Night of the Dog
The air of the night was cold, bordering on frigid, and the man could see his own breath condense in a puff in front of him. He tried to ignore it but not after long he broke down and lit a cigarette. The white smoke before him was heavy and slow, swirling viscously in the air. It was warm and scented, and the man closed his eyes as he savored it.
When the cigarette was only ashes, he tried to feel regret, but the flavor was still too strong in his mouth. He casually flicked the butt away, then looked around and had a coughing fit. Save for him, the road and even the bridge a little further off were deserted, due to a combination of the heavy rain and the chill of the dead of night. From the alcove where he was taking refuge from the storm, he waited and tried very hard to not light another cigarette. He tightened his trench coat and pressed his hat even harder over his head. Droplets had been streaking down his forehead, though fortunately their incidence had slowed down ever since he'd found the alcove; they still contributed to his mounting irritation, and the man felt an ever-rising urge to smoke again.
Grumbling, he began to awkwardly hop in place to take his mind off things, and almost immediately stopped, annoyed with himself. He felt like going for a walk, as his legs were growing stiff and a chill was slithering through his clothes and making his feet two pieces of ice, but the pouring rain dissuaded him from stepping forward. All the man could do was move around the five feet by one of the alcove, insufficient to fend off even one of the boredom, the cold or the numbness.
The street, in the meantime, was bathed in the artificial yellow light of the streetlamps, and a few windows were still lit up in the nearby buildings, though they too were turning black one by one. A heavy darkness enveloped everywhere the lamps could not reach, as well as the river that snaked a few yards away. The bridge was well lit, but beyond the parapet the obscurity and the rain conspired to make everything unseeable.
The man really wanted a cigarette.
At the edge of his vision, he saw something move, and he instinctively brought his hand to his pocket. But it was just a passerby, another man in hat and trench coat, hunching his shoulders to stave off the wetness and the cold, walking with a resolute pace forward. The man tried to push himself back as much as he could inside the alcove while he looked at the passerby, but he could not avoid the other noticing him. With a furtive glance, the passerby had definitely turned in his direction and slowed down his walk. By the time he'd arrived at the bridge, he'd stopped altogether, though he hadn't looked at the man any further. He remained still at the edge of the road, resting on the sidewalk next to the parapet and beneath the cone of light. The rain continued to fall unabated, and the man shuddered to think how soaked he was getting.
The passerby stayed in that position for a few minutes, standing with the hands in his pocket as he contemplated the darkness and the trench coat became soggier and soggier. The man wanted to snort something on the stupidity of people nowadays, but he understood the other man. There was something primal about letting the water wash over him, running in rivulets and pooling at his feet in shallow puddles. Simply put, the passerby didn't care about how wet he felt, or how cold he was, or whether he had a cigarette or not. He didn't resent his boss for making him work on a night like that, waiting in the rain for a dangerous job, he didn't long for his own bed, and he seemed not to mind the inclemency of the weather. The man could respect that, maybe even envy it.
But the passerby did perhaps care, for, after a while, he turned away and started walking towards the man, slowly, letting the rain fall over him, until he reached the alcove. Shaking away the water, he spoke in a low voice.
"You got a cigarette?"
The man smiled a tight-lipped grin, wondering how much more would fate conspire to make him smoke again. Just as he had predicted, when he had his packet out he could not resist, and he lit one for himself as well.
"Bad night to be out, huh?" the passerby asked.
"But a good night to kill yourself," the man responded.
The passerby looked at him with hollow eyes. He didn't appear to be surprised, just grim and resolute.
"How do you figure?"
"You came to the bridge on the coldest, meanest night, when there ain't a soul around. You thought you'd be alone, but you saw me, and you stood there feeling my eyes burning the back of your head. You just couldn't jump, could you?"
The passerby didn't deny it. He took a long drag off his cigarette.
"What brings you here, then?" the passerby asked instead.
"I'm here to kill a man," was the candid response. Again, the passerby gave no sign of being shocked or horrified. He spoke very placidly.
"Are you an high-falutin’ assassin of some sort?"
"Hah!" the man chuckled, "Nothing of the sort. Mobbed up, a hired gun."
