Within the Storm © 1998
E-Mail By Chris Cowdrey Bio/Address
The storm within seeks… Hatred, Condemnation and Retribution
Within the storm we seek… Love, Forgiveness and Redemption
Within ourselves, exists all
The small hotel room was cheaply furnished. The bed had a tattered comforter and the mattress sank low in the middle. The walls were a sickly yellow colour from the countless cigarettes smoked by guests past. In the bathroom was a tub decorated with rust and brown water stains. Michael Wilson pulled the string and the sixty watt bulb flashed on.. Cockroaches scattered, seemingly angered by the intrusion. Michael went to the mirror and checked himself. At thirty, he looked ten years older and felt ancient. Panic began to swell in his chest as the realization of what he had done came home. Seventy-two hours out of a federal prison and he was running again. He tried to calm himself by pushing the scenario through his mind once more. He had no choice. He knew this as concretely as he knew his own name.
As he sat across from his parole officer on his first day out, he watched as the man dictated who and what he would become. Glaring out the apathy through his smug face, glowering out his terms with his dead eyes, Michael knew beyond all doubt that the parole officer would terminate his chances on the street. Michael saw his fate in the man’s face. After eleven years in a maximum-security prison, there was no way he would spend another day in their hell. No matter what the cost, he would not spend his life staring at his feet to appease some twisted pricks sense of justice.
He took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled through his mouth, trying to calm himself. The first thing he did when he went on the run was to grab a gun, to ensure himself a fighting chance at freedom..
" Fuck it, I'd rather die on my feet than live on my knees," talking in a low determined voice to his reflection. The words brought a grizzled peace to his mind and he walked to the bedroom of his thirty-five dollar a day hideout. Staring around the room, he smiled.
" Pretty fuckin' shabby, but not nearly as shabby as a prison cell." He said aloud. Michael Wilson grabbed his leather jacket and headed out the door. He had people to see and plans to make. He had to make an earnest effort at getting some coin and crossing the border to the States. To do that he would have to resurrect a life that should have stayed dead eleven years ago.
The walk to the lobby was littered with junkies and winos. Michael felt at ease with these people. He nodded to those conscious enough to notice and pushed the door open to the street. Sunlight slammed into his face and for the first time since his odyssey began, Michael felt good. He knew that bad things happened to good people, but sometimes the opposite was also true. These thoughts reassured him as he loped towards the bus stop. With a mere twenty-two dollars in his pocket, there would be no cabs today. Michael knew he would have to make a move today, if not for the cash, then for the reassurance. He had heard a lot of stories about guys who got out and lost their ability to pull a score, lost their balls. He did not know whether it was lack of confidence or fear of going back inside, but he did not intend to find out. As the bus ground to a stop in front of him, he decided to go see an old friend first.
Troy and Michael had been doing business for as long as he was involved in crime. Troy was an all-around guy to Michael, providing fencing services, drugs and even housing when necessary. Sliding into his seat, Michael could feel the stares of the other passengers on his neck. Anger surged in his veins and he wanted to turn around and scream in their faces. When the rage subsided, a quiet awareness fell over Michael. Hen reflected'the fury that he had experienced, a storm had raged in his mind for as long as he could recall. Michael realized there was something desperately wrong with him, but he shook it off; There was no time for being introspective today, if ever again.
His hand went to the small handgun in his waistband. He fingered it lightly. The weapon gave him confidence, yet flooded him with fear all at once. Looking out the window, he saw a cop car pull up directly under his window. Hatred pounded his temples as he glared into the car. If and when the time came, he would take as many of these hypocrites as he possibly could before he went down. Closing his eyes, he sighed. When he opened them back up, the cruiser had disappeared and he noticed his was the next stop.
Downtown Toronto had changed considerably in the last eleven years. It seemed every shop and store he knew had changed into something else. The only things that appeared the same were the location of the streets and himself. All of his friends had either died or went straight. His sister no longer did any dope at all and his nieces were teenagers. In all of this he realized that he was still angry, shit, even more pissed. Time had frozen for him, while life went on out here. Now it was his turn to do some living.
