Read Online I Will Rise by Michael Louis Calvillo - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Louis Calvillo
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I am standing, my left arm raised high, the bastard hand limp, seemingly finished. My right arm dangles and my body sways, dead weight, suspended by my upraised left arm. Officer Lumpy is about to shout again, but my brain snaps to it and I manage to raise my right arm. Quasi-equilibrium is achieved.
“Paunch?” Officer Lumpy looks about.
“Paunch!” Again, with force.
He continues to worry about his dog when my left arm takes control and lowers itself. Working in tandem, my left hand goes into stop-sign formation. Uh-oh . By the time the arm is fully extended and my palm fully open, Lumpy takes notice and screams at me to put it back in the air. I try. I can’t.
“Hands up or I will shoot you in the fucking head!”
The flesh of my palm explodes outward like before. Here we go again. Lumpy cocks his head to the side and squints. Can he see my hallucination? No way. And come to think of it, where is Paunch? Did my palm really suck him down? No. No way. But here we are, no Paunch in sight, and Lumpy going speechless, mouth hanging open, eyes widening with horrible comprehension. He can see it. Goddamn shit, he can see my…
Lightening quick, a bolt of brown and red shoots from the hole in my hand. It speeds through the air and strikes Lumpy, knocking him to the ground. I want to move or run or something but my asshole of a hand holds its ground and keeps me locked in place. Lumpy gets up fast, a cloud of dust rising around him, an audible sigh of relief escaping from his lips. Apparently he’s okay.
Alleviation spreads across his face like a sunrise in fast forward. In the span of a second, that bright relief darkens as he realizes that he has dropped his gun. Scared, he eyeballs me. From his core: vulnerability, fragility, an air of sweetness and for a moment, Officer Lumpy seems decent. I can almost see the child, the family man, the human being inside. Fear strips away that ugly power and authority. There is a semblance of compassion flickering behind his eyes and if ever there was a time to run it’s now. Unfortunately, my gimp hand isn’t having it.
By the time Lumpy recovers his gun, everything about him changes. Everything goes rigid and tough. Now, gun in hand, he’s the same asshole that thunked me on the head with a flashlight. He’s the same asshole and already the screaming begins:
“Stay right there, motherfucker!”
Careful, he keeps his eyes on me as he edges closer— investigative cop-walk—to the brown and red thing that dropped him. “What the fuck?”
We both figure things out at about the same time.
I am dizzy with awe, nauseated, and swallowing back lumps while Lumpy gives a little shudder and drops his gun for the second time. He falls to his knees and buries his face into Paunch’s tattered, lifeless carcass.
There’s a nasty ball of discomfort gathering in my throat. Tears muscle their way past my eyes and again I try to make a run for it. Again, the hand keeps me in place. Officer Lumpy sobs into his mangled dog, affording us a minute of peace. While he works it out, choked up with the past, with memory and mourning, I spend the time divided, thoughts jumping between escape and self. Run, run, run. What am I? How am I going to get out of here? Has God finally taken notice? A reward? A curse? I have got to get out of here. I am powerful? Deadly? I ate a fucking dog with my palm! My palm. My undifferentiated palm. Run!
Officer Lumpy sits up, wipes his face and then looks over at me. We lock eyes. At once I am flooded with guilt. I didn’t mean to kill the man’s dog. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t, yet Lumpy isn’t looking at me like I’m a worthless drug addict anymore. Instead he’s looking at me as if I have killed his only child. He’s looking at me as if I’ve killed his only child and eaten its head. I plead forgiveness with a doleful stare, my heart visible through my pupils.
Waves of remorse gather in a sorry, steady thump and blast from my eye sockets. Lumpy
“Paunch?” Officer Lumpy looks about.
“Paunch!” Again, with force.
He continues to worry about his dog when my left arm takes control and lowers itself. Working in tandem, my left hand goes into stop-sign formation. Uh-oh . By the time the arm is fully extended and my palm fully open, Lumpy takes notice and screams at me to put it back in the air. I try. I can’t.
“Hands up or I will shoot you in the fucking head!”
The flesh of my palm explodes outward like before. Here we go again. Lumpy cocks his head to the side and squints. Can he see my hallucination? No way. And come to think of it, where is Paunch? Did my palm really suck him down? No. No way. But here we are, no Paunch in sight, and Lumpy going speechless, mouth hanging open, eyes widening with horrible comprehension. He can see it. Goddamn shit, he can see my…
Lightening quick, a bolt of brown and red shoots from the hole in my hand. It speeds through the air and strikes Lumpy, knocking him to the ground. I want to move or run or something but my asshole of a hand holds its ground and keeps me locked in place. Lumpy gets up fast, a cloud of dust rising around him, an audible sigh of relief escaping from his lips. Apparently he’s okay.
Alleviation spreads across his face like a sunrise in fast forward. In the span of a second, that bright relief darkens as he realizes that he has dropped his gun. Scared, he eyeballs me. From his core: vulnerability, fragility, an air of sweetness and for a moment, Officer Lumpy seems decent. I can almost see the child, the family man, the human being inside. Fear strips away that ugly power and authority. There is a semblance of compassion flickering behind his eyes and if ever there was a time to run it’s now. Unfortunately, my gimp hand isn’t having it.
By the time Lumpy recovers his gun, everything about him changes. Everything goes rigid and tough. Now, gun in hand, he’s the same asshole that thunked me on the head with a flashlight. He’s the same asshole and already the screaming begins:
“Stay right there, motherfucker!”
Careful, he keeps his eyes on me as he edges closer— investigative cop-walk—to the brown and red thing that dropped him. “What the fuck?”
We both figure things out at about the same time.
I am dizzy with awe, nauseated, and swallowing back lumps while Lumpy gives a little shudder and drops his gun for the second time. He falls to his knees and buries his face into Paunch’s tattered, lifeless carcass.
There’s a nasty ball of discomfort gathering in my throat. Tears muscle their way past my eyes and again I try to make a run for it. Again, the hand keeps me in place. Officer Lumpy sobs into his mangled dog, affording us a minute of peace. While he works it out, choked up with the past, with memory and mourning, I spend the time divided, thoughts jumping between escape and self. Run, run, run. What am I? How am I going to get out of here? Has God finally taken notice? A reward? A curse? I have got to get out of here. I am powerful? Deadly? I ate a fucking dog with my palm! My palm. My undifferentiated palm. Run!
Officer Lumpy sits up, wipes his face and then looks over at me. We lock eyes. At once I am flooded with guilt. I didn’t mean to kill the man’s dog. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t, yet Lumpy isn’t looking at me like I’m a worthless drug addict anymore. Instead he’s looking at me as if I have killed his only child. He’s looking at me as if I’ve killed his only child and eaten its head. I plead forgiveness with a doleful stare, my heart visible through my pupils.
Waves of remorse gather in a sorry, steady thump and blast from my eye sockets. Lumpy
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