Free Going Shogun by Ernie Lindsey Page B

calm and serene as a mirror pool.  A trickle of blood leaks out of
his right ear and I can only imagine some errant bone from a highboy popped him
a good one as he was flying kamikaze through their blitzkrieg .
    I should be yelling at him.  I
should be screaming at him for leaving us hanging while he went off to speed
dial a weasel-tweaker.  Whatever he was doing, whichever girly he was calling,
he should be bowing at our feet, asking a thousand pardons.  Instead, I let it
go.  I don’t know whether it’s the pants-shitting madness of the previous
moment or the fact that I’m happy to be alive, but I can’t handle any more
intensity.  He’s not getting out of it completely, trust me, but I decide to
put it up on the mental shelf, save it for later. 
    I reach over and turn down the
psychotic wailing of the death-country band A Tale of Two Kitties.  When my
eardrums stop flapping like a dog’s jowls during a windy car ride, I turn to
Forklift and say, “Thank you,” sincerely, and Bingo says the same as well.
    “Those zombonis were ready to
homerun your brainhouses, doodles.  Couldn’t hide-and-seek on you.”
    “Regardless, you’re forgiven of all
your debts.  And sins.” 
    How could he not be?  All those times
I’d taken a punch for him, all those times I bailed him out of the Overnight
Redemption Cells when he’d had too much to drink, all those times I got up at
6AM to pick him up from some sheila’s crib when he was going ghost on her.  He
was never in any true danger of dying when I rescued his scrawny ass.  Not like
we were back there.  My sacrifices were minimal comparatively.  He saved us, man.  Completely and truly, it was unconditional.  The way he threw himself
at them was the stuff of superheroes and legends.  I’ll never come right out
and tell him that, because if his head gets filled with any more hot air, he’ll
float away like a BridgeYear blimp.
    “ Gracias ,” he says.  No big
deal.  Another day in the life, like he would’ve gotten more stressed about
picking out the right pair of socks.  But something is there, something in his
tone.  It’s diminutive, miniscule, tiny, like the faint flash of color from one
of those nearly extinct lightning bugs at the Museum of Yesterday. 
    Is it guilt?  I can’t tell.
    Bingo licks a thumb, reaches over,
and tries to mom-wash the blood off the side of his head, her earlier rage
forgotten.  Just like a mother.  One minute they’re throwing a shoe at you, the
next, they’re cutting the crust off a PB&J because you remembered to ask
nicely.  It’s a tender moment between them.
    Too tender, obviously, for
Forklift.  He pushes her hand away playfully and says, “Ugh, nasty-nast.  Save
your mouth-juice for Brick.”
    We all laugh, even though the weight
of what he said hovers in the air like a floating elephant we should be
ignoring. 
    Which is exactly what Bingo and I
both do.  There is no elephant in the room.
    Possibly.
    Back to the car, the job, the heist,
this monstrous moment of maladies.  I know I should be asking Forklift to take me
home where I can hide under my blankie and think about what in the eternal hell
I’m doing.  Yet if I turn back now, if I give myself time to weigh everything,
I’ll run.  I’ll give in.  I’ll go back to The Big Suck of wondering whether or
not I’ll be able to pay the electric bill, whether or not I’ll be able to feed
myself something other than leftover Honey Lamb Cakes from Wishful Thinking’s
bakery, whether or not I’ll ever get out of this eternal rut of The Routine. 
Is the potential for escape worth the possibility of jail time?
    Short answer:  ...sure.  I think.
    I wonder where Bingo’s head is, so I
tap her on the shoulder and ask.
    “Oh, I’m in,” she says.  “You don’t
just walk away from watching a guy’s brains fall out of his skull to putting on
a new color of toenail polish.  You definitely aren’t getting rid of me now.”
    Thought so, but