Stepping off the bus, cars screeched by and the sidewalks bustled, but Michael was finding it increasingly difficult to break free of his own meditations. The walk to the Troy Ounce, the jewelry store his friend owned, was only a short distance, but it stirred his memory. Seeing a young couple strolling hand-in-hand, smiling that secret look that only lovers have, a pang of regret shot through Michael's heart. He envisioned Ann, as she must look now, eight years later. It hurt to think about her even eight years after she left him in a place so cold the frost still pumped through his veins. There was love in the beginning, a love so profound it seemed boundless. He remembered getting up in the middle of the night just to watch her sleep. There was a time he would just glance at his wife and the emotion was so intense he thought he would suffocate. Slowly the love turned to anger, then hate. In the end there were no sharp words or condemnation, just indifference. On some level, Michael knew he deserved it, if only for the simple fact that nothing beautiful ever seemed to last. Why had everything in good in his life perished? The virtue being replaced by the ugly shadows of hate, or not at all, leaving him empty. There are thoughts, which flow through everyone's mind that should never be spoken out loud. Michael also knew there are perceptions so devastating to one's ego they should never be self-confessed. In this awareness, Michael realized he yearned to be in love again - to be a part of that exceptional partnership with another human being. This was not a smart place for his heart and mind to be. Considering the circumstances, he could not help what he felt.
The high-pitched squeal of a child snapped him out of his reverie. "' Look mommy! He has Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd drawn on his arm." A girl of about six pointed to his arm. The woman smiled at Michael and then glanced down to the tattoo on his forearm. The smile turned sour and she quickly pulled the child away. The little girl turned back and grinned at Michael, he smiled back. Children were the only people were worthy of living and dying for. The only human beings who were pure, not motivated by deceit. The child's smile brought out feelings of hope, and he was glad she had not asked him what Elmer was doing to Bugs. A few years back, when he was smashed on pills and homemade booze, a friend of his put on the tattoo. In it Elmer Fudd was driving it to Bugs Bunny doggy style. The feelings of hope instilled by the young girl were quickly smashed when he looked across the street. The Troy Ounce had been replaced by a coffee shop, and the real world came screaming back into Michael's face. He swore under his breath, his options had become severely limited. He decided to pull a score as soon as possible. Before he did that, he would phone his sister. With all the reflections that were dragging him down, a cheerful call to his sister and nieces sounded very appealing. Eyeing me street, he located a phone booth and went towards it. Michael had no doubt that he would come across Troy eventually, the absence of his store annoyed, but did not surprise him. Having a few dollars in his pocket would make the reunion more festive. As the light turned green, he crossed over to the phone. Halfway through the intersection, a cop car slowed to a stop on his left. Metro Toronto’s finest he thought bitterly and the small semi-automatic in his waist took on three times its normal weight. Briefly he dreamt about yanking out his piece and emptying it into the driver’s side windshield. His minds eye saw the windshield imploding as the thirty-two caliber bullets drilled holes in the cops face. He saw it clearly and it made him smile. Michael looked directly into the eyes of his enemy and dared the man to pull him over. The fantasy ended as the cruiser drove through the intersection
In the phone booth, he inserted a quarter and took a deep breath. Michael knew he would take heat from his big sister for being on the run He also knew that she would be elated to hear his voice and relieved at the fact that he was safe. She picked up on the third ring.
" Hello"
" Hey Cathy, guess who?"
" Michael, is that you?"
" Chew got it baby. " Michael answered in his best Scarface voice.
" It took you long enough to call. I was expecting to hear from you yesterday. The girls hung by the phone all day waiting to hear from their uncle Mikey. You know you're their favorite uncle right?"
" Cathy, I'm their only uncle." They both laughed at the shared joke.
" So why didn't you call yesterday Michael? " Cathy’s voice took on a somber tone.
