A light in the night. A minithriller I wrote, inspired by a song by Springsteen and one by Waits.
That Tom "Greasy Thumb" and I were not made for each other was clear to me from the moment we were introduced. I didn’t like his way of doing things, I didn’t like anything about him. And then, he was black. I didn’t like Lory either, his girlfriend, the one with the scar on her shoulder. She didn’t talk much, but she watched, she watched me. I don’t know why, but I always had the impression she thought... what a fool! I liked Betsy, Betsy with her petite and well-proportioned body, Betsy with no art or part. The other night we roamed the alleys of Riverside, with Tom and the chubby Lory. The woman took the bottle from my hand to pour herself a few more fingers as she sat down next to the black guy who was crouched on the steps of an old church. You said to me, "I’m scared!" Without answering, I pulled you into my arms. Your petite body intoxicated me more than all the alcohol we had gulped down. A shiver ran through you, we lay down on the ground and made love on the stinking pavement. "Don’t you hear this music too?" You said. "It’s coming from every door, every crack." I looked up and saw a light illuminating the alley. The music grew livelier, became frantic, a gypsy ballad. Gypsies emerged from the shadows, dancing, shaping their profiles in that magical light. We no longer smelled the stench of garbage; the magic of that night had transported us far from that misery. Tom was bleeding and it couldn’t be seen, leaning against an old Chevy, smoking and watching us. Lory was near him with her elbow resting on his shoulder. She watched, swinging the empty bottle between her fingers. If Tom said, "Hey you, give me a cigarette," all the guys would search for their pack. That was Tom "Greasy Thumb." All the kids wanted to be like him. He spat on the ground and hurled the bottle at the milk truck. And Tom laughed... but he was bleeding and it couldn’t be seen. He grabbed me by the neck, slammed me against the car, and put out my cigarette on my hand. "You look like two rats in the garbage," he said. The music had ended. I managed to pull out my old Walther and shot him in the head. The spell was broken; Tom was no longer bleeding.
That Tom "Greasy Thumb" and I were not made for each other was clear to me from the moment we were introduced. I didn’t like his way of doing things, I didn’t like anything about him. And then, he was black. I didn’t like Lory either, his girlfriend, the one with the scar on her shoulder. She didn’t talk much, but she watched, she watched me. I don’t know why, but I always had the impression she thought... what a fool! I liked Betsy, Betsy with her petite and well-proportioned body, Betsy with no art or part. The other night we roamed the alleys of Riverside, with Tom and the chubby Lory. The woman took the bottle from my hand to pour herself a few more fingers as she sat down next to the black guy who was crouched on the steps of an old church. You said to me, "I’m scared!" Without answering, I pulled you into my arms. Your petite body intoxicated me more than all the alcohol we had gulped down. A shiver ran through you, we lay down on the ground and made love on the stinking pavement. "Don’t you hear this music too?" You said. "It’s coming from every door, every crack." I looked up and saw a light illuminating the alley. The music grew livelier, became frantic, a gypsy ballad. Gypsies emerged from the shadows, dancing, shaping their profiles in that magical light. We no longer smelled the stench of garbage; the magic of that night had transported us far from that misery. Tom was bleeding and it couldn’t be seen, leaning against an old Chevy, smoking and watching us. Lory was near him with her elbow resting on his shoulder. She watched, swinging the empty bottle between her fingers. If Tom said, "Hey you, give me a cigarette," all the guys would search for their pack. That was Tom "Greasy Thumb." All the kids wanted to be like him. He spat on the ground and hurled the bottle at the milk truck. And Tom laughed... but he was bleeding and it couldn’t be seen. He grabbed me by the neck, slammed me against the car, and put out my cigarette on my hand. "You look like two rats in the garbage," he said. The music had ended. I managed to pull out my old Walther and shot him in the head. The spell was broken; Tom was no longer bleeding.
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