Michael Donovan

            by Theo Wilson

 

I point to a handgun on the far wall.  “The one with the wood handle.”

            Neil takes the gun off of the rack and places it in front of me on the brushed aluminum counter.  Bending over the gun I catch a reflection of my face in the countertop.  My new face.  It’s a different look, certainly, but not a bad look.  My hair is shorter than it’s ever been, and my chin feels naked and cold without my beard.  Still, it’s not a bad look. 

“That’s a fine gun there.”  Neil, whose name is plastered on the front of the gun shop.  There’s a taxidermy bear out front that has his name nailed to its chest.  “Got it at an estate sale a couple months ago,” Neil was saying, “Quite a find too.”  Neil, with his forest camouflage pants and jacket, fits perfectly my bigoted stereotype of a gun store owner; Neil, with his blackened teeth and receding gums, reminds me never to take up the habit of chewing tobacco; convinces me to refrain from any humorous comment, lest Neil feel compelled to smile. 

The gun’s handle is smooth.  The barrel is long and hard.  I pick it up, and it’s heavier than I would have thought.  I ask Neil whether he owns a firearm. 

Neil laughs.

I ask Neil whether he’s ever shot anyone. 

“No.  No I haven’t.” Neil’s tone is serious.

“Sir, I have to ask.  What are you planning  to use this firearm for?”

“For protection, of course. What else would I have in mind?”

Neil laughs.  “Protection.  Of course.  I’ll be needin your driver’s license, or some other form of personal identification.”

I show him a faded California State driver’s license.  Neil looks closely at the ID, and then at me. 

“You a natural blonde?”

“No… No I’m not.  How’d you know?”

“Well, in this ID here you’ve got brown roots.”  Neil places the ID on the counter, and points a long, dirty nail at the picture’s hairline.  “You don’t have it anymore.  I’d say you got it professionally done or something.”

“How observant of you.” I chime. 

“Well, that’s my job.  They make us go to a clinic to get certified for this job

Neil runs the ID through a carbon copy machine and hands it back to me.  I fill out the necessary forms and pay him in cash. 

“Congratulations, Mr. Donnovan.  You now own a gun.”

“And that’s it?  No registration?  No waiting period?  No background check?”

“Nope.  Where ya from?”

“California.  Why?

“Haha, Well, welcome to Nevada.  If ya ask me, California’s nothing more than a cesspool with good weather.  Talk about a second Ammendment  bump.  Hell, they have you do everything short of a piss test to get a gun there.  No thank you!”

“Well, isn’t it good that I decided to come to the fine state of Nevada to purchase my firearm.  I’ll be sure to recommend it to all my friends.”  I say, my voice heavy with sarcasm.

Neil smiles, a toothy, gumless smile.  “You be sure to do that.  Is there anything else you want, or just that one gun?  I don’t suppose I could interest you in an automatic?”

“No, thank you.  One is plenty.”

 

My head collided violently against the Plexiglas window of the greyhound bus and my eyes shot open.  Nothing has changed.  Outside the bus, the moon, partially obscured from view by dark clouds, shed the only light onto the country. 

The handgun under my blazer presses uncomfortably against my stomach as I shift position.  It is illegal to carry a concealed weapon, I know that.  It’s also illegal to carry a firearm across state lines, I know that.  I feel in my pocket for the faded driver’s license I had found in a discarded wallet in the park across from my apartment.  It really does look a great deal like me.

I feel safe with my gun.  I hadn’t bothered with a holster, but had simply jammed it under my belt on the way out of the store, the way Neil showed me.  I had checked with Neil before, and he had assured me that I was safe as long as I had the safety on.  He told me that once, a friend of his had done that with his gun, the way the guys did it in the movies, and had shot his dick off.  Sliding my hand under my shirt, I feel the gun.  The safety is on.  My hand rests on the gun, running itself down the barrel, feeling the cold, wooden grip.  Every man should own a gun, Neil had said.  I’ve never really owned one before, but now that I do, I agree.

            As I had told Neil, the principle reason for my purchase was protection, although I can’t tell exactly what it is that I need protection from.  From people who would try to hurt me, harm me, rob me, beat me?  These things have never happened.  From people who tell me that I’m worthless?  From people who talk about me, who won’t talk to me? From people who walk over me, through me, look down on me, spit on me, curse me?  These are the people I need protection from. But of course, I would never hurt them.  I could never hurt them.  I am better than them because I would never call for an apology, I would never demand reparations, I would never seek revenge.  I would like to think that this puts me in a position above them, morally, and that such a stance would warrant some rewards. 

            Still.  My hand is still resting on the barrel of the gun; still tickling the trigger. Still, it never hurts to fantasize. 

Falling back to sleep, I am awakened by the distant roll of thunder, that booms through the valley and rattles the windows of the bus. Another flash of lightning illuminates the valley.  The bus is still alone on the deserted highway, but the scenery has changed from dry Nevada desert to California farmland. The gun is still there, cold, solid. 

