The night the Rhymer went whack

40

Soundman had the ability to sense fear, hostility, rage, love, security and comfort in the air. He could also sense relief, and that’s what he felt there at Penn Station as now thousands continued rejoicing to the latest news.

The music blared along with joyous singing and dancing accompanied with many blissfully teary eyes flowing to the destruction of the American system with its misfortunate toll on the citizens of Newark and other inner cities across the globe. And it wasn’t just the residents, many kinds of people were coming from far and near and all were being embraced. Though some men had set up barriers right at the train and bus stations and if you seemed to them like you belonged, seemed like a victim of oppression these past five hundred years, they’d let you in. But if you were angry or seeking to get to one of the city’s many banks, you were dismissed and turned away. Unwelcomed. Maybe The Soundman knew but no one else could have predicted Newark to become a safe haven. A refuge.

Instinctively, people began cleaning up, mopping stores, sweeping streets, repairing street lights and broken boarded up buildings, even the ones that had been abandoned for decades. It was the ownership feeling that caused this, Newark was now truly the residents’ with the deed signed and released to its citizens. No government rule, no regulations. Money wasn’t the payment received for this hard work; food, shelter and clothing was all that was needed. No hierarchy and no poor class just music playing in every home, on every corner, street and neighborhood. Positive vibes sustaining the city, mesmerizing its residents to continue good and reshape their community.

But that was to come. For now, the pandemonium outside was strong and the future unknown and Straffe had already killed two people before he got near the Hudson River. He ultimately found out his first destination, The Holland Tunnel, was off limits. The enclosure had become a tomb for anyone trying to pass through. Victims, mostly women, escaping from its grip bloody and on the brink of collapse and eyed by people not able to imagine the horror they just escaped. Escaping into a sealed fate with whomever they first encountered. Seeking help. But no help was given, not in these unfolding new United States, only an everlasting reprieve from their suffering. And Straffe wanted no part of that.

Realizing he couldn’t save them all and his ammunition was limited, he changed course, exiting in search of a boat. He saw plenty lining the shore but they too were surrounded with mayhem. Whether shot at or wounded, it didn’t matter, the boat owners were in full protective mode against anyone attempting to steal their prized possessions. They had been risking their own safety shuffling people back and forth for an astronomical fee, hence the chaos, and they weren’t discriminating. If, from a distance, you seemed like a threat, they’d fire upon you, evident as Straffe avoided stepping on a slew of bodies who obviously had shared his same idea.

A bullet whizzed past his head, snapping him back into his true reality. He took cover behind a few abandoned cars to rehash his strategy. It was hopeless, a sure death sentence, so he pondered as he sat motionless, witnessing, one by one, people getting shot down trying to reach a boat. Even the owners, when one was killed, as soon as that boat was overtaken, that intruder was in turn murdered just as quickly. A vicious cycle plaid out right in front of his eyes. The bloodshed was ugly as Straffe witnessed this endless cycle long enough to realize he needed to get out of there.

Escape by water was the only way out, but by boat was no longer an option. By God, I can’t swim it, then suddenly he thought of the East River. No one is trying to get to Brooklyn, he thought, heading further east was worse than heading to New Jersey, but that’s where he took off running, carefully making his way to the South Street Piers. On a mission, he slowed as soon as he viewed the water and the vehicles that would take him to freedom. Only a few people knew where the jet skis were locked as he made his way to the small shed just at the edge of the water. He looked around making sure the coast was clear then fired one shot destroying the lock so he could enter and select one of the many skis.

He just needed to get to Jersey so he tested a few and made sure the one he selected had enough gas. He then dragged it to the water’s edge and was off. With his shotgun slung across his back, he headed straight toward Staten Island, soon struck by the beauty of the statue of liberty. Liberty, he thought, eyeing that flame, revving that engine, as it guided him. He nodded at her thankfully before turning right and landing at Liberty State Park.

***

“Yo, what’s up with that shotgun?” Straffe heard as he dismounted in Jersey City. Surrounding the young brother who questioned him were eight of his friends, all with guns of their own and trained on the intruder.

Like The Soundman, Straffe too could sense fear, distress, comfort and love, and this time, he sensed protection. He carefully removed his shotgun and placed it at his feet. “I have a nine in my waistband,” he added, as he raised his hands in the air.

The young brother approached, patted him down and removed the weapon. “What’s in here?” he added, as he patted Straffe’s money belt.

“I’ll tell you,” Straffe replied with hands still raised, before gesturing toward a picnic table located nearby. “But, can we sit please?” No longer feeling threatened and a bit intrigued by the fact he made it across the river, they agreed while allowing Straffe to slowly remove the belt. “You’re gonna love this,” he added as they settled in around the table.

He removed a small bundle of the funny looking paper and handed it to the young men, all probably teenagers, and they passed it amongst each other. “What the fuck is this?” one questioned as he snatched it to take a closer look.

But just as quick another snatched it from him exclaiming, “Yoooooo, this’s that money! That new money them Africans got that started all this shit! I saw it on TV.” They all took a step closer to look at the paper, agreeing with what it was.

“How’d you get this shit?” one requested as he stood up and pointed his pistol at Straffe’s head.

