Up on the Roof

This story was published in Vol. 1, Issue 1 of Vulcan: A Literary Dis-allusion.

3

Peter tastes warm metal. He thinks of the time he put quarters into his mouth when he was a small boy, mistaking them for the chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil that his uncle used to give him. His lips are tightly gripped around the flawlessly smooth cylinder of the revolver. He has been holding this facial expression long enough to force the inside of his mouth into muscle spasms. His tongue involuntarily laps the sides of the barrel and it is beginning to throb and ache.

His white t-shirt is soaked in sweat: yellowing the armpits and making it translucent across his back and chest. He grips the butt of the gun with one hand, occasionally switching to wipe the sweat off on his jeans. The barrel is just long enough to contort his wrist in such a way that the veins pump violently trying to get every ounce of life into his hand. His toenails scratch and gouge the carpet in time with ticking of the clock that hangs on the wall.

2:56 pm and 31...
...32...
...33...
...34...

Beneath the clock is a bed--made neatly as that of a soldier. The clean, white sheet is tucked underneath the mattress as is a blue, wool blanket with a perfectly fluffed pillow resting on top. Under the metal frame of the bed is untouched carpet: blue with flecks of yellow pulled tight and firm. It runs around the entire room like water filling the bottom of the bath tub, covering every inch it possibly can, trying to escape the confinement of the walls. At the foot of the bed, on the floor, is a young woman. Her hair is short and messy and her clothes match the same description. She has been shot twice in the chest. The blood has turned the carpet around her into a black pool. Across from the bed is a desk whose legs sink into the carpet. The desk chair is tipped over on its side, the hollow plastic of its wheels exposed.

On the desk sits a single sheet of college ruled paper. It has been folded once in half perfectly down the center. Written on the top line is a single sentence:

Hurry up please, it’s time.

Peter’s chest is heaving but the tears stopped long ago. He stares through the door, piercing it, as if waiting for someone, but he isn’t--not anymore. Behind the door, the desert wind picks up dust and dirt, carrying it away to a new resting place. The sky is a blinding blue--no clouds. The giant screen from the abandoned drive-in is monolithic against it. The sign at the side of the road reads The Starlighter!. The marquee below it still holds a few black plastic letters, though they don’t spell anything. A jackrabbit scurries from shrub to shrub looking for some lunch. In the waves of heat emanating from the ground, a small dust cloud rises off in the distance. Someone driving down the road no doubt.

∞

It is difficult to remember joy. Happiness is easy. It used to come in little packages, wrapped up neatly, but then it was gone. Listening to that favorite song on the radio. Christmas morning. Birthdays. Sitting on the sand watching the ocean crash and swell against the shore. Finite moments. Always fleeting. Joy is so different though. With joy, I was lifted. I floated. I flew. I experienced sensations unimaginable. I could never see more clearly, yet now I cannot remember. It has escaped me. Joy is something you can’t describe until you’re in it--wrapped up in a warm blanket. I would venture to guess that I will never be wrapped up again.

2

Peter couldn’t speak when he burst through the door of James’ apartment. James sat quietly in his recliner, facing the television. He was a glowing blue orb in the dark void of his living room. His eyes moved to Peter who stood, breathless in the doorway.

“Are you coming in or not?” James said.

Peter took a step forward and shut the door. He flipped the wallswitch and James’ arms shot up to shield his eyes from the blinding light. Peter staggered over to James, leaned in, put his hands on James’ shoulders to hold his weight and opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

James put the footrest down; the springs snapped the recliner up violently, throwing Peter back a few steps.

“I got a note today,” Peter said, his voice cracking. “When I got home from work, it was on my bed. She’s really gone. She’s really been taken.”

“What? Wha-- What do you mean?”

He handed James a piece of paper, folded once in half.

You did this.
She’s dead if you don’t do something.
What are you waiting for?

James stared at it blankly. His eyes moved across each letter, absorbing over and over again.

“This has to be a joke,” he said finally.

“How do you know? How can you say that with such certainty?”

“I’m just saying we can’t jump to any conclusions. Have you gone to the police yet?”

“Not since yesterday. I came straight here.”

“Okay, let’s go to down to the police station and give this to them. They’ll know what to do.”

Peter clenched his fists. His knuckles whitened and cracked.

“But it says I have to do something! It says that I did do something! What could I have possibly done?”

“I don’t know, Peter, but by going to the police, you are doing something aren’t you? Until another note shows up, if another shows up, there’s nothing you can do except go to the police. This doesn’t have any instructions. Whoever wrote this hasn’t told you what you have to do, if anything at all.”

Peter sat down on the floor, legs crossed. He put his head in his hands and breathed slowly.

“So just wait?” he said.

“Yeah. Wait.”

