THUGLIT Issue One

Bastards of Apathy by Jason Duke

Nothing would keep the egg from frying on the sidewalk-Angel Rodriguez was that cocksure about it. He looked to the sky where the smog had turned the desert sky from blue to hazy green. The noon sun hung brutal like a furnace over Angel’s head, blasting down on him through the smog.

His homeboy Lauro Cavazos stood next to the gleaming metal statue of the Phoenix (called Garfield Rising), the statue donated by the young hipster artists a block up Roosevelt Street at Alwun House as a symbol of the efforts to gentrify Garfield district. Their motto: using the power of art to transform community. The metal bird rose from a nest of metal flames, screeching down on Angel like it wanted badly to peck out his eyes.

Just in case, Angel kissed the egg for luck. He said a little silent prayer to let him win the bet with Lauro because money was always at the top of the list of things to pray for. Then he shotgunned the egg so hard at the rusted metal pedestal the Phoenix was perched on, he felt the air snap, saw the little sonic boom part the oven heat rising on the air.

The egg sizzled. Lauro stooped to the alligatored sidewalk; put his face near the egg.

But nothing happened.

“It isn’t frying.”

“Just wait.”

The edges fried.

Angel cradled the carton in his free arm, jumping up and down.

“See, I told you! Pay up motherfucker!”

Lauro slapped twenty dollars in Angel’s palm.

Jesus, it was fucking hot! Lauro thought, squinting at the sun. The fact he was short, stocky, and chubby didn’t help him, not in the slightest.

But hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk?

Lauro would never have guessed it. Now his ignorance cost him twenty dollars.

“What the fuck? That’s some bullshit, man,” Lauro was laughing.

Angel shrugged, “Seeing is believing.”

It was hotter mid-July heat than Lauro had experienced last year, after moving to the desert with his mother. As he squinted at the sun, he considered Angel probably knew exactly how hot it needed to get for the egg to fry. Angel had the advantage of being born and raised in Phoenix, living there longer.

They hopped the fence to Garfield Elementary; cut across the sallow playfield. They put as much distance as they could between them and their crime, where the metal Phoenix sat on the other side of the black vertical bar fence.

Like a game of follow the leader, Angel led Lauro through the neighborhood. They kept an eye out for cops; larger groups of teens. They took a shortcut through a ramshackle stucco duplex with a giant banner hung from the side, advertising: Low rent, low move-in fees.

On Fillmore, the next street over, they passed a beautifully renovated pyramidal cottage that had been boarded up and a For Sale sign stuck in the yard. The cottage was wedged into a row of broken-down ranch style homes and empty dirt lots. Another home was boarded up, missing a door, the insides gutted, the copper pipes and wires picked clean. Slivers of shade bordered the sides of the buildings, or under the moribund fronds of wayward palm trees leaning hunched along the broken street like the bowed backs of old, tired men.

Angel was tossing an egg in the air, catching it. Across the street, a skinny girl with ratty matted hair squatted in the feeble shade of the boarded up home with the missing door.

When he noticed her, his first impression was: crack whore squatting to piss. She had a greasy dirt-streaked face, dirty clothes, like she belonged in a third world country-not America.

What was she doing there? He wondered if she was really taking a piss.

Maybe he would get a free show.

“You know her?”

“Nope, never seen her before,” Lauro said.

Angel lobbed the egg near her.

She ran to a white mini-van covered in rust spots, missing a rear bumper.

A man, her father by the looks of it, jumped out of the back of van as she got inside with the rest of her family.

They were huddled around ice chests, piles of clothes. Angel saw the black trash bags filled with everything they owned.

The children had their faces buried in their mother’s arms.

He yelled, “Go park at a Walmart!”

The dad got in the van, drove away.

Lauro laughed, uneasily, “That’s cold, man.”

Inside Verde Park, near the Verde Community Center, the preteens were playing, catcalling to Miss Padilla again in their squeaky little voices. “Hey mamacita! I want to do the wild thing to you!”

Another said, “How much for a blowjob, bitch?”

In unsure voices that could crack glass, they catcalled, giggled. They tossed their football back and forth.

