When an ordinary young man wakes up in his quiet neighborhood on a day seemingly like all the others, the city has no idea whatâs about to befall it once he sets out on a day-long bike ride carrying a purposefully packed backpack and a definitive plan.
Who is Schroeder, and what motivates his brutal killing spree? As he cycles from one victimâs home to the next, keeping pace with the rhythm of a city that burgeons to life under an increasingly dazzling sun exposing both its beauty and vivacity and its dark, dirty, underbelly, Schroeder lays bare his dreams, disappointments, delights, and dismays, establishing himself as a compelling contemporary antihero. The day rolls ominously towards its climax through hectic city streets, lush suburban gardens, stately mansions, and decrepit housing projects, punctuated by Schroederâs reflections on a society in shambles and a deeply damaged, if not broken, humanityâbut not without revealing lifeâs boundless wonder and infinite possibilities for joy and redemption through moments that are withinâand yet tragically beyondâSchroederâs grasp. A tell-all denouement brings Schroeder out of the shadows of his actions, the pathos of his questions about the kind of world we live in lingering long after.
When an ordinary young man wakes up in his quiet neighborhood on a day seemingly like all the others, the city has no idea whatâs about to befall it once he sets out on a day-long bike ride carrying a purposefully packed backpack and a definitive plan.
Who is Schroeder, and what motivates his brutal killing spree? As he cycles from one victimâs home to the next, keeping pace with the rhythm of a city that burgeons to life under an increasingly dazzling sun exposing both its beauty and vivacity and its dark, dirty, underbelly, Schroeder lays bare his dreams, disappointments, delights, and dismays, establishing himself as a compelling contemporary antihero. The day rolls ominously towards its climax through hectic city streets, lush suburban gardens, stately mansions, and decrepit housing projects, punctuated by Schroederâs reflections on a society in shambles and a deeply damaged, if not broken, humanityâbut not without revealing lifeâs boundless wonder and infinite possibilities for joy and redemption through moments that are withinâand yet tragically beyondâSchroederâs grasp. A tell-all denouement brings Schroeder out of the shadows of his actions, the pathos of his questions about the kind of world we live in lingering long after.
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BOOKS BY NEAL CASSIDY
the final weekend: a stoned tale SCHROEDER
First published in 2024 by M & S publishing. Copyright @ 2024 by Neal Cassidy.
All rights reserved.
No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, incidents, and dialogue, except for incidental references to public figures, products, or services, are imaginary and are not intended to refer to any living persons or to disparage any companyâs products or services.
ISBN: 979-8-218-47116-3 (paperback) ISBN: 979-8-218-47117-0 (ebook)
Typeset in Berling
Cover Design and typesetting by Jamie Keenan.
nnaight@yahoo.com
for my mom, carey, & scrapdog...
âi am who i am not, but who i wanted to be...â
Neal Cassidy
LIKE EVERY MORNING, THE NEIGHBORâSÂ dogâs constant barking wakes me up prior to my alarm, and without needing to look out the window I can picture Magnum standing on his wooden deck, halfway through the sliding glass door, refusing to move despite his ownerâs pleas. Purchased under one condition made by the mother of the childrenâthat it be named after a character played by her Hollywood crush, Tom Selleckâthe little white mutt would growl incessantly at nothing for minutes until Sam, the familyâs golden retriever, squeezed past him onto the deck, invariably prompting Magnum to leave the doorway hurriedly, chasing Sam to bite him from behind, snarling and persistently pulling his tail on the way to the stairs leading to the backyard.
Still completely covered by my sheets and shifting out of my sleeping tiger to a supine position, I chuckle nonchalantly in the darkness while recalling the previous Saturday evening when I was ruminating on my life in one
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of the faded green plastic chairs on my patio, my epiphany unknowingly just around the corner, seconds away, the panacea that might prove to be the tweak to possibly solve all of my problems, proving that I was more than a product of my circumstancesâIn his backyard, Magnum was barking at Tundra, a Samoyed quadruple his size, a daily ritual, but this time Tundra jumped her fence and attacked him. Hearing his buddyâs cries, Sam, who was sunning himself on the deck, slowly rose from his slumber, leisurely ambled to the bottom of the stairs, and then, like lightening, bolted off towards Tundra, unleashing a violent fury on the dog who was mauling his tiny, best friend. Tundraâs coat, usually a brilliant white, became tinged with blood as she helplessly yelped and tumbled to the grass before limping back towards her yard, ending the fight, which never really was one, and, on their way to the deck Magnum briskly ran to catch up with Sam solely to bite his tail, snarling and waggling it like he always did.