" Well sis, I ran into a little trouble. " he stared.
" You didn't take off did you Michael?"
" Cathy hear me out before you tear me a new asshole will ya?" When the silence began to weigh uneasy, he began again.
" I walked into the parole office with the best of intentions Cath. From the moment I sat down, I knew it wasn't going to work. C. Monte Hughes had already decided who I was, where I would work and how many times a week I would see him. Not each month Cathy, each week. " He stopped and waited for the reply.
" Is that it Michael? Because if it is, you're full of shit! Everything you've just told me is expected out of any parolee and you know it. Tell me something more Michael and save the crap for your buddies, cause it won't wash with me. " His big sister was pissed off at him, but he knew she would get over it by the end of their conversation.
" What Cathy? What do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you that pissing in a bottle at their will twice a week is the reason I left? Maybe it was the fact that I had to stare into the face of a man who has nothing but contempt for me, but masquerades as someone who cares. How about the fact that I couldn't talk to the people I chose to because they weren't pro-social enough. If you want me to tell you that those and a hundred other reasons are why I left, then yeah, that’s exactly why. I've spent eleven years of my life in a cage for stealing Cathy, not murder or rape or molesting a child. I stole money Cathy. Now when I hit the street. I gotta live worse than I did on the inside, fuck that Cathy." Winded Michael waited.
" That’s very good little brother, did you practice it in front of a mirror? Cause you got it down to an art. Unfortunately it’s the same old shit you're always spouting. You're thirty years old Michael, when is enough? When does the man I know is hidden inside you step and take responsibility for his actions? You know I love you right Michael? Maybe I didn't visit as much as I should have or written as much I could have, but you know that I love you right? "
" Of course I know you love me." Michael was taken aback, he expected to get some grief, but there was something wrong. Her voice was extremely tense and serious - too serious.
" Then you have to do me a favor Michael. It's a big one and it goes against everything you believe in, but you have to do it." Cathy stopped, almost afraid to ask, knowing what she would have to do if he refused. " What Cathy? What do you need me to do? " " You have to turn yourself in Michael. You have to go back and face it, Michael. It's time to grow up." Her voice began strong, but ended as a plea. " I can't do that Cathy, you know that. Ask me anything else. " This is the only thing I want of you Michael. I know how tough it will be, but when it's over you'll be free. Besides Michael, you just did eleven years another five isn't that long. "
" That’s easy for you to say Cathy, you don't have to do it, and I won't do it anymore. I'm sorry Cathy, but I can't. Are the girls at home? I want to say hello." " I'm sorry too Michael, very sorry. The girls are home, but I'm not going to let you talk to them. I'm tired of you coming into their lives and then making them cry when you get arrested again."
" What are you saying Cathy? Are you telling me to fuck off, is that it?" Michael asked, not quite believing it.
" I'm sorry Michael. " Her voice almost cracked, but she held strong.
"Hey sis, fuck you too! You're just like the rest of them. " Michael slammed down the phone. He was hurt and angry. He kicked the phone booth door open and caught the attention of a passing man..
" What the fuck are you looking at asshole? Michael screamed, advancing towards the man. Feeling the violence, but not quite understanding it, the man did not stop to ask why. He shook his head and quickly walked away. Michael thought about chasing the man, but looked around and realized that people were staring. On the run and in the middle of a busy street, he cursed the intruder under his breath and went in the opposite direction. His sister's words made him feel hollow yet resolute.
" Thanks Cathy, now I got nothing but one more reason to leave this shitty country."
Across the city, Cathy Wilson sat with tears in her eyes. All the tears in the world could not change what she knew was the right thing to do. Maybe Michael would finally realize how important it was to give himself a chance at life, instead of more reasons to die.