Miss Padilla, she couldn’t remember faces anymore. Her life before she got clean last year made it so. But the kids would not let her forget. She still liked to straddle her neck in gold jewelry. She still liked to wear the same hot pink, skin-tight, halter-top dress.

Angel said, “Check out Miss Padilla. Baby got back.”

At a fast clip, she bustled up Van Buren Street. Her chest puffed out, tits bouncing all over the place.

He did a little bump and grind dance, dry fucking the air. “I wouldn’t mind riding that train.”

“You’d fuck her? She’s like forty, and she used to be a prostitute.”

“I’m just playin’.”

Lauro smiled, “What’re you getting your mom for her birthday? Something nice?”

“I was thinking of some gold jewelry.”

Miss Padilla wore giant gold earrings that glinted in the sun.

Lauro saw the gold around her neck.

“I fucking dare you! You won’t do it!”

She bustled toward them like daring them to stop her, daring them to do something about it. But without looking them in the eye, she strutted past. Angel grabbed the jewelry from her neck. She started screaming, “Fuckin’ no good rotten kids!” Then she was shouting, “Fuckin’ no good rotten kids!”

Before they knew it was happening, she had opened her Chanel purse, pulled a gun. She boomed the way thunderclaps rumble through clouds, across the sky, “I’m gonna teach you not to fuck with decent folk!”

Without thinking, Angel ran. It didn’t register in Lauro’s mind right away that Angel had run. Lauro bolted a second later, as fast as his fat little legs would carry him. He was too slow, and it was all the excuse she needed to shoot him twice in his back with the.38 snub-nosed revolver. Like a spooked stampeding cow, Lauro belly-flopped into the ground. The momentum of his dead weight carried him skidding across the scarred pavement on his chin.

She boomed, squeezing off the last four shots in the revolver, “Fuckin’ no good rotten kids!”

She waved the gun, blasts cutting the palpable heat rising on the air. Inside Verde Park the kids screamed, fell, one by one as the errant bullets struck them.

Fuckin’ no good rotten kids!

Angel didn’t look back. He just kept running all the way to Washington Street where the metro light rail thrummed in place, its doors open. Had the train been waiting for him? He didn’t have time to consider it. Not that he cared, and jumped inside.

The Ikea was both colossal and confusing. There was so much shit to buy, Brandy Ashton didn’t know where to begin. Some of the displays looked very modern to her, and hinted of a future that would leave her behind in the dust unless she bought something. Also, she noticed the only way to get through the store was by taking the longest route possible.

Brandy realized what the mad architects behind the maze were cleverly doing; resented them for it. Though it was her first visit to the store, she wondered why she had even bothered.

Finally, she settled on a Bolman 3-piece bathroom set, a Svalen bath towel (the one with the angry fish with the sharp teeth), and an Idealisk corkscrew. She had been saving an exquisite bottle of Beringer White Zinfandel all month, and bought some brie that morning to pair with the wine. Thinking on the wine paired with the cheese, she tingled.

But then she thought of the long bus ride home. The #65 bus she had taken from the metro light rail-how she would have to wait another ungodly amount of time on the bus going back. She thought again of the wine, the cheese, and everything was okay.

“Excuse me?” Brandy said to the girl at the work station. Her name was Erica according to her nametag.

Sullenly, Erica looked at Brandy.

“Can you help me?” Brandy finally said, wondering if she broke a two-by-four over Erica’s head, would it wake her up? “I have a question about that entertainment center over there.”

Erica glanced back at the copy of Cosmopolitan (underneath: Rolling Stone). She closed the magazine, as if helping Brandy was a waste of her time. The disdain was written on her pretty, young face: how dare she be bothered.

Brandy said, “How much is it? There’s no ticket on it.”

“Two hundred and twenty-five dollars.”

“Is it available?”

“Yes, but we don’t have the bottom doors in,” motioning to the bottom cabinets. “They won’t be in until Saturday. You’ll have to come back if you want them.”

“Is there any way to have the doors delivered?” Brandy asked.

“No.”

