Unforeseen Developments Part I

The following is an excerpt from a story called "Unforeseen Developments":

They were both killers. They looked like killers. They moved like killers. They gave off a killer vibe.

Sherman’s long stringy greasy hair always found its way into his eyes. His doughy shoulders, fists like hams, and slow, loping stride emanated slack. He moved like a patient recovering from a stroke. His breath always smelled of peppermint. Known as Sherm to his friends, or what passed for friends, he was dead quiet until a subject he either knew something about or was passionate about was broached. Which was hardly ever. He had an uncomfortable smile, as if his face didn’t want or was unable to turn that way, and a simmering confidence. He moved like a man who knew what he wanted and was taking his sweet, awkward time getting to it.

Cameron, or Cam, was about the same size as Sherm, but he was a much slimmer and quicker man. That is to say, his average movement was quicker. The fact of the matter was that Sherm was very quick when he wanted to be. He just rarely wanted to be. You could be talking to him one minute, turn to eye your cup and pick up your coffee, and he’d suddenly be across the room, halfway through the crossword puzzle, eyes glazing over from extended concentration. His face had a funny tic that disconcerted anyone who didn’t know him and drove those who did to the brink of slapping him. Except that no one ever dared slap him. His hands were warring nations, constantly at odds over any task he performed. The problem was that he was ambidextrous, so there was never any resolution. He smelled of meat and cheese and moved in a funny, herky-jerky way, as though he was trapped in a body that was not originally his own. In short, Cam was a bit creepy. Even to himself. More than one person could say they had seen him visibly shake himself, as though he’d thought of something totally out there and was trying to launch it from his body.

Cameron and Sherman shared a low, dark, dingy house out on Rte. 32 not far from the county landfill, as well as two old dogs – Jasper, a decrepit bloodhound and Mikah, a sour, irascible, limping German Shepherd – a shit brown ’77 Chevy Impala, and a penchant for shooting rats at said landfill. The Impala was dull and faded, with rust discoloration in pock marks everywhere. To describe it one must say that the brown was merely the dominant color for now; soon enough the rust would gain a majority and vote the brown out of office. It was loud inside the car and only the AM stations worked on the radio. They either listened to the local station when Car Talk was on or they kept it off. The heat and AC worked fine; that and the fact that it ran like a champ were all they cared about. Looks could be deceiving and they knew that better than most people. Most folks had no idea that inside these two caricatures of backwoods beatdown life beat the hearts of two very enterprising men.

The first time they drove by the Fast Way Mart in Hardwick, both men glanced over, glanced at each other, and grinned. “That’d be it,” murmured Cam. Three cars at the island pumps, an old man walking out with a carton of milk and a pack of smokes, lighting up as he approached his car parked at the first pump, and a skinny kid with acne leaning against the bricks near the pay phone. Sherm slowly steered the Impala around the building. The sky was that pale blue that made you love it as a kid, full of hope and promise; it was dotted with small puffs of cloud as far as you could see. Like their ride, you would have to say that the blue was merely the dominant color for now. Rain was in the forecast and, unlike most parts of the country, the weatherman was usually right around here. The car putt-putted in at an angle at the side of the building, near the last remaining phone booth in the county and a bright green, freshly painted Dumpster.


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'til next time...