Same Day, Different Shit

By Ken Goldman

So I’m thinking this is just my rotten luck when it happens . . .

I’m driving to work and every red light has my name on it. I was going to be late for my first period loonies again, no ‘bout a doubt that.  Goddamned kids will probably  be swinging from the rafters by the time I chug into class, and  that shriveled bitch, Hennessey, swore she wouldn’t cover those 11th grade nimrods again for me if I were on fire.  Last time she did that Ralph Ashby liberated a tampon from her pocketbook, then hackey-sacked it across the room, probably the most imaginative thing the kid had done all year. Old lady Waxman will be happy to deposit another of her infamous pink slips inside my mailbox again. “Third time’s the charm” the bat mumbled last week when we passed in the hall.  Couldn’t manage a ‘good morning’ with a chainsaw at her throat.  It’s probably just as well I skip the  class anyway.  I haven’t planned squat for them.

The clown in the battered Escort behind me is leaning on his horn, like there’s somewhere I can move except into the back seat of the Camry at my bumper.  Asshole.  I’ve got another twenty minutes of drive time ahead, my gas gauge is on ‘e,’ and I’m burning fumes with this psychopath sniffing at my rear.  Yeah, this is how I want to die, all right.

That was when I first noticed Catalina hitching a ride on the corner of 43rd . . .

Wearing a lime green sweater stuffed full of tits, she’s sporting an ass cloned from Britney Spears. Instead of those textbooks she should be carrying a sign that says ‘Rip my clothes off now.’ The girl sees me staring, sends a hundred watt smile my way, and steps closer wiggling that dainty hitchhiking thumb right at me. She’s looking for trouble, and there are enough creeps in this town willing to find her some.

But she isn’t  bad, not bad at all.  No harm in looking, I figure.  And then it hits me . . .

Do more than look!  Show some balls!

It seemed like a good idea at the time. Hell, I could be saving her life, and it beat listening to more of ‘Best of Stern.’    

“Hey, Miss?”
 
I honk my horn,  just a tap or two to show I’m not some drooling midlife masturbator creaming into his palm like this tailgating Section 8 behind me.  I pull toward the curb,  wave the jerk in the Escort past, and stop alongside her. “Do you need a lift?”

She looks at me, once-overing my Civic to determine whether it’s in her best interest to flag me on, then smiles and climbs in.  I admit I hadn’t thought this through, but since Leslie left I’ve been trying to be more spontaneous.  While I’m sitting like some numbnuts hayseed asking myself where to take it from here, the traffic selects this moment to move. 

“Are you going past City College?” she asks, curling one knee close to her chest to make herself comfortable as only a girl in her twenties can.  “You’re going to Souderton High, right? I’m a little before that.”

“I teach there. Does it show?” I regret my words even before I finish speaking them. One look at my sports jacket is proof I’m not exactly upwardly mobile, and between the Souderton skinheads and the numskull administration my personal odometer has advanced several years. I look burned out enough to have been selected from central casting. 

She giggles with an ease that could break the heart of any guy over thirty, spitting out words bam! bam! like she’s got to keep talking to exhale.
 
“The parking sticker on your windshield says Souderton High so I figured you were a teacher. I notice a whole lot of stuff when I first meet someone.  It’s just something I’m good at. I have friends used to go to Souderton. Maybe some were in your class.  What do your students call you?”

[. . . and breathe . . .]

“Well, ‘Shit Head’ is etched into my desk. But it’s Michael Fuches on my paycheck.  I think I prefer Shit Head.”

When the girl smiles I feel my body temperature jump.

“I’m Catalina. That’s the beach where my mother got knocked up when she was a kid attending Berkeley. I’m glad she didn’t get it on in Malibu.” The girl moves closer as if sharing a secret.  “You can call me Cat. In high school I used to have a crush on my English teacher. He would read the paper whenever he tested us and never once looked up. Not ever. Some teachers are pretty easy to fool, so I cheated a lot in his class.” This time her giggle is noticeably forced.  “Guess I shouldn’t be saying that to another teacher.”

Two minutes in the passenger’s seat and she’s sharing the Reader’s Digest version of her life. I don’t doubt the girl knows she’s giving me a chubby.  I kid her about how I might have to go back to change her transcript because of that cheating thing, and Catalina’s face suddenly goes white with absolute horror, as if there were such a thing as a permanent record. 

“Hey, it was a joke! I’m joking!”

She busts out laughing.

“See what I mean? You’re pretty easy to fool too.”