Surprised, Brandy said, “There’s no way to have them delivered? What about the floor model, is it for sale?”

“No,” said Erica, annoyed, trying to hide it.

“Is there a manager available?”

Erica gave a look that said: I can’t believe you’re wasting my time with this. No longer trying to hide it, she said annoyed, “Why do you want to talk to a manager?”

“Why do I have to explain myself to you?”

Now Erica had the look of a person holding their breath: that frozen, bated breath expression when something totally unexpected is said and they are trying to figure out what to say next, how to respond.

More than anything, Brandy hated dealing with these kids. Spoiled, bratty kids who acted like they were owed the world. Erica looked fresh out of high school-young, pretty; but Brandy knew, attitude trumped looks, any day. She had at least fifteen years on Erica, and still, she looked just as good. The only difference were the little crow’s feet growing at the edges of Brandy’s eyes that perhaps betrayed her age.

She waited for Erica to say something. Finally, she said, “Because you’re not being very helpful. Maybe there’s something the manager can-”

Erica talked over her, “We can deliver the doors. Where do you live?”

“The west valley.”

“We can deliver them, but it’s going to cost you eighty-nine dollars.”

“So they can be delivered? Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place? I still want to see the manager.”

So, little Erica made the call. Talking a few minutes on the phone, she said, “The manager will be here in ten minutes, if you still want to wait.”

Go fuck yourself.

That was the look on Brandy’s face.

Jesus, she hated dealing with these kids. She wished she had that two-by-four. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to bash in Erica’s pretty little face.

The gold chain called to Brandy, from her neck. The same simple gold chain her mother had passed to her when she was a little girl.

Momma Ashton-on her deathbed, dying of cancer-had passed the heirloom to her only daughter the way her mother, and her grandmother, and her great-grandmother had done generations past, all the way down the family line, to the very first Ashtons that had settled in the northeast (what possessed them to move and settle in Arizona, she would never understand).

When the first Ashtons arrived penniless in America, they kept the gold chain no matter the indigence or hardship, as a symbol of providence, and reminder that fortunes were made through diligence and hard work.

Brandy stormed off, so furious she wanted to cry.

No one looking, she stroked the gold chain and felt better. Stroking the thin gold chain always had a calming, soothing effect. There was nothing she would not do to protect that chain, to keep it in the family, in the hopes of one day passing the heirloom to her own daughter.

On her way through the winding maze, Brandy spied a fat woman with long hair down to her hips, long denim dress down past her knees. The woman was asking one of the employees for help.

He told her he would be along to help her in a minute.

Then he turned his back on her to answer his cell phone.

His name was Mark, according to his nametag-another punk kid: no surprise there. Whether his thin beard growing in patches was the result of a recent choice to grow one, or because he was still too young, she wasn’t sure.

No, she decided, it was because he was still too young.

Frustrated, the poor lady walked away. Brandy followed her out of the maze, into the warehouse. Waiting at one of the bins was the woman’s fat mother.

Why were there so many fat people in America, Brandy wondered?

Together, they tried unsuccessfully removing one of the giant boxes from the bin.

As they did, a man passed by with a cart, said, “Need some help? Here, let me help you with that.”

He was late thirties, Brandy guessed. Not much older than her, and handsome. The ladies thanked him-bless his heart, they said. They cautioned him against straining his back.

“No problem,” he smiled.

Bless his heart, they said.

The kid’s phone call was more important than doing his job.

Thank you for doing Ikea’s job, because that is the level of professionalism you can expect from Ikea.

So go fuck yourself Ikea! Fuck you in the ass!

Brandy stopped the rant playing in her mind.

Stroking her gold chain, she felt better.

Twenty minutes late, the #65 bus still had not arrived. Brandy stroked her gold chain. She hated waiting on the bus almost as much as she hated dealing with punk kids. She wondered what more could go wrong today? When would the day end?

She looked to all the Marks, the Ericas, crowded at the bus stop. Badly, she wanted to whack them with her shopping bag.

They gossiped about Justin Bieber’s love child; the latest Twilight film. How Lady Gaga’s keen fashion sense, latest fashion statements, were all the rave:

I’m team Jacob!