Groggy after not sleeping well for the fifth night in a row, my muscles and joints sore, aching as if Iâm ill with a cold even though Iâm not, I yank the sheets off my head, snatch my phone from the edge of the Cargo nightstand I was gifted one random childhood Christmas, deleting the alarm that I seldom require, and stretch my arms and legs, savoring the final bit of comfort and security of my warm bed. Disregarding my desire to stay a tad longer, I reach to the same table, slip on my glasses, and glance from the photo of me and my mom taken eight years ago at my high school graduation to the stain on the ceiling that appeared last week and seems to have worsened, then to the poster below it with the garage full of Porsches and immense beach mansion, âJUSTIFICATION FOR HIGHER
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EDUCATIONâ written in bold, neon lettering at the top. I reverse the spelling in my mind, NOITACUDE REHGIH ROF NOITACIFITSUJ, jolt my head back, cracking my neck, and peek through the partially closed blinds above my desk to check the weather. The past two days had been unseasonably cool and inclement, supposed to be more of the same today, at least thatâs what the forecast predicted, and itâs cloudy, drab, but not as somber as yesterday, giving me faith this day will be better, that I wonât be forced to contend with rain.
Last night I had that reoccurring dream where Iâm naked in public wandering the streets among a crowd of strangers with some imaginary errand to run or task to accomplish, and I canât explain why this nightmare repeats itself in different communal scenarios or why Iâm naked, but Iâm relieved I didnât have the one that has me in an awful panic, perpetually sprinting down a never-ending school hall clutching an overdue, fictitious homework assignment that will stop me from graduating. I swing my feet to the floor, slide on my socks and striped headband, grab the yellow JBL speaker from my desk drawer, pair it with my phone, turn the volume up too loud, and place both beside the circus hot air balloon lamp atop the wooden, black entertainment center before flipping the TV and PS4 on and scrolling through my list of movies until I find, Heat. Fast-forwarding to the climactic, shootout scene and muting it so it doesnât interfere with my music, the chaotic centerpiece of the film begins with silent, heavy-caliber gunfire flashing on the screen and filling the streets as I tug at my grey V-neck then grasp my small belly, jiggling it slightly, and not regretting having eaten an entire medium
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pepperoni-and-sausage pizza with two canned Cokes for dinner yesterday, I align my feet together, inhale deeply, press âplayâ on my phone, and quickly stick my hands to my hips before Elton Johnâs âIâm Still Standingâ begins blasting from the speaker, the music motivating me to rock slightly and shake my right leg out of habit. Iâm a terrible dancer, so I continue just swaying rhythmically, and the instant he utters his first words I perform a short hop, spread my legs, and raise my arms to ninety degrees, ready for my workout. GNIDNATS LLITS MI. Abruptly, and in a choppy motion thatâs probably not good for my lower back, I touch each foot with my opposing fingers, doing a hundred reps, fifty per side, then march from wall to wall, raising my knees to my chest, not rushing it like my previous exercise, which I donât particularly enjoy. Lighting up the screen, bullets fly, decimating everything in their path, littering cars with holes, shattering windshields, and the song ends during my eleventh trip, but restarts because I put it on repeat, so I maintain this exercise, eventually concluding my six- minute and four-second workout once itâs finished again, since thatâs how long it takes for the song to play twice. Not raising the sound on the TV (carnage still ensuingâa policeman is shot dead in a parking lot as a couple of the bank robbers narrowly escape in a station wagon), I pivot on my heel, swiveling to spot my reflection from the side in the mirror, the unappealing sight of my sagging tighty- whities and protruding belly inducing me to suck it in, puff up my chest and flex my skinny arms while imagining the shape Iâd be in if I made the effort to exercise more or incorporated weights. Well aware I wonât have the time now, I relax my body, my stomach hanging over the tight
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band on my underwear, and, not particularly dissatisfied with what I see, I shrug in resignation and make my bed, pulling at the corners of the red plaid comforter until the wrinkles disappear, situating my pillows the same way I regularly do, then set Sweet Lou on the ones on the left facing the window, the section I sleep on, balancing him so that he doesnât topple during the day.
