by Mary Thomas
The smoke was starting to come out of the basement. The couple would notice soon. Fire alarms would go off soon. Yes! I would go up to a higher floor and run out with everyone when the fire alarm went off. If I came from upstairs, with a crowd of hysterical people I wouldn’t be noticed.
Flawed plan. Projects go up like a match box, and poor people don’t have working fire alarms. Within two minutes smoke was reaching the 3rd floor and I heard a siren in the distance. I had to act quickly. I start yelling fire and banging on doors. That worked. I swear there were ten Mexicans to every apartment running out like the tamale lady had shown up. They were great cover. I was happy it was a predominantly Mexican slum. I didn’t stand out as much as if it had been all black. When I saw this, I made an attempt to yell fire in an accent, drawing from Speedy Gonzalez and the valets from the country club.
I had my escape. I just couldn’t be the first one out, and had to resist knocking over the women and children. Those things would draw attention. I could see the door. I was almost there when my foot went through the stair. I couldn’t get it out and everyone was rushing past me. I was feverishly pulling on my leg with my one and only hand. I heard a cracking noise over my head, and then everything went black.
Next thing I knew I woke up in the hospital a hero. I had saved a building full of impoverished, illegal aliens and lost my hand while doing it. I was a celebrity. I got an offer from the largest law firm in the city to handle all of there pro bono cases. It was a great PR stunt for them to cover up all of the shady shit they did. I got a high paying job and wasn’t really expected to do anything except occasionally wave the nub at cameras for photo ops.
My life was set, until Esmeralda Garcia came into my office.
Showing posts with label LEFTY. Show all posts
Showing posts with label LEFTY. Show all posts
Thursday, May 10, 2007
LEFTY — Chapter Two
by Mary Thomas
All you need to know I was pushed out of a moving car in the middle of the night, in South Chicago with no fucking hand. I had no wallet, no cell phone and only a stump. I had the good fortune of taking a hand full of vicodin earlier in the evening. This was partially in anticipation of getting my ass kicked and partially because it was a Saturday night.
My first thought was wishing I had been dumped in a nicer neighborhood. I was in the projects and needed to get cleaned up. I was worried I was going to get my ass kicked, but no one is going to fuck with a guy with a bleeding stump, plus, there was no one around. I tried to get into a few apartment buildings until I found one that had the door propped open with some cardboard. I went downstairs into the basement, and found some clean rags. The water in the sink ran brown with rust at first, but then cleared up. For the first time I looked down at the mess of Egyptian cotton, blood and bone.. I needed a cigarette.
I wake up coughing. Smoke. Smoke is everywhere and it’s hotter than hell. The rags were on fire, and in the light of the fire, I could see the can of paint thinner beside them. I had to get out. I climb the stairs, but there is a car pulled up front with a couple talking. Not good. I could get charged for arson, manslaughter and quite possibly a hate crime. I knew in most circumstances a good lawyer could throw reasonable doubt on an ID, or have it thrown out, but a white guy bleeding with one hand?
The whole: Fugitive, one armed man, Chicago thing occurred to me later. I had more pressing things on my mind.
All you need to know I was pushed out of a moving car in the middle of the night, in South Chicago with no fucking hand. I had no wallet, no cell phone and only a stump. I had the good fortune of taking a hand full of vicodin earlier in the evening. This was partially in anticipation of getting my ass kicked and partially because it was a Saturday night.
My first thought was wishing I had been dumped in a nicer neighborhood. I was in the projects and needed to get cleaned up. I was worried I was going to get my ass kicked, but no one is going to fuck with a guy with a bleeding stump, plus, there was no one around. I tried to get into a few apartment buildings until I found one that had the door propped open with some cardboard. I went downstairs into the basement, and found some clean rags. The water in the sink ran brown with rust at first, but then cleared up. For the first time I looked down at the mess of Egyptian cotton, blood and bone.. I needed a cigarette.
