A Poignant Incertitude

A Poignant Incertitude

Bernie Gabriel Brogden



For money or love thereof, is my prized possession which I value deeply. My confessions, however, I hope may yield another dimension of life worth cherishing. For now, today, for tomorrow, and forever I will loathe the absence of my trophy. Happiness is also something of value that can be extricated from the web of evilness or plucked from the vine of goodness. Throughout my lifetime, regretfully, I chose from the web, not the vine.

Since childhood, for various reasons, I've never been truly happy, unless I was playing with Satan's peer, Chance, my panacea for loneliness. More often than not, when I did not collude with Chance, happiness escaped the vacancies in my soul, making me vulnerable to negativity. To worsen matters, I did not listen to my better self. I must admit a constant supply of money did much to assuage me, did much to fulfill these vacancies I speak of. However I also must pronounce that money is not a product of the vine. But to have it, to possess it, to make more of it, is my purpose, a good motivator of sorts. Through observations I've learned happiness extracted from certain things on the vine of goodness, is more permanent, more prosperous, and ­most strengthening.     

My troubles began shortly after Kimble and I knelt in the sanctuary before the Reverend, a leader of men. Leading up to this most momentous of moments, my good confidant accompanied me through years of trials, so it follows that our bond was substantially strengthened, cemented at best.

One of the earliest events I recall took place on the corner of a neighborhood where I resided. The corner was the site of the craps game, the substitute for Vegas. Maybe Vegas was a substitute for the corner. Enamored with the comradery, intrigued by the whole affair, I stood in the crowd of gamblers always unabashed, always convinced I would make money. I was young then, wet behind my ears. And on this peculiar night a fool, a bully rather, possessing the clout of a local mobster, reached into my pocket while I attempted a turn and seized my earnings. Instinctively a fist of mine collided with the man's face, shattering his maxilla; consequently the man's existence was terminated. My money retrieved. Though my humor was tickled, I was eerily concerned that no one gave a damn about the dead man. As a matter of fact, a few individuals ran over to the corner pick pocketing the man for his loose change. Pick pocketing may be an inferior way of describing this scene, for men, women, and children probed the man's underwear and socks for morsels of currency. The notion of me being a subject of retaliation was quickly extinguished. We, the men and I, played on.

Lest not I forget, the man I clobbered had green eyes, slim build, and a distinctive strut, a stroll my eyes have never seen duplicated by anyone else until I met a warm fellow a few years later. With my squeegee in my left hand, a pail of soapy water in my right, and headphones clasped on my ears, I walked two stores down from the business establishment that I had just left. I began to clean the windows, as usual, that is, till a man from inside the store started to approach the exit, smiling, spraying inaudibles out of his mouth, in my direction. After he made a weird noise for my attention, I turned around. Sweet Jesus, the man resembled the bully I thought I killed. The only difference was the tattoo of a dollar sign, below one of his green eyes. After I removed my earpieces, we talked. In summary of our conversation, the man proposed a collaborative effort to work the towns windows. To mull over the idea was no easy task. Stress, that poison, seeped into my veins and mental corridors as I juggled the proposition, the possibility of him, the concern for my life, and the sharing of my responsibilities which I took great pride in handling. Ah, I reckoned those extra coins would alleviate my frets though, and besides, it couldn't be him. You see, I was the main supplier of this sort of labor throughout town. But working the windows together, would allow us to work more windows at more establishments found anywhere between the skyscrapers downtown poking the heavens and the uptown neighborhood stores matted to street corners. Hence, more money earned for me, more money to gamble at the crap game when I returned home. The next day that we crossed each others path, was the last time him and I were seen alone during the sun's time.

There, in front of the pulpit, we were to declare our lives for the Lord, ask for forgiveness, forgive others and do well from then on. The Reverend preached. Acts of improper aggression would be punished from Above, and on the earth where men rule. Transgressions, sins, evil thoughts, worldly behavior would bar one from happiness on the earth and in the heavens. During this event I actively pondered these things. But nonetheless, declaration meant vanquishing my feelings.

These feelings I tell of began to arise within me soon after the acquaintance of my new partner. Kimble, my new coworker, accompanied me on my way home. Subsequently, I introduced him to my routine. It did not matter that this particular day was our first laborious outing, a daily brew and a game of craps tickled my fancy. My guest stood amongst the men as I shook and jiggled the die and talked a lot of crap to my fellow wagers. Fulfilled with energy, a competitive and content energy, I glanced at my coworker and smiled, unashamed. My leisure equaled my vice, and I could care less. Anyways, immediately after my smile disconnected from his eyes, my eyes saw for the first time what appeared to be a slight deformity on the bridge of his nose. His nose was oft-center, harnessing a mild sutured hump. If you can imagine a bee-sting, centered directly below the eyes, on top of the nose bridge, thats how Kimble's nose appeared to me.

That night, agony and fear maligned my psyche. The vast sums of money we earned in the daytime translated into a wondrous omen. The night time recognition, a curse levied on my soul. Was this man that man? The friendly disposition of Kimble seemed so honest and forthright, who was I to even question him? If he knew I knew, would he hasten his revenge? Was his nose a reminder of my evil deed? The many potential answers to the former questions eventually spawned a pebble of hatred in my mind for this man. How evil a joke! How tortuous my God! I regret to inform you, the pebble remained stuck in my head, even as I forged a relationship.

