Marcus Manuel was holding the pack of ice to his head and laying on his bed. Worse than any hangover he could remember, his head was pounding and felt like it was never going to stop. He was still wondering how they got away from the Feds. From off-roading to going over medians to nearly flipping over twice, the whole night was still pretty much a blur to him. He really questioned whether or not Oscar's unconscious ass would remember any of it, including Manuel and Machelli having to drag his fat ass back to the store and lay him in his bed. What a night. His head hurt too bad to realize that it was a bit suspicious that three felons could simply outrun the Feds and be able to just go back to their homes. It had all subsided quickly. Too quickly. It had gone too smoothly, and something was definitely up. But Manuel was just glad they had survived.
Manuel finally stepped out of his apartment and saw Sloan Waters getting into a taxi. "Where are you going?" Manuel asked, just wanting to hear some semblance of getting away. "Manhattan. I have a lunch date at 12:30." Manuel checked his watch. It was 12 noon. He looked back over to the lady getting into the taxi and she had some strange maniacal grin on her face as she ducked her head into the taxi. "Fucking psycho," he muttered to himself. "Getting to Manhattan in 30 minutes. In a taxi. Stupid bitch thinks she can actually escape this place."
Apparently she had forgotten that this was Baltimore. Washington Heights. Nobody ever escaped. Manuel turned back into the building amidst the sound of thunder.
Manuel woke up from his slumber just in time to hear the rain start back up, round four o'clock in the afternoon. Ice cream truck was pulling up and selling to the kids on the block. Kids standing out there, in that cold rain. Looked like they were having fun though. Better they enjoy their childhood while it lasts, Manuel thought. He knew more than anybody how hard it was to be a grown-up.
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Soon Charlie reached the abandoned warehouse, cracked open a bottle of the cheapest Vodka money can buy and chugged it down. Now he could begin his masterpiece.
Hues of Red, Black, Blue, and White bled across the rusted and rotting walls of the old warehouse. Charlie knew the ways of grafitti well, and he never made mistakes. The paint can became an extension of his body, like the paint was flowing from his finger tips. His lungs filled with the toxic fumes from the cans, but Charlie could have cared less, he simply washed the paint down with more cheap Vodka.
Slowly, the masterpiece began to take shape. Everywhere on the 20 foot space there were red and white roses, and they were beautiful, only the roses were bleeding a deep, dark red. And then a beautiful face began to appear on the wall. Charlie had committed every curve and dimple of his mother's face to memory.
At one point, Charlie paused to puke up a little Chinese food from earlier. Then he proceeded to wash the taste of death out of his mouth with even more Vodka. The liqour helped the pain, painting for his mother gave him more pain, so Charlie drank more.
Soon after, Charlie saw Fil wander by mutterring about this or that. Fil asked Charlie what he was doing. And Charlie explained he was painting for his dead mother, so she could be remembered in her home town.
Fil shook his head, "Death ain't easy Charlie, but its gotta happen to everything. Dying is the only thing you have to do in your life. And thats the truth. You just gotta know when its your time."
Charlie was taken back by Fil's comment, partially because he didn't think a hobo would be so intraspective and partially because he was drunk as shit and anything can have a profound affect on a drunk person. Charlie thought for a moment, shook his head and went back to painting.
Later, Marcus Manuel passed by, looking terribly shaken and bruised up.
"Yo! Where's that old man Oscar at?" Charlie shouted, though his words now were terribly slurred.
Luckily, Marcus spoke drunk, and said, "Oh we got into some trouble last night, he's probably still recovering.
Charlie nodded, he knew not to ask anymore questions.
"Well... I'm glad someone is finally making this old piece look nice. Keep up the good work Charlie," Marcus said.
Before Charlie could respond, Marcus was gone. Charlie's hands looked like they were dipped in paint now, but he kept working. Soon, the sun started to rise, and Charlie's masterpiece was nearly complete.
As the first light of day fell onto the rundown town of Washington Heights, Charlie's masterpiece caught a beam of sunshine. His mother looked beautiful and so real in the light of the sun. Charlie completed his work by signing his name, and writing, "...And even the Angels will envy her beauty and kindness." in black paint. Charlie stepped back from the wall, admirred his work and began to cry. He bawled his eyes out, like an infant, and he was so intoxicated his tears tasted like Vodka. It was his best work, it was perfect, and it was all for his mother; all for her that loved him so much.
