Read Online Roachkiller and Other Stories by R. Narvaez - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: R. Narvaez
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walking through the exhibits. It was tough to see through the whirling lights and areas of dimness and groups of people wearing black or flannel. The art was equally dark. On one wall, he saw a series of paintings of what looked like medical scars blown up a thousand percent. Next to that was an animatronic Santa Claus with its potbelly carved open to reveal a bloody Christ child. The Santa said, “Merry Fucking Christmas.” Vega shook his head. In the next area he saw a series of black-and-white photographs of faces. They looked like people he knew, neighborhood faces, old faces.
“These I like,” he said.
He turned the corner to a larger open area. A huge thing dominated the space. It was the tank advertised on the flyer. A good twenty feet long, it was made of railroad spikes and copper and plastic pipes bent and soldered together. The front of the tank smiled a wide, spiked Cheshire smile. On a wooden post a plaque at eye level read: RAPEPILLAGESLASHBURN by Lime Orange. Mixed Media, 1997.
“I present my homage to the Vikings.” Orange was suddenly next to him. “I’m fascinated by the traditional understanding of meaning. What starts out as hope soon becomes manipulated into a carnival of greed, leaving only a sense of decadence in the darkness.” Orange held a beer bottle in his hand, close to his mouth, but he didn’t drink from it. He circled around the tank in front of Vega. “I worked on this for over three years. I got lucky with the pipes though—they’re from a hardware store that was going out of business.”
Vega tried to walk around the tank to the left, but Orange moved with him, blocking the way. Then through the ribs of the tank, Vega saw a flash of white sneaker at floor level. Someone was running. He took a step back and saw the young face.
“Danny!”
Cortez was over the turnstile and outside in seconds. Vega pushed through the turnstile and ran after him. The kid was already two blocks away. Vega swore. “Fucking teenagers.”
After three blocks of running, Vega’s sides hurt, but he focused on the kid’s sneakers, which stood out in the darkness between streetlamps.
Danny zigzagged toward the Northside. He was heading across the street when a station wagon pulled out from a parking spot and clipped him. The driver cursed. Danny flipped in the air, went down. Long enough for Vega to close the distance between them to half a block.
The kid made a turn onto Bedford. Vega picked up his pace and turned the corner in time to see the kid head for the L train. Vega ran down the stairs. He heard clicks and dings and then “Stand clear of the closing doors.” The L train to Manhattan was pulling out. Vega could see Danny smirking at him from inside a car. The smirk pulled out of view.
“Shit,” said Vega. Then he saw the back of the train. The gate sticking out at the end. He ran to meet it as the train was picking up speed.
He reached and held on to the gate. It pulled hard at him, yanking his arms almost out of their sockets. He landed his feet on the back platform just as the train moved into darkness. Sweat dripped down his back and his side ached as if he’d been speared. He could see inside of the back car. A little girl waved at him with one hand and picked her nose with the other.
Suddenly, the train bumped into something on the tracks, making the cars shake. Vega slipped.
He hit the tracks hard. The train pulled away into the darkness, and Vega lay on his back, something screaming in his ribs, his legs cramped from running. He crawled, then walked back to the Bedford Avenue stop. A beefy lady transit worker stood on the platform. She looked at him and shook her head.
In the light Vega saw parts of his pants and jacket were ripped and that he was bleeding through the rips. The worker helped him back on the platform. He told her who he was, showed her ID. She said, “Get yourself to a doctor or something, mister. Batman, you ain’t.”
* * *
When Vega woke
“These I like,” he said.
He turned the corner to a larger open area. A huge thing dominated the space. It was the tank advertised on the flyer. A good twenty feet long, it was made of railroad spikes and copper and plastic pipes bent and soldered together. The front of the tank smiled a wide, spiked Cheshire smile. On a wooden post a plaque at eye level read: RAPEPILLAGESLASHBURN by Lime Orange. Mixed Media, 1997.
“I present my homage to the Vikings.” Orange was suddenly next to him. “I’m fascinated by the traditional understanding of meaning. What starts out as hope soon becomes manipulated into a carnival of greed, leaving only a sense of decadence in the darkness.” Orange held a beer bottle in his hand, close to his mouth, but he didn’t drink from it. He circled around the tank in front of Vega. “I worked on this for over three years. I got lucky with the pipes though—they’re from a hardware store that was going out of business.”
Vega tried to walk around the tank to the left, but Orange moved with him, blocking the way. Then through the ribs of the tank, Vega saw a flash of white sneaker at floor level. Someone was running. He took a step back and saw the young face.
“Danny!”
Cortez was over the turnstile and outside in seconds. Vega pushed through the turnstile and ran after him. The kid was already two blocks away. Vega swore. “Fucking teenagers.”
After three blocks of running, Vega’s sides hurt, but he focused on the kid’s sneakers, which stood out in the darkness between streetlamps.
Danny zigzagged toward the Northside. He was heading across the street when a station wagon pulled out from a parking spot and clipped him. The driver cursed. Danny flipped in the air, went down. Long enough for Vega to close the distance between them to half a block.
The kid made a turn onto Bedford. Vega picked up his pace and turned the corner in time to see the kid head for the L train. Vega ran down the stairs. He heard clicks and dings and then “Stand clear of the closing doors.” The L train to Manhattan was pulling out. Vega could see Danny smirking at him from inside a car. The smirk pulled out of view.
“Shit,” said Vega. Then he saw the back of the train. The gate sticking out at the end. He ran to meet it as the train was picking up speed.
He reached and held on to the gate. It pulled hard at him, yanking his arms almost out of their sockets. He landed his feet on the back platform just as the train moved into darkness. Sweat dripped down his back and his side ached as if he’d been speared. He could see inside of the back car. A little girl waved at him with one hand and picked her nose with the other.
Suddenly, the train bumped into something on the tracks, making the cars shake. Vega slipped.
He hit the tracks hard. The train pulled away into the darkness, and Vega lay on his back, something screaming in his ribs, his legs cramped from running. He crawled, then walked back to the Bedford Avenue stop. A beefy lady transit worker stood on the platform. She looked at him and shook her head.
In the light Vega saw parts of his pants and jacket were ripped and that he was bleeding through the rips. The worker helped him back on the platform. He told her who he was, showed her ID. She said, “Get yourself to a doctor or something, mister. Batman, you ain’t.”
* * *
When Vega woke
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