Finding the Light

Whenever there’s a mass killing, like last week when a young guy entered a Catholic church where classes were going on, and started shooting, I get a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. It’s almost like envy, like I relate to the guy but so far have not had the guts to do something like that myself.

I don’t fit in either. Like most of those mass shooters, I hate the people I have the misfortune to have to be around, at school for sure, definitely at home, when I go to the store for cigs, and just about everywhere. I’m not sure how I wound up like this. Baby pictures of me, and even pictures of me as a child show a smiling face. Was I pretending that early on? I don’t think so. I think being this way started when Harry, my older brother, did one bad thing too many and got sent upstate to some program for wayward kids. I loved Harry and I’m pretty sure he loved me too though he never said so. In fact, just the opposite. He was usually brutal to me. But on some level I believe he was just pretending to hate me.

But you know, now that I think about it, maybe not. I mean, I’m not very loveable. The last time my mother said she loved me I was seven; I’m now twenty. My dad, forget about it. The only thing he loves, besides beer, is the friggin’ TV. He doesn’t even know I exist.

Anyway, Harry used to do a lot of bad shit. He’d get into fights practically every day. He kept failing in school despite having a supposedly “genius” IQ. Yeah, right? They always say that about these fucked up kids who couldn’t fight their way out of a paper bag. He did destructive things like set fires, mess up people’s cars, trip people, you know, annoying kinds of stuff. Our parents followed the advice of the school principal and sent him away before he got into big time trouble, like you know, killing someone. (By the way, Harry confided in me that they were too late, that he had already killed someone, but I’m not sure I believe him.)

In school, I came to be known as Larry, even though my name is really Stewart. “Larry” came from putting together Little and Harry. We do look sort of alike; we both have dark wavy hair, kind of greasy, way too many zits… though his actually went away. One time when he came home for the holidays he said they went away because he was banging these chicks who lived in the town where his school was. He told me that’s what I should do, get myself a girlfriend and my zits would go away. I didn’t say this to him, but I thought, yeah sure and you’re going to be the president of the United States.

But he had put the idea in my head, and I was at the age, thirteen, when the girls in school were looking around at boys. For the most part, those girls really did nothing for me, but there was one who I wouldn’t have minded doing something with. Her name was Sarah. It’s not that she was so gorgeous or anything, but she seemed really sweet. Like if I talked to her, she’d listen, unlike most people I tried to talk to who would get a glazed look in their eyes and literally turn away so they didn’t have to act like they were interested.

One day I said to Jimmy, my best friend, well, really he was my only friend, I told him there was a girl I liked and I was going to ask her to the Halloween party at school. I didn’t have to tell him it was Sarah because he already knew. Not that I told him. It was just that everyone liked Sarah and everyone wanted her to go with them to every party.

Except maybe Jimmy. See, Jimmy had a problem that made girls and a lot of people not like him. He was fat. I mean really very fat. Disgustingly fat, like hundreds of pounds overweight. I once asked him why he was so fat. At first he just looked at me as if to ask how could I say that to him. But then I think he was glad because it was like the elephant in the room. Literally.

What he answered isn’t really important. What is important is that we got each other. I mean besides my damn pimples I was OK-looking but also because of being Little Harry I was already on everyone’s shit list. Plus, I gave off vibes that said, stay away, because to be honest, I didn’t want to be bothered with anyone. I mean, besides Jimmy, and he counted for like, at least three people.

My brother used to tell me things about people. Bad things. For example, like this guy Arthur who was called Arty, or as Harry liked to say, Farty. Farty worked in the kitchen and Harry once saw him spit into a pan of mashed potatoes. Then there were these two girls, Ann and Marilyn, he said were lesbos and he swore he’d seen them kissing, more than once.

One of the things he did that was, what’s that saying? The straw on the camel’s hump? Yeah, it was when he set fire to the pile of leaves in front of the house next door to ours which just barely missed setting the entire house on fire. His reaction when confronted by both our parents and the police and the neighbors, “Really I would have been doing them a favor setting the house on fire. It’s a dirty, nasty piece of shit house that should be condemned.”

My mother had actually cried. A month later we drove him to the small town upstate where the school (or jail?) was. The ride back home was horrendous. Dead silence filled the air in the car. Every now and then a little squeak-like noise would come from my mother, but besides that we were all just left to our thoughts or whatever was floating through our heads.

Mine were something off the order of how the fuck will I survive now that the guy who deflected the attention from me was gone? That’s when my interest in guns became more than just a passing fancy, as they say. They’d always fascinated me, even as a child when I had more than one water pistol. I just love that with the simple flexing of a finger you could produce something that could, if you wanted it to, be deadly. Easy peasy. Just like that. Imagine how useful a gun could be. Not only to rid the world of people you felt were intruding on your space, but to threaten people and get them to serve you. I mean, imagine pointing a gun at someone and saying, “If you don’t go into that store and get me what I want, I’ll bend my finger and this small object will push out a bullet that will pierce your flesh and it’ll be curtains for you.” God, what power!

When I was eighteen, for my birthday, I decided to treat myself to a pistol. I still had pimples but besides that I had no record of any kind. Anyway, where I live it’s easy to get a gun legally. Just go into the local Walmart, ask for the gun department, and someone with a nice, smarmy smile will point. And off you’ll go until you reach where the person said, then you’ll turn left, or perhaps, right, and there will be your ticket to a whole brand spanking new experience.

It had been building in me for a long time. What? You ask. The feelings. Nasty feelings. Feelings that intensified whenever I’d see a young couple walking along holding hands, looking oh so happy, or on the now rare occasions when I’d see Sarah and I’d wave but since school ended, she doesn’t even remember me! How crazy is that? Here I thought she was exceptional, literally, the exception to the rule of girls being against me, but, turns out she was the same as the rest. Fucking ignorant. Or blind. Or, whatever.

