Why Did You Kill John Lennon

No, really. Why?

 

            The rain came down only intermittently, but it seemed every time she stepped out from under a storefront awning she was forced to skip right back under. These streets would never wash clean. The rubbish, the homeless, the graffiti--the whole setup made her cluck as she paced, though she’d seen it all a thousand times and more. Cities are just spawning grounds for sinners. Her sweet nature made her want to adopt every waif and squatter, but her good sense and a lifetime of experience caused her to keep her distance.

            Tonight was different, somehow. The rain was playing a tenderer symphony, the brick and asphalt glinted in the stoplights’ cherry, lemon, and lime, and her social security payment, just cashed and resting deep in her withered bosom, made her feel guilty, priveleged, and unnecessarily insular. So she resolved to assuage that guilt by heaping charity upon the next victim of the streets, and when she finally encountered him he was just made to order:  washed up against Ernie’s Liquor like so much sewage, hapless and unkempt; a poster child for the area’s sprawling human waste.

            His poor eyes rolled heavenward when her pittance of a shadow reached him. “Lady,” Bimmy croaked, haunch-rolling against the rain-damp wall. “I mean, like, Ma’am. I ain’t ate in a week, maybe two. You know how it is. Or maybe you don’t--I ain’t tryin to be personal or nothin here, but I’m like, starvin, okay? I really hate to ask, and I know you must think this is all a put-on, and that I’m gonna hump right into this here liquor store and glom me a quick Mickey’s, but that ain’t the case. I need to eat, and I need to eat bad. Just a dollar, sweetheart; only a buck. That’s all I’m askin, okay? Could you help me out, could you please, and God bless you for your kindness. I’m really hurtin here.”

            She bent at the waist and her dear eyes welled. “Young man.” Her gaze fell on the empty malt liquor bottle tucked behind him, on the stinking rags of clothes, on the nicotine and urine stains. She righted herself, hands on hips, and considered. Now it was getting really cold and wet. This particular corner was fractured by a hundred pitiless headlight beams, and the pavement seemed to ooze underfoot. She shivered in neon, huddling her old coat about her. A remonstrative forefinger rose, only to descend in goodly Christian hindsight. The hand dipped into her brassiere and reappeared with a single neatly folded dollar bill. “Young man, each and every act of charity comes from the bidding of our sweet Lord Jesus, not from His sheeps’ will. This dollar is an investment in your soul’s immortal path. You must treat it not as a gift, but as His staff.”

            “Oh yes, ma’am. Bless you. And bless him and bless his staff and the whole crew. And most of all bless you for investing in my soul’s immoral path. Bless you bless you bless you.”

            “Now, I mean it; I want you to use this dollar wisely. I want you to promise it won’t go for any liquor.”

            “No booze, ma’am. Swear to god and by all that’s good and holy. You got my word.”

            “No drugs or tobacco.”

            “Perish the thought. I’m clean, I tell ya; clean as a fresh syringe. Look at my arms; you wanna see my arms? Flea bites, but that’s all. God, it’s rough, ma’am. Starvin’ in the rain and cold and fleas and searchlights, ma’am, but all I ask is that one little bill--just that buck.”

            “No pornography or firearms.”

            “I promise promise promise. Only a sweet, sweet coal for an old man’s cold grateful belly. Something to feed my spirit, ma’am, just a little something for a good Christian soldier, down on his luck and mucking it out as best he can.”

            It was a heap of work, but bit by bit she made it down to one knee, grasped his icy paws in her own and closed her eyes. “By the gracious Hand of Jesus,” she breathed, “do I deliver this one paper tear unto His poor broken child.” She rose. “On your promise.”

            “I did and do.” Bimmy ticked them off on his good hand. “No booze, dope, smokes, porno, or handguns. You can trust me, angel. May I rot with unholy Hell’s dirty dank dominion if I break my word. Swear to God; on my ailing grandmother, on my grieving wife and mistress, on my parents, on my children, on my miserable, vile, and oh-so pointless existence.”

            “Bless you, then,” she breathed, and handed him the dollar.

            “Ohbless-ohbless-ohblessyblessyoutoo.” Bimmy clasped the bill in one fist, her wizened hand in the other, and walked his butt up the wall until they near-embraced in the floodlit mist.

            She began, “May you find in Je--” but he was gone, pushing his way inside and through.

            Here at Ernie’s Liquor you have to fight to reach the MajikLotto dispenser. It’s a vending machine; the latest thing. Slide in a bill and out slides a ticket--but it was surrounded, as might be expected on a cold wet night, by the area’s top panhandlers and pickpockets. Open container laws need not be enforced; ever since Majikmania took hold of the city, there wasn’t a drunk standing who’d think of wasting good paper money on alcohol.