No one else on the bus appears to be awake.  Even the driver is only operating out of a caffine-induced state of consciousness. I close my eyes again, and pray for sleep.  It is dark now, but it will be light out soon enough.  Soon we will be wading through the noise and confusion of the traffic that congests all of the roads leading into and out of San Francisco, and I have little hope of sleeping then.  I have important things to do today, and I want to be well rested and in good health for Claire. 

I want to sleep, but I can’t.  I can’t clear my mind, can’t clear my thoughts, enough to sleep.  Instead, I begin to think, about Claire.  I wonder what her reaction will be when I tell her.  I hope she’s excited.  I really hope everything goes well.  I’ve been a little depressed after loosing my job, not so much because I enjoyed it so much, but because it meant that I wouldn’t be seeing Claire as much as I would have liked. 

 

It’s past eleven thirty on a Tuesday afternoon, and the streets around union square are beginning to come alive with the bustle of men in suits and women in workday clothes.  Tourists are running from one store to another, carrying with them troves of gifts and purchases, wrapped and packaged in shopping bags.  Offices are beginning to spill their employees out onto the streets, and into cafes and taxis and busses.  The weather is fair, certainly pleasant enough for mid-February, although I wish that it were be a little warmer.  I am still wearing the same clothes that I had worn on my trip to Nevada.  I hadn’t arrived in the city early enough to buy any new clothes, but I had taken the time to freshen up in the bathroom of the Greyhound Station.

I couldn’t afford to take too long.  I had to meet Lucy outside of her office when she went out for lunch.  I knew she would be upset if I were late for her.  So that’s why I came early; I’ve been waiting for fourty minutes now, and I’m sure I haven’t missed her.  The office that she works in—the office that I used to work in—is on the eleventh floor of a huge neo-gothic building on the corner of Market and 51^st.  She’s one of the junior executives in charge of marketing for Weston Financing Inc.  Until about a week ago, I was working as a consultant for the firm’s /

Partially, I suspect, because of our company’s stance on inter-office romance, our relationship never progressed past a strictly platonic one.  I can’t help but imagine how things would be under different circumstances.  I finger the ring in my coat pocket.  Now that I no longer work for Weston Financing Inc. I really can’t see why we couldn’t be together. 

Then I see her.  She’s wearing her dark purple Paris Hilton look-alike dress with her brown Lois Vuitton handbag.  That’s the dress she wears when she’s trying to impress someone.  I think she told me that once.  It shows a fair amount of cleavage, but we’re all supposed to pretend that we don’t notice.

I stand up when she approaches.  I rack my brain for something to say, something clever, something romantic, something, anything.  But instead, I stand still, saying nothing, with my mouth slightly open in a poor imitation of a grin.  Lucy continues to walk toward me, by me, past me.  I find myself a little disheartened by her callous greeting; I had expected a more joyous reunion.  But that was her way.  Even when we were together, at the firm, we rarely communicated.  We barely interacted.  But I could feel our connection grow stronger everyday. 

I run to catch up to her, and we walk together, with her in the lead.  I’m not sure where she’s taking me, but I’m sure it’s someplace special.  Lucy checks her watch, and hastens her pace.  She is remarkably agile in her heels, but I have no trouble keeping up with her.  It’s almost a game. 

Finally, we turn down Maiden Lane, a set of prosperous and expensive boutiques and restaurants that cuts from Market Street over to Union square.  Outside the store is a man, tall and well built, with clean-cut brown hair and a designer goatee.  He has the look of a businessman, although I can’t say that I’ve ever seen him at Weston.  I stay back while Lucy exchanges greetings with this man; I would hate to get mixed up in Lucy’s business meeting and ruin our day.  I overhear the man’s name, Clayton.  The way Lucy says it hints at some clandestine secret, but that’s just Lucy’s way, I suppose; she puts on a show for everyone else, but she doesn’t need to show anything for me.

We all walk into Mocca, an upscale Italian delicatessen on Maiden Lane.  The only tables available seat two people.  I consider drawing up another chair, but the restaurant doesn’t seem the type to take kindly to me rearranging their furniture.  Lucy and Clayton sit together at a table, and I take my own seat at an adjacent table.  Mocca seems to be a very popular place among local businessmen and tourists alike, and I soon realize how lucky we were to come upon two open tables at this time of the day.  Lucy must have planned this all out, I imagine.  It was generous of her to take me to such a posh place.  Still, I really wish she hadn’t invited Clayton.  I had planned to take this time to talk to her about our plans, about our future. 

“That’s not what’s worrying me, Lucy,” Clayton is saying, “It’s the third quarter figures.  So far, I’ve see no evidence that they’re anywhere near to our speculations—”

We all order. I try to keep up with their conversation, but it is so dreadfully boring.  Actually, it’s not a conversation; it’s Clayton talking, to himself really, with Lucy providing only the menial nods and monosyllabic responses she is required to give.  I really feel sorry for her, and I almost forgive her for bringing him along on our day.  The food comes, and I immediately focus my attention on the meal in front of me.

