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  -FIN-

  THE AFTER WORDS

  This story started with a clock. My wife bought a new analog clock from the store and hung it in our bathroom. This clock is the bane of my existence. It has the loudest ticking sound I have ever heard. I would be trying to sleep or changing clothes and the ticking would assault my senses.

  It became so bad that even when I left the room I could still hear it. I would be on the other side of the house and the ticking would be in my head. Tick tick tick tick tick…..

  It had this pervasive pressure that seem to accompany it. I began to imagine a bomb ticking down in a movie or one of those spy TV shows. I felt like once the ticking came to an end point, my head would finally explode or I would throw my body through the wall or window. I’m always on edge around this clock (of course my wife finds the sound soothing).

  And there is the seed of a story…..

  The scene with the couple in the jeep really happened. I was stopped at a light behind the vehicle, listening to the radio when I saw the guy hit the woman twice. In front of the baby. I was stunned and wondered if I had imagined it all. I distinctly remember him kind of flipping his hair as if to say “Yeah, I’m a man.” When they pulled away, I was still in shock by the whole thing. As they disappeared over the bluff, a realization came to me: I wanted to hurt that guy. Bad. Really, really bad.

  I’m living vicariously through my writing.

  I feel like I held back a bit on this story. I was adamant that Jeffrey never killed anyone. It was a line he would not cross……yet.

  Mike Whetzel

  May 2012

  BONUS SHORT FROM MICHAEL WHETZEL

  PUNCHY

  Punchy couldn’t talk. He couldn’t hear also. He had lost both those abilities seven years before, his last time in the ring. It was Svenson who did it. Gordy “Knockaround” Svenson who knocked around some wiring in Punchy’s head, cutting it loose from its fleshy skull plugs. Synapses not sparking, pathways blocked or clotted or severed by violent jabs to the head that Svenson had thrust at Punchy’s face.

  This last fight had left Punchy lying spread-eagled on the mat, watching the little yellow birds dipping and diving across his blurred double vision. Later, he remembered a massive body of confusion running into the ring, leaning over him, blocking out the bright lights of bloody fame he was used to dancing in. The ring. The beautiful violent mastery of the squared circle. And this would be the last time he would ever be in it, lying down as if he was back in his bed at home. Or patiently waiting for his death shroud to envelop his sore body, and make the buzzing pain finally stop.

  Back in the locker room, he tried to make out what his coach was saying to him. Sweat and blood dripped from his swollen face and mingled on the dirty green tiled floor. He watched Tony’s mouth carefully; the lips forming each syllable, small specks of spittle flicking their own way to the cold floor. Punchy registered no voice. No sound vibrated his broken drums.

  The water in the sink splashing silently into the drain. The reporters yelling questions from the hall, snapping eerie quiet light bulbs on their cameras. The heavy oak door to the room slamming shut into a noiseless vacuum. Nothing registered.

  And then not speaking. He moved the muscles in his jaws, trying to form the words to tell Tony he couldn’t hear him, couldn’t hear anything. Punchy could only point desperately at his mouth and watch Tony’s eyes grow larger as realization dawned on the old man’s face.

  “Nerve damage” the professional quacks diagnosed. Too many hits to the head, too much damage to the brain.

  “Nerve damage” and a promising boxing career was done. At least he thought it was a promising career. A 21-5 record with 19 TKO’s and the meeting with Svenson, the current #1 contender to the middleweight belt. The potential was huge until “nerve damage.”

  “Nerve damage” would turn Ricky “The Dynamite Kid” Jones into “Punchy” Jones.

  And “Punchy” Jones was no boxer. He was told he couldn’t box. The commission wouldn’t let him. The commission said he was done. The commission didn’t know shit.

  Punchy folded the quilt neatly over the small cot. He downed the rest of his morning coffee and left the one room apartment. The apartment was located in the basement of the Liberty Hotel, one of the city’s oldest buildings. The Liberty was still in fine working order and popular among tourists looking for somewhere swanky yet somewhat classy to spend a few days while catching the popular views.

  The Liberty was classy because Punchy kept her that way. He had worked as the sole handyman for the hotel for the past five years. It was one of the few jobs he could actually find and keep. His disability check hardly afforded him enough for food each month, and this job helped bring in extra money and he got free room and board to boot. Besides, Punchy wanted to work. He needed to keep moving, keep active, always keep dancing.

  Punchy flipped the light switch and the basement was bathed in bright florescent light. It was a large room, with one side dedicated to storage. Holiday decorations, stage costumes, and years of assorted bric-a-brac were stacked high against the walls. The other side of the basement belonged to Punchy. It was dedicated only to maintenance.

  There was a large workbench that ran the middle of the space. On top was a huge assortment of tools and devices, all used to keep the aging parts of the old hotel running. The tools were arranged neatly and Punchy knew where everything was.

  He walked past the bench to the main elevator. Next to the closed doors was a bulletin board. The board was empty much of the time, and only held safety notices for the hotel and the past building inspection. It was also were the shift managers updated what needed to be repaired every day.

