Writers Tricks of the Trade MARCH-APRIL 2015 | Page 36

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I'VE GOTTA BE ME (Cont’d)

died a year earlier, and I could hear him tell me, "Don't let the liquid courage rule you." But it
always ruled me. To that point in my life, at age 59 it had always won.
I remembered other guys, like this punk, whom I had straightened out over the years. There were a
lot of them. Probably too many. I could see all that I was, and I all that I had been. I had been given
nine lives to live and had used each one of them up. I could see them all now, right there in front of
me, as if they were being reflected in my sunglasses. There I was: a boxer, a soldier, an enforcer, a
casino boss, a fugitive, a hustler, a tough guy. A drunk. They were all me.
I could hear the soundtrack of my life too, playing right along with every image, with every misstep,
every triumph, every thing, good and bad, mostly bad, that I had ever done. The song was Sammy
Davis Jr's "I've Gotta Be Me." That was my song. It could have been written for me.
I'll go it alone, that's how it must be I can't be right for somebody else
If I'm not right for me
I gotta be free, I just gotta be free Daring to try, to do it or die
I gotta be me
I could hear the words, playing over and over again in my head. Their meaning, or at least the
meaning I gave them, pushed me forward ... giving me strength ... goading me to take that one,
last, long-time-coming step over the edge.
He looked at me for a second and then spoke, with a slight Italian accent: "Who the fuck are
you?"
He really was a punk bastard, with a sharp tongue and a chip on his shoulder. Any thought of
turning this ship around, not that I had had any such thought anyway, went right out the
window when he cursed at me.
"Who am I?" I took a breath. I wanted to say something more to him. But words escaped
me. My rage had built to a fever pitch. This was not a time for words, it was a time for
action. "This is who I am ... "
The gates of hell flew open and the hurt was on its way. My life was about to change
forever.
I unloaded a right hand on the punk's jaw, knocking him back into the wall. Then I grabbed
him by the collar with two hands and spun him around, pushing him up against another
wall. Or at least what I thought was a wall. Turns out, it was a door.
The door flew open to a biology class in session. The punk fell to the floor. The students
and the teacher were scared shitless. The punk reached for his boot. I remembered what
Tanya had said about his having a knife in there. I kicked his hand away and pulled the
knife from his boot.
That's when the slicing started.
I was possessed, attacking this punIc I wanted to hurt him the way he hurt my daughter.
And in the same places. So I sliced both his nipples. I sliced the cheeks of his ass. His blood
MAR-APR 2015

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WRITERS’ TRICKS OF THE TRADE