I wake up coughing. Smoke. Smoke is everywhere and it’s hotter than hell. The rags were on fire, and in the light of the fire, I could see the can of paint thinner beside them. I had to get out. I climb the stairs, but there is a car pulled up front with a couple talking. Not good. I could get charged for arson, manslaughter and quite possibly a hate crime. I knew in most circumstances a good lawyer could throw reasonable doubt on an ID, or have it thrown out, but a white guy bleeding with one hand?
The whole: Fugitive, one armed man, Chicago thing occurred to me later. I had more pressing things on my mind.
LEFTY — Chapter One
by Mary Thomas
When people think of the best day of their life it is usually some sappy emotional thing, like “when I met my wife” or “when I fist laid eyes on my newborn child.” I call bullshit on that. It is more likely to be when you won the super bowl pool or fucked the virgin prom queen.
My mother would say the happiest day of her life was when I graduated from law school. Bullshit. The happiest day of my mom’s life was the day after my father left her. It’s great when they sneak up on you. Mom went to bed thinking her life was over. But the next morning she didn’t have to get up to iron shirts or make breakfast. She slept until 10:00am, which was unheard of. When she got up, she didn’t put on make up, or a nice outfit. She sat on the couch in sweats watching the Home and Garden Network. That evening she made what she wanted for dinner, and made it for one. She didn’t have to try to think of dinner conversation that was bland enough not to send my father into a rage, but interesting enough not to be completely ignored by him. All the neighbors gossiped about how overwhelmed with grief she was. How she was letting herself go. The truth was my mom got to stop pretending to be happy. Ironically, this made her happy.
I was indifferent when my dad left. I was almost done with law school and I knew he would keep paying until I was done just so he could say his son was a lawyer too. We also had in common the fact that we were both total bastards. I may be giving myself too much credit by saying I was a total bastard, but I haven’t been acting like one since the best day of my life, and that counts for something.
The best day of my life was when I lost my hand. You know how in the Middle East they cut off your hand if you steal? A Middle Eastern bookie in Chicago will also cut off your hand if you can’t pay your debt. I was out of law school and was waiting to take the bar. The checks weren’t coming quite as frequently since I gradated from Kellogg, so I was doing some small bets to enhance my income. I’m not going to tell you the rest, because it is a fucking cliché that you have heard a million times. It would be a story full of “I never thought it could happen to me,” “before I knew it I was in over my head,” and of course the “I will get you the money next week.” Fucking pathetic.
When people think of the best day of their life it is usually some sappy emotional thing, like “when I met my wife” or “when I fist laid eyes on my newborn child.” I call bullshit on that. It is more likely to be when you won the super bowl pool or fucked the virgin prom queen.
My mother would say the happiest day of her life was when I graduated from law school. Bullshit. The happiest day of my mom’s life was the day after my father left her. It’s great when they sneak up on you. Mom went to bed thinking her life was over. But the next morning she didn’t have to get up to iron shirts or make breakfast. She slept until 10:00am, which was unheard of. When she got up, she didn’t put on make up, or a nice outfit. She sat on the couch in sweats watching the Home and Garden Network. That evening she made what she wanted for dinner, and made it for one. She didn’t have to try to think of dinner conversation that was bland enough not to send my father into a rage, but interesting enough not to be completely ignored by him. All the neighbors gossiped about how overwhelmed with grief she was. How she was letting herself go. The truth was my mom got to stop pretending to be happy. Ironically, this made her happy.
I was indifferent when my dad left. I was almost done with law school and I knew he would keep paying until I was done just so he could say his son was a lawyer too. We also had in common the fact that we were both total bastards. I may be giving myself too much credit by saying I was a total bastard, but I haven’t been acting like one since the best day of my life, and that counts for something.
The best day of my life was when I lost my hand. You know how in the Middle East they cut off your hand if you steal? A Middle Eastern bookie in Chicago will also cut off your hand if you can’t pay your debt. I was out of law school and was waiting to take the bar. The checks weren’t coming quite as frequently since I gradated from Kellogg, so I was doing some small bets to enhance my income. I’m not going to tell you the rest, because it is a fucking cliché that you have heard a million times. It would be a story full of “I never thought it could happen to me,” “before I knew it I was in over my head,” and of course the “I will get you the money next week.” Fucking pathetic.
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