Following our visit to the Capital, our fifth-grade teacher gave us twenty minutes in the gift shop to pick out what we wanted to buy as souvenirs. While all the other boys rummaged the store seeking fake guns, rifles, military hats, uniforms, and bows and arrows, I was searching for something unique to buy with the twenty dollars my mom had surprised me with this morning when she handed me the paper-bag lunch sheâd packed. But I wasnât sure what. I scanned the items in the aisles, looking and not touching, unintrigued by the pens, coins, clothes and miscellaneous merchandise bearing images of Washington D.C. landmarks such as the White House, the Capital, and various other buildings I couldnât identify, and pretty soon I found myself perusing a card stand, contemplating that it might be nice to get my mom a postcard that sheâd be able to pin on the refrigerator next to the picture Iâd drawn of the Sun and a rainbow with a bunch of clouds and birds a month ago, a keepsake sheâd cherish like the drawing. But I knew what sheâd say if I did, that it was so kind, but she wished Iâd bought a toy or picture book for myself, so I donât, then I suddenly heard, âChildren, you have five minutes!â and feeling panicky about the premise of disappointing her by not bringing home a souvenir she knew Iâd benefit from, I promptly spun around, accidentally knocking into the stand. Knowing it would waste precious time, I scooped up the mess Iâd created from the floor,
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placing the cards and envelopes back on the stand, hoping I arranged them correctly and they matched, and after hastily stuffing several red envelopes behind postcards with the Lincoln Memorial on them, I notice a stuffed animal display hidden by a tree adorned with D.C. ornaments and red, white, and blue ribbons. Iâd never really been interested in stuffed animals, but I inadvertently wandered that way regardless, a heightened sense of urgency growing in me, my riddle of what to get still unsolved, and not particularly impressed by the fluffy stuffed eagles and donkeys and elephants in front of me, I scoured the pile, tossing bodies aside, and thatâs when I saw him jammed between a lion and an elephant, his head scarcely visibleâa stuffed wooly mammoth. Maybe ten inches long and eight inches tall, with dark, caramel fur, a peanut- brown face, trunk, ears, feet, and ivory tusks, he was the cutest and neatest thing Iâd ever seen in my nine-year old life, and I immediately knew I had to have him. Keeping my fingers crossed, I urgently plucked him from the pile, anxious to check if his price exceeded twenty dollars, and I smiled the hugest smile Iâd had in forever when I saw $9.99, then, for a scant moment, I remembered how I could now buy a lunch with the rest of the class at McDonaldâs instead of eating the ham and cheese sandwich and chips and apple my mom had packed for me, but that brought me nowhere near the happiness the wooly mammoth did, so, focusing on him, I excitedly whipped my money out of my pocket before skipping to the register, and while I was bouncing up and down, my clenched fists near my chest in anticipation as I waited for the sweet lady with the name badge that read âNeNeâ to cut off the tags after Iâd asked her to, I heard our teacher yell from the entrance, âOk, students! On the bus!â
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WhenwearrivedattheWashingtonMonumentIpropped my wooly mammoth on a stone marker, casually hopping, then hurdling him beyond invisible obstacles, imitating whooshing, flying noises as I did. âWhat a dork,â David shouted, laughing, in an attempt to call me out in front of my classmates, then nudging his buddy, Bill, he aimed his guns at me and shot me four times, twice with each gun in alternating order, a âpew- pewâ continually flowing from his lips, which was ridiculous because it made him sound more like a laser gun rather than a real gun. The boys with him started to laugh, none of them raising their guns or bows and arrows, only pointing and mocking me, but it didnât upset me the way it normally did, so, simply disregarding them, I vaulted my furry new companion into the air while inventing different, new noises, I havenât the faintest idea what, just not some stupid, laser sound, and that same smile I had in the gift shop returned.
Once the driver reversed the bus into the parking lot and all the other students eagerly ran off to form a jumbled line so they could choose what to order at McDonaldâs, I stayed in my seat and happily opened the brown paper-bag with my name written on it in capital letters, print, that my mom had packed for me. I pretended to feed my ham and cheese sandwich and a chip to my new friend, then, prior to falling asleep while hugging him tightly on the bus against my teacher, Miss Joni, since nobody ever wanted to sit with me, I decided to name him Sweet Lou after a character Iâd briefly seen in a skateboarding-themed movie that my mom had caught me watching and made me change as soon as sheâd realized it was PG-13.
