"Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord."
In the Gutter, double meaning is everything.
In the Gutter, double meaning is everything.
The Dead Don't Care by Paul Greenberg
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Joe O’Brien had
spent a good portion of his youth getting fucked in the ass by Father Malachy.
So, forty years
later when he recognized the fallen Pastor at the Speedy getting gas, it was an
opportunity for retribution that he couldn’t pass up.
Dressed like a
thrift store hipster with black boat shoes with no socks, grey beltless slacks,
and a dull white t-shirt with nuclear armpits, Joe watched as the Father’s
nicotine stained fingers pumped his gas. The Father then shuffled his way
inside to pay.
The old prick must
be seventy by now, Joe thought, as a wave of humiliation fell on him just as it
had when he was ten- years-old. He went over to check out the Father’s beat up Buick.
The back seat of
the car was littered with newspapers, old blankets, empty Pabst tall boys and
McDonald’s wrappers. Joe recalled his drunk of a father, regularly beating the
crap out of his mother and then driving off in a car not unlike this one.
Joe took a quick
look inside the store and saw the Father’s bird-like head, bent down like a
pelican towards the counter, paying.
He noticed that
the car keys were still in the ignition so he quickly reached in the open
window and snatched them up just as the old man was on his way out.
The family Joe had
abandoned crossed his mind as he glanced up and saw that the Father had only
pumped in three bucks worth of gas into the car. “Poor fucker is broke,” he chuckled.
The two crossed
paths as Joe went in to pay and the chicken soup body odor that was coming off
of Malachy’s body hit him like a fist.
Joe slid a twenty
across the counter as the girl counted a stack of coins that the priest had
used to pay.
“The old stinker
came up twenty-five cent short,” The girl said. Joe dipped into his pocket and
gently pressed a quarter down and walked out.
Father Malachy was
standing by his car slapping his pockets, scratching his head and his ass, and looking
every inch the confused old bastard he was.
Joe nearly pissed
himself laughing as he walked towards him recalling the “games” the priest had
invented in the basement of the rectory.
“Is there a
problem, old feller? Are you ok?”
“I can’t find my
fuckin’ car keys.” With his South Boston accent, the Father pronounced it: khaki’s.
“Your car keys?”
Joe teased.
“Yeah, what ah ya
deaf? I had ‘em when I drove this piece of shit in here.”
“Maybe I can help
you. Did you leave them in the store when you went in to pay? Come on, old-timer.
Let’s go in and take a look around.”
Joe took a deep
breath, took hold of his elbow, and walked Malachy back into the store.
“I can walk. I’m
no fuckin’ cripple.”
They went in and
the girl immediately picked up a can of Lysol and started spraying the area.
“Get that shit
outta my face,” said Malachy.
“The old guy lost
his keys. Did you find them?” Joe said.
“That guy brought
nothing in here but a bad smell and a bunch of greasy coins. And not enough of
them, too. Maybe he’s got the Alzheimer’s?”
“Did you look at
anything else while you were in here?” Joe asked, as he made his way around the
store. “Did you look at the beer? The snacks? The porns? I know you old dudes
like your pornos.”
“I didn’t look at
no fuckin’ pornos, wiseass.”
“Well, you can’t
leave that rust bucket here. I’m gonna have to call a tow,” the girl said.
“Goddammit,” the
father said and stamped his feet like a child.
“Why don’t I give
you a ride home? Do you have a spare key? We can pick it up and I can give you
a ride back,” Joe said.
“I don’t know. Maybe
I got another key,” the Father said.
“See, things are
looking up already. Don’t be so glum, old timer.”
Joe got the Father
into the car not bothering with the seat belt, which was lying loose like a
dead snake across Malachy’s lap. He got in, rolled down the window and turned
on the A/C.
Joe hoped this
would be the start of the closure he had been looking for. He started in on the
Father as soon as they pulled away.
“So where do you
live? As if I didn’t know, you fucking weasel. Let me guess, you live in that
shelter on Commerce Street with all the other sick fucks?”
“Huh?”
“Don’t taunt me,
old man. I’ll dig your fucking eye out with my thumb.”
“What are you
talking about? I don’t know you.”
“You know me all
too well, you maggot. Here, hide this salami.”
Joe reached out
and popped the old man right in the eye. The Father’s bird-like head hit the
window so hard, Joe thought it would burst into feathers. Instead, it ricocheted
towards Joe, landing right into his lap.
Joe reacted like
someone had dropped hot pizza on him, screaming and shifting his hips from side
to side, careening into the opposite lane, right into a Minivan on its way to
Home Depot.
When the cops and emergency
crew cleared the scene, they all had a good laugh as the crime scene
investigator pulled the passenger’s face off of Joe’s lap.
“Looks like a case
of sexual misadventure,” said the investigator. “I’m sure you boys will do your
best to keep this out of the papers.”
“Yeah, good luck
with that,” one of the cops said.
The bodies were
dragged from the car, dumped and zippered into body bags, and sent by ambulance
to the morgue.
Meanwhile, two
cops oversaw the cleaning of the street and directed traffic.
“Who the fuck
knows. I know this. Even in these crazy days, there is no accounting for taste,”
The second cop replied.
“Hey, I see what
you did there. No accounting for TASTE? Get it?”
“Whatever happened
here, they’ve got no problems now.”
“Yeah, the dead
don’t fucking care.”