Straffe again raised his hands, unfazed, replying, “Please, have a seat and I’ll tell you.” The young brother sat, leery that this stranger was also showing no fear, but he kept his weapon pointed toward Straffe’s head just in case as Straffe began telling his story.

***

Now late into the night, Penn Station was still festive. Thousands more had gathered, singing, dancing, cajoling and enjoying the freedom that they as Americans finally felt. When those nineteen countries broke away from the American grip, so did they, and now, as the festivities raged on, there was a cheer that rang out even louder than the celebration. A ruckus, a positive ruckus was emerging from the south side.

As the crowd swiveled to see what was going on, coming toward the station, parting the crowd was a group of men, around one hundred, cheering and dancing and bringing more joy. And The Soundman sensed that elation, stood up and began, with help, making his way toward the south entrance. Amongst the fellas was Straffe, the culprit of his pleasure bringing him to his destination, Newark Liberty International Airport. But unbeknownst to Straffe, he would meet up with his old friend along the way, an old friend that was also a culprit in this happiness.

They all were, and as The Soundman made his way Straffe was startled yet elated at the music emanating from and around the station, and once he looked up and caught sight of a small contingent centered around his old friend making their way toward him, he smiled. Widely. They met and embraced to an even larger cheer then Straffe stepped back and just listened to the music, the joy, the happiness, the utopia that Newark had become. He took it all in, forgetting all the turmoil that surrounded this oasis. A sea of destruction was flooding America yet here was pure elation.

He rejoiced for a little and chatted with his friend before ultimately making his way to the airport. He boarded and sat on that plane reminiscing and glowing at the excitement of the last few glorious hours. He stayed focused though, not allowing himself to think about the possible missteps that could still develop. Now relaxed, in complete contrast to the chaos of his surroundings as army personnel moved about positioning themselves in anticipation of the long ride. Truly settled he finally decided to sleep, his mind fighting the energetic high of his journey.

***

Well above the Atlantic was when he awoke. His relaxed mood still contrasting the sweaty faces of the troops seated across from him. With tight grips on their guns, they were an exact replica of the hysteria taking place in the world below. He chuckled to himself while glancing down at his money belt thinking, If they only knew who they are riding with. So he just sat quietly and looked around wide awake waiting for landing and soon the clouds broke and he was able to see land. This calmed everyone as signs of exhilaration filled the air.

Swoosh! The plane listed sharply, tossing unsecured items and soldiers. “What the hell!?” yelled the captain loud enough that those closest could hear. Moments later, another swoosh followed by a loud explosion in the distance. Again it happened and the captain screamed, “We’re under attack,” into the intercom scrambling the crew into readiness.

Everyone except for Straffe, the only civilian. He stayed strapped in his seat. They knew their roles, mulling around, securing what needed to be secured—all without hesitation, but the impact of the missile that struck the left wing threw everyone into a panic. The plane was going down. And fast. There’s a panicked scream usually heard in Hollywood movies that displays fear and a grunt scream usually heard in battle, revealing fight. The sound emitting from the captain was the latter and thus Straffe felt safe.

He surveyed the mayhem while realizing the plane was miraculously steady. The pilot kept it straight as they were quickly approaching land. Too fast, Straffe realized, as he checked that he was adequately secured in his seat. The pilot was too preoccupied steadying the plane to warn his crew to brace for impact, things were happening too fast as Straffe eyed a few soldiers still unaware of the impending doom. Just moments away, it was too late for them to return to their seats and strap down then suddenly the screaming stopped, as well as all other sounds. The only thing that remained was darkness and silence.

***

Straffe’s eyes slowly opened, blinking, regaining his composure moment by moment. I’m alive, he thought, as he continued to gain his bearings. He moved slowly. First he tilted his head then sat back in an upright position. He took several deep breaths, shrugged his shoulders, circled them, then rolled his head to loosen his neck. He felt pain in his legs but was able to wiggle his toes. His fingers too.

He kept moving slowly. His back felt fine and his leg muscles could flex. A little pain in his arms yet he felt fine. He looked around and surveyed the wreckage. Nothing but dead bodies, equipment and debris strewn about. The plane was mangled and he wondered if anyone else survived. He remembered the ones who were able to fasten their seatbelts and looked their way. Slumped over, they looked alive. A couple were breathing and a few were actually coming to. One’s ankle was crushed under his chair while another had a piece of metal sticking through his forearm. Alive, they both screamed in agony. A passenger that was seated just a few feet from him was bruised and bloody but was up and tending to his fellow Marines. More were alive than dead and with that relief, he released himself and slowly rose. Being careful, again he moved cautiously but quickened when he smelled fuel. Others must’ve smelled it too as the silence was quickly broken by those Hollywood screams. “Get me out of here,” rang out in different pitches as those that could, began scrambling to break free. Like Straffe, others were milling around but soon increased their momentum when the screaming began, trying to set free those that were still entangled. Then a flicker of flame was spotted and they knew they had to evacuate.

“We gotta get out of here,” he warned the others, demanding them to abandon the wreckage. A few listened but some stayed, Marine trained, to continue to help those in need. But Straffe had done all he could in that short period of time and now he needed to save his own life so he escaped. Running, he ran until the explosion knocked him off his feet, hurling him into a grassy knoll a few yards away. He stayed conscious and crawled away from the scalding heat wondering how many of the others had also made it to relative safety.