Like a guy who’s just shit into his own hat I offer a polite smile, then a prolonged and awkward silence. On Stern, Elephant Boy is trying to get through a chorus of “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”  City College is only a few minutes away, and I’m catching all the green lights now.

“Do you read all those books you’re carrying?” 

“I try to. American Lit isn’t so bad.  I like Poe’s feel for Goth. But this week it’s Robert Frost.  Nowhere near as cool.”

“‘Poetry begins in delight and ends in wisdom.’”

“Yeah. Uh huh.”

Whatever literary acumen a teacher may possess will always spring to mind whenever a familiar author is mentioned,  and I can easily go into Frost’s horseshit about roads not taken, choices given us and how we invariably fuck up anyway. But there’s this teacherly voice I have inside, and it’s saying, Yeah, schmucko, recite an English lesson for her. That always makes the ladies wet.

“I taught ‘The Road Not Taken’ a few weeks ago to kids too stoned to remember the alphabet. Half the class fell asleep. Just another perk of the teaching profession.”

“You don’t sound very happy with your choices.”

“Well, my last paycheck covered December’s legal fees, so the job serves its purpose.”

Catalina shows some interest, even moves closer.  “Your wife took the house and kids, and left you with only the dog, right?”

“No. She took the dog too.” This is a joke, but somehow I can’t muster up the smile to go with it.  “When I discovered my wife was sleeping with our dentist, I was pretty pissed. I tried to work things out, but Dr. Dan’s paycheck made mine look like bus fare.  Now she can talk to my lawyer for a few years. I never really wanted my marriage to go south, but the fates don’t seem interested in turning that woman around.”

And then, an insane and unthinkable miracle.  Catalina is touching my leg. I can feel the heat travel like an electric current right through her fingers. I’m thinking maybe this is a sympathy pat, but her hand stays put and for one crazed moment I pretend not to notice.

 “Was my story that pathetic?”
 
“Shhh . . .”  she whispers so close her breath warms my face, and  her fingers glide north. “That teacher I had the crush on? He was going through a divorce too. He gave me an ‘A.’  Would you like to know why?”  Before I can answer, her tongue flicks my ear, and I’m thinking I know how she got that ‘A’ and why she’s called Cat.

“We’re coming up on City College.”

“Keep driving.”

“Listen, I’m late for class as it is . . .”

“The road not taken, Michael.”

“I’m married.”

“Separated.  Call your school.  Tell them you’re having car trouble.”

“You’re pulling my leg again, aren’t you?”

Her hand is on my zipper.  “This isn’t your leg, Michael.” 

So, I reach for my cell phone. How often does something like this come along for a guy like me?  I pull off Roosevelt and drive maybe fifteen minutes to some darkened lot Catalina knows that’s hidden in the shadows of Interstate-95. There’s not much around except a dozen abandoned cars in various states of decomposition, and my Civic seems to fit right in.  I cut the engine not to draw attention, but it doesn’t look like this spot gets many visitors. I’m hoping Catalina won’t suddenly announce she’s got a penis.

I smile.  She smiles. I move close to kiss her. Damn, she smells good.

Surprise, surprise . . . 

“I know you’re easy to fool, Michael,” she whispers, “but this was too simple. Roll the window down, will you?  We have company.”

Lumbering from the shadows comes this hairball tattooed from wrist to shoulder. The gorilla saunters alongside my car, then whips out a pistol aimed at my frontal lobe. I turn to the girl, my mouth hanging open like an idiot who’s been bitch slapped.  She’s smiling, for Chrissake, and I realize I’ve been snockered big time.

“You don’t go to City College, do you?” 

“Nope.  Never read a word of Frost. Sorry.”

“And I’m guessing your name isn’t Catalina either?”

“Not before this morning. I apologize for that too, Michael.  Now if you don’t mind getting out, my friend and I would like to borrow your car.”

“And your wallet too,” the gorilla adds, motioning with his gun for me to haul ass, so I climb out.

“Your boyfriend?” I ask her.

“We’re more like business associates.”

“Well, as a business woman you didn’t pay very much attention to detail, Cat, or whatever your fucking name is. I’m carrying only a few dollars, and my credit cards are maxed. Wife-dentist-dog, remember? Does Meat Loaf here plan to shoot me for pocket change?”

The ape now has me standing balls-on with him. But the girl’s smile has spread like some Cheshire cat’s, and I know she’s got another ace she hasn’t shown. “Michael, Leslie is well aware of your financial circumstances. She just doesn’t feel like waiting any longer before you decide to sign the papers.”

