I couldn't figure out how to do the indents, but here it is.

Warehouse 172.

By

James A. Trout.



“I’m sorry, Mr. Hendricks, but you have cancer.”
Oswald stared at the doctor in front of him, the beeping of the monitors and muted words from other patients no longer just a background drone. In front of him, Dr. Cook stood, young but crestfallen, clutching a clipboard like a shield, long white coat yellowing under florescent lights and bad news.
“Oh,” Oswald said, numbly, his feet hanging from the examination table, unable to touch the floor.
“Now there are several treatment options,” the doctor began, as if reading from a script. Good lord, thought Oswald, as the greenhorn started listing options, he’s even closing his eyes for this, like a child in a school play. “We have a great facility here if you wish to pursue chemotherapy treatment,” Cook continued, until Oswald cut him off.
“If it’s all the same to you, I would like to think on my options for awhile.”
Relief broke over the young doctor’s face like a wave. “Well, once you make your decision, give us a call and schedule an appointment with our Oncologist. Have a good day.” His face turned stark in his horror, “… Uh, I’m sorry, I…”
Oswald stood up, grabbed his coat, patted Cook on the shoulder, and left the doctor stammering apologies in the hallway. He paid his bills, walked to his car, started it up, and pulled easily out of the parking lot. Heat shimmered off of the blacktop as he drove home to the suburbs. As he pulled into his driveway, the sound of the dying engine was replaced by the therapeutic “putt-putt-putt-pssssshhh” of the yard sprinkler fighting a pointless battle against the brown and broken grass of summer.
“So what happened at the appointment?” came the question as soon as Oswald walked in the door, tracking unintended grit into the hallway.
“Oh, nothing much. They just said, I’m old and don’t put off the things you want to do. Nothing I didn’t know already.”
“Doesn’t seem nice to call you just for that,” responded Maggie over the clinking of dishes and the squeak of her rubber gloves, “and it’s not like they need to remind you of that or anything. It just seems mean, I mean you…”
“I don’t look infirm and am in good shape for my age,” recited Oswald, walking into the kitchen and wrapping his arms around her spindly waist, “I know, my little bluebird, but I’m still almost seventy. It’s their job to remind me.” He leaned around her shoulder and kissed the side of her head.
“I know, but it’s still not nice.” The clinking was louder now. “All that surgery has made them so distant with patients. Would it kill them to try to connect every once and awhile?”
He hugged her a little closer. “They have to tell people every day that they are dying. Think about how they feel.”
“… It’s still not nice.”
“I know. I’ll be in the garage if you need anything, my love.”
Sawdust filled the air as he toiled in his garage workshop. His quest, an endtable, the legs curving and elegant, the top a dark-stained pine. A gift for a Ed and Jared’s wedding, the new neighbors down the street. Everything was done, except for the last little bit of sanding and the priming. The wood had come pre-stained.
Cancer.
“Do what you have always wanted to do,” wasn’t that what everyone said whenever something like this happened on TV? Well he didn’t want to die in a bed, that’s for sure. Wasting away like a fruit on the vine, just waiting for the end, he felt a flush of self-hatred at the thought of it. It’s wasn’t the pain or even the death that scared him, but the apathy and helplessness. Sitting in a bed or a chair or whatever as rays of god knows what pierced his body just for the hint of maybe, at some point in the future, possibly prolonging the inevitable. Even then, that’s not a solution. That was barely a stopgap, and for what? His uninteresting and apologetic end to his uninteresting and apologetic life. Again, the rush of rage filled him. He brushed a small drift of wooden powder off of the table leg with the sandpaper more forcefully than intended, accidentally abrading against the grain. The small injury on the leg, unnoticed to all, save those that look for it, a defiant blemish on his work. Frustrated, he blew off the dust.
No, he wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t work on the table either, Ed and Jared were good people, they didn’t deserve angry work. He had to clear his head, work had only filled it with sawdust. The air outside was stifling, hot and still, the calling card of the coming July. The warm plastic siding eked out a short grating noise as Oswald leaned against the outside of the garage.
Cancer.
He would die soon. Perhaps not now, perhaps later, but his clock was ticking. Somehow, the thought was oddly liberating. No worries, no consequences, for once, he could be as selfish as he had always wanted to be.