The purple-and-green tiled shower feels smaller than it truly is when I step in, close the glass door, like
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yesterday, and the day before, but today I ignore it, not dwelling on its constrictiveness, letting the warm, cozy water hit my torso, head, and back while I calmly spin twice, embracing the toasty, well-pressured stream as it comforts me, finding it slightly amusing that I didnât want to get in here at first and now I donât care to leave. Despite the shower not growing, my usual seven-minute bath extends to fifteen, the majority of it spent with my eyes shut standing in place until I finally wash my hair then my face with the Darth Vader-shaped charcoal soap, doing both in a hurry. After drying off haphazardly, I fold the purple towel neatly, straightening it on the rack alongside the matching washcloth I only use for my hands, spray the shower tiles with the tile cleaner that doesnât require scrubbing, and apply two dabs of pomade to my thick, chestnut curls, before running my fuchsia brush thatâs missing half a handle from the time I snapped it in high school preceding what Iâd deemed a bad hair day in ninth grade through it, parting it to the left while considering the word âfuchsia,â and how I fancy it, the way it sounds when I pronounce it; however, I rarely have a use for the word seeing as the color isnât popular and most people arenât familiar with it, anyway, then the words âcellar door,â enter my thoughts and I recall an article I once read in USA Today that quoted a renowned linguist who said it was the most sublime example of euphonic sound combination in terms of phono aesthetics, but I never understood it, the beauty, and returning to my bedroom, I open my closet. Plopping into the chair that I play video games and watch TV in, I slide on my khaki pants with no pleats and the pink, collared Criquet shirt Iâd specifically bought to wear
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today after seeing one of my favorite actors, Luke Wilson, modeling one in an online ad, and Iâd dwindled my account to $23.46 for it, then I slip into my socks and my grey New Balance shoes, creating bunny loops to tie them because I didnât bother to learn the other way as a child, double- knotting them so they wonât unlace.
Slowly revolving the leather seat with my feet inch by inch, my interlocked fingers cupped in my lap, I swivel around in circles Iâm not certain how many times before eventually stopping and gazing blankly at my black backpack and the beige, cylindrical tube Iâd packed last night. Sitting in the corner, Iâd purposefully avoided acknowledging them with the intention of not disrupting my morning routine, but Iâve now reached that juncture, if Iâm going to do this I must go, then, unexpectedly, the realization of how Iâve led an inferior existence, not really done anything of significance in my life is brought to my attention again this weekâhow my lived experience would look so inconsequential if I were to put it on paperâand, not helping at all, life has been creating the impression that itâs zooming by faster and faster, especially after last week. I sink deeper into the chair at the recognition and acceptance of this, my shoulders feeling heavier, my entire body tired, chronically fatigued from the last nine days, and catching my eye, the stain is larger, dirtier and seems to be creeping across the vinyl tiles in my direction, unnerving me even more, so I glance fleetingly at the poster of the Porsches in an effort to divert my unconstructive, negative mindset, NOITACUDE REHGIH ROF NOITACIFITSUJ, wait a few seconds, but my pessimistic contemplation hasnât dissipated and neither has the stain, in fact itâs expanded
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and nearing me, and now sensing the recognizable beginning of a possible migraine, I rush to the bathroom, splash some water on my face. Staring into the mirror, examining the faintest of lines under my eyes, the gray strands in my hair, it vaguely troubles me how they werenât there and suddenly were, much like the stain on my ceiling, and out of nowhere, the festering weariness of the same, old issues Iâve had, endlessly, my whole life, the persistent, boring flaws and anxieties that have been gnawing at me for yearsâmy appearance, my lack of self-confidence, the belief that no matter what I do itâs somehow constantly wrong, that any attempt to make my way comfortably in this world will only be met by various, invisible taboosâ pop into my head, provoking the throbbing to worsen. I grip the sink with both hands, drops of water trickling from my chin and splattering the green porcelain, my melancholic trance worsening, my angst rising like boiling water, my dread unfocused on the state of the world as my awareness that Iâm at the lowest phase of my existence envelops me, so I unlatch my cabinet mirror in the middle and pop three of my pills in my mouth, swallowing them whole with no water, collapse in my gaming chair, close my eyes, start humming to myself while rocking, and after a bit of time trying not to think about anything, anything at all, I feel better.
