We can fix the stove, said the landlady.
OK Gre–
AT YOUR COST
How are you going to even say that
YOU told me that YOU broke it cleaning the–
That’s not what I said Maureen
Listen: to fix that stove I have to go in there, get the make and model number, call a repairman, wait for him, pay him for an estimate, wait for him to get the parts…
He didn’t care about the stove. He’d brought up the stove because she’d been in the apartment yelling at him about the mold and the closet sliding door mirror, which was cracked. It had been like that for two years since the last woman he cared about, who cared about him– two years– had got drunk and dived into it like a parakeet into a window. Maybe high on coke too. She’d stayed at his house to watch his cat while his father died back East. She’d invited a girl over to party with. Some Chinese YouTube ukulele player. He’d said OK because he wanted to sniff their Lesbian sex on his sheets after but they’d just got drunk and broken everything. The father died. The cat died. She left. The landlady wanted $300 for the mirror.
He thought if he asked her to fix the stove, which just broke on its own, it would be a wash. She’d back off. She was about 120 years old and demented. But she was like Mayweather. She could keep getting hit. Nothing connected. He would pay for the mirror and he would pay for the stove too and he would pay the $500 rent increase she imposed because it was true, there was nowhere for him to go. From the south Mexicans had consumed hundreds of miles and from the east New York people had swarmed in coating the block with boutiques. The Mexicali juice stand now sold fourteen dollar hot dogs and the sidewalks teemed with junior associates on Crossfit Indian runs. The rent went up and the taxes went up and the money sucking machine got closer to redline but didn’t ever seize up. Somewhere five Reptilians were building a space ark. They knew the secret date of the Yellowstone Caldera. It was the only explanation.
The day after he lost to the old woman he went to the gun shop. It was across from the office, next to the Flame Broiler Teriyaki Bowl. Fortunately he didn’t have to park. Even the handicapped space was taken. There’d been a school shooting. We expect the president’s remarks any minute, said NPR. For just a ten dollar monthly pledge you’ll have your very own collectible NPR mug. I’m Cassidy Brown Schwartzman.
You took a number like a deli. His was 70. He waited by a beef jerky display. At the counter three harried clerks explained they couldn’t sell the floor model of the Bushmaster AR-15, which hung dead center on the back wall. The gunman used one just like it. What was available was an AR-15 with an upper modified to fire .22LR instead of .556 rounds. Which even he knew was pointless.
They should fucking know this was going to happen, said the guy in front of him. He had red hair and a face like they’d pulled him out of a river. There’s gonna be a run on AR’s when you get an action like this. They ought to think ahead and order more. Hey man I’m Dusty, he said.
Good to meet you.
Hope you weren’t here for the Bushmaster.
I think a handgun, he said.
What kind
Something big.
That’s the spirit.
Maybe a revolver.
Well get a .357 and you can practice shooting .38 out of it, said Dusty. Much cheaper.
Cost’s not a concern, he said.
Well good for you man. But if shit goes down you’re gonna want more than six rounds. I’d get a sixteen round capacity.
I don’t need that much of a clip, he said. I just want it not to be complicated.
Magazine, said Dusty. A woman’s voice came over the loudspeaker. It said “23”. He decided to buy a rope.
The Sherman Oaks Outdoorsman
The gun shop door was open but half the ceiling had collapsed. The Sherman Oaks Outdoorsman. Here too hissing sprinklers, shrieking alarms. He had to press his fingertip into his left ear and still the back of his head rang with the sound of cicadas. Shelves fallen into each other. Tile floor covered with flashlights and Rambo knives, spreadeagled Guns & Ammo magazines. Soldier of Fortune open to honeypot ads in the back for hit men, all sopping wet. Marcy still catatonic in the ’79 Mercedes outside, in the handicapped space. He’d wrapped her in his picnic blanket. Strapped her in like a baby. Eased the seat all the way back so her head wouldn’t stick up. He’d thought about taking another car, a 4-wheel drive. But the hallway floor tilted in and the first burned corpse he checked for keys groaned when he tried its pockets.
FUCKING GET DOWN GET DOWN GET DOWN a man was screaming. A boom went off loud enough that the fire alarm seemed like nothing. Fluorescent light bulb glass and shredded foam ceiling tile fluttered down on his face.
All right! All right! I’m not–
WHAT DO YOU WANT
He was out of adrenaline. The question was insulting. Guns, he said.
Hey man– is that you?
Another insulting question. Yeah I’m me, he thought. Behind the back counter by the deli number dispenser the top of a red head inched up. Dirty white drowned corpse face, cut up. Dusty had on a tactical hunting jacket with the tags still hanging off. He’d dragged the beef jerky display behind a cash register and half emptied it into a black duffel bag. Also with tags. There was a crunch somewhere and the walls shook and the alarm squealed and stopped. In the distance many others. But no sirens. Fancy meeting you here, said Dusty. His hands were bloody.
Dusty– are you going to kill me, he said.
No man. I thought you might be them.
Who?
I don’t fuckin know.
May I uh,
Yeah, help yourself man. But I’m takin the food. And I’m takin the floor model. He put down his black shotgun, straight out of Terminator 2. Reached up where the mass shooter Bushmaster AR-15 hung. Plucked it off its hook, peeled off the sign that said DUE TO HIGH DEMAND, OUT OF STOCK UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. Not too much fuckin ammo for it though.
What do you think I should take.
What do you want to accomplish.
I don’t know. Shoot people.
Well get a bag and go nuts man, but your issue is gonna be ammo. This place was always understocked. Even before that fuckin AARP guy went ISIS.
He’d read the guy was government, but why argue. Either was plausible.
In the end Dusty helped him. Mostly. He got a nice nickelplated Smith and Wesson .357 revolver. A mean black rifle with a scope. A .45 with magazine as recommended. Dusty showed him how they worked. Bows, arrows made to slice wild boars’ arteries. A .22 because Dusty was jealous over the other ammo. Got to leave me some, he said. Nice enough smile but his hand back on the gun. 22 won’t do much, said Dusty, but he remembered Speed Racer killing a moose with one in a movie. Based on a true story. When his bag was almost too heavy he made to leave. Where you gonna go, said Dusty.
Don’t know.
Anyone else in that building make it?
… just me.
Well good luck out there homie, said Dusty, and they hung quiet for a second like they should add each other on Facebook.
Marcy was still in the car, thank God. He had to smash the Flame Broiler Teriyaki Bowl’s glass sliding door with a jack handle. The gas main had ruptured and the customers and cashiers burned alive, still smoking along with the griddle top beef and broccoli. A little blue flame still whispering on the end of the metal hose by the stove. In the pantry past the restroom where EMPLOYEES MUST WASH HANDS were 5 gallon buckets of vegetable oil, as he’d hoped. He made one last trip for a jar of fortune cookies, the only nonrefrigerated food. The first aid kit under the manager’s desk. When he got back in the driver’s seat she was conscious.