What had he always wanted to do? The more he thought about it, the more there was only one answer. He didn’t want to just live anymore, he wanted to feel alive. To feel like there was something at stake. To feel his blood surge and desire rip at his being. To have his heart strain to almost bursting in fear and excitement.
He had experienced it only once before. He was in college, a good boy from a good family, majoring in theology, on his road to becoming a minister, just as polite and meek now as he was then, an RA learning leadership and responsibility. He was on his rounds one night through the chemistry building, the still-lit corridors lined with classrooms. On this night’s patrol, he decided to tour through the basement of the building. A noise made him stop. He could hear something far down the corridor, like… cheering. He followed the noise, sneakers squeaking on the newly waxed floor. It was coming from the disused lab, along with other sounds, groans, dull impacts, more cheering, cries of pain. Gathering his courage, Oswald opened a crack in the door and had stood transfixed by what he saw.
Two men, each bloodied, both bruised, and surrounded by people cheering and waving money. One had a fat, swollen lip, the other the beginnings of a black eye. Bloody smears disturbed the floor and more than one person in the audience looked heavily beaten. Oswald watched from behind the portal, fascinated as seconds stretched into hours, the two men in the middle of the ring engaged in brutal combat. Fists swinging into ribs, faces, stomachs, the crowd a frenzy of support, the sound and odor of fear and violence, of sweat and blood, of survival and destruction, he was held spellbound by it all. Oswald, with his sophomore status, clean clothes, slicked back hair, badge of authority, and flashlight, stood transfixed by the carnage, a man in the church of brutality, mesmerized by its mass.
Oswald aways wondered why he didn’t report the gathering to the authorities. It was against the law after all, and he was an RA. He tried to find it again, to experience that same apprehension and tension in his intestines, but couldn’t. The fighting ring had moved. Unable to push it from his mind, he sought the guidance of his church and his childhood pastor, reverend Mortan. “Immoral cesspits of depravity and excess!” the clergyman had exclaimed upon hearing Oswald’s tale, before chuckling softly and brushing his greying hair out his wide face, “That’s what Pastor Orbison always called such things.” He grunted slightly as he restated his bulk in the chair, his second chin trailing a split second behind the rest of his movements. “He always did have a flair for the dramatic, may he rest in peace, but I am inclined to agree. Gambling on senseless violence is a road to Satan, and these feelings of… desire, as you call them, are just God’s way of testing you.” He clasped his pudgy hands and smiled as he looked at Oswald over his wireframe glasses, “If ones wishes to cleanse oneself of such feelings, they must be willing to receive god’s love, just as you have in the past.” Mortan looked sorrowful as he tapped his pencil on the desk, “There is little hope for souls like for them I fear… but you my dear sweet child, you can still be saved.” There was another creak from the chair as his eyes moved over Oswald. “In cases of such… unwanted desire we often allow the sinners a little charity work, for with the clergy of course.” He placed his hand on Oswald’s “I’m sure that afterwards, no one will feel these nasty… urges anymore.” He smiled again, as sweat beaded his brow.
Oswald shook his head. Despite the memories, the knowledge of his death was now a freeing thought. He could go anywhere, do anything, his life, or what was left of it, was open and worry-free. There was no more need to be nice to people. He would fight. He would feel alive. The stuffy, fertilizer-choked air of suburbia tasted somehow sweeter now. The craving was like a hook in his guts, pulling at his insides the more he thought about it. A lifetime of meekness and good manners rebelled at the thought, but for once he didn’t care, he didn’t have to. He wouldn’t go quietly into the void.
But, Maggie…
A claw of guilt ripped at his heart at the thought of her disappointed and betrayed face. No, he couldn’t let her find out. He needed to find a place without her knowing, and do it quickly. He was running out of time.
The sound of a lawnmower choking to life in the stillness jolted Oswald out of his reverie. Across the street, Ed was pulling at the mower’s ripcord, his wifebeater already darkening with sweat, the jagged, curving lines of a tribal tattoo clearly visible on his shoulder under the thin fabric stretched around his muscles. Checking the street and finding no cars, Oswald crossed the boiling blacktop. As he got closer, Ed’s muttered slights against the lawnmower and the inventor of lawnmowers became more pronounced. He motioned a greeting.
Oswald nodded as he approached. “Sounds like you’re having a rough time.”