The urgency of the day dawns on me as I open my eyes and wonder how more than ten minutes have elapsed, so, choosing to forget how I felt earlier, I jump out of my seat, return to the bathroom with a determined gait to brush my hardened curls, styling them neatly so they donât stick out, and, as pleased as I can be with how I regularly
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look, I groom my mustache, probing for wild or uneven hairs, but there are none because Iâd trimmed it with my electric shaver when I cut my nails yesterday in the shower since theyâre easy to wash away once Iâm done. Turning to the side, I briefly observe my nose in the mirror like I do every morning, specifically where it protrudes in the middle, revalidating the reality of how obtrusive it is when I view it from this angle, why people sporadically ask me if Iâve broken it, then, like always, I face forward, reassuring myself unconvincingly that Iâm not as ugly from this perspective, and, ignoring the folded five-dollar bill on my dresser that I allow myself for daily expenses since I wonât have a need for it today, I grab my yellow Memberâs Only jacket from the coat rack, gather my bag, the tube, and, still kind of groggy and lethargic, not altogether there yet, meander to the top of the stairs, bumping against the wall on my way to the door above me as if Iâd just learned how to walk.
Like a lot of things I do, I utilize a system for cooking breakfast, one that maximizes my time, ensuring my food is ready and will remain hot by simultaneously washing the utensils I cooked it with while I heat my meal for an additional forty-seven seconds in the microwave, and once Iâve scrubbed and cleaned the skillet and spatula, finishing as the buzzer dings, Iâm prepared to eat with no interruptions because Iâd packed everything that was essential for today last night, so I send Harry his email, ignoring the news notifications pertaining to the fire that killed thirty in Portland, Mondayâs mass shooting at a train station that was stopped by a policeman and a college professor, the bombing in Europe, and rotate the white
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plate with a pair of navy stripes bordering its edge that I use for most meals to separate my scrambled eggs far enough from my whole wheat toast with peanut butter and honey so they donât touch, then pour a glass of orange juice. Sliding issue #3 of The Amazing Spider-Man, NAMREDIPS GNIZAMA EHT, out of its plastic sleeve, I admire the cover, passingly remembering when I purchased it with the money I had after selling my computer in the sixth grade from the blonde, shaggy-haired, pudgy owner of the comic book store that was basically his home, the first and only single-digit number of my Spider-Man comic book collection, and blindly nibbling on one of the halves of toast and sipping on my juice using my right hand, I flip the pages with my left to be extra careful, my eyes glued to the comic as I lean on the table awkwardly and unnecessarily while periodically adjusting my glasses to read, not out of necessityâit gives me the impression that Iâm more absorbed, that Iâm scrutinizing and relishing every illustration, line, and word in each frame as theyâre meant to be, so I wonât need to read it again, like a song I wasnât appreciating and have to restart. Normally when I eat I grip the Achilles tendon on my left leg with the big and second toe from my right foot, squeezing and massaging it, a habit that makes me feel comfortable, secure, but I canât on account of my shoes which I didnât want to deal with post-breakfast and that Iâm not supposed to be wearing in the house, and done on purpose I finish my last bite of food as I read the final page, then after Iâve washed and dried the dishes and made sure my fingers are totally clean and not moist, I slip the comic back in its sleeve, throw on my jacket then my backpack while doublechecking
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the cuckoo clock to ensure Iâm on scheduleâand I am; itâs 7:59âso I wait, my head sinking and eyes focusing on the tiled, kitchen floor for the seventeen ticks of the curvy, blue hand it entails, and not sounding anywhere close to how she usually does, grainy, I hear, âGoodbye, Sweetie. I love you,â from the living room, and I slide the door shut behind me.