My aversion to this man hid in my soul as we worked the town. Strangely over the years my hatred weakened. For the man was too funny, too kind, too jovial, too pleasing for my soul. I never laughed so much in my life, until I ventured with Kimble. As the years flew by, so did the good times we shared. He taught me charity and appreciation of life. He even convinced me to channel some of our earnings back into the neighborhood. Sometimes, we paid the mortgage payments of several local merchants, bought food for the hungry, assisted community individuals with counsel fees, and so much more. And I began to feel better. My health vastly improved. The taste of happiness that I suspect originated from something plucked from the vine of goodness, began to satiate my thirst. No doubt, soon thereafter, I shunned Chance, abandoning the craps game.

But many nights, my tortured psyche reared its ugly head and my vicious curiosity peaked. The combination of hatred and love and fear and wonder of this man agitated my temperament. When was he going to make his move? Why did it seem like his tattoo glowed in my direction? If he wasn't my victim, why did he walk just like him? Of most importance, though, was this happiness I possessed, where did I get it? Whatever the source or thing was, I could not place a finger on it but needed it to survive.

One of these tortuous nights, occasioned the event at the sanctuary. And so we declared our lives to the Lord. Well, Kimble declared, I pretended just to appease him. Kimble grasped my clammy hand, raised it to the sky, and smiled an enduring smile which alleviated my agitation. Several weeks leading up to the declaration, our earnings began to decrease because of the new workers in town that ate into our market. This was, according to Kimble, something to pray about. He ministered to me about living a good life, and brought me to the Reverend. Since he declared and forgave and asked for forgiveness, the suspicious juices began to pump throughout my mind. Maybe he had an evil thought or two about exacting some form of retaliation. Maybe, our span of time together, was my punishment.

A couple of weeks after the declaration, we began to work intermittently, since there was a work shortage for cleaning windows. Kimble visited me often but not enough. And my rugged thoughts began to rise. My happiness began to dwindle. I felt ill everyday until I decided to play with Chance. Oh, I still felt quaintly sick, but gambling made me feel better. Winning money, in wake of the shortage, enhanced this perverted therapy. I started playing craps again. Day and night. Night and day. Exasperating this dilemma, my allegiance to my hobby transformed from that of habitual to that of pathological.

Many times, after the crap game, I found myself short of money I surely won. Kimble accompanied me on these occasions when debt seemed to find me. I confided in Kimble of my dilemma and he assured me he would seize my tormentor. Nonetheless, instead of a depraved hunger when gambling, I played with a calm easiness, collecting miniscule wagers strictly for fun when he was around. That romancer of mood! A lover of money I am, am too quite accountable for every morsel of tender of my passion, so I reasoned someone of a familiar nature robbed me. After Kimble's last visit I asked myself Who could it be? Who was the snake withering in the crowd? I vowed to find this scum, this no good bum, this thief son of a bitch, this immoral pest who I'll gladly confront. No longer were the words of the Reverend heard. And impulsively, the next day, I bought a pistol.

Was he, now, pick-pocketing me? Was this his revenge? The pebble of hatred lodged in my head began to throb. My burden was that of a poignant incertitude. I devised a plan and marked my paper bills with ink-blots. Then I invited Kimble over for a night of company. We grabbed a brew and sipped and talked and politicked and had a good time. As usual, with Kimble around, my laughter was louder than my normal laugh, my smile larger, too. My plan almost vaporized while I talked and basked in this moment, a moment so endearing of friends. We socialized until Chance that devil yearned for me. We hunkered over to the corner with the fellow gamblers.

I knelt on the ground, took some wagers, shook the die and slammed them to the concrete. Kimble, along with several others, did not participate. Rather he opted to observe the contest of greed. My number did not appear and I saw the hands reaching into the respective money piles. I observed a pair of hands reach into my pile also, that did not belong. While kneeling, my eyes had difficulty pinpointing the perpetrator so I waited. In my patience, I began to seethe. I forgot the happiness I felt moments ago. To make matters worse, a blinding force blanketed my rationale. Was this the true nature of the pickings from the evil web? In a flash, my senses detected a moving shadow on the ground, rhythmically bobbing up and down from behind. How distinctive a stroll! The shadow of an arm reached into a gambler's pocket. Eureka! Kimble, that perpetrator. A rush of ice spread throughout my body to the nerves of my fingertips, while a hot crimson anger -- a rambunctious explosion of passion consumed my spirit. I rose, turned around, and shot Kimble four violent times in his torso. And, as if time slowed to a halt, his green eyes connected with mine while he fell, and tears adorned his solemn face. His victim, afflicted with an atrocious limp, immediately began to run the opposite direction dropping feathery bills in the process. In a moment of clarity, I noticed the ruffled wad of cash laden with inkblots on the ground, next to my friend. I scoured the immediate vicinity, picking up ink blotted bills laid in the trail of his victim. I, too, began to weep.

Could Kimble, my personal enigma, also have been my first victim? Did Kimble conspire against me with his runaway victim? Fruitless contemplation, it was not in his nature. As I sit in this cell, and reflect upon the happiest moments of my life, the un-lonely moments of my life, I realize that answer is of no importance. Either that or I feel silly exploring such a trivial matter now. Chance pretended to be my healer. Oh, how I was sorely mistaken. The love of money proved to be harmful to my well-being, as all things extricated from the web of evil. That thing found on the vine of goodness however, the same thing that displaced copious amounts of mental matter and ushered me to the brink of the land of serenity, the thing that made me smile, is worth cherishing. My trophy is lost forever, silenced in its destruction, but the thing it represented spoke volumes.

If only I listened. 

[This story was submitted to Reedsy #ReedsyWicked contest #277]