Call Me Ishmael

Chapter 2

There was no use in calling for help.  Not only would Hercules put a bullet in my back or head, but there was no one around who could hear me.  The lake was too far away, and the parking lot had been empty except for my own truck.  We approached the rock.  It seemed to take on the aspect of a skull, which seemed appropriate, and I wondered if my lifeless body would be dumped into one of the eyes.  Not the nose, I hoped.

“Listen,” I tried again, “Can’t we talk about this?”

Hercules did not answer.  

I dragged a few more paces, afraid to try again, and afraid not to try.  I hesitated to turn around.  

“Listen, I think you’ve got the wrong guy.  My name’s not really Ishmael, that’s just a joke.  I’ve got responsibilities, a wife, kids, a job.”  I wasn't completely lying.  I did have a job.  I swallowed.  A giraffe’s swallow can’t be more difficult than mine was at that moment.  “Can’t we make some sort of deal?  I have money.”  Another lie, but character-building was not on my priority screen at the moment.  Survival seemed more opportune.  

Hercules ignored me.

As terrified as I was, I also felt ridiculous.  I had always worried that my life's story would have a violent ending, some sudden, sharp turn of fate that would snap my life away from me.  But it was always comfortably far away, sometime in the future.  I guess I never sat down and considered how I intended to meet a heroic, dramatic end at the age of ninety-five, but logic was never my best subject.   This just couldn’t be the end.  I couldn’t go out in some gangland style execution.  What would my family think?  

“I’m not into drugs, or anything.  I think you’re making a mistake.”

Hercules was as silent as the rock in front of us.  No doubt he’d heard it all before, and was tired of it.  I imagined the pleading and promises the average hit-man must hear in the course of his employment.  It was difficult to feel too sorry for him, though.  I tried to look back without turning my head, and I wondered.  Do hit-men ever get up in the morning and just decide to call in sick?  If they do does the boss send a hit-man after them?

My throat was dry, because all of the moisture in my body was exiting via my armpits.  “Hey, we don’t have to do this.”  This time I did look back.  

The large man opened his cruel mouth.  “Shut up.”  He pointed with his pistol.  “Move.”

The rock dominated my vision, and death filled my thoughts.  I was going to die.  It was not abstract, and in the foggy, far-off mists of the future.  It was suddenly imminent.  I knew I had only a few moments, perhaps seconds, to change things.  

So I sucked in all the air I could hold, figuring if it was my last breath, I’d make it a good one.  Running away from Herc would only get me shot in the back; I decided my only chance was a complete reversal.  With my right foot in the air, I pivoted on the ball of my left foot, a perfect tai chai move, but roughly a thousand times faster.  I saw a flicker of surprise in the large man’s eye, and realized that in addition to being gigantic, he was downright ugly.  His face would make a neglected dog-yard look good.  I came up with the metaphor later; at the moment I had no time to think.  I merely acted, and I was fortunate that he did not react.  Perhaps he had been thinking about something else.

I rushed straight at him; my shoulder lowered, and in an instant of perfect clarity, I saw him level his pistol and realized the bullet would go straight into my right eye.  I went down lower without thinking, and my power-drive hit him about groin level.     

All of the air came out of him at once, and he rolled onto the trail.  He grunted, then groaned, and there was the sharp report of the pistol.  I stumbled up, and I jumped on his hand, hard, as hard as I could, and wished I was wearing something more substantial than sneakers.  He opened his hand and dropped the gun.  

Picking up the weapon left me with a moral choice with no time to wrestle it.  I hesitated, uncertain whether it was fair or right or good to simply shoot this thug, or if it would be better to run. I pointed the gun at his face.  I went with what felt right at the time, and didn't pull the trigger.  

“Don’t come after me,” I warned.  “I may not be so conflicted next time.”

Hercules started to roll over, no doubt intending to stand up so he could beat me more efficiently.  I fired the gun into the ground, the bullet slamming into the dirt right beside his ear.  He yowled like a singed cat and grabbed his head.  I followed up with a swift kick to his groin.  No way, I thought, is he going to chase me after that.  I turned and ran back to the parking lot.

By the time I reached the gravel space, my breath was heaving in short, violent gasps.  I’m not a marathoner.  It was a long run, and my nerves were on edge.  I stopped to catch my breath and leaned forward, trying not to wheeze.  I pulled in more air and straightened up, amazed.  My truck was gone.  Hercules’ vehicle was gone.  And standing in their place, like she had just come down from some world where all the women are perfect and have shoulders exactly like sloops seen from the back seat of smelly old Pontiacs, was Finnie.  She was alone.

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