Michael Wilson calmed down by telling himself it was all for the best. Remembering the last time he was on the street, it became clear that this is where he would make his money this day. Michael was a burglar. There was nothing fancy about the way he broke into homes. He cased them out, knocked on the door, and found a way in. Back in the joint, it was rare for someone to be in maximum security for property offenses. However, when you carried a gun to your break-ins, the law treated you with much more attention. When his friends asked him why he carried a piece to do scores, they always assumed it was in case anybody got brave. The truth was the gun was for the cops and the cops alone. Michael would never think of hurting somebody who tried to protect what was rightfully theirs. He knew if someone ever broke into his or his sister’s home, he would lay a severe beating on them. He expected the same from the victims of his crimes. The cops were another story. They carried guns and were allowed to shoot him on sight. By carrying a gun, Michael believed he improved his chances at staying out of prison..
Walking back to the bus stop, his heart pounded at the thought of pulling a score. It was not an altogether unpleasant feeling. Adrenaline swelled his insides and he became keenly aware of his surroundings. The bus stopped and he boarded, dropping a two-dollar coin in the glass box. Taking a seat, he focused on the task at hand and what was to come. He was more intent than ever to make it to the states and live a normal life. Michael dreamt of getting a straight job, meeting a nice girl and living a life that had been denied him because of his criminal record. This would not be easy, but he also knew it was not out of the question. The vision was not an absurd one by any means. Courage, skill and perseverance would attain it for him. Michael sensed this would be his last chance. If he did not see it happen this time, he might as well be dead. Hopefully a few days from now he would reach the culmination of his dreams. When it happened, he would send a sarcastic postcard to his sister. He would also send a couple of nice ones to his nieces. After all it wasn’t their fault that their mother was an asshole.
Michael turned in his seat and surveyed the other passengers. A pretty woman of about twenty-five caught his attention, and he became acquainted with yet another sense of loss. He had been out for three days and had not been laid. If his friends on the inside knew, they would have bugged the shit out of him. Surprisingly, this knowledge did not bother him as much as he thought it would. Sex was just sex. Without love, sex seemed almost meaningless. Though as soon as he finished his day’s work, he would take out a bit of the cash and head for a bar. He would look for something meaningful, but would definitely take meaningless sex as an alternative. The bus veered onto a small side street that contained the subway station and he rose from his seat, eager with anticipation.
Two streets south of the station is where Michael would pull his first job. It was a quiet little avenue Michael had spotted years ago. He had intended to hit it back then, but went to prison instead. This time the cops would not be so lucky, but the residents of that small, affluent neighborhood would help him realize his aspirations. Leaving the station, he put on his game face. It was time.
At the top of the street, Michael liked what he saw. There were no people out mowing their lawns or sitting on their porches. The houses looked ripe for a donation. Keeping his face front, his eyes captured every nuance of every dwelling on the slow walk down the street. He was surprised at how easy it all came back, even after eleven years. To his left, he eyeballed me score, number 242. It was a big house, a finely manicured lawn and obviously expensive drapes in the front window. He spun up the narrow walkway to the front door. Michael pushed the doorbell and waited. With every second that passed, he liked his chances at success. After the sixth push of the buzzer, he trotted down the steps and up the driveway to the back of the house.
Sixty-three year old Veronica Whaley thought she heard the doorbell, but couldn't be sure. When the sound of breaking glass assaulted her ears, she picked up the phone and dialed 911. Veronica then rose on arthritic legs and limped slowly to the closet, where she hid in dread. Crumpled in the comer of the closet, Veronica prayed in silence for the police to hurry.