  Today the board held two service requests. The first was in room 245. The pipes under the bathroom sink were leaking. Without looking at the pipes, Punchy already knew they needed new O-rings. The rings in all the bathrooms were going as of late and he had spent much of the past month traveling to different rooms replacing them. It was an easy job and would take the better part of half an hour at most.

  The second request was for room 532 on the top floor. The top floor housed large suites that were nicer than the basic rooms one could get at the hotel. Besides large living areas the suites also contained a full kitchen. These were usually rented by the week, by businessmen attending conferences or someone who had found work in the area but not a place to live quite yet.

  The service request stated that the garbage disposal in the kitchen sink was clogged and stopped working. This would probably be a bigger job than the bathroom pipes. The disposal units were tough and it usually took something major to cause them to stop working. It could be a real messy task trying to clean them out.

  Still, there were only two requests to start the day and if he was lucky nothing else would come in. If that happened, he could be finished by noon and knock off the rest of the day. He wanted to take in the flea market and see if he could find some more paperback westerns. Punchy read every night and his favorites were the classic Louis L’amour novels. The flea market was a haven for used paperbacks and he knew he could find some he had not enjoyed yet.

  He ripped the service orders from the board and stuffed them in his shirt pocket. At the workbench he strapped on a worn leather tool belt and began filling it with the tools needed for today’s jobs. He slurped down his second cup of coffee and punched the button for the elevator.

  The doors opened and Punchy stepped in hitting the button and making the round 2 glow a bright yellow. He hitched up the belt and ran a hand over his smooth head. He was still in good shape for being out of the ring for so long. Every week he hit the gym and worked the heavy bag for hours, sweat pouring from his skin, finding seclusion in the silence in his head. No one ever bothered him at the gym. Sometimes he wondered if they knew who he was, who he had been. But most of the time, he worked out alone, watching the others drift by as if in a dream.

  The elevator stopped on the first floor and the doors opened. A bell
hop pushed a rack of luggage onto the car, followed by a short, chubby man and his chubby wife. They were talking incessantly, back and forth, the woman waving her hands in frustration. For once, Punchy was grateful he could not hear what they were saying.

  The bellhop rolled his eyes at Punchy as he pushed the cart against the wall. Punchy nodded in return and settled further back into the elevator, giving the others ample room. At the second floor everyone got off. The bellhop led the arguing couple down the hall, the wife still waving her hands crazily about. Punchy grinned and turned the opposite way towards room 245.

  Poor kid, he thought. At least I don’t have to deal with that kind of stuff every day. He found he liked not having to interact with people. Despite the added challenges of being deaf and mute, there was the fact that Punchy just was not a people person. He never was. Even back in his heyday.

  He knocked on the room door and waited for an answer. Nothing. He tried again and when there was no answer he took out his access card and swiped it through the door reader. The little light flickered green and he entered the room. His card gained him access to every room in the hotel, one of the perks of being the handyman.

  The room was empty and Punchy was relieved no one was renting it. It became a challenge when guests were in the room. They always began talking really fast and it became awkward when they learned of his disabilities. They would nod slowly after reading the small note card Punchy carried with him and then look at him sadly. After that, they left him the hell alone. Which he was grateful for.

  He went to the bathroom and pulled the leaky pipes. After about twenty minutes of work, he was finished and the pipes were sealed again. He cleaned up the excess water and left the room.

  *****

  There was someone standing at the door to room 532. Punchy rounded the corner and was surprised to see a man leaning beside the door. The man was dressed in a polo shirt and dress slacks and was reading a magazine. Punchy stood before the stranger and made some noise by arranging his tool belt.

  The man looked up from his magazine and said something. After seven years of being deaf, Punchy had gotten skilled at reading lips, but the stranger was talking to fast and now seeing that Punchy wasn’t responding to his words began to move towards the handyman.

  Punchy reached into his back pocket and brought out the info card. He handed it to the man who looked at it warily and then read it:

  Hello. My name is Punchy and I am the handyman for the Liberty Hotel. If I do not respond to your questions it is because I am a deaf mute. If you need to communicate with me, please talk slowly and I will be able to read your lips.

  Thank you & have a nice day.

  The man handed the card back to Punchy and then leaned in really close. This time Punchy understood what was being said:

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  The man’s breath smelled of cigarettes and stale liquor. Punchy took a step back. What was this guy’s problem? He brought out the service request and presented it to the man, who looked it over and then looked back at the handyman.

  “Wait here.”

  The man went into the suite and closed the door. Punchy looked around the hall at the other rooms but no one else was up and about. The man came back out and waved Punchy in.

  There were four other men in the suite. They were sitting around the oak coffee table in the living area. They had raided the suite’s mini-bar, downing the brown liquid in the clear tumblers and then refilling them again. A large order of Chinese takeout sat on the table and the men stuffed their mouths with Lo Mein noodles and fried rice between sips from their tumblers.

