness working its way from my extremities to my torso. My mouth was bone-dry. I could see Stu hovering above me, moving his lips, but I couldn’t understand what he was trying to say. I hoped it was something nice, something kind, something dignifying. But I knew it wasn’t.

I thought about my wife, and our latest argument, the harsh words I threw at her as she fought to hold it together; until she couldn’t, until the dam that was her patience broke, leaving me to flail around in her river of rage. The current swept me away to where I lay, to the unwashed ceramic-tiled floor of a twenty-four hour convenience store, drowning in my blood. 

Stuck on the tile like a tortoise flipped onto its back by a malicious, mischievous child endeavoring to watch it squirm, I couldn’t move. My limbs forgot how. My vision regressed into indistinct colors and shapes. A furor of sirens and yelling and scattered gunfire raged on behind me, oblivious to the dying man that they abandoned. The Cash song kept playing, gradually fading, but ever persistent. Everything went dark, and I heard, for the final time, Johnny’s low voice serenade me as he sang the chorus.

And on that lonesome, early Tuesday morning, I plotted out the fabricated life story I would soon recite to God.