Heartless People

FIFTEEN

Sometimes you have to pick the gun up to put the gun down.

—Malcolm X

JINX

I don't like people. I don't like being around them, and I don't like walking amongst them. My place has always been in the sky. I was born in the sky, somewhere over Vermont of all places. My mother gave birth to me on a plane, and since then, thats the place I've tried to stay. Being a first generation Italian to a nearly blind mother and a deadbeat alcoholic father, there wasn't much room for me to spread my wings as child. My days were spent trying to stop my father from killing my mother, and my mother from killing herself.

It was only when I turned eighteen that I left. I kissed my mother goodbye, left my father a six-pack and joined the Air Force. Days became weeks, weeks became months, and sooner than I could blink, I was dripping in medals of honor. Time flies when you're having fun, and it flies even faster when you live thirty-six thousand feet high. My job was second nature to me; I would have done it for free.

I got my nickname Jinx because no matter how hard someone tried to outshine me, they would fail. I would steal away their look. At bars the women would leave the other guys to be around me. In the
air, no one could get near me in drills without something going wrong. To me it was luck, to them I was Jinx.

Life was good, until I found out the bambolina I was seeing was pregnant, just as I was given another assignment. The last thing I told her was to keep the baby and we would talk about it later.

Drop the package over North Korea, come home, get married, be the father mine failed to be, and live a happy middle class life like everyone else. But, that day never came, because apparently, I died or at least the government said I did.

Moments after I dropped the package, I was shot out the sky like a duck during hunting season. They pulled me from the mangled, smoldering machine I had once called my baby, and tortured me. But I took that one for my country, thinking they would
come and rescue me. They had to. Day in and day out, for four years I was beaten within an inch of my life, always asked the same questions over and over again.

The guns! Who wants the guns? I didn't know it then, but the package I had dropped was filled with American weapons to arm Korean rebels. America wasn't coming to my aid. They would deny to their dying breaths that I was even in Korean air space.

They had chosen me not because I was good, but because I looked foreign enough and stupid enough not to ask questions. SoNfor four years I did my time in Hell, only to escape during a small riot.

I ran for hours doing my best not to be seen, blending in with those trying to leave the country. In South Korea, it took me four more years and a fake passport to finally make it back to the land of the
free, home of the brave.

I found out that not only had the world moved on, but that I no longer mattered within it. Everything once bearing my name was gone; my identity was wiped clean. Somewhere in Vermont, both my parents were dead, my father killing my mother and then himself.

The woman and child I had left behind had moved on without me. They were happywho was I to take that away from them? So I was alone.

I wandered the streets, doing odd jobs here and there all over the country. I lived under bridges, I ate from dumpsters, and on occasion, I would shower in subway bathrooms. My luck had turned and now I truly felt nothing but jinxed.

Then, one day, as I lay at my spot behind the dumpster, I watched as a white Tahoe sped into my ally. In front of it, some poor Irish mutt looked for a way out. He begged the white Tahoe as if he
were speaking to a God, claiming he would get her money back. He swore on his life, but it did him no good. Instead, it drove over him as if he were nothing but a rat.