Strike of Time

by Dennis Baylor

The car rolls to a stop at the street corner. Within his tinted windows’ enclosure, Jason Bayer’s palms rest atop the car’s steering wheel. His sullen face casts back determination in the rear view mirror. A gaze out of the driver’s side window reveals the house he lived in until the age of seventeen. His clear, brown eyes struggle against nostalgia’s hypnotic wave as they attempt to wash away time’s mark upon his once cherished home. Twenty-two years it has been since he last walked through its doors. Now, the only people moving in and out are drug addicts and their pushers. He switches off the car’s air conditioner and ignition. Despite the car’s cool, interior temperature, Jason’s hands are moist as he opens the door to the rising sun.

The sun’s shine does little to beautify the once attractive neighborhood. If anything, it brings light to every blight in view. The dented trash cans, sitting heavy upon weeded-out dirt, that line the curbside. Rusted, corrugated link fences that have been pushed, pulled and prodded to useless function. The many circulars stapled onto the wood splintered, electrical poles. The compacted soil spotted with grass, littered with urban detritus.

Jason crosses the empty street in the empty neighborhood that seemed larger so many years ago. The detached, corner house sags before him, a horrific reality for which he allows fleeting remembrances of what once was. Now, the porch’s floorboards contort and warp with nails popping their heads. Dirty windows manage to shimmer with cracks and broken glares.

Jason’s footfalls click-clack upon the splintered, concrete walkway up the house’s steps to the porch. His hand falls upon the weathered, screen door handle. A sticky residue fails to block the memories. The so sweet memories. Chasing his sister and brother around the front yard. Play wrestling with his father in and out of the house. The savory smell of his mother’s cooking. Jason is saddened by the splotchy, paint peeled porch floor. To the spot where his father died so many years ago.

“Who are you?” a sudden voice demands behind the screen door.

Jason’s internal malaise dissolves into a stab of fear as he looks to the silhouetted figure beyond the house’s entrance.

“I need party favors,” Jason states. “What else.”

“What else,” the figure repeats derisively.

“I’m not police,” Jason informs pulling out a show of cash from his suit jacket.

“Like some of the city’s finest aren’t my finest,” he proclaims. “Even if you was. Wouldn’t matter. Everything your eyes see is mine. What you lookin’ for?”

“Weed...a little coke,” Jason lies.

The screen door opens. Jason walks through eyeing the man who is not much older than Jason’s younger brother, Drake. As the door closes, Jason feels the pressure of a gun barrel against the back of his head.

The reed-thin dealer looks upwards to Jason. “That’s my boy, Deke with the gun,” he informs. “He won’t think once of pulling the trigger.”

“All I want is a good time,” Jason’s voice stumbles.

“So you will. What you got?”

“A deuce-fifty,” Jason croaks. A palpitation echoes in his chest while the sneering dealer stares at him. Jason struggles with his objective as he sees his height growth marks still etched in the column pole that heralds entrance to the living room. His living room. Once upon a time, but no more. The walls are covered in graffiti and filth. The floor awash in a sea of cardboard boxes and withered fast food bags and wrappers that overwhelm the frayed and stained furniture.

“Stay here,” the dealer orders. He nods to Deke whose gun still presses deeply into Jason’s neck. Jason watches the dealer move down to the basement.

“Will this take long?” Jason asks Deke.

“What?” he cracks back.

“Nothing,” Jason manages as noises from the upper story cascade down. “Friends?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Deke says. “Yo’ mamma.”

Jason’s smiling face turns toward Deke.

“I didn’t tell you you could look at me,” he spits.

“Who said I wanted to look at you,” Jason growls dipping down in unexpected motion. A surprised Deke moves to re-aim his gun. He is too slow. Jason grabs the gun with his left hand while delivering a slicing jab with his other hand to Deke’s neck. Deke’s involuntary reflexes release the gun as his hands reach to tend his neck. Jason catches the gun in midair bringing it forth in a clenched fist to meet Deke’s nose. A crackling noise precedes the large man’s collapse to the floor. Jason removes the clip from the gun and tosses each in either direction. Through the semi-darkness of the foyer, he sees another person standing in the house’s front doorway. A brilliant smile greets him.

