Death Before Dishonor?

photo by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

The Reclamation
by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

The subway station at Myrtle and Union
is quiet after dark,
only the converged sounds
of late night blue collar workers
and mechanized Metro card readers
play in the vacuum;
the neighborhood has changed since the early days,
now young punks run rampant
through cavernous underground tunnels
with reckless abandon,
dodging transit cops and rival crews,
tagging everything,
stealing anything;
late nights are the worse,
the stench of carrion and opportunity drawing
scavengers, marauding through tile encrusted corridors
and the ad covered bellies of trains;
ain’t nothing sacred anymore?

Standing on the platform
like some predator waiting for prey,
is a middle aged man,
hairline slightly fading into oblivion,
face worn from city life,
his breathing, white and furious;
air exiting the confines of his chest
in short slow successions…
first the inhale (long and labored)
then the exhale (slow and reluctant);
in the silence
the repetition plays like an organic metronome,
moving back and forth,
in and out,
rhythmically,
until a hush settles
and he is calm-
though possessing the presence of life
he’s devoid of humanity;
instead the primal urge to fight,
the instinctual impetus to clash with an aggressor
the code kill or be killed
plays in his mind like a symphony;
he thought, this was how it was on his block…
no remorse,
no thinking(too late),
just action;
he could hear the number 3 train
pulling around the last dark turn,
the rush of air growing,
thoughts of future actions comforting;

On the platform, near the MTA map,
tracing their fingers along the number 3 line
in search of a final stop, three teens;
who they were didn’t matter
this was vengeance,
for all the beatings his son was given,
for the stolen bike,
the looks of intimidation,
the community;
they were the enemy.

He remembered the first time
he moved into the building,
new wife, a son,
first home;
life then was good…
the prelude to a perfect story
regrettably and progressively
mixed together with years of tragedy:
apartment broken into,
wallet stolen,
wife harassed in the elevator,
child threatened;
he thought, people shouldn’t have to live like prisoners
in their own home,
shouldn’t have to open windows to smell freedom;
fear was a part of the lease,
etched into the fine print of their landlord’s
agreement to provide them with the basics of inner city life-
bad plumbing, broken elevators, drug traffic,
violent crime, terror;
but not anymore,
he was going to do something about it,
settle the score,
make things even;
take back his neighborhood,
restore its glory.

His nose pressed firmly against the bicep
of his outstretched arm, long and lean,
like a missile ready to strike at the suddenness of a command;
his brown muscles twitched and strained,
their woven cords lay beneath the ink-stained flesh bearing a picture:
one heart, two roses, thorns piercing, blood drawn, and a name…ROSALITA;
one eye squinted, lids tightly closed, lashes intertwined;
one eye open,
carefully, premeditatedly
looking across the barrel
through a sight
at a target in a jersey;
his finger wrapped around a trigger,
death set within his eyes-
the roar of blood through veins,
deafening.

The number 3,
like some silver earthworm
boring through an underground labyrinth
snaked through darkness,
only two sounds existed -
his heart and the train,
each syncopated
within the vacuum
like some terrible combination of sound,
each servicing the next;
hand muscles tightened,
life moved in slow motion,
his targets seemed to freeze,
their bodies swaying in suspended animation,
rocking back and forth;
their arms appeared to levitate offensively
to surrender, or to attack,
thoughts of his wife and child shuffled through his mind
like a slide show projected by insanity, or conviction;
and then, he thought of the code: kill or be killed,
their characters, inscribed upon the absence of reason
formed new logic,
this was how it was on his block,
no remorse,
no thinking,
just action;
his finger tightened,
ropes of bicep muscles flexed and reacted,
and he looked across the length of the barrel
grit his teeth
and thought, Bernie Goetz ain’t got nothin’ on me!
then fired…
short bursts from a pistol erupted like a volcano,
the lava flow hot;
four bullets slicing through space,
then the echo of death
the sound of pierced flesh
the gurgle of blood
the thud of corpses,
the end;
this was how it was on his block,
no remorse,
no thinking,
just action,
and vengeance.

The subway station at Myrtle and Union
is quiet after dark,
only the converged sounds
of late night blue collar workers
mechanized Metro card readers
and pissed off vigilantes
play in the vacuum;
late nights are the worse,
the stench of carrion drawing
scavengers, marauding through tile encrusted corridors
and the ad covered bellies of trains…

ain’t there anything sacred anymore?

Copyright 2005 by Larry J. Knight, Jr.