THE HANGED MAN
XII

"I need that money today, or we're going to have some big problems."

I have always held the belief that you don't realize what you are, or what you are thinking, until you have said it. When I first heard myself say those words to another man, I think that was the first time that I fully understood the kind of person I was becoming, the path I had started to go down.

"Suck my dick." CLICK

It wasn't an unexpected response, but it wasn't the one I was hoping for. Or, in a way, it was. You don't threaten someone unless a part of you, deep down, wants to exact violence on them. Sometimes I wonder what I really wanted from that situation. At the time, I was living with a girlfriend of mine who sold drugs -- When you do drugs, this doesn't sound like a bad idea. The closest thing I can describe the convenience to is setting up your bed in the middle of a grocery store. Anyway, this guy -- a friend of my girlfriend and I who we'll call Tom to protect the innocent -- had racked up a debt to my girlfriend of around three hundred dollars. Not hitman money, but certainly no chump change. As debts often do, his only became bigger and bigger because of his friendship, and the ability to cash in the verbal IOU of a friend -- I'll get you next week.
Next week hadn't come for a long time. Months, in fact, and I had been willing to probably let it grow to years until I had overheard coked-up Tommy bragging about a debt he'll never have to pay at a party we were both attending. Cocaine, for the un-illuminated, works as a better truth serum than alcohol. Drunks realize when they're making a bad call and go "whoops, I'm drunk", to fix their steps. Cokeheads relish in bad calls. It makes them feel powerful. It makes the high higher. Tom and I used to work at the same restaurant during the beginning of my relationship. I left and he stayed. The plan I devised was originally much more brutal -- I was going to show up at closing time, knife in tow, demand the money then and there, and then stab him in the stomach if he didn't give it to me. After a few days of thinking, I decided that the plan was stupid, and switched gears.
I recruited three of my friends, who I'll namelessly describe to protect the innocent(?) again. One was big, one was bigger, and one was biggest. Any other details would be superficial. I made them wait in a train station -- For those of you not from a city, empty train stations are where it goes down. Subterranean cement rooms with no cameras, no windows, and only one entrance or exit. I showed up at closing time, but no knife like I had originally planned. I wasn't going to rob him at knifepoint for his tips.

"Hi Tom." Was all I said. When you're closing a restaurant at three in the morning on a pay day, you're already a little stressed, but Tom whipped his head back like he had heard Death. He asked me what I was doing there, and I told him I was sorry for being so rude about his debt, and that I wanted to make it up to him. Me and Tommy, out on the town. Drinks, dinner, the whole shebang.
"Thanks, but I'm not hungry." I wonder if he already knew sometimes.

"Of course you are, you've had a long day of work."

"I'm really not hungry."

"Then we'll get drinks."

So, Tom came with me, begrudgingly. I didn't want him to run, so I started making conversation. I asked how his mother was doing, how work was, and other trivial bits of verbal fluff. By the time I saw the station, I could feel my heart hammering my ribs. I gestured for Tom to go in first so he wouldn't run if he saw my friends, and he obliged. The worst part is, once he passed the turnstile, I think he dropped his guard. He must've thought I was gonna take his wallet while he was taking out his card. He started smiling more, joking around, and actually responding to my small talk. I remember thinking -- only for a second -- that I wished I could undo it. I wished he hadn't come with me, and that he hadn't rung up his debt, and he hadn't become my friend all those years ago. We turned the corner, and the three gorillas I brought with me were standing as still and tough as I told them to be. Tom stopped in his tracks and looked me in the eye.

He didn't say any memorable quote, or beg for forgiveness, or anything cheesy like that. He just looked at me. I hated it. In a moment, I went from wishing this wasn't happening to wishing I could cut out his eyes. There was so much anger in his look. Not betrayal-rage, and not surprise-fury. Just a cold, sad anger that of all the people to do this to him, it was me.
"Give us everything on you." One of my friends piped up. Not on my approved script, but it worked all the same. For a second, it looked like Tom was going to give us a fight. He looked around, sized up his odds, and went into his pockets. At first, he gave us a twenty and a five and said it was all he had, as if I had forgotten when the restaurant paid us. I shook my head, and put my hands in his pockets -- this is known on the streets as running one's pockets. Aside from a robbery, it's a deeply personal kind of insult, to feel another man's fingers probing your pockets for what isn't his.
His paycheck was six hundred dollars. I didn't say any wiseguy line like "Oh, what have we here?" or something cheesy. I just looked at him. I could see tears welling in his eyes, but to his credit, he didn't cry. He just got on the train, and I assume, went home to cry.

Me and my friends went to a diner that night, and used the money on brinner. The rest I gave to my girlfriend, and she told me that next time, I should come home straight away.

Next time?