  Three of the men did not even look up as Punchy entered but the fourth did. This one was the oldest by far, maybe in his sixties, with slicked back grey hair. Punchy noticed him immediately, not because of his age, but for the exquisite gray three piece suit the man wore. The others were young, in their late 20s, and dressed much the same way as the man who guarded the door was: polo shirts and slacks or jeans.

  The older man addressed the guard.

  “Were you rude, Russell?” Punchy watched their lips move.

  “Maybe,” Russell replied, “It don’t matter none anyways. He’s retarded. He can’t hear or talk.”

  Everyone chuckled at Russell’s insult. Everyone except the older gentleman.

  “That’s not funny, assholes.” The laughter quieted immediately. “Just because he is deaf mute does not make a man stupid.” He glared at his younger accomplices, daring each one in turn to challenge him on this statement. When none did, he continued. “Every man has his weakness,” the older man looked at Punchy, “and every man has his strengths.”

  “You came to fix the disposal?” the man asked. Punchy nodded. “Good. I apologize for my younger compatriots. They wouldn’t know where to piss unless someone told them.” Punchy remained still.

  The man motioned to the kitchen. “Please, if you would, fix our garbage disposal.” Punchy nodded again and headed for the kitchen. He began pulling tools from his belt and taking apart the disposal, all the while keeping one eye on the hotel’s guests.

  Eventually he learned all their names. The older gentleman was Weston. He was obviously the leader of the group as the others took their cues from him. The younger ones were: Russell, the doorman who was back outside the suite, Billy, who seemed to talk a lot even when no one listened, Crow, who was quiet and only talked when he needed to, and Hayden, who kept flicking a butterfly knife open and closed over and over again and did not seem particularly bright.

  Most of the talk in the room centered around horse racing. It seemed Weston liked to bet on the horses and they were glancing at the forms, trying to pick the winners. No one paid any mind to Punchy which made it easier for him to eavesdrop while he worked at the counter. He was curious. Who the hell were these guys? They were not the usual travelers the hotel catered too. And what was up with having someone stand watch in the hall?

  Billy stepped to the bar to pour Weston another drink. “Pop’s Galore is the favorite in the fifth, boss. But the betting odds are on Groovy Gravy at 8-1.” He handed the drink to Weston and plopped back down into one of the plush chairs.

  Weston shook his head. “Vincent told me Gravy hasn’t run good since early June. The inside is on Ricochet to win. That’s the bet.”

  “What inside?”

  “My inside,” Weston answered, “and my inside is never wrong. Take Ricochet in the fifth, Stormy Roses in the sixth, and Sleeping In Sunday in the last. Call them in.”

  Billy dialed a number on his cell phone and went out to the balcony. Hayden continued flicking his knife. Punchy sat the disposal in the sink. He needed to take the top plate off to check the teeth and see what had stopped the disposal from working. The sink was a good place to work because usually water and nasty grime spilled out. He reached for an Allen wrench and started removing screws, all the while watching the living area.

  Weston turned to Hayden. “Hayden.”

  The young man kept flicking the knife, twisting it and making it dance open and swing shut in a blur.

  “Hayden.”

  Hayden was absorbed, looking at a spot on the wall while the knife twirled over and over.

  Weston leaned forward. “HAYDEN!”

  The loud voice made Hayden jump and the blade sliced open one of his fingers. “AAHH! What the hell, Weston? What did you do that for?”

  Hayden glared at the old man who calmly returned the look.

  “Something wrong?” Weston asked. Hayden slowly shook his head and grabbed one of the restaurant napkins to cover his finger. “Good. Did you order the girl some food?”

  Hayden nodded. Weston turned to Crow. “Mr. Crow, will you make sure our guest has her lunch?”

  Reddish water began to spill from the disposal as Punchy removed the plate. He watched the water pool into the sink and slowly disappear down the drain. For a brief second, the water returned him to the cold locker room and the drops of blood collecting in t
he sink as he rinsed his bruised face off. He shook away the memory quickly and continued his task. Punchy worked his fingers into the disposal and began to clean the teeth.

  He watched as Crow grabbed two containers of Chinese and opened the door to the bedroom. There was a young woman sitting on the edge of the bed, crying silently. Crow towered over her and she looked at the floor. He sat the containers on the bed with a small pack of utensils. As he walked from the room, the girl looked out at Punchy. She saw him staring. Her lips moved and the handyman could barely make out what she was saying. But he knew.

  Please.

  Crow closed the bedroom door and returned to his seat on the sofa.

  Punchy’s fingers gripped something wet and solid in the disposal. He reached in and pulled out a mangled mess of grapefruit, coffee grounds, and something else: a twisted piece of plastic that turned out to be a driver’s license.

  Punchy turned the license around in his fingers. One half of it had been twisted up by the disposal but the other half, the part with the picture, was readable. It belonged to a woman and Punchy could see it wasn’t the girl in the bedroom. Where the one on the bed had short blond hair and was college aged, the picture woman was a bit older with long black hair and wore glasses.