He knew there was nothing left for him in this shithole town. He knew there was no one left who even loved him on this shithole earth. He missed his mother.
The paint had barely finished drying when Charlie pulled out the Desert Eagle from his bag and flipped the safety off. He looked up to the sky, and pushed the cold steel barrel into his mouth. He could taste the gun powder, and he could imagine what the hollow points looked like, just waiting to be released.
Charlie said a prayer, but he knew God couldn't hear him.
He tried hard to picture his mother's face, and opened his eyes and realized her face was right in front of him.
Charlie pulled the trigger.
Cape Day
It was a Cape day. Marissa had decided only hours before that she would leave. She had suffered through enough of the misery, despair, and hopelessness of Washington Heights. Fil's death put her over the edge.
She didn't know why, exactly, but the death of Fil cast the final break in the chain binding her to the neighborhood. His ridiculous demeanor perfectly encapsulated the Washington Heights attitude -- its quirks, its awkwardnesses, its foolishness. All of it had fallen from a poorly constructed treehouse, blasted by the Chesapeake winds.
She breezed out of the basement door, onto the street. Everything and everyone was bustling from the energy of death -- a part of life was missing. For Marissa, it was the last relic of her apartment experience.
First person she saw, cursing at a waiting taxi, was Manuel. She overheard his murmurings, that no one could escape Washington Heights. And she laughed. Today she was gone. And she would leave in fashion, with the best friend she'd had in this place.
Oscar strolled casually to Marissa from the other side of the street. She packed several suticases -- he, a duffle bag.
"Ready to roll, girl?"
"Never been more ready. Let's go."
And together they drove, in Oscar's fresh Caddilac, up 95 through the heart of the Northeast. Through Delaware and Maryland and Philadelphia, they cruised. Through the serene woods of New Jersey, up to the city beyond comparison. It was a surreal journey for a girl who hadn't left Baltimore in years.
It was the return. The more they drove, the more Marissa blended it with her surroundings. And the more Oscar stood out. Final, past the Big Apple and Connecticut and Rhode Island, the motley pair reached Massachusetts.
Into the cul-de-sac they drove, right along the most expensive beach in New England. Out of the car they stood, totally out of place. Even Marissa, from her years of Washington Heights, could not fit in with the prim and proper neighborhood.
This would be her revenge. With a massive Latino, a dog fighter at that, standing by her side, Marissa could not be rejected. Her family would find the image too strange, too absurd, too frightening.
"It can't be."
"Hi mom."
"Who's the, uh, man?"
"My lover, Oscar." She muttered to her friend, "just go along with it."
"Hello Mrs. Bancroft. Nice to meet you."
The mother didn't even look at Oscar. "Marissa, what are you doing here?"
"Just dropping by."
"Ok. You can come in. But you can only sleep in the servant's quarters."
And that was that. Marissa and Oscar settled in to their indefinite invitation. They were treated not as relatives or friends but as regular house servants. They were expected to join the chorus of chores and duties.
So this is what the good life is like, Marissa thought to herself. After years of indoctrination, she had thought the New England aristocratic life the only one worth living. Her tenure, her sentence, at Washington Heights was meant only to position an eventual return to Hyannis.
Now she was here, for as long as she wanted, with her cold and unforgiving parents. Their hospitality came more from etiquette than any personal sympathy.
After a week of unsucessful trips to find Marissa an apartment, she told Oscar -- still reeling from the culture shock -- that she wanted to go home. He obliged.
The trip back to Washington Heights, from suburb to slum, brought Marissa to the home in her heart. Yes, she admitted to herself, I don't look it or dress it or even act it. But I think and feel the rhythm of this place. It's misery manifested, true, but it is human. And unlike Massachusetts, it doesn't deny it.
It was a Cape day. Not the Cod one. But the one jutting out into the Chesapeake. Fil had resurrected in her mind -- his memory, the homeless guy living life for all the right reasons, had rolled away the down shutting her perspective. This was home.
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