AN AMERICAN EXECUTION
Neal and Samuel walked along Geary, forcing their way through the throng of high school girls congregated outside of Burger King. They all wore uniforms and their starched shirts were all frayed and yellowed. “The kids from the snot school,” Neal said.
“What?”
“The kids from the snot school. It’s a line from Thomas that I never understood.”
“à Becket?”
“Dylan.”
“Bob?”
“Hoskins.”
“Johns.”
“That’s Hopkins. Um…Jasper.”
“Unitas.”
Neal chuckled. “There’s no Jasper Unitas.”
They continued on like that, dropping names, Neal grinning at Samuel’s deadpan delivery. They hurried through the afternoon crowd, their shoulders thrust forward, sidestepping old women eclipsed by pink plastic bags and hopping over the little dogs tied to parking meters who yapped at the wide open doors of the grocers. They paused before a menu taped to the window of a Chinese restaurant. “This place isn’t so bad.” Neal blocked the glare of the sun with his hand. “It’s cheap. We should try to grab dinner here before you head home.”
“There’re flies in the window.”
“There’re flies in every window.”
Samuel buried his hands in the armpits of his black t-shirt and sped along, his head bent into the wind.
“You really should have brought a jacket. Or at least a sweater.”
“It’s California for Chrissakes. It’s supposed to be warm.”
“It’s a big state. It’s got a lot of weather.”
“This is worse than Pittsburgh.”
Neal shrugged his shoulders and stepped from the curb to the street. “So you never told me about the flight. You practically fell asleep in the cab.”
“Oh, the flight was fine. Not nearly as long as I expected.”
“Did they show any movies?”
“Yeah. One, but I forget what it was. Just a romcom or something. Anyway, there was a storm outside. I was too busy looking through the window to pay any attention.”
“Really? A storm? I’ve never seen one from a plane before.”
“It was scary as hell. That lightning is non-stop, you just can’t see it all from below. I must have looked like a wreck because the stewardess kept refilling my drink without even asking. It was like she wanted me to pass out.”
Neal smiled. “Well. You made it in one piece, I suppose.”
The shops along Geary began to thin out: the few bars and Oriental rug importers still open for business were lost between houses and apartment complexes. They passed an old man napping in an easy chair in a gas station garage, his bare feet resting in a widowed front tire. The burned out Nova in the driveway was little more than a blackened frame, its rusted wheels set on four concrete blocks. They moved on, their paces slower now that the street sloped upward.
“I’ve never been so far up this street before,” Neal said mumbled.
“What do you mean? You’ve lived here for almost two months now.” Neal shrugged.
“It’s ten minutes away from your house.” He was almost shouting.
“I know. I’ve just never walked this way before. No reason to.”
At the top of the hill they stopped, winded, and gazed at the sea. It stretched for miles, losing itself in the curve of the shore. Little white houses stacked like boxes tumbled down the hills to the water. They could faintly hear the crash of the waves but it was so steady and slight it might have been the sound of white noise from a TV drifting through a nearby window. The sky was overcast and white, the fog hanging so thick over the water that the horizon seemed to dissolve in the haze. The sky was small and white. There was no sky at all.
Samuel brushed away the hair blowing in his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s not so bad here Sammy, really. I know I complain about it a lot, but it’s really not so bad.” Samuel didn’t respond, his elbows locked, arms stiff, hands in his pockets. He had given up on his hair. “The offer’s still open, you know. I’ve got a big couch. It’s yours for as long as you want it. Just stay. It’s only going to get worse back home anyway.”
“I know. I can’t, though. At least not yet. They’ll still need me for a while. I’m sort of all they got now.”
Neal wanted to take him by the arm, to grasp his shoulder, but he held back. He patted his back pocket to make sure his wallet was still in its place.
“Well, I’m glad you could visit, at least. You probably needed it. And besides, it’s good to see you.” He paused, trying hard to make his voice sound serious. “Was it hard to talk your mother into letting you come? It’s only been a few weeks since–”
“No. It was fine. She understood, or at least I think she did. She helped me pay for the ticket after all.”
“How are they? Your parents?”
“They’re fine. They’re holding up. My dad, he—he’s always been quiet, you know? But now he just sits there. Sometimes with the TV on, but just as often off. He just sits there. You have no idea how quiet the house is now. It’s strange, in a way. I never thought my mom would be the strong one, but she’s been the one taking care of shit. Filling out forms, paying bills. Talking to the cops.”
“Do they…do they know who did it?”
“No.”
They began their descent, gravity tugging at their feet. Ocean Beach lay spread out below them to their left, empty and grey. A pickup truck slept on the shore, sand drifting into its hubcaps. A few stores stood along the cliffs, all of them closed, padlocked gates guarding the windows. Samuel peered through the bars of a gift shop at the racks of brochures and t-shirts and said, “Remind me to pick up some postcards. I told my parents I’d send them one.”
Neal didn’t say anything. He was crouching before a faded old sandwich board. Samuel shuffled over to him.
Look for the full text of “An American Execution” in our debut issue.