“You know Leslie --?”

Kong’s gun presses against my temple.  It’s easy to fill in the blanks from here. My wife has sunk her teeth into me for one last time, cut some corners so I’m out of her life before Christmas.  An insane thought enters my mind. I wonder how much this hit has cost her and Dr. Dan, D.D.S.

“It’s only business, Michael. I met your wife in exercise class and we got to talking, is all.  I was never going to be the one pulled the trigger. I was beginning to like you.”

“You were waiting for me on that corner knowing I was going to drive past? How did you know I would offer you a ride?”

“I didn’t. Leslie did.  She knows you better than you think. But I’ll admit I flirted just a little.”  That giggle again.  I’m beginning to hate it.

“You’re going to just leave me here? Make it look like a cheap robbery?”

“Happens every day, Michael. Druggies around here will blow you away without thinking twice, just for coin or a lousy car.  Don’t be so angry. It’s nothing personal.”

“Let’s cut the crap,” her hairy pal mutters.

The girl’s smile falters.  The pisser is that I think she feels bad about this, which is more than I can say about Leslie.

“Look, I have some money at the ATM. It’s yours. All of it.” 

The Neanderthal isn’t buying. His gun stays where it is.

I’m beginning to sweat. I figure it will be easier if I shut my eyes, shut them tight.  I hope it’s over fast.

“Goodbye, Michael.  I really am very sorry . . .”
 

. . . and I’m thinking this is just my rotten luck when it happens . . .


I’m driving to work and every red light has my name on it. There’s this incredible looking girl hitching on the corner of 43rd carrying an armload of books. She’s probably a college kid, and when she sends a smile my way I can feel my heart boogie.  Well, there’s no harm in looking, is there?

Maybe I should do more than look?

We eyeball each other, but our flirtation is interrupted by the jerk behind me who has been on my tail for twenty blocks. The guy rams me so hard my brain feels like a bite has been taken from it.  I push open the door prepared for a shit hemorrhage.  My rage has probably unnerved the girl with the books.  She’s already walking away.

“Hey, putz!” I shout at the battered Escort.  “You want to hit me a little harder?  You haven’t knocked the fender off yet!”  This isn’t like me, but sometimes you have to show you’ve got a pair.

Ford Escort isn’t the cowboy I’d assumed but a balding milquetoast along the lines of Stanley Tucci.  The man is cowering behind the wheel, rolling up his window even as I approach.  It’s always easier acting tough when you’ve got a ton of metal surrounding you like fucking armor.  But I’m not through with him yet.  I pretend to memorize his license tag just to throw a scare into the little weasel.  For good measure I cast him a menacing sneer and get back into my car.

The light is green, but there’s too much traffic and only the Camry in front of me makes it across the intersection. By the time my turn comes to pull away, the signal has gone red.

And then Tucci bumps me again!

This time I see purple . . .

“Motherfucker!!”

I’m set to come at him with guns blazing, but the little psycho bumps me a third time, (“What the fuck---?”) and he keeps right on bouncing my car into the oncoming traffic. In my rearview mirror I watch him smile with every tooth showing, and I swear I see the whites of this madman’s eyes. I’m almost standing on my brake, my tires are screeching, and now I’m the one smashing fists into my horn.

“Hey!  Goddammit!! Hey!!!”

But Tucci is on his horn also, and the wailing duet does nothing to stop the city bus coming at me. Twenty tons are going to roll over my seat with me still in it, crunching every bone in my body like a bag of pretzels.

“Oh shit . . .”

The blast of horns overpowers my scream. I’m still shouting my lungs raw when the bus hits. 

It will be easier if I shut my eyes . . .


. . . shut them tight.

“ . . . Goodbye, Michael. I really am very sorry. . .”

[I’m going to die in this junk yard.  Right here.  Right now. God help me, I’m going  to --]

I hear the ape’s gun click.  Once. Then again.  I squint an eye open. The hairball is scrutinizing his rod trying to decipher the mystery of its inaction, seeming to forget that I’m still standing here.

“I told you that old Challenger.22 was an unreliable pain in the ass,” the girl says, climbing out. “Look, maybe we should just forget this whole--”

There’s a dull pop, like a toy cap pistol. It isn’t very loud, but clearly the .22 Challenger has selected an inopportune moment to self-correct. The girl’s face goes quizzical as she examines the dollop of blood on her hand from the expanding bullet hole smearing her sweater. Her Britney ass leaves dusty snail tracks along my Civic’s front panel while she crumples to the ground.