1

Jessie’s hair fell in golden cascades as she took it out of its ponytail. The full moon cut across her face, making it both light and dark. Peter watched her lean back against the roof of her parent’s house, which sat atop a hill. He was staring off into the night sky like some tortured, love lost soul. He hardly blinked: just moved his eyes back and forth as if there were words written above him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jessie watching him intently.

He looked away towards James, who was on the other side of him looking out over the landscape of rooftops and palm trees as if waiting for something big to happen. Peter tried to read his thoughts, but James was a statue.

“Whatcha lookin’ at tonight, Pete?” Jessie said.

“Hmmm...? Just the sky.”

“Not much up there.”

“Sure there is. There’s black and...Stars...When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you aaaaaaaaare.”

“You are lame. I prefer the city view, like James.”

A small smile inched into one corner of James’ mouth, but his eyes remained fixed on the houses below.

“I like to examine the planning of our town,” Jesse continued, “The structured, pretty pavement cutting through grass. I can imagine the two of us rolling around down on the nicest lawn. Over there--remember?” she asked.

Peter looked where Jessie pointed.

“I do.”

She put her hand on his and squeezed.

“What are you thinking about James?” Peter said pulling his hand from Jessie’s to run it through his hair.

“Oh, I don’t know. Up on the roof, the whole world at our feet.”

“Is it everything you thought it’d be?”

James didn’t answer at first. He bit his bottom lip--scraped it with two of his teeth.

“I’ve waited for this moment religiously.”

The three of them sat silent for a minute.

“I’m just happy, that’s all,” James said finally.

Jessie looked at him and smiled.

“I’m glad you like it.”

∞

The truth is I don’t like people. There are too many bad ones. I try and try, but they’re always there no matter where I go. I’ve always moved from town to town for as long as I can remember: my father was in the service, and my mother dead before I could speak. I take care of bad people son, he told me over dinner one night. But why do we have to move all the time?--Because there are bad people all over the place. And the good ones like you need me to get rid of them.--Oh. But it’s hard to have friends. Because we have to move all the time. I want to have friends.--Friends aren’t forever son. Remember that.

3

Peter is still waiting. He is so exhausted. He sits down hard on the floor, his feet out in front of him. He holds the gun with both hands.

Click--

2

As they left the police station, Peter broke down and started to cry. They stopped and he bent over, placing his hands on his knees. The vomit came quick and all at once but wasn’t very much. James stood statuesque, hands in his pockets, watching the street traffic as Peter composed himself.

“She’s going to die, and there’s nothing we can do,” Peter said.

“It’s in the hands of the only people who can do anything now.”

“What is wrong with you? Jessie is everything to me. And I know she has to mean something to you too, James. I don’t know how they do things in Boston, but here, we take care of our own.”

“Listen, Pete, I do care--more than you know. Give it another couple days. We’ll find her.”

∞

My father never wanted me to follow in his footsteps. He said that the military was no life for me. He felt that I had moved around enough and wanted me to be able to settle down somewhere like he never could. So I didn’t enlist. But I wanted desperately to continue his work--to punish bad people. I saw them everywhere, especially at school. Cutting in the lunch line. Cheating on tests. It didn’t matter what city or what school it was. They were all the same. From an early age I knew I was destined to do something about it, even if I couldn’t enlist. The first time it was personal. Thomas Hollander pushed me down and told me I couldn’t play kickball anymore. I wasn’t good enough and never would be. I knew he had to be one of the bad people my father told me about. Rage swelled up inside me. I tackled Thomas to the ground and began beating his face with my fists. It was ethereal. I never knew if Thomas got the message or not--if he understood what had happened to him. It didn’t matter. The others would understand. My father and I moved with his voluntary reassignment.

1

Peter helped Jessie down from the roof. She fell into him, but he supported her weight and wrapped his arms around her waist. The three walked to the curb in front of her house and stood for a minute taking in the last moments of a wonderful evening.

“We still gonna go on that bike ride tomorrow?” Peter said turning to James.

“Sure, if you want to.”

“Be at my house at nine, sound good?”

“Yeah. Goodnight guys.”

Peter and Jessie watched as James disappeared around the corner.

“So, bike riding tomorrow, huh?” Jessie asked.

“Uh yeah, sorry Jess, I wanna see you--but you know how it is--Guy time and all.”

“Well, why can’t I go?”

“Jessie, we’ve talked about this before. Sometimes I just want to spend time with the guys. In this case, just one guy, but--I mean--we all got to hang out tonight, didn’t we? It’s not like we have to see each other every day, right?”

“I suppose,” said Jessie.

“Alright then, I’ll call you tomorrow. Sleep well, okay?”

“Sure.”

Peter hopped into his Jeep and sped off down the street leaving Jessie on her porch watching. A few minutes into his short commute home, his phone buzzed loudly in his pocket.