I’m team Edward!

How a meat dress was so nouveau- risqué.

Jesus Christ! When was the fucking bus coming?

Then-salvation! The bus appeared around the corner. It rumbled up the street and, with whining airbrakes and long hiss of air, slowed at the bus stop.

Brandy sighed, grateful the noise had severed the grape vine, put a stop to the buzzing rumor mill. She was amazed how animated, fast-talking, these kids could be in the unbearable heat.

Obnoxiously, one of the Erica’s said, “Hello? Do you mind?”

The bus doors had opened, Brandy realized. She was blocking the way.

All the Marks, the Ericas, shoved past. Brandy quietly boarded onto the bus, with the rest of the adults.

With disgusted but resigned looks, they quietly boarded. Obediently they fed their money to the money feeder while the kids continued their inane gossiping.

They filed onto the bus, one after the other until all were on board.

As they did, two young men horseplaying in the aisle nearly knocked over an old lady trying to make her way to the back. None of the unruly youngsters offered up their seats so the older folk could sit, rest. Nothing was said.

That would be them some day, Brandy relished: forced to ride the bus to their retail jobs-or their jobs waiting tables-because their cars had been repossessed. Or rather because they could not afford a car to begin with.

Jesus, she realized she just described her own pathetic life. How long had she been working at Macy’s, anyway?

It occurred to her the only jobs around anymore were those working behind a counter, or behind a bar, or waiting on tables in a restaurant; the Walmart-type jobs. Or, if you were lucky, cleaning bedpans in a hospital.

“Hey, watch it! You almost knocked her down,” one of the kids spoke up.

“Fuck you!”

“Mind your own business, fucker!”

When the metro light rail doors opened, Angel Rodriguez crammed into the train. Into the thick crowd of passengers.

Squeezing next to Brandy, she sighed loud.

It had taken her forever riding the #65 bus to reach the light rail, putting up with all those rude, obnoxious punk kids the entire time.

Now she would have to spend god knew how long on the light rail next to another punk kid.

He said nothing back.

Maybe he hadn’t heard her sigh, she guessed.

Thank god, she thought to herself when she caught a glimpse of him. Spying on him from the corner of her eye, she tried not to look obvious doing it.

Her first impression was: evil gang-banger. The fact alone that he wore baggy clothes spelled trouble and meant he was likely no good. But then again, she realized, all the boys wore baggy clothes nowadays. The girls: unbelievably tight clothes, the little whores.

Etched in the window glass, she eyed a piece of graffiti. All the money spent on the light rail, to help people get around easier, improve their lives and the environment, some asshole writes graffiti on the train.

Some asshole like him, Brandy figured.

She wished Honda hadn’t recalled their airbags. Then she wouldn’t be in this mess, standing next to this devil. How much longer would it take Honda to fix her car, she wondered? Was that fire in his eyes? Did she actually see flames? And tiny horns?

How much longer must she put up with public transportation?

If it wasn’t her car getting recalled, it was always something.

The train jolted; everyone swayed with the movement, like water vacillated in a bowl.

Angel jostled against Brandy, and she could swear she felt him grope her tits as he did.

Then, quickly he moved away. But the crowd was so thick, he only managed a few feet.

Again, Brandy thought on the exquisite bottle of Beringer White Zinfandel. The one she had saved all month.

Suddenly, everything was okay.

She went to stroke her gold chain, looked down at her violated tits, and saw the chain was gone.

Grinning, he looked her over. She could feel his fiery eyes on her.

Among the nest of gold chains about his neck, she saw her chain: the little cocky, arrogant prick!

He had stolen her chain!

Now he was grinning, daring her to do something about it.

Over the intercom, the next stop was announced. The doors opened.

Brandy waited.

The doors closed; Brandy grabbed all the chains from Angel’s neck. She leapt from the train!

The daring leap thrilled her. Snatching the chains from Angel’s neck, taking back what was rightfully hers.

It was exhilarating.

She felt more alive than she’d ever been.

Then Angel was prying the doors open.

