by Kevin Anderson

Mr. El Camino took these words in and I could almost see them being processed. His head bobbed a bit and one eye twitched. It was like watching a broken machine, wheels and gears still grinding away but unable to complete their tasks.

His eye stopped twitching and he stared at me. His head suddenly became still and I thought just for an instant he looked like a man who had just returned from a long and relaxing trip. His mouth opened slowly and I prepared myself for more of his financial nonsense, but his next words were utterly and completely sane.

"Happy Birthday," he said.

It was the only birthday wish I would get all day.

I sat up slowing, trying to split my gaze evenly between the man's face and his axe. "Thank you," I mumbled.

El Camino took a long breath and as he blew air out, his face returned to that of an insane person – eyes going wide, murderous grin cutting a path under blood spotted checks. His knuckles turned pearl-white as he raised the axe toward the sun.

I wanted to dodge the blow. I know I was going to try but I also knew that whatever speed I had used to get this far was gone. I held my breath and waited.

Then I heard two distinct pops, like distant firecrackers going off in succession. I was marginally aware of fast moving objects passing overhead, but didn't have any idea what they could be until the tiny holes in the front of El Camino's shirt started to line themselves with blood. His blood.

He had been shot.

Mr. El Camino dropped to his knees making it possible for me to see someone standing behind him. It was the youngest highway patrol officer I had ever seen. He didn't look old enough to go to his junior high prom let alone hold a 9-millimeter pistol in a practiced stance, grey smoke drifting out of the muzzle.

For the second time that afternoon my look of surprise was mirrored on someone else's face. I stared at the cop, my mouth hanging open. If I live a hundred years I swear I will never utter the phrase where is a cop when you need one? I lost that privilege.

I think the officer might have said something but an explosion of pain emanating from my left foot kept me from registering it. Mr. El Camino's dying hands had let the axe slip. The blunt end landed so hard it separated the sole of my shoe from the canvass. Even in death El Camino was still swinging.

Two hours later a paramedic determined, much to my surprise, that my foot was unbroken. Hospital X-rays backed up his on-the-scene assessment but I think they all missed something. Every once in a while, even two years later, I’ll feel an unyielding urge to limp. I imagine a small permanent fracture deep inside the bone – so deep X-rays can’t find it. Maybe they aren’t meant too.

I hobbled over to the shoulder where Mr. El Camino lay quietly under a yellow tarp. I sat down next to the body as if we were old friends and in a way we were. To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, at least this friend tried to stab me in the front.

Although my birthday had been rough, Mr. El Camino's day had been a bit worse. The newspapers would report that Mr. Alec (El Camino) Harrison, an airline mechanic at Fresno International, had recently become widowed by his own hand. Earlier that morning he had chopped his wife into a dozen pieces then tenderly boxed each part up and gift wrapped them. He then deposited the packages in night-drops at several local banks. The articles never made mention of Mr. Harrison's financial situation. On the day of the event he had just turned forty-two.

Happy Birthday.

"The girl in the ambulance says this belongs to you," said the young officer that had saved my life, holding out a Dumbo PEZ dispenser. Up close Officer Brink didn't look as young as he did when I first laid eyes on him, but he could still pass for a high school senior in a 21 Jump Street kind of way.

"Thanks," I said, taking the toy from the officer.

"Now that the paramedics are done with you, my Sergeant wants to get your statement.” He pointed to a burley, very in charge looking cop just outside the ambulance. I could see Pitt in the back with Gina, who was having her head looked at. Her hair was full of glass and she had a few cuts on her scalp but nothing scaring.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” I said. The officer nodded, then turned on a heel and left me to my thoughts.

Gina’s father picked her up at the hospital later that evening and outside of a police station and news reel footage I never really saw her again. About six months ago she sent me an I.M. I stared at the greeting on my screen for almost an hour but never responded. Didn’t see any point.

I’m not sure how long she and Pitt lasted after that day. Pitt never talked about it and I sure as Hell wasn’t going to ask. He and I keep in touch but it got harder after graduation. My childhood friend still sends me an email now and again from whatever part of the world he’s in. Last I heard he was diving with sharks off the Australian coast - just the latest in daredevil stunts, like his base jump off the Effie Tower. There is video on YouTube somewhere – I never looked.

I’m not really sure what he is chasing with all these idiotic stunts. Maybe it’s courage. Maybe it’s something else.

As for me I never attempted another trip to the L.A. Toy convention that year or any other. After that day I was kind of done with toys, comic books and even video games. I never realized how much money I had been pissing away on all that crap until I stopped. Nowadays my funds are well managed in a very versatile portfolio with stocks, CDs, and even a bit of real estate. You see the key to a really well built portfolio, is diversification.

Cha-ching, Cha-ching.

***END***