            “Outta my way!” Bimmy snarled, butting and biting through the mob. He held the dollar high overhead, called out, “This one’s from Jesus!” and shoved it in the billsucker. Bimmy snatched the dispensed ticket and collapsed from the effort. A dozen gnarly paws dragged him to his feet, shoved him staggering to the counter. Bimmy squinted at the 3 on the ticket’s face as he slung it forward. That old biddy was right:  a single dollar had brought him three--there really is a . . . Bimmy’s mind was racing. That meant another MajikLotto ticket and a quart of malt liquor . . . or two tickets and a 16-ouncer of bad blue bile . . . or three whole freaking tickets and another shot at grace. “Oh, mama!” he gagged, and smashed a fist on the counter. “Just make it three more!”

            The clerk’s jaw was hanging. “No sir. That’s not the number 3 followed by a trail of tears. Those are zeroes. You’re our thirty million-dollar winner!” He turned, stunned, and reached for the store phone. Bimmy heard him sputtering:  “Channel 5? You won’t believe this, but some guy just cracked Ernie’s thirty mil jackpot. Yeah, he’s here . . .” even as a ton of well-wishers leaned on his back.

            Bimmy slowly turned about, supported by the counter. Smothered in newfound love, suffocating in body odor, the truth began to dawn. He heard the clerk’s voice, “Compliments of the house,” and found himself the sudden possessor of a brandy liter normally reserved for the pale and snooty. The crowd whooped and danced. Beside himself, Bimmy knocked back half the bottle, and might have happily expired right then and there if not for a flurry of headlights, horns, and screeching rubber outside.

            A small army of reporters burst in as a unit, swinging microphones, videocams, and portable spotlights. A sweet young thing in pink tanktop and press badge thrust a mic in his face. “Sir, are you the winner of the big jackpot? What’s your method? How often do you buy tickets at this location? What do you plan to do with all that money?”

            Before he could reply the mayor blew in, and right behind him a sequined lady holding a cardboard check the size of a pool table. Three cops appeared and quickly cleared a small area for Bimmy, the grinning mayor, and the gleaming check lady, now squeezing behind the winner and mayor to pose like the homecoming queen.

            The brandy was already kicking in. Bimmy looked around dazedly, snapping back his head when the videocamera seemed to leap right in his face. The mayor threw an arm over Bimmy’s shoulder and leaned in smiling. “Go,” said the cameraman.

            The reporter wedged herself between them. “Congratulations, sir. On behalf of the mayor and city council, please accept this symbolic check for three million dollars!”

            The place went nuts. Bimmy reeled, sucking back brandy fumes. Finally he managed, “What the f**k am I supposed to do with a symbolic check? Buy a shitload of symbols?” The stunned silence was broken by laughter from the crowd, then the whole place was jumping with glee. The mayor snuck his face back in, smiling even wider.

            “Sir, that check isn’t for spending! It’s our proud honor,” he gushed, nodding and grinning like a bobbletoy chipmunk, “to present you with this combination debit and credit card, enabling you to draw on the Bank Of America, effective immediately, goods and services up to and not exceeding . . .” he paused for emphasis “. . . three million dollars!”

            The whole room was rocked by cheers.

            Bimmy took the card. It didn’t look all that much prettier than the plain old General Relief debit card. “You mean,” he wondered, “I can buy me a beer right here and now with this thing?”

            “As long as it’s before two a.m.” the mayor beamed.

            “You mean,” Bimmy ventured, “I can buy everybody here a beer?”

            “My friend,” the mayor bubbled, “you can buy everybody here a new car if you so desire.”

            Bimmy took a huge gulp and waved the bottle like an Oscar. “What the hell, then,” he cried. “New cars for everybody!”

           

 

            The petite figure making her way down the aisle couldn’t have weighed more than a child, though she carried herself with an authority traditionally removed from such hallowed turf. But when she saw the man draped in exotic furs and precious stones she approached the stage more like a groupie than an official.

            “Sir, I’m from the State Board of Trends And Statistics. I’m not sure you’re aware of it, Mr.--I mean Reverend Joseph--but the average MajikLotto winner grossing over a million dollars has only a 2.7-year shelf life on that sum. Our office is very interested in learning your plans for extending, or even intensifying, your odds, Reverend . . ?”

            Bimmy bowed almost to the floor. “Just ‘Joe’ will do fine, my dear. And I don’t necessarily demand use of the term ‘Reverend’--offstage, backroom, or otherwise. But should using it in any manner make you feel more comfortable, if you get my drift, then . . . please.” He swung an arm expansively. “As to increasing my odds, well, I see this church as a mighty sound investment; tax-free, humanitarian, nifty location--all that stuff. Plus, you gotta understand, since Jesus set me up with this deal, it’s pretty obvious he’s not gonna blow it for me. Then we got bingo on Sundays, Pass The Hat Tuesday, and firewalking contests for snake handlers and nursing moms all week long. Our up-and-coming House Band Cloven Tongue does some mighty fine fire-breathin’ Christian Rock, and this very church holds almost ninety percent of the copyrights.” He raised a hand and flashed his signature gummy grin. “Please . . . you’ll have to take them matters up with our legal team, but just a cautionary word:  they don’t do interviews on the links.” He took a massive breath. “Not to mention we’re contracting with Alcoholics Anonymous,” and she almost collapsed from the fumes,” for late meetings on these premises.” He rubbed his thumb and contiguous fingers lustily, leaning well into her contours while lowering his voice to a hot phlegmy growl. “We do real well in crucifixes, Bibles, and Christian party trays--so how’s them for increasing the ol’ odds, eh, baby?” Bimmy now spread wide his wings. “Not to mention you being delivered right into my arms!” He embraced her deeply and with passion, but the combination of mink and ermine with old sweat and cheap cologne was so pungent the poor thing was compelled to extricate herself with a shove no less passionate.