She felt cast into some surreal horror flick, her world turned upside down. Wedging one arm through the gap, he pried the doors open. Then his other arm was through.

The train pulled away, picking up speed. No, he was not going to make it.

Please, she prayed-

no, no, no, no.

Thank god, she was saved.

He pried open the doors and, jumping from the train, he looked to Brandy with eyes like murderous slits against the glaring sun.

Screaming, she ran.

Angel chased on her heels, shouting, “You’re fucking dead bitch when I catch you!”

Her shopping bag flopped wildly at her side.

She ran-so fast-the people, and storefronts, and the buildings she ran past, blurred into ghostly echoes.

To her, all that mattered was running, staying alive.

She ran-faster, harder.

Then rounded a corner and-

– ran straight into an alley.

The world caught up to her, upside down.

Everything slammed into focus at the mouth of the alley.

Angel lifted her by her waist, as if she were filled with air; threw her face-first to the pavement. Her cheek broke like porcelain against the alley.

Inside her face, she felt the shattered bone slide around. She tasted blood, opened her mouth. The blood squirted out.

“Fucking bitch!”

Turning Brandy over, her gold chain fell from her cleavage. She started crying.

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry! I thought you stole it!”

She gargled on the blood, spilled it from her mouth, “Please! I didn’t know! Oh my god! I’m so sorry!”

He hammer-fisted her face.

Why would no one help her, she wondered? Where were all the good Samaritans, the cops to her rescue? Her eyes swelled shut.

The last thing she saw before her eyes closed was the young hipster artist drinking from his cup of Starbucks.

Finally, her knight in shining armor had arrived.

“Not my problem,” the kid hurried past.

Across the street, the Marks, the Ericas, were taping her murder on their cell phones.

Her forehead, swollen and gigantic, looked ready to burst.

Her eyes: puffy, blood-filled black sacks.

“Fucking bitch!”

Angel stomped on her stomach. He jumped up, down on her stomach.

He jumped up and down on her chest, missed, and almost fell over.

Kicking her in the head, her neck snapped.

Then he jumped up, stomped on her face, and her nose crunched into her face. The kids across the street gasped, but kept taping.

Angel held the gold chains up to the sun.

The gold glinted in the sunlight, and Brandy’s chain caught his eye.

From his doorway, Momma Rodriguez waved to him: the run-down, Spanish colonial revival.

It was midway along the broken street, the cracked sidewalks. Worn concrete the city of Phoenix had neglected fixing, or had forgotten alltogether to fix.

The little hovel, where they eked out their living.

Same as the rest of the dirt-poor residents of Garfield district, the ones lucky still to have homes.

He thought on the little ratty crack girl; her homeless family…

…fuck them!

bitch he'd stomped in…

…fuck them!

On beating that uppity bitch to death, he felt some remorse. The cell phone tapings would likely catch up with him, he realized.

He regretted that most.

Not that any of those kids cared, really. So why should he?

Because apathy was the new America.

The day still brutally hot, the sky still laden with hazy green smog. He saw pigeons, and doves, and sparrows; the ugly and obnoxious black great-tailed grackles. They soared gracefully in the sky.

A few blocks over, he heard the sirens of all the police cars, and all the ambulances, and the fire trucks still cleaning the bodies-the mess-of Lauro, the murdered kids.

“Is this the motherfucker right here?”

He felt the gun at his head.

Miss Padilla and her boyfriend stepped from the shadows of another abandoned house.

So fast, Angel didn’t have time to notice them before it was too late and her boyfriend was behind Angel, pointing the gun.

“That’s him,” Miss Padilla said, “Fuckin’ no good rotten kid.”

From their doorway, Momma Rodriguez waved.

Looking to the sky, Angel saw the sun, the birds in the sky.

The boyfriend flashed a mouth full of gold, “Take back what’s yours,” he said.

Miss Padilla smiled, satisfied.

Then she snatched back the gold chains from Angel’s hand.

He looked in his palm before the gun took his life, and he was holding Brandy’s thin gold chain, the one she had hoped to pass to her daughter someday.