“Nah, ’s probably just low on gas. I got some in the garage.” As he lifted the garage door, he  asked, “So what brings you by, neighbor?”
“Just looked like you had some trouble Ed, that’s all.”
“Well, I think I got it,” smiled Ed, returning from the dark interior, “I tell you, I don’t know how you and Maggie ever handled your wedding. Was it any different in your days?” It’s not even hard to get him to talk, Oswald thought, I bet if I sneezed he’d ask me where I got my cold from and that he’d had one just like it.
“Jared’s still worrying over every little detail,” he continued, “Are the centerpieces lacy enough? Did I order the right flowers? Do we get the duck stuffed chicken or the chicken stuffed duck?” He chuckled as the sharp, sweet smell of gas began to waft over the lawn. “It’s not my thing, but he won’t let me near that binder of his. That’s fine though. All I care about is an open bar, anyway.” Ed laughed and the fuel sloshed into the tank. “That and getting hitched o’ course.”
“You do like your drink,” commented Oswald.
“Are you putting in a request? Just because we’re gay don’t mean we can afford something as old as you buddy.” He nudged Oswald good-naturedly in the ribs and chuckled at his own joke.
“No, but about a year ago when you two held that neighborhood cookout, you got pretty tipsy and you told me something.”
“Did I now?”
“Yes, you mentioned a certain place that you frequented. A certain club, in a warehouse, where you made all that money for the wedding.” As he talked Oswald could see the expression become more and more plastic on Ed’s face; a mask kept there only by force of will. He could see Ed’s thick fingers tense on the gas can’s handle. Ed laughed again, but it had none of his humor in it.
“Everybody says dumb things when they are on the sauce,” said Ed, examining the lawnmower and purposefully not looking at Oswald, “probably just some story someone told me once.”
“Then how did you get these?” Before he could react, Oswald yanked Ed’s hand from the lawnmower and held it in front of his face. The scars stood out plain and pale on his knuckles as he jerked his arm free of Oswald’s boney fingers.
“Fine! I fought for it, Okay! But so what? Why do you care.”
“Where is it?”
Ed’s face froze in shock. “You want to go there?”
“Yes.”
“You’re going to get killed if you go there.”
“Let me worry about that.”
“You’re a nice man, Father Hendricks, and I appreciate what you’ve done to make us feel accepted in the community,” he said, as he put a hand on Oswald’s thinning shoulder, “I know it probably wasn’t easy for you religious folk. But I ‘aint lettin’ you kill yourself on some fool errand.”
“What would you do if Jared found out?”
The color drained from Ed’s face and his grip on Oswald’s shoulder tightened.
“If you start threatening my marriage…”
“I won’t tell him or the cops if you just tell me where to find it.” As he said this Oswald reached into his pocket and pulled out a small red audio recorder. The color drained from Ed’s face as he saw the blinking red light.
“… you wouldn’t.”
“Just tell me, and Jared never sees the cloud backup.”
“Ed, honey, I made that garlic chicken you like for dinner.” Jared’s high voice cut through the silence of the suburban afternoon, “Come get it when you’re done, I’m off to the gym.”
“This wedding means the world to us.” Ed’s normally jovial face was now etched with pleading lines. “Promise me. No cops, no Jared.”
“I won’t tell the cops, or Jared.”
There was a long pause as Ed eyed the recorder like a bomb.
“There is an opening in the chain-link fence on Wooster Street. Warehouse number 172. The password is: angry dave sends his love.”
“Thank you,” said Oswald, putting the recorder back in his pocket as Jared came down the steps, baby blue gym bag matching his shorts and the tips of his half-shaved hair. “Just stopped by to say hi, but I should get back to work.” He smiled warmly at them both, each looking at him with surprise.
“Well thank you father,” exclaimed Jared, walking up and wrapping his supple arms around Ed’s shoulder, “and we are so grateful to you for officiating the wedding, you have no idea.”
“Oh, it’s my pleasure,” replied Oswald, walking back to his house, “You two have a nice day.”
Whatever was said next, Oswald couldn’t hear. He was walking back across the blacktop and into his garage. He grabbed the box he kept on the top of the shelves, pocketed its contents, and returned to his work on the table, all the while running over plans in his head. He had to do something.