The two stood in silence for a while, quietly smoking their respective cigarettes.
"In about thirty minutes," the man explained, unasked, "Commissioner Strachmann is going to come out of that building. With any luck, the call-girl whose thighs he's between right now will have swapped his gun for the phony one, and he'll be no trouble when I try to blow his guts out."
He gave a long look at the windows of the building before them, trying to guess which one might be the one with the commissioner inside. He flicked away the cigarette and gave a quick cough.
"Are you afraid?" the passerby inquired.
"Of course," the man said, without averting his gaze. "The Commissioner is a dangerous fellow, and I'm relying on some whore to carry her part of the plan. But I gots to do what I gots to do, and so I'm here."
Once again, the two remained in silence, until this was broken by the passerby.
"Let me do it."
"Huh?"
"Let me do it. I'll shoot him. I don't care if I live or die anymore, so it doesn't matter. Let me shoot."
The man snickered. "No, this is something that I have to do. Mob business, you'll understand... But thanks for the offer anyways."
"No, I'm serious. Let me do it."
"Pipe down, fella. This ain't no job for you."
"You ruined my suicide attempt, the least you could do is let me do this thing."
"Friend, don't do this. You just got given the greatest gift life could ever throw your way, don't waste it on this petty bullshit."
The passerby responded, annoyed. "What, the gift of life? Just 'cause you prevented me from killin' meself I have to make the most of it or whatever? What is this second-rate, Sunday school..." he began, indignant, but the man interrupted him.
"Nah, nah, that ain't what I meant. I'm talking about the fact that you don't care anymore."
The passerby did not say anything to that, and the man spoke again.
"I mean, I just eat myself with worry every day. I've got a wife, and kids, and I keep worrying how I can feed, warm, clothe and keep safe all of us, and make money on the side for a rainy day, and not piss off my boss, and a million other things that just drive me nuts. I betcha you don't got a family to think or care about."
Somewhat ashamed, the passerby looked away. "Actually, I do."
"Well, I don't know how you stopped caring about them, but it's great, fella. Me, I could never do it. It'd just break my heart. I've hoped so often that I could just stop caring, about them, me job, me boss, and all the rest... I would be able to do all the things I wanted to do; I'd go to Acapulco, get drunk every night, sleep with whores every night, piss away every saving I've got every night. Hell, I'd smoke to my heart's content, instead of trying to quit 'cause Doc Hoskins told me it ain't that good for my throat. If I stopped caring, I'd live the good life! But I just can't. I love my wife to bits, and my children... they're rascals, but I'd be crushed if I left them. Even worse, it'd crush me to know that the little scalliwags and their mother would be left without someone to look after them. Man, little Joey cries if I come home too late, and if I never came back at all he'd holler his little lungs out! I could never do that to him, 'cause I care too much. But you, fella, you are right there where I want to be! You're out in the rain, trying to kill yerself, and you ain't bothered if yer wife at home is worrying about you. You could take the first train outta this town, and you wouldn't care one bit about the family, the jobs, the friends you leave behind. All the while, I'm here, waiting for that son of a bitch, 'cause my boss told me to do it, and I worry what would happen if I didn't. And I can't even smoke in peace, 'cause I worry myself sick! It'd be great to stop caring."
For a minute or two, they stayed still. The only sound was the intense pouring of the rain, and the only motion the puffs of condensed air that appeared before their mouths.
"Say, fella," the man asked, eyes fixed on the building in front of them, "you want another cigarette?"
The passerby shook his head. "Very kind, but I'm alright now." His voice was feeble.
"Well, it was a pleasure talking to you, friend, but if I were you I'd split now. The Commissioner's gonna be out any minute now, and things might get ugly here. Of course, if anyone asks, I was never here."
He turned to the passerby with a smile and a wink, only to be responded to with a grim, expressionless face. For a moment, he looked at him, and then nodded.
"Gotcha, friend. Have a good night."
The passerby pushed the hat over his head and walked briskly away along the road, disappearing beyond the cone of light. The man was left alone, hand on the pocket. He ardently wished to smoke a cigarette.
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