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I
was there... sitting on a sofa... waiting, waiting, and waiting. Fuck time.
It seems to have
stopped, but not.
While the time was
passing, my thoughts
seemed to watch a
movie. Yeah. It was a
biopic. The screen
came on, and
I was
there in a close-up
when I turned
thirteen, and I went
on a trip with my
father. He had a blue
1972 Oldsmobile
Toronado, the same
color as Miami
happiness. Only he and
I went traveling at
that time. My dad was
a salesperson. He sold
kitchenware for
restaurants. But, as I
liked to read gangster
novels, I imagined my
dad as a hitman. Then
I set up a plot in my
head that my father
was on his way to
killing someone. It
could be a butcher, a
farmer, a politician,
or a mobster. But it
wasn't. My dad was
going to offer spoons,
forks, chef's
knives, and other
wares in restaurants.
After some selling, we
stopped to eat at one
dirty place full of
strange guys. Behind
the counter, there was
a waitress with her
red hair gathered into
a Cubs cap, beautiful
blue eyes, big
breasts, and a tired
expression, as if she
had gotten a lot of
sex the night before.
When she smiled, we
got to see her teeth.
They were yellow, like
egg yolks. She carried
a lot of kindness
while serving food to
patrons. Suddenly, a
man got up from a
table placed in the
background, approached
the counter, and
furiously asked the
waitress, "Where
is my burger?"
She replied calmly,
"Hey, man! Take
it easy." Then,
he thumped the counter
and yelled at her,
"You're a bitch! Your
head is full of shit!"
She complained to him,
"What's your
problem?". He punched
her violently in the
face and knocked out
the poor woman. At
this very moment, I
swear to you, I wish
my dad was a hitman
and had killed that
horrible man who
harmed the red-haired
girl with yellow teeth.
Thank God, my father
never became a hitman,
but, for an irony of
destiny, I'm sitting
here on this sofa that
stinks like a
climber's shoe,
waiting to know
details about my new
job. I still didn't
know that it would be
hard to live with that
in my mind because it
would be the first
time I would kill
someone I loved. Yes.
It's true. It really
was a bad joke. My
future would depend on
this job. It would
save me from loan
sharks. I needed to
pay them. Fuck poker.
I've got to be strong
and get ahead.
Now I'm carrying my
suitcase and my M40
rifle up the stairs of
an old three-story
building. I've got to
do it easily. I cannot
make any mistakes.
Nothing could be
wrong. After I've done
my task, I'll leave
this place
quietly. So I'll keep
walking down the
street like other
people we see on the
sidewalk without
knowing who they are,
just wondering where
they came from, and
where they are going.
Everything is okay. My
rifle, my position, my
anguish, my fear, my
doubt, my despair, my
excitement, my life.
All these things will
disappear after my job
is done. Then, I
believe, a relief will
enter my soul because
I will be free of my
moneylenders. On the
other hand, it will
haunt my mind for the
rest of my life
because I will murder
someone I care about.
Well, while I waited
for my target to leave
his house, another
movie played in my
head—it showed
the first time I met
him.
I was thrilled because
Claire had accepted my
invitation to the
prom. She was a
beautiful girl with
whom I fell in love.
Some days before the
ball, she met me and
said that she wanted
to make love with me
before the gala night.
That way, both of us
could enjoy the prom
without anxiety. What
a fantastic girl!
At Claire's
house—her
parents had traveled
to Seattle—we
made love. It was her
first time and mine,
too. While we were
flying to the moon
without using a
rocket, I heard the
voice of the Jersey
Crazy Guy on the
stereo, and everything
took on a new meaning
for me. Yeah. It was
Patrick Lehman singing
"The Boots Don't Work
In The Rain Without
Love." So, with Claire
naked and the voice
and the lyrics written
by this singer, all of
that never got out of
my mind. Since then,
my life has gone along
with this song. I
traveled to many
places just to watch
his performances. When
he didn't sing my
favorite song, it was
like the sadness of
losing a baseball game
to the home team on a
walk-off.
Patrick Lehman's style
is in the vein of
heartland rock and
American roots music;
however, his lyrics
are avant-garde.
Strangely, the art of
this man went into my
heart and mind.
It's crazy! A man
like me? A man who is
born to kill dreams.
I was okay to start my
show. A few minutes
later, the target was
in my sight. He left
the house with his
entourage: two
muscular guys and a
beautiful redhead, who
smiled a lot with her
white teeth, very
different from the
redhead with yellow
teeth.
I prepared my weapon,
adjusted the aim, and
the song of my life
invaded my mind. So,
my heart got to beat
harmonically with the
guitar and Patrick's
voice. For a moment, I
thought about giving
up. But the crack of
my rifle interrupted
the song.
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