            Bimmy turned away sharply. “Go then!” Without another word he stormed into his office and made straight for the refrigerator, ripped out a stale quart of Olde English, and slammed himself down at his desk. He glared at the calendar, photos collage, and finally the telephone. As if reading his mind, the little rotary monster jangled the room. Bimmy took a deep draught before picking up the receiver.

            “Reverend Joseph,” he said miserably.

            It was Papa Bear. Bimmy sat straight up, every nerve cringing. “P.B.!” he managed. “What a surprise!”

            “Don’t sweet talk me, Rev’.” Bimmy had to plug his free ear to hear. “You been riding this rail on a bullshit ticket since we first shared a car. I had Accounts audit your sorry setup, and that big ol’ lottery tank just don’t hold water no more.”

            The phone went slippery in Bimmy’s grip. “Gimme a break, huh, Papa? That whole payday’s wrapped up in inves--”

            “Investments? You been spending like a sailor since the day you first jumped ship. What do I look like, pastor, some kinda harbor hooker? I think it’s about time we send in the MPs.”

            “Papa, Papa, Papa! We don’t need to play rough here! You know what’s mine is yours.”

            “You got that right, Father. Su casa, mi casa. You better have some mighty big guns in that fat glass fort of yours.” The line went dead.

            Bimmy gently replaced the receiver, rose and looked around the room. Inch by inch his jaw dropped; the enormity of his peril weighed him down. He began to pace the table in an ever-widening circle, finally slamming into the far wall.

            There. The mighty big gun. Bimmy tore down the stainless steel crucifix, laid it tenderly on the table. He squeezed shut his eyes and rubbed it for all he was worth. “Come on, baby, bring me the good stuff. You chose me, not anyone else. I always knowed I was put on this planet for a purpose, and I’m knowin’ equally sure that you’re just dyin’ to reveal what it’s all about. Then this is it, man; I’m ready as I’ll ever be. So go ahead and show me. Show your Chosen One the way. Let ’em all see what I’m really worth.” He kissed the crucifix a good one, set it down gently, and knocked back his malt liquor. There was a crash in the chapel. Bimmy wiped his lips. “S**t.” He killed the bottle, fluffed his Coat, and swished on out the door.

            The whole chapel was crawling with boys from the Backdoor Gang, smashing stained glass, breaking up walls, overturning pews. When they saw Bimmy standing there, his mouth agape, half a dozen leaped from the wings and threw him into a bearhug and headlock.

            Papa Bear stepped squarely through the mess, kicking and crushing as he came. “You let me down,” he wheezed. “You took me for a lousy ride in a hot Pinto, padre. Now it’s time we put on the brakes.”

            “I can make good!” Bimmy cried. “Just let me cut you a check.”

            “No dice, bummy. You ain’t worth the postage on the UPS box you’re about to call home. But the boys are gonna squeeze what they can out of you before they break out the tape and twine. Guys!”

            “Oh, mercy!”

            Papa Bear’s expression went sour. “Never could stand that word.”

            Bimmy was forced to hunch there while the gang smashed through the building, tearing out everything but the plumbing. Finally he was given a full-body cavity search, losing his pinocle deck, his lucky condom, and his solid gold crucifix bottle opener. “Not my BO!” he wailed.

            Papa Bear slung out his switchblade. “A pound of flesh,” he snarled. “How much you weigh?”

            And the whole gang jumped Bimmy. They beat him down the aisle, beat him across the parking lot, beat him into Papa Bear’s sinewy black Lexus. They beat him up the streets, beat him down the boulevard, beat him all the way to Ernie’s, where they dumped him on the sidewalk like so much garbage. Bimmy clawed his way to the storefront, finally sagging in a puddle of blood and urine.

            “Young man.”

            He looked up through black swollen eyes.

            “You didn’t use the gift of Jesus all that wisely, did you?”

            Bimmy dropped his head. “He let me down.”

            The biddy clasped his face in her hands. “The Lord so loves his children!” she exulted. “He will never give up on you young man, never!” She pulled a bill from her bra. “Now, do you promise to use this dollar with wisdom this time?”

            Bimmy squinted up. “Oh, yes, ma’am. I promise promise promise from the bottom of my heart.”

            She placed it in his cupped hands and nodded gladly. “I know the Lord will be pleased.”

            Bimmy hauled himself to his feet one brick at a time.

            “God bless--” she began, but he was gone.

            Bimmy fell through the door and up against a tatterdemalion wall of backs and shoulders, holding the precious dollar high. “Outta my way, you blasphemous sons of b*****s! This one’s from God!”.

 

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