The bleak, dreary clouds and gloomy conditions destroy my hope of feeling the morning Sun on my skin following a night inside, but the air is ripe with the gratifying, dewy petrichor of the rain, eclipsing this negative thought, and, despite it being overcast, there are no signs of a storm, so I donât worry about the umbrella I used yesterday thatâs leaning against the potato-and-onion bin in the pantry I now realize I forgot, and trudge sluggishly to the bottom of the patio stairs, my footsteps heavy and sedated, zombielike, towards the garage. Packed yesterday after my exercises, the box our floor heater came in is on the workbench I paint my action figures on, but prior to adding the final item, the cherry on top, I recheck the contents, confirming nothingâs misplaced and everythingâs where it should be, guaranteeing it will be received exactly as I want, and wrapping it in last yearâs Christmas paper covered in dogs wearing Santa suits and hats that Iâd found in the closet and put out with the tape and scissors last night, I add a pink bow as a joke when Iâm done, sticking it in the center. I tie a Velcro strap around my pant leg, ensuring it wonât get caught in the chain, revealing my dark socks with multiple, red skulls and crossbones on them, then set the present in the handy wicker basket at the front of my cruiser bike, lock the garage door, and
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cautiously loop the tubeâs strap on my shoulder, freezing up as I do. Realizing I forgot to oil my chain this week with all that was going on, I donât concern myself with the squeaking as I steer between my home and the neighborâs fenced yard while the kind, elderly widow that moved in a decade ago begins waving at me from her patio, the sleeve of her customary flowered gown wriggling down her arm, and shyly nodding I unintentionally recollect the man with the angry, intimidating dog whoâd lived there before her when I was a kidâthe stout, mean soul with jet-black hair and a moustache that absorbed light, who kept my balls and frisbees that landed in his fenced-in backyard and shot his wifeânot in this house, their next oneâthen, changing direction, I swerve under the oak tree with the rope swing that we planted when I was eleven, riding down and up the ditch onto the pavement, to the end of Cornelia, which comes quick since thereâs only two homes between mine and the corner, so, extending my left arm, I bend it at a ninety-degree angle while decelerating to a full stop.
Biking by the familiar vinyl-sided ranch homes and split foyers on Poplar Drive, the ranch with the German Shepherd that used to dart out of its garage to trot along the edge of its lawn barking and chasing me when I was growing up floats by, its occupants long gone, a young family recently settled in, and while coasting down the steep, lengthy hill, past the unfinished Craftsman house thatâs been under construction for years, I visualize myself from the sky, my cruiser navigating its way through the labyrinth of streets like Iâm in a video game as it squeaks with every rotation of its pedals, avoiding barking dogs, noisy, obnoxious motorcycles, drivers distracted on their
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phones, when an ominous melody for the day gradually starts materializing and building in my head, the music getting louder and louder. Some sinister symphony I recall having heard previously, Iâm not certain when or where, maybe a movie soundtrack, and now, nearing the bottom of the hill, the wind hitting my face, hopefully not disheveling my gelled curls, for no reason in particular I begin reflecting on that song, âOnce in a Lifetimeâ by Talking Heads, how Iâd adored it in fifth grade and dressed up as the singer from the video for a Halloween competition despite no classmate in school knowing who he was, only the teachers, and I can envision my mom fixing my bowtie that morning, the one sheâd happily bought to appease my insistence that it be real, and her crying and me asking why and her telling me it was nothing, just that she wished I could stay this way forever, and it truly saddens me that I have nobody to convey this type of sorrow to, but even if I did, theyâd be incapable of comprehending its meaningfulness because they werenât there at the time. Arriving at the intersection of Poplar and Jefferson I stand there with my bike between my legs facing the entrance to the pool we could never afford, where laughing families unload their cars and SUVs packed with coolers, folding chairs and towels, as two shirtless boys hiding amongst a clump of bushes shoot water pistols at each other, their excited sister bouncing in place nearby, a tiger-printed float already around her waist, eager for the pool, and I know my first appointment is left, so I should signal whether or not thereâs a vehicle or people nearby, but I donât because I donât want to, I simply go, when not too far down the road, while struggling to convince myself that I possess the strength and courage to walk into that
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bodega, the depressing truth I reflected on earlier reenters my consciousnessâhow inconsequential my life has been, what little Iâve accomplished, how my days have appeared to slip by faster and faster as time has progressed, and suddenly the jolting awareness that I am going to die, that these passing years havenât been a dress rehearsal, hits me, and I try to shake it but I canât, and after another two miles I reach T. Hardyâs Market without thinking about anything else.