“Dad?” Jason’s lips whisper.

The image of Jason’s father fades away as movement from below is heard. Jason tiptoes to the side of the basement door. He presses his back against the wall. To his right is the kitchen. Burnt paper and spoons are omnipresent.

“Alright,” the dealer begins coming up the stairs. “Two-fifty.”

Jason sees the pronounced, angular profile of the dealer’s head. He wastes little motion in grabbing the dealer by the shirt and slamming him into the wall opposite the door.

“What the...?!” the dealer exhales before Jason wails into him with a flurry of punches to the face and stomach. The dealer crumples to the floor as Jason looms above him. Jason darts down placing his knee onto the dealer’s chest. He removes a handgun from the dealer’s waist band. The clip and gun are tossed. Sun rays filtering through the ragged drapes spotlight the dealer’s blood leaking from his nose and mouth. Jason’s thoughts scramble to keep up with his body’s physical actions. The dealer’s groans feed Jason’s adrenaline causing a light show to dance in front of his blood-rushed eyes. He shakes free of the mental cobwebs and brings his face inches from the dealer.

“Do you know who I am?” he asks.

“A dead man. You don’t know who you’re messin’ with,” the dealer refutes.

“Yes I do...Keith,” Jason responds.

“How do you know...”

“I’m the chicken coming home to roost,” Jason informs. “God’s sense of humor. Maybe justice has brought me full circle.”

“You high already, man,” Keith says.

“Oh, I’m very high, Keith. Drake Bayer. Name rings a bell, doesn’t it?”

“Hell yeah. I smoked that fool last year. He came up in here and...”

Jason delivers a hard punch to Keith’s stomach. “I know why my brother was here.”

“Brother? Don’t mean any damn thing to me,” Keith sputters. “He comes up in here. My house. Talkin’ how he’s going to stop me. Stop me from runnin’ my business.”

“Your house?!” Jason spews as painful memories collide with angry thoughts. “Business. Your house and business are over.”

“I don’t think so,” Keith says. “Baby, what took you so long?”

Jason turns around looking up to see a gun pointed toward him. The person in shadows, holding the gun, inches forward. Jason smells marijuana and alcohol seeping from the woman’s pores.

“Get off of him,” her scratchy, familiar voice orders.

Jason’s baby sister comes into view as he stands up off of Keith. Drew’s eyes float in every direction while her gun remains aimed at Jason. Keith gets up gingerly making his way to Drew’s side. He looks at the still unconscious Deke while taking the gun from Drew’s hand.

“Like brother like brother,” Keith says caressing Drew’s hair. “Same end, same fate.”

As Keith prepares to pull the trigger, the screen and front doors fly open. Keith is distracted. Jason is not as he closes the distance between him and Keith. He kicks the gun out of Keith’s hand and clocks him in the jaw with his fist. The blow sends a stinger of pain up Jason’s arm. He watches Keith’s body go limp; it falls to the floor.

“Drew!” Jason screams at his sister holding her by the shoulders. She is unresponsive as his hands move down her arms feeling the syringe track marks. He cups her face, brown eyes showing no recognition.

“Let me go, “ she demands before passing out. Jason holds Drew on the floor. He looks to the house’s entrance. The doors have closed themselves.

Several minutes later, Jason returns to the house from his car where a sleeping Drew is in the back seat. His search of the house found no one else. He looks out to the neighborhood and sees nothing more than what stands before him, a dream ended. The lit match leaves his fingers, igniting the gasoline stream that he poured and splashed throughout the house. He hops into the car putting it in drive. The burning screams of memories call to him. He allows a final look back to the smoldering timber. His house no more. His home forever.

“Thanks Dad.”

THE END