Author Archives: tim

“What took you so long?” she said.

I shrugged and bit my lip.

It took her a second, but she recognized I wasn’t Jake. “Colin?”

“Hi.”

Her face softened. “What are you doing here?”

“In a philosophical sense? I don’t really know.”

She scoffed. “God, you guys are so much alike.”

“Really?” I felt a tinge of regret but pushed it away. Instead, I focused on her smile. And her eyes.

“Where’s Jake?”

I took a breath – a big, pre-leap breath. You know the kind. It’s what you do before telling your boss you’re quitting or before telling a pretty girl you love her. “Yeah, about Jake. He, uh, he’s breaking up with you. He’s too much of an asshole to tell you to your face.”

She stared at me with those emerald eyes. For a second, I thought she was going to call me out, accuse me of murdering Jake, yell at passers-by to look around for a body. But then she laughed. “Nice try,” she said.

“No, no, I’m serious.”

“Yeah, I know what you’re doing, Colin.” She stepped closer and whispered, “Ever since you saw me and Jake doing it, you’ve been after me.”

“What?”

“Oh, c’mon. Admit it.” She put a hand on my chest.

The image flashed in my mind of what this Colin guy might have seen — live pornography between a devilish, blonde-haired flirt and a replica of himself. It might have been pretty difficult to turn away from.

“I can see you’re remembering,” she said.

Imagining, actually, not remembering, but it wasn’t worth quibbling. Fantasy, memory – they’re more or less clones, aren’t they?

“Look, if you want to get down my pants, there’s a better way to go about it.” She ran her hand down my arm.

I touched her neck, entertaining the possibility of driving home with her at that moment. After all, it’s about not missing out, right? A barrage of images flashed in my mind – blond hair, disheveled couch cushions, long legs.

But here’s the thing; some opportunities are mutually exclusive. If one lives, the other must die.

So I left. I went home to Maggie.

It was a sobering walk. My aches and pains resurfaced. And the prospect of dinner wasn’t much consolation. But once through the front door, I saw Maggie on the couch, looking all cozy and cute. And only then did it dawn on me that I had just escaped death. Twice. Maybe three times. And now here I was, staring at my reason to live.

The brief and crazy notion entered my head that I could tell Maggie everything. I could confess it all. “It’s like a disease,” I’d tell her. “But I’m a survivor. I’ve got you and luck on my side. We’ll get through this. Together.” But instead, I asked, “Have I told you recently I love you?”

“Well,” she said, “you just bought Not Dogs. And I’m of the mind that actions speak louder than words.”

“Fair enough.” I got out the dogs and put them in the microwave. “Hey, you wanna go up to Mt. Hood this Saturday?”

She set her knitting down. “You sure you want to miss out on your bird thing?” she asked.

The microwave beeped.

“Oh, I’m not missing out.”

“You’re positive?”

“Yeah. I’m positive.”

“Well, then, yes. I’d love to go.”

*The End*

He swung; I swung. We both missed — or so I thought. But the blood that splattered on my face made me think otherwise. When he swung at me the second time, more blood flew in my eyes. I wiped my face off and saw his arm, dripping fat drops of blood that landed in spiky circles on the pavement. I’d slashed the wrist on his knife arm.

It was pure, dumb luck.

It was also pure, dumb luck that when he swung a backhand and hit my hip, his switchblade closed on his fingers. Apparently, his knife was the broken one.

He grunted and peered down at his skinned knuckles. I took the opportunity to kick him in the knee, hyper-extending it backwards and sending him to the ground.

There was one thing left to do. I jumped on him, grabbed hold of his hair, and plunged my blade into his neck, transforming it into a fountain of blood – thick, scarlet blood; sweet, syrupy blood. Wonderful blood. God, the euphoria was amazing.

I was drunk on it. Which must have been why I had no qualms or fears about opening the back door to Peace and Harmony Co-op and washing my hands in a sink conveniently situated right by the door.

And when one of the hippie employees came out of the nearby bathroom, flashing me a perplexed look, I said simply, “Hey, what’s up?”

He looked pissed. “Do you work here?”

A tip for effective lying: don’t confirm or deny. I tried to look offended. “You don’t remember me?”

He scratched his head. People actually do that, you know.

“You seriously don’t remember me? I’m Colin; you’re Brian. We’ve been through this.”

His expression moved from anger to confusion to shame. Beautiful. “Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

I patted him on the back as I walked past him into the store. People always forget when they’re wearing name tags.

I got a few more looks when I emerged from the back room into the front, but I walked outside without incident. My Not Dogs were still on the ground. The box was dented a little, but they seemed otherwise unharmed. I couldn’t say as much for Julie, who was leaning against a car on the street, arms crossed and looking ready to scold her boyfriend.

I remembered my promise and sobered right up.

“Yes.” His certainty was off-putting. It seemed almost out-of-character.

“Don’t you every wonder why?”

“I’m a philosophy major. That’s all I do.”

I chuckled.

“Look, it’s simple. There’s a switch on the wall. You turn it on, you might die. You do nothing, you won’t die. What do you do?”

I had to think about it for a second, but yeah, the way he phrased it, it was obvious. You do nothing. “Point taken. But still, you never get curious? After years of not turning the switch on?”

“Look, I’ll tell you a quick story.” He folded his blade back into the handle. “The first college class of my life, the professor came out with a small black box with a question mark painted on it. He set it down in front of the lecture hall and asked us what we thought was in it. People took all sorts of guesses and then one kid finally raised his hand and said, “˜the answer.’ “˜Yes!’ the professor shouted, and he went on to give a basic definition of philosophy as the “˜history of human questing after answers.’