Even though Iâm on the farthest, right edge of the curb, an Asian woman in a visor honks at me unnecessarily while racing by in a maroon delivery van at a much speedier pace than the 25-mph limit, and when I coast into the paved lot, an older-model blue Range Rover is the sole car there. I lay my cruiser against the upscale bodegaâs brick wall, not fussing with chaining it to the bike rack since I wonât be but a minute, then while verifying the timeâ8:19âon my watch, I catch a brief glimpse of the tags on the Range Rover. âCHEFFIN.â âNIFFEHC.â Rounding the corner, an aging couple walking a Chihuahua stop, and smile, wave, I reciprocate, and the dog startlingly begins jumping and yipping, yanking at the leash while eyeing a hissing white cat in a tree. Holding the miniature dog at bay as they take the crosswalk, the husband slides his arm around his wifeâs waist, swapping spots with her so sheâs away from traffic, and pulling out my yellow, subject notebook #32âIâd been gifted a yellow notebook by my mom on my tenth birthday to use as a diary, an exercise she told me would help inspire creativity, improve my writing, allow me to keep my ideas, deliberations and sentiments organizedâI flip through the filled pages to a blank sheet, when my
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cell phone rings, so I peek at it hastily, but itâs merely a robocaller, I receive numerous such calls daily, and annoyed my train of thoughtâs been distracted I shove it back in my pocket, press the paper down so none of it is entangled in the metal spiral, write the date, 8:19, the number 2, and stuff it in my bag. Grabbing the tube, I carefully position the cylinder so itâs in front of me while apprehensively scanning the area to reconfirm thereâs nobody around, that the pair and their dog can no longer be seen, and with a deep breath, I adjust my glasses, ignoring the sign that lists the bodegaâs daily operating hours, 9AM to 9PM, and push on the door.
The silver bell overhead dings as I fling it open, and the bulky Black man with the fluffy, grizzled beard on the opposite side of the counter notices me straight away, but he carries on yelling at the other guy in the market, whoâs also Black and works there. âAnd if a girl rejects you, you donât try again later, Mike!â he exclaims, laughing, chuckling at himself while banging the counter three times, causing the boxes of mints on the register to totter and the water in the fish tank at the end of the counter to vibrate as bubbles shoot out of the pirateâs chest near a diver in a copper helmet thatâs swaying back and forth on the multicolored pebbles, striped clownfish circling him, then the manâs expression switches from joy to contempt when he turns to me, slamming his palms on the counter and narrowing his eyes. âNice helmet, douchebag. What the fuck are you doing here? Neither of us likâ,â and I canât understand what else he says. It sounds muffled for some reason, distorted, maybe Iâm preoccupied with everything thatâs recurring in my mindâ what Iâm compelled to do today, each place I must
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get to, the limited hours I have to execute it all if I canâ but itâs emphatic and abrasive and familiar, then pointing his finger at me, he shouts additional insults, his chuckling friend joining him in mocking me and laughing while barely mopping the wooden floor, and Iâm not sure why, but Iâm more nervous than I expected to be, fidgeting with the lid of the cylindrical container that should be effortless to remove, popping it off at last. Wriggling the strap from my shoulder and clutching whatâs inside, I release the tube, revealing whatâs in my possession, impelling the gigantic manâs eyes to widen instantaneously, and the next few anxious moments seem to tick by in slow motion as I raise the shotgun, aiming it at him, his formerly confident, unkind facial expression contorting drastically into one of confusion and fear, his hollering immediately changing to a stuttered stammering I still canât register. Tentatively raising his shaking arms, he takes two wobbly paces backwards. âWhaâ, what the fuck are you doiââ When I squeeze the trigger, the gun doesnât kick with as much force as Iâd presumed, and the man flies back into the display case of candies and gums on the wall behind him, collapsing the drawers and shattering the mirror, his hefty frame crashing to the floor with a hard thud. A bright hail of numerous yellow, green, red, blue, and orange M&Ms and Skittles shower him from above, randomly spilling onto his white, collared shirt thatâs now painted in arterial red, and scattering on the floorboards all around him, producing a chaotic mass of repetitive pings as his dead, panic-stricken eyes stare towards me, past me, at nothing. With his arms caught on fractured shelves and dangling at shoulder height, both wrists limp, his head slumps to the side, evoking images of a hay-stuffed,
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crucified scarecrow in the middle of a corn field in my mind, while his mangled nose swings by a tiny, veiny thread and chunks of his chin cling to what remains of his jaw, which is now mostly pink and purple strands of muscle hanging from splintered bone, then a stream of magenta and brown liquid mixed with what I can only guess is probably saliva or mucus, some lemony film, starts flowing from what used to be his mouth, saturating whatâs left of his split, holey beard, and I canât help but be conscious of the fact that thisâthe here and nowâwill ultimately become a memory, like everything else Iâve done in my life, andâ