“ . . . forget . . . the whole . . . thing . . .”

Nobody moves. Kong jostles the girl with his boot.

Nothing. He looks at me.

“Is she--?”

“I can’t tell.  I think so.”  

“Shit!  Shit!!” 

His vocabulary is severely limited, but the man expresses my thoughts succinctly enough. While he’s distracted by this turn of events, I check the girl for a pulse, listen for a heartbeat. The .22 has proven pretty effective after all. I expect the man’s reaction will be slow in coming. I may have some latitude for negotiation. 

“Listen. I think maybe I should say something here.”  He stares at me like I’m talking a foreign language. In his case, maybe I am. This ball game has been called, that’s absofuckinglutely certain.  “I don’t know you, I didn’t know the girl, and I’ll lay odds you never personally met my wife either. You wouldn’t recognize the woman if you fell on top of her, right?”

“Cat took care of all that. She knew your wife.”

Bruno has slipped up.

“Catalina was her real name?”

“Catherine.  But I didn’t really know her either. We met at the bus stop two weeks ago.  She said she knew a way to make some money fast.”

I quickly do the math.  Leslie enters into a murder contract with a woman she hardly knows whose partner in crime has the intelligence of a flea, and Catherine fakes her name to a man Mungo is going to shoot anyway.  These are genuine amateurs on the wife’s payroll.

“Listen to me. No one knows who you are. That means no one can identify you. Besides that, my wife and that dentist prick she’s been fucking are never going to connect themselves to a second killing by paying someone neither of them has met, and the additional body count is going to complicate things enormously. There’s no money to be made here.  Not any more.  Do you think you could maybe put that gun down?”

“You know me.  And you can identify me.”

This is not a good time for the man to grow a brain.

“People will want to know what I was doing here with that girl.  A teacher is supposed to be a fucking role model for political correctness. How long do you think it would take before I was out of a job?” 

Moose nods.  He’s either going along with it or is completely stumped, but either way I’m halfway home.

“I didn’t see anything here today, okay?  You can walk away from this, I can be in front of my sophomores in twenty minutes, and we can forget this ever happened.  Given the circumstances, my wife will think twice before she pulls shit like this again. But she won’t need to.  I’m signing those damned papers today. Listen, the bottom line is, you can cut your losses if we end it here.”

“I have to think about this. I have to think!”
 
My proposition is a lot for Tiny to absorb, but the man catches on to the basics easily enough. We can walk away from this.  It’s really as simple as -- well, as simple as just walking away.

“I need a lift to the bus station.”

I hand two twenties to my new pal. “The ticket is on me. You want to say goodbye to Catherine, maybe cover her up or something?” I suggest placing her inside one of the junkers, maybe uttering a few words as an extemporaneous eulogy. But Bluto shows no desire to grieve.  Instead he carries Catherine to a rusted Dodge sedan, pops the trunk, and drops her inside like last week’s laundry.  I do the honors of slamming the trunk shut. 

“Better get rid of her textbooks too,” I tell him as if I do this sort of thing every day. “Drop them off somewhere else, okay?”

“Nobody never comes down here except to dump more junk. Could be weeks before anyone finds her.  But no one will, not any time soon.”

“Yeah, well, drop the books off somewhere else, okay?”
 
So much for sentiments. We climb into my Civic.

Goodbye, Cat.  It’s nothing personal.
 
I drop my dimwitted friend off a few blocks before the State Street Terminal.  It’s crowded during morning rush, and I don’t want anyone seeing us together. I’m hoping I’ve enough gas to make it to Souderton.

Business as usual. That’s the plan, a return to normalcy, the same old same old. Maybe I’ll give that pop quiz on sentence structure fourth period. I can almost hear my sophomore whiners screaming right now . . .


. . . and I’m still shouting my lungs raw when the bus hits.

 

A sickening metal thud.  The crunching of steel and busted glass joins the squealing of tortured tires.
 
I’m screaming myself hoarse even after the bus hits.  

Am I dead?

[No, my car hasn’t been touched.] 
 
Then I’m still here! 
 
  - - - I’m still alive!!

I’m doubting the weasel driving the Escort is as lucky. He has ricocheted my car through the intersection while placing himself directly in the path of the bus. Still ringing in my ears are the echoes of Stanley Tucci’s Ford pummeled to the sidewalk by twenty tons of city transit.

People are milling about my car, but I pay them no mind. I need to regroup my senses. Eventually a semblance of clear thinking returns. 

