This story appears in the inaugural issue of Musée Magazine to accompany a photograph by Tucker Friend.
Sniper
He got to my street in the dead of night. Like any outsider, he had a five-minute stay expectancy. After an hour he was still there and the street was his.
He was shooting.
That night I was outside the dive where I had a gig. By the time he got here, it was over and I was just sitting on the sidewalk, smoking. His battered car wheezed up the hill. He scanned the place, his arm hanging out the window. He cruised up and down, looking for the perfect spot.
He was up to something.
He finally killed the engine right across from the bar. The car’s windows had a crank handle. Unbelievable. Man, if you’re going to get a car, get it right. He rolled up the window and turned around to unlock the back door. When he got out, he looked up and down the street and through me, as if I wasn’t even there. Suited me alright.
He pulled two things from his back seat. A long, hard case. And a small, heavy bag. He locked the front doors. He locked the back doors. Then he jammed his keys inside his cheap leather jacket and picked up his junk. He walked straight up to the first broken window in the building, climbed inside and set up shop like he owned the place. Got busy adjusting the shutter. Unbelievable.
When he was settled, I sent some kids out for bait.
He shot.
I didn’t move.
The street went dead silent. Then some guy with a girl hooked around his neck tumbled out of the bar and he shot again. Bam bam. Blinded me.
I pulled out my sunglasses. Slow. Real slow. I didn’t want him to shoot my way. Not yet. I wanted to stick around a little. He’d notice me at some point. Just not yet.
But still, I put on my shades so he wouldn’t rob my soul.
Then I felt him focus on me. While I waited for it to happen, I thought about my old man. I wished I could remember his face. His smell, I could. Old sweat and once in a while booze to top it off. I almost smiled. Then I thought about me. The feel of the drum under my palms. My girl’s soft legs wrapped around my waist at night. The first drag of the day. The rhythms of my life.
I was getting way too philosophical so I cut the crap. It was the waiting I couldn’t stand.
I stood up. I knew exactly where he was. And I knew that because of the shades, he couldn’t tell if I was looking his way or not. If I was getting ready to pull a fast one on him.
I was in the middle of the street now, facing his shutter. I knew he had me in his sights. “If you’re gonna do it, do it now, and do it right,” I told him. “Do this man justice.”
Nothing happened.
I’m a mellow sort of guy and I get even softer with the smoking, but I managed to lose my patience. I crossed the street and got to the broken window. I framed my face with my hands. I was level with his Cannon just three feet from me, the whole street rounded in its glass eye and me smack in the middle. “Shoot.”
***
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He was shooting.
That night I was outside the dive where I had a gig. By the time he got here, it was over and I was just sitting on the sidewalk, smoking. His battered car wheezed up the hill. He scanned the place, his arm hanging out the window. He cruised up and down, looking for the perfect spot.
He was up to something.
He finally killed the engine right across from the bar. The car’s windows had a crank handle. Unbelievable. Man, if you’re going to get a car, get it right. He rolled up the window and turned around to unlock the back door. When he got out, he looked up and down the street and through me, as if I wasn’t even there. Suited me alright.
He pulled two things from his back seat. A long, hard case. And a small, heavy bag. He locked the front doors. He locked the back doors. Then he jammed his keys inside his cheap leather jacket and picked up his junk. He walked straight up to the first broken window in the building, climbed inside and set up shop like he owned the place. Got busy adjusting the shutter. Unbelievable.
When he was settled, I sent some kids out for bait.
He shot.
I didn’t move.
The street went dead silent. Then some guy with a girl hooked around his neck tumbled out of the bar and he shot again. Bam bam. Blinded me.
I pulled out my sunglasses. Slow. Real slow. I didn’t want him to shoot my way. Not yet. I wanted to stick around a little. He’d notice me at some point. Just not yet.
But still, I put on my shades so he wouldn’t rob my soul.
Then I felt him focus on me. While I waited for it to happen, I thought about my old man. I wished I could remember his face. His smell, I could. Old sweat and once in a while booze to top it off. I almost smiled. Then I thought about me. The feel of the drum under my palms. My girl’s soft legs wrapped around my waist at night. The first drag of the day. The rhythms of my life.
I was getting way too philosophical so I cut the crap. It was the waiting I couldn’t stand.
I stood up. I knew exactly where he was. And I knew that because of the shades, he couldn’t tell if I was looking his way or not. If I was getting ready to pull a fast one on him.
I was in the middle of the street now, facing his shutter. I knew he had me in his sights. “If you’re gonna do it, do it now, and do it right,” I told him. “Do this man justice.”
Nothing happened.
I’m a mellow sort of guy and I get even softer with the smoking, but I managed to lose my patience. I crossed the street and got to the broken window. I framed my face with my hands. I was level with his Cannon just three feet from me, the whole street rounded in its glass eye and me smack in the middle. “Shoot.”
***
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Contact