by Geoff Gouveia

 

“Do you have a bottle opener? I can’t get this.” He points at the beer in his hand.

“Yessir- on the back of my knife.” My hand digs through my back pocket to grasp the metal slim oblong knife. The metal is warm against my skin before I toss it to him. “Why’d you miss work the other day, Jack?” I twist the lid off my water bottle.

“You didn’t see it in the papers, George?” Jack shifts his weight forward as the bottle top clinks hollow on the ground. The knife folds in his hands and then flies through the air towards my lap.

“No- what happened?” I ask as I pocket the knife.

Jack looks into the night sky. The full moon illuminates his face. The fire from the pit flicks sparks over his hair. His eyes change from yellow to black in the movement of the flames.

“You won’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

“I killed a guy.” Jack rubbed his palm against the cool amber beer glass and then wiped the condensation across his face.

“Yeah right.” I look for the grin on Jack’s face but it doesn’t arrive on the usual cue. Jack’s eyes turn from the flames. Lonely cool, black orbs reflected sharp dancing movements from the pit.

“I’m serious. He tried to cross the road. I swerved when I saw him. Too late. He was lying there already. My car was the second to hit him. I pulled over. Blood everywhere. His leg was severed. I threw up. Someone called 911. The police questioned me…”

The voice muted into the fire, the flames evaporating the memory. Ice cold from his lips, the fire warmed it into the night sky.

“That’s insane, man. You alright?”

“It’s fine. Police said he was an illegal from Mexico. They found a note in his pocket addressed to Julio. I went to his funeral, though. A small ceremony thrown together by the county two days after. I was the only one there.”

A silence hushes over the pit. Flames dance against the sides, occasional shoots of yellow knives pierced above the rim. I sit staring into the flames. They lick my skin. Jack calls my name.

“George. Dude it’s ok. It happens. Well. It happened. Wonder why the first guy to hit him kept going.”

I nod. A buzz from my phone illuminates my pocket.

“I hate to run like this, Jack. This is the worst timing. I told Kylie I’d see her tonight. I’m real sorry about what happened. You’re a good man for going to the funeral.”

We clasp hands for a moment. The serious note lingers and then lifts. I walk back to the car and send a text to my girlfriend. Be there soon. The car starts with a sputter. At the end of the street I turn left and make another left towards the highway. My phone illuminates on the passenger seat. It steals my glance.

The street lay bare as I peer down. After the glow, two glints of fur race across the asphalt in the lunar light. The tires miss the first creature and grab the back end of the second animal. A sudden bump lifts the car then jerks it violent downward. The car didn't need the brakes.

My door slams loud in the remorseless night. Struggling in the street, the animal kicked for traction. It breathes heavy with wide eyes. His white mask reflects the moon and recedes into his striped fur. Bare and bloody, the life pours onto the grey asphalt. I walk to the where the animal lay.

Red dripping from the nose, the raccoon twitches in the moonlight. In the street where I struck him, his right shoulder scrapes the ground. His back feet spin him round. It leaves a half moon blood trail. The arc of blood spilling in the half circle was fit for a funeral- rose rojo.

Behind me the bushes move. The red raccoon's mate peaks her head above the bush. Taking a last look at the scene, she escapes into the night. Now the crippled raccoon and I stand alone. The breathing slows as the flow of blood increases from his nose.

The raccoon’s chest heaves violently. The blood in my own veins thickens and my heart pounds hard against my rib cage. His back legs are limp while his front paws claw for more life. I stare into the moon when I stand to place my hand in my back pocket. Knife in hand, I flick it open. The moon mirrors white on the silver. The masked eyes on the ground look into mine. Instinctive, as if I owed him this much, the knife slides without resistance behind his neck. The twitching ends with both eyes reflecting only the moon.

Red blood drips from the knife, my only offering at the funeral. The blood falls like rose petals stripped from the stem. Only rojo Julio and I in the night, we dance alone under the moonlight.

 

 

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This is a personal favorite of mine. I'd be honored if you left a comment below about it.