Page 27 of Eyes Like Angel
“Bye,” I said, without looking back at my parents, Dad especially, who was particularly watching me gathering the motorcycle helmet and put it on, after taking the first steps to descend a grand staircase. But what caught my eye that Dad didn’t mention there’s another guest watching me.
Somehow he was trying to trick me, because I couldn’t percept the figure behind the guests.
I didn’t see the person in clear inspection; I sped to a getaway ride.
Passing by the monumental fountain, I prepped the motorcycle, with my foot on the ground, balancing my frame to prevent from the fall, I switched the engine on, and shifted the throttle, and faced upward, only to find the four couples and a curious young woman surveilling me at a distance by the grand staircase—still couldn’t decipher since the sparkling outline of Mrs. Curtis’s gaudy outfit outshined and flickered its brightness on my sight, but saw a blip of long strands fluttering in the wind.
Maybe a crazed up imagination just passed by.
Or not. Who knows?
Roaring the engine, the motorcycle raced through the gated doors, heading to the Fort Heaven town.
***
After driving at a getaway motorcycle, a cumbersome confrontation, an extreme cumbersome first meet with Mr. and Mrs. Curtis.
Parking at the nearest front, the handicapped lane, I shuffled the shift stick to parking mode and set the truck off, entering the liquor store, off to purchase the bottle of martini and two packs of cigarettes—one is for chilling down on a secluded spot, the other is for emergencies when Mom brought stress. Besides, early breakfast wasn’t in my agenda.
The Curtis family made their appearance this early morning, unannounced—after handing over a ginormous lecture, an effort of not fucking things up by Mother dearest—devised on what style I should wear and how I acted, and a steaming shower, scrubbing my body three times, it’s safe to say I’m the most tender, wearing a false, tender smile like how Momtaught me, to won the crowd’s heart, another way to afford as we presented ourselves with glamour.
Smiling often got me to places and incentive me handsomely, like a full-time gigolo filthily showing my chest and big dong for girls to eat up like candy.
Veryhandsomely, unbothered due to privileges, the joys and benefits of being good-looking—endless resources heading my way, not a single dead end trapped me—often-wise, I had a safety net, an outlet to look forward on.
I wish I could manufacture a practical joke, a pun, but somehow I couldn’t. Either I couldn’t pick to say a comeback or just followed along. Either way, disastrous results wins.
Life was already a practical joke.
But as I sent a soft-dimpled grin to anyone who comes into my way, acting is an obligation—following the script, telling people what they wish to hear, like some sort of PR shit. For the record, I’m no celebrity, or Santa Claus, but that’s how it feels like when dealing with individuals. For each person is vary, depending who I’m speaking to.
To men, I’m in professional speaking terms, depending what age and who I’m talking to. Towards my friends, I’m as cordial and chill; I’m down to whatever activities and plans they come up and go with the flow. To women, I persuade them with charm, to ease the tension and hostile nature weighing on their shoulders, but knowing how women act, like with Madison—or Sam, confused to which is her actual name— after the Sunday Mass, is like driving a screw driver into the scalp.
But in the end, I’d never bend my knees to any woman.
I never begged on my knees.
They could beg as much as they damn well please, but I’d often have a final say—walking off or telling them politely to ‘fuck off’, shove them if given no choice if I’m being put onto a cornered wall.
Smoking and drinking under a past curfew was one thing, but smoking and boozing under a broad daylight was another, tempting for the bad felt good. Townspeople were working at their shift while I was strolling around—driving around the sports car was not a good idea. The town selectman, hates on all things modern and loud, I parked elsewhere, and went out for a “walk” with aVespamotorcycle—nothing too boisterous.
And not a single sign of dilemma appeared. After I robbed the valuable items, I hoped for townspeople resorted to asleep and act like nothing happened. The cost of going to jail is might jeopardize the reputation. The townspeople were stuffed after Thanksgiving, were occupied, and flipped their signs open, abiding for customers to enter, dine and chat.
People roamed fast, immediately knowing. People get up earlier than a sun. People used to be crazy—dashing and cutting everyone to snatch the last time on the aisle. Women tugged each other’s hair; men punching faces until their countenance get bloody and disfigured. It was a blast, finding myself cackling at older people—parent, relative, friends and elderly alike.
Cars and vans swerving a slippery concrete after a rainfall, vehicles causing accidents, tires screeching and popping, ended up hospitalized in brutal surgeries and medications and medical bills cost in greater numbers than two thousand dollars.
The best part is, I watched the whole spectacle in complete amusement when I was six years old, eating a large lollipop on the sidelines, which Mom had forgotten about me.
Those were the fun days.
Nothing unusual, but might’ve I overstepped to draw conclusions. The occurrence in the town was steadfast on continuing their pace—that’s one thing that this place has in common with metropolitan cities, the show must go on. After last night’s activity, people might’ve scream, but not a singlesign of terror ruptured chaos throughout the evening, much to my relief, but the thirst and escapism on burglary, on the other matter, that I couldn’t live without. Stealing one’s property was tempting—no objections to apply.
Aside from stealing, killing annoying people was sweeter than victory.
Burglary lasted longer, considered given amount of pleasure and freedom rather than sitting. After all, I compiled the jewelry and pricing items from their safe box and floor boards and secret locations. But I knew this place like the back of my hand—I stepped into their shoes on what they pictured their hatred towards robbery, criminal shit. I knew where people hid their belongings and I enjoyed stealing, I enjoyed stealing what isn’t my property. It’s part of the transaction to uphold. No would ever suspect the son of CEO, since Dad deemed me as a ‘good’ son who never does anything wrong, aside bringing random chicks on a Sunday morning.
Bad things tend to occur and constant and all it takes was a single misstep. A misstep can be redeemed, as long as I don’t invested myself or go overboard.