“Hey baby,” he said, “Yeah don’t worry. She won’t be coming around tomorrow at all. Margot, I just said--yeah. Yeah we can sleep in. Okay I’ll see you at my house in a few. Bye.”

2

The notes came day after day.

Can you save her?

She asks about you.

I’m still waiting, Peter.

He brought the second, third and fourth to the police. Once he realized that they might never stop, he gave up. He stopped showing them to James after a week. He just lay in his bed, thinking of Jessie. He heard James knock on his door every morning.

“Pete, you can’t stay like this,” he’d say.

Peter never answered.

1

Peter forgot to set his alarm clock. He awoke to a pounding on his door and the morning sunlight banding across his face.

“Hey. Hey! Get up. Margot, someone’s here, get up now!”

Peter rolled out of bed and pulled his pants on. Margot stretched, yawned and turned over.

“Hey, what did I just tell you? Get the fuck up--now!”

“Calm down. Just go see who it is. You said she wasn’t going to be coming around at all today, right? Don’t be so paranoid; it’s pathetic.”

“It’s not her, it’s James. I told him to meet me here at nine. I didn’t set the alarm.”

“Well good job, dumb ass.” Margot tossed the comforter off in frustration.

“Look, just play it cool. I’m sure he won’t care. I mean, I hardly know the guy.”

“Whatever, just get rid of him and come back to bed.”

“No, you’re leaving.”

“What? Peter, you asshole, you said we could sleep in,” Margot snapped, throwing her pillow at him.

“Just shut up and put some clothes on. You’re leaving. I’m going on a bike ride.”

“Oh,” she said, perking up. “Can I go?”

“No.”

He went to the front door and swung it open. James stood on the porch wearing bike shorts, an old Boston Marathon t-shirt, and his helmet.

“I’ve been standing out here for twenty minutes, what the hell were you doing in there, man?”

“Oh, I...I just forgot to set the alarm. Had a late night,” Peter said breaking a smile.

“Heh, I see. So, how late did you stay at Jessie’s after I-”

Peter’s heart skipped. He leaned forward waiting for James to complete his thought, but noticed that his eyes were looking passed him into the house. Peter turned and saw Margot standing in the hallway. He turned back and his eyes met James’. No one said anything. Peter looked back at Margot. She was trying not to laugh. That made Peter furious. He turned to explain. James smiled.

“This is a little awkward,” Peter said.

“Why should it be?” Margot said walking toward the door, “You told me you hardly know this guy.”

Peter quickly met James’ eyes again. His smile had disappeared. Peter tried to read him, but James was a statue. His heart beat wildly. Suddenly, James’ smile flashed across his face again.

“I guess you learn something new everyday, right?” he said coolly.

Peter let out a small sigh of relief.

“So you’re not goin--”

“Let’s get going on that bike ride Pete.”

“Oh, right. Let me get my stuff.”

2

Something tickled Peter’s nose and he woke with a start. A piece of paper, folded once in the center fell to the floor next to his bed. He threw his blankets off and grabbed the note.

168 Pioneer Rd.
Beatty, Nevada

He looked at the clock: 3:37 am. Peter threw on some jeans and ran out to his Jeep. He didn’t even put on shoes. He grabbed his map book from under the passenger seat and looked up Beatty, Nevada. Over one hundred miles northwest of Las Vegas. He drove as fast as he could up I-15. The hours passed slowly. The sky grew to a yellowed grey with the morning sun as he came through the Cajon Pass. Las Vegas seemed abandoned at eight in the morning.

Peter came upon the outskirts of Beatty as the morning was coming to a close. It was a very small town, just outside The Nevada Proving Grounds. There was no main road. He tore down the narrow streets and was through to the other side in a matter of minutes. Once outside the town, the pavement ended; rocks and dirt clods rattled the undercarriage of the jeep. A large cloud of dust trailed it. Peter could feel he was close; he drove for what seemed like ages.

The back of the screen was visible for ten minutes before he actually arrived. Peter pulled up to what looked like a shanty in the middle of nowhere. There was nothing except for the shack and the massive screen--what was once part of a drive-in movie theater. A mailbox sat at the end of the driveway. Scratched into the rusting metal were the numbers 1-6-8. Peter hopped out and ran to the front door of the building. He burst in, but the one room building was void of life. A neatly made bed sat across from him with a clock tacked to the wall above it.

12:03 pm

Peter’s eyes shot back to the bed. He couldn’t breathe. A large black stain surrounded Margot’s body at the foot of the bed. Peter hadn’t seen her in over a week--not since Jessie had disappeared. Peter ran back outside.

“Jessie!” he called out.

“Jessie!”

Peter’s voice cracked with the strain of screaming. He ran around the shanty, looking for some hidden door--any sign that Jessie might be there. The screen sat ominously in the distance. He ran towards it, screaming her name, hoping he would find something. He collapsed half way to the screen and lay, face down, breathing in the dust.