“Well, every week, he brought that box back and used it to make some new point about the kinds of questions we ask or about the underlying cultural assumptions we make or about what it means for something to exist, right? He never ran out of lessons based on the box. I mean, this guy was a really good professor. You went to class just to hear what he’d say about that damned box.

“And then, on the last day of the semester, he asked us all if we wanted to know what was in the box. Everyone shouted yes, of course. And then he asked, “˜Shall I open the box?’ And again, everyone shouted yes. We were like crazed children, poised on the edges of our chairs. But then that one kid – the one who had raised his hand on the first day of class – he raised his hand again and said, “˜No, don’t open it.’ And everyone went nuts. They were yelling at him and calling him crazy. But the professor quieted us all down and said, “˜Think about this. Think about it for a few minutes. And if your answer’s no, you may leave. I’ll see you on the day of the final. I’ll be back in ten.’

“And with that, he walked out of the room, and we all sat there, dumbstruck. Minutes ticked by; people were kind of whispering to each other. And then one by one, people started leaving. They started filing out the back door. And I mean, everybody. After ten minutes, everybody had left. Except me.

“When the professor came back – it had been more like 20 minutes, actually – I was the only one left. And he asked again, “˜Shall I open the box?’ And I went down to the front of the lecture hall and said, “˜Yes.’

“So he unlocked it -it had been locked, of course – and he opened it up. But I didn’t look inside. You know why?”

“Why?”

“Cuz it’s more fun not knowing.” He flipped his knife open and came at me.

I glanced from Jake to Petra and back. Jake wasn’t even looking at me. He was locked in a murderous stare with Petra. It was clear who he was targeting first. I wondered if I should go for Jake, take advantage of his being distracted, or go after Petra, who would be outnumbered.

As usual, my indecision decided for me. Petra lunged at Jake, slicing skillfully with a backhanded stroke that brushed Jake’s lower lip and chin. Jake dropped to the ground and swung his leg at Petra, who jumped and did this sort of barrel roll move. It was pretty sweet, actually. But as soon as he landed, I kicked him hard, right in the ankle.

He fell toward me, swinging his knife-hand in my general direction. His wrist slammed on the rim of the dumpster, sending the blade flying from his grip. He screamed. The knife clunked against the inside wall of the dumpster.

I tried to jump over him, thinking that it would be better not to have my back to Jake. But Petra caught my foot mid-air, and I fell on top of him. He flipped me onto my back, straddled me, and squeezed the tendons in my wrist, causing my grip on the switchblade to falter. I couldn’t hold on. So I kneed him in the crotch.

He gasped. I saw Jake stand up and raise his knife in the air. I kneed Petra again, pushed him off me, and scrambled to get out of the path of Jake’s knife, which met with Petra’s shoulder.

Now Jake was on top of Petra, who was madly swinging his limbs in the air. Jake got a hold of Petra’s right arm; I grabbed the other and held it to the ground.

Jake plunged the knife into Petra’s neck. With flecks of blood flying through the air, Jake and I locked eyes. “Thanks,” he said.

“No problem.”

Petra began screaming – a gargled, dying scream that’s never pleasant to hear, so I covered his mouth. Didn’t want some vegan hippie coming out from the co-op’s back door to find us.

“I always forget how good that feels,” Jake said. We stood and faced each other. Round two.

“Do we really have to do this?” I asked.

He was sitting on a bench. When he saw me, he put his head in his hands.

“Are you kidding me?” I said. “This is our second meeting?”

He sighed. “This is not good.” Then he stood up, grabbed my arm, and walked me away from the entrance of the store. I dropped the box of Not Dogs, but when I went to pick them up, he yanked at my arm. “Did you see Julie?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Julie. She just went in the store. Did you see her?” He continued leading me around to the back of the co-op. We stopped at the dumpster. (It’s always a dumpster.)

“Julie’s here?”

“That’s what I’m telling you.”

“Shit.”

“Yes. Shit.”

“Well, what should we do?” I asked.

He pulled a knife from his pocket and flipped it open. “We don’t have a lot of options.”

I checked my pocket. The switchblade was still there.

“Listen, man, it was nice meeting you,” he said.

“Likewise.” I flicked the switch of my knife. It wouldn’t open. I shook it a couple times and tried the switch again.

“Oh shit. Did I give you the broken one? I didn’t mean to.” He stepped toward me. I jumped, ready to use my fists. “Here. Let me see it.” He closed his own knife and put it back in his pocket. I tossed mine to him.

He jimmied the switch a little and the blade flipped open. Just as he was passing it back, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned around, and three of us simultaneously shouted, “Fuck me.”

The third was standing there, mouth agape, reflecting the expression on my own face.

“So there was a third,” Jake whispered.

The third hung his head. “I saw the two of you and I ran. I thought I could avoid it.” He had a hint of an accent I couldn’t quite place.

“There is no escape,” Jake said.

“I know.” The third offered me his hand. I shook it. “I thought that maybe if you didn’t see me, I could avoid the whole thing. I’m Petra.”

“But we did see you,” I said.

“Yeah. I know that now.”

Jake shook Petra’s hand. “Crazy name, Petra.”

We stood there in that awkward triangle for some silent seconds until Jake spoke up. “Listen, do you think we can get started? My girlfriend’s in the co-op.”

“Is she hot?” Petra asked. Jake glared at him, but Petra just winked back.

We readied our knives; Petra’s was holstered to his shin. He had this Euro-cowboy look going: tight, metrosexual pants; black boots. His clothes alone almost made me want to kill him.