On the sidewalk down 43rd Street the Escort is stuffed beneath the bus like a beetle crunched by a huge boot. I’m thinking that whatever remains of the weenie behind the wheel must look like guacamole, proof positive that there is a God. I pull over, climbing out to have a look.

“There’s the guy he bumped!” someone yells near me.

“Hey, Mister! Are you hurt?” another guy shouts.

I wave them off.  I want to see Tucci’s face.  I’m hoping the prick looks like road kill.

He doesn’t.  In fact, he’s been thrown clear. The worm probably rolled a little on the asphalt, but he’s landed on top of some woman the size of a Barkolounger. Except for a few scratches and a rip along the crotch of his pants, he has managed to beat all odds. He looks like a mouse trying to fuck a rhinoceros, although the woman under him is out cold. Tucci is dazed and doesn’t notice me staring with all the other rubberneckers. For what it’s worth, I doubt he’ll be running up against another bumper anytime soon.

Already I hear sirens. The cops are on their way, although something else has the crowd’s attention further down the block.  Inside the Starbucks alcove both the bus and the Escort are belching tufts of grey smoke while passengers are staggering into the street. The ghoul in me has to see this close up.

Books are scattered all over the sidewalk, hard-backed college texts. A girl’s legs protrude from beneath the front wheel of the bus.  I can see some of the lime green of her sweater and I know it’s the hitchhiker who was smiling at me on the corner. I pick up one of the books.  It’s got poems by Robert Frost.

I feel like throwing up.  I don’t need to see more so I return to my car.

Sure, I can hang around for the police reports and the insurance paperwork. But I’ve pretty much had enough. This has been one long morning and I’m over an hour late for class.  The return to normalcy will do me good. When shit happens you’ve got to roll with it.  I should be grateful I’m alive, right? Of course, so is that bald prick.  No one ever said life is fair. 

I need to close my eyes for a moment.

I think I’m okay. 

I start my engine, turn on the radio. 

It’s time to get on with my life . . . 


. . . and every red light has my name on it.  I figure I can make it to the school by second period if I forget about picking up this coed in the green sweater who’s hitching on the corner at 43rd. I’ll need to outrun the clown who’s been on my tail the last ten minutes.  I swear this guy is trying to kill me.

Just my rotten luck. The needle has been on ‘e’ all morning, I’m running on fumefarts, and my Civic punks out ten minutes from my classroom. The Sunoco station is fifteen blocks behind me and I’m cursing and screaming and punching the steering wheel like a mad man.  But I don’t have much choice, so I take the walk.

An hour later I’ve got the gas can and I’m thinking I can still make it to my fourth period. Snapping on the radio I’m hoping to catch the last of Stern when I hear the special news bulletin.

It’s crazy, isn’t it?  The story has been on t.v. since this morning and I still can’t believe it. Every newscast has been showing my sophomore girls screaming from the windows and those ten misfit malcontents running rampant around the school like pimpled terrorists. It’s Columbine all over again. How many Souderton kids did those shooters take down this morning? Twenty? Five teachers, too, and a few more are critical. Elvira Hennessey was covering for me, and I know she put up one hell of a fight when that little prick Ashby waltzed into my classroom. But he blew her brains all over the chalkboard just the same. Didn’t give a rat’s ass who was sitting behind the desk - - the kid just wanted to take some teacher down today. It could have been me.  Hell, it would have been me.

Christ, Joe, talk about dumb luck.  There but for the grace of God. Even Leslie called to ask if I was okay. You know, if I were a betting man I’d say the woman is having second thoughts. Sad it takes something like this to bring my wife to her senses, but they always say things happen for a reason.

Go figure.

Yeah, I’m ready for another beer now. Thanks.

About the Author
Ken Goldman is a former teacher with homes in Bucks County Pennsylvania and the South Jersey shore. His stories have received honorable mentions in Datlow & Windlings Year’s BestFantasy & Horror 7th and 9th editons (1993 and 1995).  He has published stories in over 335 publications. His work appears in the
anthologies New Traditions in Terror, The MOTA : Truth 2002 Anthology, Freaks, Geeks, & Sideshow Floozies, The Witching Hour First and Second Editions, and Darkness Rising 5 : Black Shroud of Fear,  Justus Roux’s Erotic Tales Anthology, The Fear Within, and The Blackest Death Anthology Vol. 1.  Coming in 2004 are the anthologies Vicious Shivers, Underworlds, and Raging Horrormones  Ken is a current member of the Horror Writers Association.

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