Reaching in to slide open the broken window, Michael peered into the living room. Very nice, he thought, checking out the V.C.R. and stereo system. If all went well he would not have to remove anything conspicuous out of the residence. He was hoping for strictly cash and jewelry. Leaving a house with suitcases raised eyebrows, and that could bring heat. After a cursory inspection of the downstairs, he flew up the steps. Heart pounding, he felt like he had to have a bowel movement. This was quite common for Michael in the midst of a score, though he never actually had to use the washroom. He figured it was from the rush of endorphins or something. He checked for the master bedroom and located it at the back of the house. Going immediately to the dresser, he found the jewelry box and cracked it, it was mil. He ran to the bed and tore off a pillowcase, dumping the entire contents into the case. Michael hefted the bag and smiled. Pulling open the drawers of the dresser, he dumped the entire contents on the floor and searched the undersides of the compartments. Finding nothing, he went on with his search.. He almost left the contents of the drawers, then recollected something. Kneeling down, he picked up the socks scattered on the carpet. Carefully squeezing each ball, he almost gave up, but then felt the familiar crumple of paper money. Tricky, he thought, but not tricky enough to beat Mikey. Opening the socks, his heart jumped to his throat. A thick wad of hundred dollar bills sat in his hand. Not bothering to count it, he almost squealed like a schoolgirl, but thought better of it. He picked up the pillowcase and ran to the stairs. Halfway down the stairs is when he spotted the two cops.
Michael Wilson's whole world stopped. Easing himself back up the stairs, he watched as the two men warily made their way to the front door. One hand held the pillowcase, the other groped for the pistol. He was surprised at how instinctively his hand grabbed the gun. Up until this point, it had all been theory - the ability to kill and the willingness to die for his freedom were just abstract concepts. Now it was real and for a brief moment he wondered whether he would truly have the guts to do what he had to do. To murder or sacrifice himself for his freedom, something he had so passionately bragged he could do. The aura of loathing that had washed over him when he spotted the two coppers satisfied this question. His mind screamed violence, the need for retribution frenetic in his blood. Not yet, he told himself. The dream was still alive. There was no way he would let it die without one hell of a fight. Michael knew he would have a better chance to get away if he made it out of the dwelling. He was in good shape and could run like the wind. In the bedroom, Michael took a hard look out the window. It was directly above the backyard and about a thirty-foot drop. He knew he did not have much time. He pushed the gun into his pants and slid up the window. He cast a brief look into the yard. Satisfied there were no blue uniforms lurking, he climbed through the opening. With the pillowcase in his teeth, he hung from the ledge. Peering down to gauge his fall, he spied a young cop nervously entering the yard, gun shaking dangerously in his hand. Shit, too late now, he thought as he let go of the ledge. Just before he hit the ground, a thunderbolt of pain exploded in his head and he heard a loud snap. Slamming into the hard earth, he let out a howl of pain. He had broken his ankle on the railing of the back veranda. The rookie cop stood indecisively, wondering whether to arrest or help. He bolstered his gun and bent down to help. Michael greeted him with a solid right jab to the jaw, dazing the young officer. He jumped up and ran to the fence, ignoring the pain. He had to find a way out of this before it all fell apart. He hurdled the six-foot fence in one leap. As he hit the grass on the other side, he crumpled into a ball. His ankle throbbed and the pain was excruciating. Still, he forced himself on. Dragging his leg as quickly as his ruptured limp would allow, he glanced over his shoulder to the fence as he neared the end of the driveway. The rookie cop and another uniformed officer were hot on his tail. The thought of firing off a couple of rounds in their general direction never even occurred to Michael. Escape was his only concern. He turned left and decided to head down the driveway directly across the street. When he was a kid, they called it" doing backyards" and it always worked, he hoped it wouldn’t fail him now. Before entering the driveway, he tossed the loot as far as he could in the other direction, to buy time. The ploy almost worked, both cops spotted the bag and ran right to it. A concerned citizen saw them and pointed the cops in the proper direction.