âJesus Christ! Chris! Jesus Christ! What the fuck?!â Mike squeals, reminding me of what else I came to do, so, pointing the shotgun in the direction Iâm looking, I spin swiftly to my left, the barrel passing over the freshly baked bagels and bread, until itâs aimed at my second target, whoâs shrieking, âNo, no!â With wide eyes and his mouth agape, he drops the mop and the clear plastic cup of soda heâs holding, the phone in his other hand following them, the rap music emanating from its speakers not stopping when it bounces off the wood, and he gawks frantically from me to Chris, back to me. âPlease, please donât.â Petrified, with tears trickling down his dark-skinned face and his entire body convulsing, his legs, his arms, his knees, he timidly raises his trembling hands, but he doesnât attempt to escape. He canât. Heâs frozen. Without hesitating, I step forward for maximum effect, hoisting the gun and pulling the trigger without a hint of trouble, not a care, preventing him from uttering one more word, because I donât want to hear it, or even acknowledge it, and his camouflaged, army- style hat is sent straight into the air when his head all at
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once transforms to a rosy, mushy mess as blood and pieces of his skull and brain splatter a frosty refrigerator door and the rack of magazines behind him, spraying the muscled men and scantily clad women, cars, homes, and boats on the glossy covers. Resembling a Claymation figure the way he folds up at the knees and hips with such ease when his faceless body buckles, he sounds like some weighty sack hitting the floor, a bland thud that could be mistaken for a number of objects fallen, and thereâs a minute pause of silence on his phone before the next song begins, one as awful as the previous, with another rapper mumbling annoyingly, not legitimate rap, and, releasing the shotgun where I stand, I jerk my neck, cracking it, then, turning to enjoy the sight of the husky, fluid-leaking corpse lying at the foot of the counter, the comprehension of what Iâve done hits me, inducing a gradual smirk.
Knowing the fish wonât be a priority once these two are found, and confident they werenât fed this morning, I uncap the orange bottle of food beside the fish tank and tap it mildly, spreading it across the water before strolling out the door, snickering when I hear the ding from the bell for the last time, and, gripping my handlebar, I wait while canvassing the area to determine whether a passerby or neighbor heard the gunshots, is possibly responding in any way, but everythingâs as normal and calm as it was two minutes ago and stays that wayâtraffic drives on by, three chatty kids roll through the intersection on skateboards, the same ravens that were perched on the telephone wires when I arrived remain, still squawking with each otherâso, unworried, I lean down to secure my pant leg and realize thereâs no need, because like my helmet, with all that was
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happening, I forgot to unravel it. Covering the circled number, I scribble an ornate red âXâ on top of it, toss my notebook in my backpack, and when I reach the stop sign at the end of the road, my cruiser still squeaking, the sullen clouds appear to be vanishing, the Sun emerging from the fresher, white clusters moving in, and, experiencing a rush of optimistic anticipation mixed with a nagging, dreadful uncertainty of whatâs to come, I extend my right arm.
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While this book was not for me and goes against my nature, I think it might resonate with others. However, my main feedback is that the ending should have been entwined throughout the story. Diary entries alongside the ultimate crime. An understanding of the main character's thoughts and actions.
Debased, the main character raises himself to become the authority, the judge, the jury, and the executioner. With few places of comfort or help to turn to when one voice is silenced, the two left were not enough to alter his path.
This book was equal parts slow with a twist of free-flowing methodical actions. Like a creek quietly moving downstream that leads to waterfalls where the noise disrupts the quintessential stillness. However, unlike water, you will find blood and lots of it in this book. The retribution dealt out was stomach-turning, which I did not enjoy reading at all. The amount of detail about the crimes almost stopped me from finishing this book. The way this book was laid out and presented did not help. Again, had there been more context behind how a person becomes who they are, the psychological insights might have softened the blows for me as a reader. However, even knowing the extent of cruelty the main character endured doesn't make me feel compassion for how he was dead-set on his plans and presented as deadened on the inside while carrying them out.
The movie "Seven" kept coming to mind when reading this book. The level of descriptive gross is much the same. I wish I had never seen the film (although the final twist was one I didn't see coming, and Brad Pitt's acting was hard to turn away from); I could have done without reading this book. While this book could be considered a cautionary tale, I would hope that the level of bullying and unkindness found in "Schroeder" would be something that could be resolvedâif ignored by some, solved by others.
My final piece of advice is to choose a different cover design. If the author had not contacted me directly for my review, I would not have picked up this book to read. A cover with the main protagonist featured on his bicycle with hints of his chosen weapons of destruction displayed would have been far more intriguing than the cover's current maniacal, red-eyed figure. While I appreciate an author's efforts, a story needs to be worth telling, and, in this book's current state, I think the efforts will lead to little reward.