DEAD CONNECTION : a novel by Charlie Price

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ROBERT BARRY COMPTON : STREET WARRIOR

Robert Barry Compton had routines. Days he didn’t work, he walked his circuit, about five miles round-trip from his residence hotel. Same time every evening, 5:00 to 7:00. It allowed him to feel okay, to hush the voices that had started a few years ago with crank and never quite stopped. He slept through the day, got up and smoked three (always three) cigarettes, ate a couple of Milky Ways for dinner, and then he’d head out. The same path every time. It was like his medicine. On non-workdays, if he didn’t walk, he couldn’t sleep.
      Once he got a good route, he stuck to it. Down Court to Eureka Way, west on Eureka to the high school, through the campus and over to the park, up to Market, a few more blocks and he was home.
      Three days a week, he worked fast food. On those days, he felt useful. Often, when he got off work at the new TacoBurger downtown, he would walk over to the Arcade Newsstand, look at some magazines, and then walk two blocks to Morgan’s Bargain Emporium, where he’d spend an hour and sometimes a dollar or two browsing through the bins. Or he would walk over to the Rite Aid by his residence hotel. Usually he didn’t see anyone he knew by name, and no one said anything to him.
      He hated his name. Too boring. He wanted people to call him “Bear” like a nickname for Barry, but they never did. Since they wouldn’t, he tried to make everyone call him by his whole name, Robert Barry Compton. Mister. Mister Robert Barry Compton.
      He was twenty-two years old and skinny, with lank blond hair that he kept chopped off at ear level. He dressed in a faded black ski jacket, a grayish white T-shirt, no-brand jeans, and heavy black stomper boots.
      His ears were red and pockmarked from several piercings, but he had lost his studs when he was picked up for disturbing the peace in Chico. The police took them before they put him in the holding tank. By the time they took him to the hospital, he’d forgotten all about them. He meant to get more. He just forgot.
      In Rite Aid, he would look at the candy aisle first and then check out the magazines. Just killing time. He would walk around, waiting for something to catch his eye.
      That day, he found himself in front of a stationery table looking at Christmas cards: Nativity scenes, snowmen with red wool scarves and top hats, dark blue skies illuminated by huge silver-white stars. Wasn’t it too early for Christmas cards? Had there even been Thanksgiving yet? He wasn’t sure.
      He thought about writing a Christmas card. He was stumped. He couldn’t think of a single person to write to. He could probably send one to the hospital back in Chico, but he hated most of the staff and their monotonous speeches about taking medication. Besides, all his friends would be discharged by now. He realized that he didn’t know anybody’s address, except his mother’s, and he was probably going to see her on Christmas Day anyway.
      He wouldn’t give a card to anybody in his hotel, that’s for sure. A bunch of ’tards and mummies. He didn’t even talk to them. There was nobody near his age.
      And he didn’t really need to get his mom anything. He had already gotten her something. For her birthday. But her birthday had slipped past a while ago and he had missed it. Okay, so she’d get it for Christmas. He couldn’t remember what he’d bought her, now that he thought about it. Scarf . . . perfume . . . . Nope, it wouldn’t come to him. And Mr. Robert Barry Compton began to feel just a little bit mad. Forgetting things made him feel stupid, and he just couldn’t stand that.
      There was something else Robert really needed to remember. It happened a while ago and it was just on the edge of his mind, but he couldn’t call it up. It was important. He remembered that much. He had made a vow to do something. What? Damn it! He could feel his face getting warmer. Weirdo! Crazy bastard! Good-for-nothing! Some guys had called him that in high school and he could still hear them saying it.
      He noticed he was stuffing a Christmas card down the front of his pants. He was going to steal it, just like he had taken those sex magazines yesterday at the newsstand. He slowly glanced from side to side to see if he was being observed. Nobody was paying him any attention. He pushed the card down below his belt line and felt himself stiffen a little down there. It always felt really good to steal. Maybe he’d go down to the newsstand after he left this store.
      He wondered which card he had chosen. He told himself to go to a couple of other counters to throw off suspicion before leaving. He browsed some paperbacks and some teen magazines before walking out. No buzzers went off.
      Outside, the air was chilled, and he felt his muscles tighten with the cold. He felt strong, even a little tough. He decided to go out back behind the stores in the mall and look through the boxes and Dumpsters. Like a street warrior. Like somebody who lived on his own because he chose to. Took what he wanted. Lived off stupid rich people’s discards.
      He was opening a Dumpster lid when a stock clerk came out of a back door to toss some cardboard boxes. The clerk hesitated when he saw Robert holding the lid and gave him the eye. Robert pulled a board from a broken packing crate. The clerk went back inside, closed the door, and locked it. Robert threw his board at the door. Jeez, he’d never done that before. It felt great. That must be why kids shoot people at schools, he thought. Because it feels so good.
      He dropped the lid and walked quickly out the back lot, heading toward a gas station. I should steal a car, he thought. But he went into the bathroom on the side of the building instead, opened the stall door and sat on the toilet. The crunch the Christmas card made inside his pants surprised him. Just as well, he thought, tearing it into strips and dropping it in the bowl. For the second time that day, he wondered if he should shave his head.

THE NEW VOICE »

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