It Just Happens

The following is my submission to the student literary magazine at Naugatuck Valley Community College in 2005.  Not new fiction, but a hiatus entry.

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It Just Happens

Leroy Weathers pushed himself off the bench at the train station and re-entered the flow of the crowd. Pain lanced through his hunched shoulders, reminding him of the twisted vertebrae of his upper back.  A sigh ripped from him when he stepped out into the dim, overcast evening. His attempt to hesitate there, to gain his bearings, was foiled by the shoving crowd that came behind him. Too weary to fight it, he let them sweep him away at a pace much faster than his habitual shuffle. He knew that the crowds would clear away as the streets slowly decayed around them, respectable neighborhoods losing their ground before the urban neglect -- and soon enough, he was right.

The dry passage of his feet against the rough pavement was a comforting sound to his ears as he traveled along the streets that were suddenly devoid of humanity. The burned out shell of a car still stood at the end of the block and had for the last three years, ever since the riots. The throbbing ache of his knees and left hip joined the pain that gripped his shoulders and his steps grew slower. The stoop of his brownstone seemed to slip further and further away, as if the block was elongating before him. Despite the pain, he was in no real hurry. The house was just a house since his wife's death a scant three months before. The coroner took the home with him as he and his assistant carried the body out of the building.

His attention fixed upon the car shell, a frown deepened the wrinkles of his face. Was it George who had owned the car? Maybe it was young Michael? He couldn't remember anymore and couldn't place the owner's face, although he could almost see the shining smile of pride worn there as the announcement was made. "I finally saved up enough to get a car of my own. What do you think, Mr. Weathers?"

Leroy shook his head, weary.  Such youthful pride. Now both George and Michael were gone, and only the burned out car remained. A poster on the side of a bus shelter displayed a young, smiling black face proclaiming neighborhood pride and improvement: Rebirth of History. The old man snorted dismissively. Rebirth. This neighborhood was history, all right. It clung to history with the desperation of a child who just knows that when her father steps out that door, she'll never see him again. Rebirth wouldn't be coming here; not until all the buildings fell down, anyway.

The sharp shattering of glass alerted Leroy to the fact that he was not alone. A rough, wiry looking young man stepped out from the yawning darkness at the mouth of an alley and stood in front of him. Two more edged behind him, hyena-like laughter betraying nerves.  The white around the leader's eyes was bright as he flickered a nervous gaze up and down the street. His thick tongue wetted thicker lips just before he demanded, "Give us money, old man."

Leroy's weariness grew, pressing down on him from above and making his chest tight with the effort to breath. "Step aside, youngster. Don't bother your elders. Didn't your momma teach you no manners?"

"The money," thick-lips insisted while one of his compatriots twittered from behind Leroy.

"Just what money do you think I've got?"

"Everyone knows, old man." When Leroy turned his head to see this speaker, he saw the jagged shard of glass held like a knife in his hand. This one's eyes were cold, neutral -- like a snake. The tightness in Leroy's chest grew.

"Everyone knows what?"

Thick-lips broke in, "You're loaded. Everyone knows it. In a mattress in your basement."

"With your wife's body," said the twitterer, sniggering.

Leroy sighed, passing his hands over his eyes and feeling the weight of the world press down on his shoulders. "Rumors are like smoke. They have no substance."

"Don't bullshit us!" Snake-eyes jabbed the shard of glass at Leroy's back, the press of it dulled by his thick sweater. "Everyone knows!"

Leroy's temper snapped, "Everyone knows shit! I've lived in this neighborhood for seventy-three years. I didn't have no money then, and I ain't got any now. You think if I had money, I'd still be living here?!"

Thick-lips cast an uncertain look towards his companions. They hadn't expected any resistance. Knock and old man around, steal his cash, and live a life of luxury. Resistance hadn't been in the plan. A dog started barking at the far end of the block, breaking the sudden silence like a gunshot. Snake-eyes struck out again with his shard of glass and this time Leroy gave a yell as he felt the edge bite into his flesh.

"Are you crazy?" Thick-lips shouted.

"Shut-up!"

"We just wanted to rough him up a little!"

Leroy coughed, a startled wet sound, and pressed a hand to the injury on his back. The beating of his heart battered at his eardrums, drowning out the growing argument between the thugs. He didn't notice when the twitterer finally broke and ran. Thick-lips reached out and shoved him down, drawing a pained cry from the old man, then took off as well.

Snake-eyes stared down at him, looking a bit shocky as he saw the blood staining the back of Leroy's sweater, "Why didn't you just give us the money?"

Leroy coughed again, "No one in this place's got any money, kid." He could see the squad car approaching from behind Snake-eyes, the sense of relief almost as painful as the jab from the makeshift weapon. "They just let life happen to 'em and complain about it later." He lost himself in the growing pain, only cognizant of the flashes of imagery: Snake-eyes pressed against the ground before the police car; the concerned eyes of the officer kneeling over Leroy while his partner made the arrest; the grabbing hands of paramedics as they put him in the ambulance. He just let it happen to him.

Hiatus

As predicted, the move has completely interrupted my writing attempts. I will get back on the wagon once I'm moved and settled in. :)