And, of course, Harry. When he got out of that school or whatever it was he was in, he went ahead and got involved with some of the other grads from that great place and pulled off a heist in the local bank in town. Now he’s doing real time. By the time he’s out I could be a grandpa. Now how likely is that to happen? Look at my track record. Twenty years old and have been on my own and had a couple of dates but that’s about it. People just don’t seem to like me, and I don’t know why. Not knowing why really pisses me off. Cause what can I do about it? Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

For weeks now I’ve been depressed. I mean, really down. I actually went to visit Harry and what a drag that was. He’d put on weight, lost most of his hair and sounded about as bad as he looked.

“What can I tell you, kid? Don’t look up to your older brother?”

That would make sense because he’s not what you’d call a role model. Not for me, anyway. Actually, I don’t have a role model. There’s no one I like or admire enough to want to be like. Except maybe, like I said at the beginning of this whatever it is, the mass shooters. The ones who get themselves outfitted with some nice hardware and go into a school, store or church, or wherever, and start blasting away. They get rid of people, especially children who are being molded into becoming grown ups that will probably be horrible anyway, and that’s that. Buh-bye.

So that’s what I’m going to do. I’ve decided. In fact, I wish I could do it now, but it’s Friday and schools are out until Monday. I’ll just have to get through the weekend, and now that I know what I’m going to do, like, yes indeedy, I have a plan, I feel much better.

On Monday morning, most people wake up reluctantly, not wanting to go to where they had to, whether it was school or work. Most people but one: Stewart “Larry” White. Stewart, or Larry, as he was more commonly known, not having slept well as his body buzzed with anticipation of what he was going to do, continued to watch the clock, and when it read 7:00 he said to himself, “Finally, time to get up.”

After a cursory job of brushing his teeth, he got dressed in black clothing, made and drank some coffee with three teaspoons of sugar, thought about eating something but decided not to because of how his stomach felt. He took the gun from the kitchen drawer, checked again that it was loaded, and just stood in his kitchen for a few minutes. The school didn’t open until eight anyway. He wanted to be sure the classrooms were full by the time he got there.

He killed time by just walking around his apartment holding the gun, savoring the feeling of the cool metal. He liked that the gun he bought had some weight to it. It felt solid, capable of doing the job right. When finally the clock read 8:00, he took his hoodie out of the hall closet and was about to look in the mirror as he usually did before leaving but didn’t.

On the walk to the school, he fought with thoughts that threatened to derail his plan. One would pop up, such as “You don’t have to do this, Stewart,” in both of his parents’ voices, but he quickly pushed it back, saying, “Shut the fuck up,” under his breath. He also pictured people like Sarah, and other kids in school who always seemed to be smiling, which he despised.

By the time he got there, classes were in session as per the plan. Not wanting to encounter anyone, he went to a back door that he gambled on being open. It was. He knew there was a guard lurking around somewhere, probably gone to get a cup of coffee, so he was able to slip inside unnoticed. Then automatic pilot took over. Opening the door of the first classroom he took the gun out of his pocket and aiming at no one in particular, started shooting. Immediately there was screaming and what sounded like a siren so he ran from that room and went to the next one and repeated the performance. Then a voice inside his head said, “Better get the fuck out of here” so he ran and was able to get out the door he’d come in through, before the school was locked down.

Without turning around he ran, heading for the nearby woods. Fueled by adrenaline he kept on running through the woods where he quickly dug a hole and buried the gun, then kept on running. When he emerged from the woods on the other side, he was right by Interstate Thirty-Three so he stuck out his thumb and within two minutes a pickup truck stopped and gave Stewart a ride to the next town. Just like that, Stewart kept getting rides and within a day he was far enough away that he thought he was probably safe.

Later that Monday, national and local newspaper headlines read, “In the small town of XYZ, an unidentified shooter caused a blood bath in the local elementary through high school. Fourteen people including ten children, were killed and twice as many were wounded. The gunman got away, after being shot at by police. Local authorities believe he was seriously wounded and wouldn’t get far.”

By the time Stewart got to the West Coast, a week or so later, he was feeling depressed, unable to decide what to do next. Plus, he was starving, having eaten only scraps he found along the way. He had a few dollars with him but didn’t want to risk going into a store and being recognized.

One day a young woman with a picture ID hanging from a chain around her neck approached him where he was curled up on a bench. “Are you homeless?” she asked. When he nodded, she pulled a sandwich out of her backpack and offered it to him. As he quickly gobbled it up, the woman told him about a nearby shelter and offered to escort him to it. He got up off the bench and followed the young woman to the shelter, by then not even thinking about whether he’d be recognized. He just assumed that since he was such a nobody, he wouldn’t be. And he was right.

A few years later, Stewart, who’d been laying low in the same coastal city he’d arrived in several years earlier, was reading an old newspaper he’d found on the street. In it was a small article about a man who was being released from prison in an eastern state. It was Harry, his brother. Stewart felt the first bit of enthusiasm he’d felt in a long time. It was time to head back east again. If he hadn’t been caught by now, he reasoned, it was unlikely he would be.

The next day Stewart stuffed the few possessions he’d accumulated into his ratty backpack, settled with the manager of the rooming house he’d been staying in, and left, thinking how nice it would be to see his brother again. As he walked, however, a familiar old feeling returned, and he found himself doubting whether he should have left. Maybe he should have stayed where he was. Then he realized that it didn’t really matter. The only thing that mattered would be if he were caught for the killing he’d done all those years ago. Then, too, would that really matter? Who knew. Did anything matter? He shook his head, as much for answering ‘no’ as for his attempt at clearing out webs of emptiness and confusion.