Hobbled and out of air, Michael knew he could not last too much longer. Exiting the driveway of the last house, he ran through his options. Observing an abandoned lot, he limped towards it. Clinging to a final attempt at escape, he hid between a parked car and a pile of wood and other refuse. Pulling out his semiautomatic, he sat and watched. The pair of cops bolted out of the driveway Michael had left a few seconds earlier. Michael silently urged them on in the other direction. The rookie and his partner stood in the middle of the street, heads swiveling up and down the deserted avenue. Michael closed his eyes and prayed to a God he did not believe in. Sweat poured down his face and into his eyes, his ankle throbbed in unrelenting agony. He opened his eyes and watched as the two cops spoke and pointed. The young cop Michael had smashed in the mouth came in his direction. The other cop went the opposite way, eyes darting everywhere. Michael wiped his forehead on his sleeve then ran his wet, trembling palms over his jeans. As me cop neared his hiding place, Michael tightened the grip on his gun.. Eyes wide and alert, Michael willed him to pass. Keep going, keep going there’s nothing but trouble here he repeated in his mind. The young officer scanned the lot and kept going. Panic still flooded his being, his ears felt like they were in a vacuum, yet through this he thought he could hear a faint yell. It sounded like a scream for help. It was so distant that Michael thought it must be his imagination. Peeking around the pile of wood to spot where the cop had gone, he let out a deep sigh. Michael then saw the source of the distant noise. A young woman on a porch across the street was yelling and gesturing wildly with her hands. It took a second for it to sink in. She was directing the cop towards his hideout. The second he realized it. The young cop came tearing around the comer and spotted Michael. The rookie lost his footing and fell flat on his face. Placing his hands in front of him to break the tumble, his gun flew from his hands and skidded across the pavement, out of reach. Michael pointed the small gun in his hand at the cop’s fallen face. Knowing that it would soon be over, Michael smiled - a leer as grimly intense as it was threatening. Michael grinned down at the young cop and increased the pressure on the gun. Staring at the blue uniform, Michael remembered all the beatings he suffered at the hands of these perverse bastards. He thought of all the wasted years spent in a cage, his entire life misspent. These creeps had labeled him a scumbag for so long, now he believed it himself. All that had changed now, at the end of his hand was retribution. A twitch of his finger and he altered the score, finally winning one. His twisted smile grew wider as he sneered with contempt at his enemy. His look focused on the fallen hero's face, then his gaze slid to his eyes. In the most powerful moment of his life, Michael Wilson’s entire world came crashing down on him. Locked onto the wide, terrified eyes of the young cop, Michael’s existence was purged of all hate. He no longer saw the cop as a symbol of all he had come to detest, but as a human being. Images floated through his mind, scenes of the man’s wife and children crying at the loss of a husband and father. The man’s gaze held sheer horror at the prospect of losing all that. In that one unforgiving moment, Michael Wilson was drenched in shame. A humiliation so complete, it transformed his soul. His body sagged and he turned away from the face of his accuser, filled with self-loathing.
" Just who the hell do I think I am?" He asked himself. Then it came, the answer hit him as hard and crisp as a slap, I'm no killer. He dropped his gun hand and felt very tired. Michael Wilson should have been elated to know that he was not what he had believed for so long he was, a soulless murderer. Having lost everything in his life, Michael could not face losing the one thing he had left, his beliefs. Stunned and hollow, he could not let go of his gun. To do that would mean he would have to start over, and that prospect was far too hard. Screams banged through his head, but he paid no attention. All around him he felt hostile movement, and he waited for the bullet to strike, but it did not come. His lifeless eyes searched for a savior, someone to set him free. He found the young rookie and glimpsed at his eyes. He saw nothing but patience and a slow pleading look in them. He stared around the crowded lot. Blue uniforms stood at various angles, weapons all pointed at Michael’s chest. They were all screaming for him to drop his gun. Michael knew what he had to do. He brought up his arm and pointed the gun at the crowd. Loud cracks echoed the still air. The stench of cordite and gunpowder thickened the atmosphere. Several bullets punched Michael Wilson’s body. Hot daggers of pain exploded through him, but the burning was sweet release. All the air left his lungs and he fell to the ground. On his back Michael stared up at the sky. In the last few seconds of his life, he thought about his sister and his nieces. He saw all the people he had wronged, including himself. He knew he wasn’t the man he had so utterly convinced himself he was. This brought some peace to his dying body. He knew he should have dropped the gun and faced a new life, one without crime, without shame. But that would've been too hard. As the last gasp of life exited his body, Michael Wilson smiled.
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