Fred Aiken Writing

I can admit when I messed up. I don’t like to, and sometimes I’ll deny it until I’m caught, but generally speaking, I like to think that I can admit to my own mistakes.

You’re holding a gun to my head.

Well, yeah, but that seems like a mistake on your part.

How do you mean?

I certainly didn’t tell you to come to work today. You came to that conclusion all yourself.

So, because I came to work, to work for money so I can keep feeding, clothing, and sheltering my family, I’m the one at fault.

Not necessarily. Though, really, who’s to say that there needs to be someone culpable at this moment.

Me. The guy with a gun pointed at him.

And now you’re confronted with your own mortality.

And…

How does it feel? The last time I almost died I kept smelling burnt oreos roasting over a pile of mangos covered in lighter fluid.

That’s odd. No, that’s more than odd. It’s oddly specific. I don’t think anyone can say they’ve ever smelled such a smell.

I did. When I almost died a few years back. I smelled that exact smell.

But from what context?

What do you mean?

Usually when someone references a specific sort of smell such that they’re referencing having actually smelled what they’re describing.

Not always.

At least with this situation.

You’re getting caught up on the wrong detail.

Oh yeah, you still have that thing pointed at me. Is it even loaded?

The gun?

Yeah!

Of course, yeah. Why? Do you think I would bring an unloaded gun to threaten you with? Do you think I assume everyone I meet is a coward and would simply do what I asked of them just by waving this thing around? Because that would be awesome. This thing would pay for itself and then some. But no, alas, sometimes I have to shoot people.

You’ve killed another person before?

I never said anything about killing anyone. Though I guess I don’t always stick around to see the outcome. And it’s not like I’m going to do a wellness check on the people I robbed.

You’ve admitted to quite a few crimes.

I guess.

Then just admit that you’re in the wrong. You shouldn’t be doing this, it’s a crime, and, man, I really wish you’d put that thing away because you’re making me incredibly nervous swinging it around like that. I haven’t resisted. I’ll give you the money you want. Just put the damn gun away.

I fell for that once. The guy was all adamant and everything. Really made me believe that he’d give me all his money if I just simply put down the gun. But you know what happened the moment I put it down? He pulled out his own shotgun from under the register and shot me. Nearly killed me, too. That’s when I had that near-death experience, you know, with the burnt oreos and the whatnots. I’m not falling for that again. The gun stays up and on guard until I leave.

Fine. But I still say there’s no need for theatrics. You could’ve just asked.

I immediately resented ever being handed a pencil. The sound of the graphite against stale paper drove me mad as a child. 

But my teachers never wanted to give me a pen.

In 3rd grade, Ms. Contreras always said I needed to show my work, so I needed an eraser in order to cover up my mistakes. I didn’t understand how that was showing my work, since my mistakes were a part of the process to getting to the right answer, at least for me. I never had the right answer off the bat.

When I found pens that had erasers, I thought it was a godsend. I immediately had my parents buy as many pen-eraser combos as they’d let me, and I assumed I’d never have to deal with another pencil for the rest of my life. Problem solved for life. 

Then at the end of the school year my peers and I were introduced to standardized testing for the first time. “You’ll need a #2 pencil for the test,” Ms. Contreras said.

I asked why. Her face turned red, and I’m pretty sure if she would’ve been holding a pencil in her hands it would’ve snapped. She pursed her lips, straightened out her skirt, and cleared her throat before responding, “Because, the computer can only recognize bubbles when they’re filled in by #2 pencils.”

“But aren’t computers supposed to be smart?”

“They are. But these particular computers that read y’all’s tests only work when you use a #2 pencil.”

“But you would be able to read the test if I filled it out in pen?”

“Yes, but…”

“So, that means you’re better at reading tests than this computer, which only function is to read tests.”

“Do not, I repeat, do not fill out your test in any other writing utensil other than a #2 pencil.”

“I just don’t understand. You admitted that you could read it if it was done in pen.”

“I’m required to run it through the computer. So if you use a pen, or any other writing utensil other than a #2 pencil, then you will fail the test and possibly be held back a year. All your friends will move on and you’ll have to repeat the 3rd grade again.”

It wasn’t a great motivator to tell me I’d never have to see my classmates again. They had spent the past year mocking my collection of Pokemon cards and ostracizing me from most, if not all, social circles because of how poor my parents were, as if it were contagious. Needless to say, I made a point to use my pen with an eraser for every standardized test.

The humidity has grown unbearable, yet still I come out here each night. It’d be better if it were autumn, maybe the beginning of winter, but I don’t have much of a choice in the matter of the season. All I know is that I need to tag the walls with my aerosol signature. Each light looks like a cop’s siren speeding towards me. My right leg instinctively leans toward the closest escape route, which is hard to see with it so dark out at 3am. Maybe I don’t look as suspicious as I think I do, but that’s a lie.

I think of all the crimes I could be charged with, past and future. If I run, then I’ll definitely look suspicious. But I’m already suspicious. Damn.

The light passed by. Some Nissan driving at a random hour of night. Maybe they’re going to do the same thing I want to do. But probably not. I imagine everyone is just like me. I think I would hate them all.