DECENT AND GOOD

By

Cesar Puch

"Shoot!" Peter said.

The ball rolled to Neil's feet. He picked it up, smiled at the boy, and passed it. The boy did a good catch, tried another 360 around his waist, and this time succeeded.

"Excellent," Neil said. He'd seen Peter less than a week before and still felt the child had grown another inch.

"You still taking pictures?" Peter asked while dribbling up and down the parking lot.

Neil thought of the Nikon upstairs on the coffee table.

"Not working there anymore," he just said.

That made him almost a month unemployed. He could get it back, of course. But he wouldn't.

No more. No way.

He thought of the days spent in that place. He felt smothered, nauseous.

"Your camera was cool!" Peter said. "I wish I had one just like that."

Neil forced another smile. Strength drained from his legs forcing him to sit on the first step of the staircase. The whirlpool in his gut was back. His head hurt.

He thought of the gun in his drawer.

"Heads up!" Peter called. He made a pass; strong, direct. Neil caught it clumsily and the ball rolled away.

"You're getting good," Neil told the boy. "You've been practicing".

Peter sat beside him, took an mp3 player out of his pocket and absently browsed the contents. After a while the boy looked up at him.

"You okay?"

Neil nodded. "Yeah, Pete. I'm okay."

He thought of the razor. A gentle slide of the blade, a bolt of pain...

Maybe tonight...

Maybe tomorrow...

Maybe...

"You don't look okay." Peter opened a pack of gum. He took a bar and offered one to Neil.

Neil passed.

"I'm just... thinking."

They sat there for another minute, Peter chewing his gum, Neil staring at nothing in particular.

"You're going to your Grandpa's?" Neil asked the boy. Peter nodded. He got up again and reached for the basketball. He started dribbling again.

"You look like my mom when she thinks of my Dad," Peter said, his eyes never leaving the ball.

Neil scoffed. Quite a judge of character this eight year old.

"Are you sad?" Peter asked.

The gun in his drawer... cold metal against a temple...

"I... I might be..."

"Why?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Why not?"

"It's complicated."

"Why?"

"I'm just... bored... and tired."

Peter jumped with the ball, came down on the wrong angle and almost tripped. He smiled and reached for the ball again.

"I hate it when I get bored," Peter said. "I try looking for something new to do."

Neil looked down at his feet. His gut hurt, his head throbbed.

"I could do something," Neil said. "It would change things. It would make everything different."

"Then why don't you do that?"

Steel against temple, a pull of the trigger, pain... but just for a second. Then, nothing.

"Because it's a bad thing. I don't want to do it."

Peter sat beside him again, ball between his ankles, rubbing his hands on his cargo pants.

"That bad?"

Neil nodded.

Bad, really bad. But, oh, what a difference it would make. His head hurt so much. He thought of the gun. He thought of the razor. He thought of so many things, of so many ways...

"My Grandpa told me about being decent and good," Peter said, trying to sound matter of fact.

"He did?"

"Mm-hmm."

Neil smiled. "Sometimes it's hard being decent and good. Sometimes it's the most difficult thing."

Peter bounced the ball between his feet. He didn't seem to want to look up.

"He said you had to try and be a good person just for one day. That made it easier."

Easier, Neil thought. Bearable.

A woman came out of the building. Peter grabbed the ball and walked to her. The woman kissed him on the head and gave him a set of keys. Before heading to their blue Ford, he turned to Neil.

"If you start taking pictures again, will you let me use your camera?"

Neil got up and ruffled the little boy's hair.

"If I'm around... sure..."

Peter ran to the car.

"Thank you for keeping an eye on him," the woman said.

"No problem. You have quite a kid there."

She smiled, looking at her son as he got inside the vehicle. Before leaving she asked Neil if he had found another job. When he said he hadn't, she offered to speak with a friend of hers. He said it wasn't necessary. She said nonsense, she'd call her friend later that day.

"You're a good neighbor," Neil said and smiled.

That afternoon he walked inside the studio in his apartment. He opened the drawer where he kept the gun, picked it up, felt its weight, its cold.

My Grandpa told me about being decent and good.

Sometimes it's the most difficult thing.

With the gun in his hand, he looked up and stared at the corkboard behind his desk. He looked at the pictures of Peter. Peter in the park. Peter leaving for school. Peter on his bike. Peter at school waiting for his mother to pick him up. Peter with friends. Peter in a car. Peter with his family. Peter. Peter. Peter. Peter. Peter.

His grasp on the gun tightened as he imagined the boy chained to the wall. He thought of the razor and pictured the blade, cutting... He could almost hear the child's screams.

I could do something.

It would make everything different.

He stared at the blow-up photograph of the boy, where he had marked a spot on his head with a red marker.

A pull of the trigger. Pain, but only for a second.

It's a bad thing. I don't want to do it.

He held the gun close to his face, leaned against the board and breathed in deep.

"Try and be a good person," he whispered. "Just for one day."

Just for one day.


esar Puch lives in Lima, Peru. His fiction writing -- mostly thrillers and supernatural thrillers -- started appearing in print since 2005 when his story "Inside" was published in the debut issue of Surreal Magazine under the byline of Nicholas Tyler.

In 2006, he edited "Shadow Regions", an anthology of supernatural fiction, where his story "Invisible" (also as Nicholas Tyler) appears. Puch also worked as editor and webmaster for Surreal Magazine until late 2006.

He now works as web designer as well as book and magazine layout.

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DECENT AND GOOD