I feel, once again, for the ring.  I burry my hand in my front pocket, and my hand comes to rest on the cold, hard handle of the gun that’s still concealed in the front of my trousers.  I’ve almost forgotten it was there, but its reassuring presence gives me confidence.  I release my grip on the gun, and feel around for the ring.  This isn’t such a bad place.  I could do it right here: kneel down and ask Lucy to be mine.  Before I can decide, the waitress brings my bill.  I look hopefully to Clayton, but he’s already paid for his and Lucy’s meal, and shows no inclination to pay for mine.  Some gentleman.  I pay with a credit card

A few minutes later, the waitress returns. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Donovan,” she says in a very curt tone, “but your credit card has been declined.”

She returns the credit card to my hands.  I look at it.  “Michael James Donovan,” it reads.  I laugh at my indiscretion, and pocket Mr. Donovan’s credit card.  I should have dumped it a while ago.  I place exact change on the table, and return my attention to Lucy and Clayton.  They’re gone.  I curse under my breath as I get up to leave.  I must have made quite a fuss in my expedient exit, because I felt eyes on my back as I passed through the door.  Out on the street, Lucy cannot be seen in either direction. 

At one time while we were working together, Lucy had left a spare key to her car out for me to find.  I suppose I was the only person she trusted enough to keep it safe for her.  I had meant to give it back to her before I left the office, but  my departure was so  sudden and unexpected that I hadn’t been able to return it.  Finding the car wasn’t difficult.  The office maintained its own garage, and it was simple to walk in.  Her car was the only Jetta in a lot full of Mercedes and BMWs, and I located it soon enoughAfter unlocking the car, I slip into the back seat and lock the door behind me.  I would’ve called her on her cell phone to meet back up, but the number no longer seems to work.  She must have dropped it on the ground and broken it.  I’ve done that before, and I know she can be clumsy at times.  Besides, I doubt she’ll mind me being here.  It’ll be a surprise.

Piled up in the back of the car is Lucy’s dry cleaning.  I hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but Lucy is taking a lot longer than she should have.  It’s cold inside the car.  I pull Lucy’s duvet cover over my body.  I don’t mean to, but I soon fall asleep in the back seat of Lucy’s car, my head resting on a pile of Lucy’s underwear.

I awake when I hear voices in the car.  It’s Lucy and Clayton, by the sound of them.  It must be a good deal later; the sky outside the windows has gone from a uniform grey to blotchy red sunset.  I can’t see either Lucy or Clayton from where I am, but I can hear their voices. 

“So what’d you think of playing hooky today?”  A man.  Clayton.

“It was fun.  I had a good time, really.”

“Me too.  You know what could make it a great day?”

“What?” 

Clayton whispers something, too low and too deep for me to hear.

“What, here?”  Lucy giggles.  “You’ve got to be kidding…” 

I hear Clayton shifting in his seat.  I hear Clayton kissing Lucy’s cheek, her lips.  I hear him sliding his hand under her blouse, feeling her breast, moving closer.  I hear him unbuttoning her purple Paris Hilton look-alike top. I hear him kissing, feeling, lower, stronger, harder.

I reach under my blazer, under my shirt.  I feel for the handle of the gun, still waiting patiently, aching to be held.  I wrap my hand around the handle.  Then…

“No.”  I hear Lucy say softly.  “No, Clayton.”

I loosen my grip on my gun.

“I’m sorry, I just can’t do this.  Not now.”

I hear Clayton back off, defeated.  I move my hand to the front pocket of my blazer.  The ring is still there.  I know Lucy wouldn’t betray me.  I cursed myself for even reaching for my gun.  Lucy loved me too.  Nothing could come between us.

“I’m sorry, Clayton.  It’s been rough, these past few days.  I thought it would be easy.  I thought I could talk to my boss about Lawrence, and everything would be fine.”

At these words, I drop the ring in my pocket.

“Lawrence?  You mean that guy who’s been making you uncomfortable at work?”

“Making me uncomfortable.  That’s a nice way to put it.  Yeah, him.  My boss fired him, but I still get that feeling, like he’s watching me or something.  I know it’s irrational, I know it makes no sense, I know I sound crazy for saying this, I know…. I know, but I can’t shake the feeling.”

I move my hand under my blazer, under my shirt, and around the handle of my gun.  I move with confidence.

“Oh Lucy…. Lucy.  I had no idea.  I’m so sorry, that’s awful.  You know I would never let anything happen to you right?  Whoever this Lawrence guy is, I’ll protect you.  You know I love you right, Lucy?  Lucy—“

“Shh… Lawrence.”  I heard Lucy grip Clayton’s hand.  “I just heard something. I… I think there’s someone in the back of my car.”

But it was too late.