“It can’t be,” he said softly. “It can’t be too late.”

He rose and walked back to the building.

Peter creaked open the door, afraid to look in Margot’s direction. He moved to the other side of the room, staying as far away as possible. On the wall adjacent to the bed was a desk. He had not noticed it the first time. Peter’s heart was about to explode out of his chest, and he was shaking violently. He walked to the desk, afraid of what he might see. He threw the desk chair over and punched the air in frustration and defeat. On the desk was a revolver and another note folded neatly in half. He picked the gun up and opened the chamber. One bullet.

∞

Sometimes it’s so hard to go through with what must be done. I really grow to like a person, then I realize that they’re not who I thought they were. I see the bad in them, and I have to take care of it. The planning is what is the most meticulous. The Where When and How. It has to be quick. Not necessarily easy, just instant. Preferably not messy but that’s difficult unless you use pills or strangulation. Those are not quick. And it’s too hard to convince them to go through with it. I like guns. Just pull the trigger and it’s over. Most people have seen enough movies or maybe even know someone who has done it before. Barrel under the chin or in the mouth. Sometimes against the temple. The problem with the chin is that you can miss. The angle might be too acute, sending the bullet through the roof of the mouth and out the nose. Or they might change their mind right at the last second: then all you get is a shattered cheekbone. Most people aren’t willing to give it a second go after a misfire. Holding it to your temple has similar setbacks, but is usually accurate. But the mouth--that’s where you can’t go wrong. You just jam that barrel in and no matter where it’s pointed, you’re bound to hit something. My grandfather had a collection of old Civil War and Wild West-type revolvers. Real fancy things with long barrels. No one but me and my dad knew he even had them. They weren’t mine to take when Granddad died, but I knew my dad would understand. Oh Peter, I liked you right from the beginning. Right until that fucking slut ruined everything. Both of you ruined everything. But when I heard her say, What does it matter, you said you didn’t even know this guy--Oh Peter. How could you tell her such a thing? I guess it really was the truth. It still hurt though. I got to see you hurt. I bet you had never hurt so much before in your whole life. Friends aren’t forever, Peter. Remember that.

3

James slowly opens the door to the shack at 168 Pioneer Road and pokes his head in. What a mess. Most of Peter is on the floor, but there are pieces all over the wall, the desk and the bed. The smell is getting bad. Margot has been there since yesterday. The military neatness of the room is still maintained underneath the blood smatter. James steps in, carefully maneuvering around the large pools of blood. He looks at Peter thoughtfully. Peter’s hair is matted down and crimson at the top of his neck. The bullet had blown a large hole through base of his skull and James could see that Peter’s death was instant. James turns and leaves through the door.

He takes a gas mask from back seat of his car in order to cover his face. It is old--from the First World War. He walks quickly towards the massive screen. The sky is so blue. A few wisps of cloud are visible very high over the mountains. The air is hot and very dry; James becomes thirsty after just a few minutes. He is almost there. The desert brush had collected heavily in an area half way between the shack and the screen. James pushes the shrubs aside and wipes the red earth away from a steel door. He pulls the mask over his head. It is so hot and stuffy. James fishes a key out of his pocket, takes the lock off the door and opens it with little effort. He walks down the short staircase, ducking to get inside the shelter and pulls the short chain connected to the light bulb that hangs from the ceiling. Inside the room are a mattress and a small cooler containing bottles of water and loaves of bread.

Jessie lays on the mattress; her eyes are pale and listless. Dry tears stain her cheeks. In one motion, James sweeps her up, swinging one of her arms over his shoulder. She makes little noise. He grabs a couple of water bottles; they walk together up the stairs and into the desert heat. James helps her to Peter’s Jeep and into the back of it. He blindfolds her and binds her hands. She says nothing. James pulls the gas mask off and wipes the sweat from his eyes.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be okay now,” he whispers. “Just remember--”

He looks at her; she is quivering and covered in sweat.

“It’s okay. Stay here. Someone is coming for you.”

James sighs and removes the binding on her hands.

“My eyes--” Jessie asks.

“No. Here’s some water. Don’t drink it too fast,” he whispers, putting two bottles in her lap.

“--Why?”

“Because it may be a while--”

“No....Why?”

James pauses. She is looking at him through the blindfold. He squats down next to her ear.

“Because you’re a good person. Maybe you’ll understand...”

“Understand what?” she asks, her voice cracking and fading.

James does not respond.

“Understand what!” she screams at him. Her tears dampen the blindfold.

“Understand what...”

“I’m--sorry.”

James turns and walks to his car. The sun has turned the wisps of cloud into pink streaks across an orange and yellow sky. He drives off toward the bright lights of Las Vegas, a cloud of dust trailing behind him.