Gaylena and Erik
  
Gaylena and Erik
Family drama, Murder, Sex, Deceit, Reconciliation.
Published:
6/26/2012
Format:
E-Book (available as Mobi files) What's This
ISBN:
978-1-46890-816-9
"Gaylena and Erik" follows the conflicts between a child of rape and his teenage mother and how they finally come to terms.
The Mob boys barge in. Not noticing me at the bar, they charge into the gaming room. I forget to pick up Xenos’s cash-envelope I laid on the bar when I paid for my drink. I run into the men’s room, push a heavy freestanding janitor’s closet-on-wheels against the door and step on all four foot levers, locking the barrier in place. Cold air pours in where someone smashed the glass out of the window above the four-foot-long metal urinal troth. The thugs pound on the door. They kick, throw their bodies against it, push the janitor's closet back two or three inches and keep pushing. The brakes on the closet hold. I stand on the urinal’s steel wall. With two elbow shots, I bust out the window screen. The twelve by eighteen-inch opening leaves enough room for me to squirm out. I run through the alley to the street where a parked cab waits for a fare. Having by now missed the last train North, if I want to live, I have to catch a bus. “Brooklyn Greyhound depot. No time to waste,” I say. The fare takes all the cash I have to pay for the ride. “What do I have to do for a tip?” the driver says. “Suck you off?” * Mafia hit men never give up. They’ve got to be somewhere behind me. Weak now, my legs carry me through the bus depot waiting room out the back door to the docking area where three coaches wait parked. The number ten, northbound, starts to back away from the curb. I bang my palm on the side. The brakes squeal. The driver opens the door. “Ticket,” he says. He must realize it’s hard times for everyone. I show him my empty palms. “What do you think this is, the Salvation Army?” he says. “No ticket, no ride.” I duck around to the opposite side of the empty bus parked next to the departing coach. The destination sign on the front says, “Syracuse”. It’s empty. I climb on, run to the rear of the cabin and crouch between the long back seat and two forward seats. The floor is strewn with litter, gum, candy-wrappers and a half dissolved Smith Brother's cough drop. The last trip must have been a night run. Behind a small brown, crumpled paper bag under the seat in front of me, the filled head of a used sheath peeks out. Outside, folks gather at the baggage compartment under the passenger cabin. The driver stashes their items, finishes and walks to the boarding area. He voids tickets with a hole-punch and ignores questions. A flood of passengers clogs the aisle. They jam coats and umbrellas in overhead racks before others claim the space. Fat folks skinny ones, young, old drop shopping bags onto captured seats and push fellow passengers aside as they arrange other items in the empty seats next to those they hold for their own. Pretty soon, someone else demands use of the extra seat. After the mêlée, jostling, settling down, the driver, who hasn’t spotted me, backs the bus away from the curb. “You trying to get out of paying for a ticket?” the woman setting on the seat beside where I'm crouched says. “Two Mafia killers are chasing me,” I say. “If they find me, they’ll kill everybody on this bus.” Pounding comes against the side of the bus. They’re here. I try to swallow. The driver opens the door. The thugs flash fake badges. They jump on. I’m on my knees, facing the aisle. Heavy steps, approaching my hiding place, come louder. The cabin bounces. The toe of a black dress shoe appears in my field of vision. The wearer doesn’t see me. He walks back to the front of the bus. “Are they gone?” I say. “Shut up,” the woman says. She pulls the blanket off her lap, unfolds the scratchy wool Indian throw that smells like earth and covers my back. I’m unable to suppress a loud sneeze. The woman holds a hanky to her nose. She blows loud. The black shoe appears again. The woman forces a cough. The thugs leave the bus. “Get up,” The woman says. With gear-grinding effort, the bus picks up momentum. I stand in a crouch and watch the assassins run into the depot. But, they never give up.
Born 1943, up-state New York. Classical pianist, teacher, painter of abstract images and novelist
 
 


An error occured loading Text Block content.
MOBI
Our Price:
$4.99
EPUB
Our Price:
$4.99
PDF
Our Price:
$4.99
 
facebook   twitter   Website