On The Outside Looking In

I suppose you would have to label me an accomplice. I mean, I’ve always been there each and every time, standing just as firm and cold as Perkins, watching all the events and circumstances leading up to every criminal act committed, so . . . by definition, I fit the bill.

The best way I can describe Perkins is despondent. I don’t claim to be a good judge of any human character, or for that matter, am I able to see into anyone’s soul. Quite the contrary, I just go with the situation. Not a leader or a decision maker. I’m just there. In fact, you could say that I just do what I’m told to, no questions asked.

Perkins is not very tall, but stout. He has brute strength, and for what he does, brute strength is ideal. He’s balding and has a rough stubble of beard on his full face. But truly it’s his beefy hands that define who he is. He has cold hands. Strong cold hands, that are, by nature, representations of true weapons. Hands that are an extension of his thoughts and feelings, which as best as I can define, talk of someone who is . . . hurt. That’s the second best way I can describe him. Hurt, because of the emptiness I can see in his eyes when he looks at my gleaming face. I think Perkins keeps me around because I’m therapeutic for him. He’s always talking to me, confessing his sins and successes and failures. I don’t give him advice, though, I just listen. That’s what I do best. That’s what I’m here for.

The first time he spoke to me was when I stood quietly in front of him. His greedy stare almost broke me, with those deep green eyes, like wet emeralds shining. I was silent as my only purpose was to take in what he was giving. After all, he chose me. When Perkins spoke, it was almost a hushed whisper in the hazy dimness of his desolate apartment. There was not much define the space: A bed, four walls, a small brown refrigerator with a magnet for some Chinese restaurant. And of course, Perkins and I, right across from each other.

"You’re gonna do just fine," he said, sitting on the corner of his bed. "You’re sharp." And that was it.

Moments later, we were traveling in a car to someplace unknown. I never concern myself with where we’re going, only embrace the moments after we arrive and when things begin to happen. What I sensed was a long period of time in the car waiting. We were parked in some alley between two dilapidated brick buildings, the rusty framework of the fire escapes and landings above us. I saw a sparrow land on the windshield wiper, then fly away. After some time, I heard a banging noise against the shell of the car, coming from the rear. A quick series of sounds commenced: muffled screaming, Perkins yelling some forceful obscenities, two or three more slamming bangs on the car, the sound of the trunk unlatching and the squeak of hinges, a dull thud followed by the clinking of something metal or iron, and finally the closing whomp of a trunk. I just lay down the whole time, listening. Perkins slid back into the driver’s seat of the car and fired up the ignition. I stayed where I was as he slowly drove down the alley, the skylight from the front window fading into a dark shade of blues and grays.