Four hours later, in the docks district of downtown, after checking for security cameras, Oswald parked his car, turned it off, and after a few minutes of steeling himself for his task, set out to find the gap in the fence. It didn’t take long, it was easy to find when you knew to look for it, he could hear the sound of water lapping against concrete from here. He set off down a row of warehouses, flickering bulbs from long-neglected security lights lighting his way. He drew level with the door to one of them, marked with a large 172 above it, and tapped on the door. For a minute, there was no answer, and then a gruff voice said: “Password.”
“Angry Dave sends his love,” replied Oswald, and the door slid open.
Inside there was a small ring of people with a light swinging above them, suspended by a frayed wire. Many of the people were waving money. On the other side of the room, there was a chalkboard with names and ratios written. Whoever, Bobby “the Bruiser” was, he had some good odds tonight. The floor had some dark stains on it and Oswald walked forward into the gathered circle of people. Inside the ring were two men one with a large scar over one eye, another with short hair, both glistened with sweat under the light of the single bulb. They stared at each other, both heavily bruised and bleeding, the gore a warpaint on their burning skin. The scarred one spat blood out of the corner of his mouth and charged the other. There was the painful slap of flesh on flesh as the two men collided. The first man, grasping the other around the waist, shoulder digging into guts, the short-haired one beating on the others back with his elbows and struggling to break the first one’s grip. As he was being driven back towards the circle of people, the short-haired man pushed down on the scarred man’s back and brought his knee up with an ugly crunching noise. There was a cheer and a few groans of disappointment. The short-haired man grabbed the other by the neck and brought his knee into grisly contact with the scarred man’s nose. Blood dripped sickeningly onto the concrete as the he fell heavily, clutching his nose, and curled up on the ground as the short-haired man kicked him in the ribs before spitting on him and turning to the crowd. Behind him, money was rapidly changing hands.
“Anyone else?” The man roared, throwing up his hands as the first man got up whimpering, clutching his face and hugging his ribs. “No one?!” jeered the victor, a satisfied grin revealing several missing teeth and a mixture of sputum and blood.
From the back of the crowd, the hook digging deep in his gut, Oswald raised his hand.
The crowd parted and the victor looked upon the old man, skin visibly sagging, in puffy beige jacket, old jeans, and loafers, and laughed. “So it’s you next is it grandpa?”
“Yes, I think it will be me next.”
The others were laughing now. Even the man clutching his stomach and spitting blood was wincing as he laughed. Oswald watched, calm, clutching the thing in his pocket. There were fifteen— no, maybe nineteen, twenty people here?
“Well then step right up, sir,” came the reply from the challenger, as he bowed low and swept his hands towards the bloodstained ring in a mocking gesture, “but don’t hurt me.” Oswald didn’t move from his place near the door. There were gales of laugher from the audience now, several people had pulled out their phones. Up close, the man looked a lot heavier now. Was that another chin?
“Oh, it won’t hurt,” Oswald smiled. Cesspits of depravity indeed.



It had begun to rain as Oswald exited the warehouse. As he walked to the water’s edge, he noticed every dark circle the rain made on the dried pavement. His heart was beating itself against his ribcage, but he barely noticed through the calm red fog. Arriving at the water’s edge, he used some of his bloodied shirt to wipe his fingerprints from the still warm gun before throwing it into the river. He sat down with some stiffness on the edge of the pier and looked up at the unused cranes dangling their giant metal hooks from their slack chains. Raindrops began diluting the blood spots that peppered his clothes, and he quietly thanked whatever god was up there that the cameras here were broken. He contemplated his incriminating clothes and the gory footprints he had left from the warehouse. Did he need to get rid of his shoes? Perhaps just a good clean and being worn would cover up the reddish orange stains in time. His clothes would need to be washed, probably more than once, but the extras in that bag in the car would help him so that Maggie didn’t raise too many questions. He could use the rain as an excuse if she asked, and then put them right in the laundry. Oswald knew all of this as he sat and stared at the city across the water, its lights twinkling as the wind and rain picked up, distorting its reflection in the bay. As the adrenaline began to be dissipate, another thought occurred to his frantic mind. He would need a new gun. He would do this again. And as he sat and watched the rain destroy the reflected skyline of light, surrounded by piles of rotted crates on the greenish yet blackened concrete of the dock, Oswald felt alive for the first time in years.



End.