Hands of God

It’s a late October evening, and an elderly black man sits on a stool behind a register in a liquor store. His hair is mixed gray and white, like salt and pepper, with a matching goatee. He’s reading a magazine. A stack of tabloid magazines and a local newspaper sit next to him behind the counter. The bell on the front door jingles, and the older man’s jaw drops as a white man walks inside. The man wears black shoes, tan khakis, a white T-shirt, and a brown leather jacket. The cashier inspects the individual, whose black hair is wet from sweat. This individual glares out the window, out of breath, looking for someone or something. He turns his attention to the cashier and walks over. Looking at the old man’s name tag and then at his face, he says, “Hey, Marcus, where’s the vodka?”

Marcus pulls himself back from the smell of alcohol in the stranger’s breath. Yet the stranger’s eyes look like he’s lost. His scruffy face can’t hide his frown. Marcus instantly feels a sense of pity for him.

“Aisle four,” he says.

“Thanks,” says the stranger.

The old-timer puts down his magazine, leans over the glass counter full of cigarettes and lottery tickets, and watches the stranger. He’s curious about this stranger; something looks familiar about him. The man looks like a lost, broken soul.

The stranger scans the brands, debating which one to choose. “Fuck it.” He reaches for the largest bottle and blows the dust off. Walking back to the old man, he places the bottle on the counter.

Marcus’s curiosity gets the best of him. “Don’t I recognize you from somewhere? The television or something? ’Cause we don’t get your type around this part of town very often. If you lived around here, I would know.”

“Nope. Don’t worry about it, man. Just tell me how much.”

The old man points to the sign on the wall behind him. “No I.D. No Sale.”

“Seriously?” asks the stranger. He takes out his wallet and pulls out his driver’s license. Lights flickering outside draw his attention. He stares cautiously out the window with worry. Beads of sweat form on his brow.

“Seth Alecto,” the old man says.

“That’s my name,” the stranger says.

“Why do I know that name?”

“Seriously, man, don’t worry about it. Just tell me how much.”

“Twenty dollars,” the old man says.

Seth lays a twenty on the counter.

The cashier places the bottle in a brown paper bag.

Not even a split second after the bottle touches the counter, Seth snatches it up and bolts for the door.

“Wait, I do know you,” the old man says. “Your family was killed in that accident. Your story was on the news. The mayor’s boy hit you,” says Marcus.

Frozen in the doorway, holding it open, Seth lowers his head.

The old man continues. “That was a damn shame, son; you had a beautiful family. That stuff won’t fix your problems. You need to find Jesus, my boy.”

“Thanks, Dr. Phil. Tell Jesus to come find me, and then we’ll talk.” He exits out the door. Marcus shakes his head in pity.

On the street, Seth moves with a purpose. He removes the bottle from the brown paper bag and throws the bag on the ground. Opening the bottle, he slams down a swig. Strolling along, his attention becomes drawn to some lights down the street—a police vehicle casually moving, looking for someone. The car gives him great concern. Surveying the scene, he discovers an alley nearby and breaks for it.

Inside, the alley is gloomy. The large apartment buildings prohibit most of the light from passing through. The alley cluttered with multiple overflowing dumpsters. Trash bags surround them like a protective barrier. Expired household appliances lie strewn about—a graveyard. Papers dance in the air from the passing wind.

He searches for a place to hide. Police lights bounce off the brick walls. His inebriated state takes its toll. Eyelids become heavy. He jumps between two trash bins, landing on a pile of trash. A blazing light shines into the alley, moving side to side, searching as if it has a mind of its own.

Why did that bouncer have to start shit? I should never have gone to that bar.

Nerves on edge, his heart pounds against his chest as the police searchlight scans the alley. He debates getting up and running. But instead he squeezes himself tighter into the filth surrounding him. Then the light disappears. He exhales a sigh of relief and follows with a celebration of liquor.

For once the city night sky is clear, and the stars shine above. They glow and now have his attention. “What time is it?” he whispers to himself.

He stares at his watch—11:45 p.m. “She got me this watch that night. Our anniversary. What’s today ? The seventh.” His eyes start to water, and he takes a sip of vodka. “Has it really been a year? How could I have forgotten?”

Guilt fills his heart. He has forgotten all about his wife and son. He has forgotten all about that sorrowful night , the night of the accident. His eyes get heavy as the booze tires him. He falls slowly to sleep.

“Dad.”

“Yes, Alex,” says Seth.

“I dropped my game. Can you reach it?”

Seth stretches his arm back behind his seat, trying to reach his son’s game. He searches and searches. Alex starts directing him, but no luck. He can’t find it.

“Crystal, can you reach it?” asks Seth.

“I’ll get it, Mommy,” says Alex.

“No, Alex, get back in your seat ,” Crystals scolds.

But it’s too late; Alex has unbuckled his seat belt.

“I got it,” he says.

Two bright lights catch Seth’s attention in the rear view mirror. The lights are getting closer too fast. “Alex, get back in your seat now.” The vehicle is suddenly jolted. His son is thrown back into the seat. Seth’s palms tighten on the steering wheel. The car skids sideways, and he fights to regain control. Once the car seems under control, it is hit again. The automobile is thrown toward the concrete median and slams into it.

Tossed forward, Alex’s body crashes through the windshield. The young boy’s body lies on the hood, helpless. His broken body can’t move. His eyes search for help, but his parents lie unconscious in the car. The boy’s heart fills with fear. Then the pain dissipates, his life is ripped away, and his eyes close forever.

Shortly after Seth’s eyes open, his head rings and hurts like hell. His wife lies next to him motionless. “Crystal, wake up!” he moans. His breath out of control, he tries to gain his bearings. He reaches over and feels for a pulse. Panic sets in. “Crystal! Wake up!” Then his boy comes to mind. “Alex.” His eyes go to the backseat. The boy is not there. He turns to the front and finally notices the hole in the windshield. Blood surrounds the opening. Alex lies on the hood. His face is covered in blood, and he’s not moving.

“No. No. This can’t be happening. Crystal, wake up! Our son …”

Seth tries to unbuckle his seat belt; panic and frustration have him agitated. Finally he’s free. He opens his door and gets out. As he exits, he sees a smashed black Mercedes in the middle of the expressway. A blond-haired man is trying to get out of his car. As Seth stands, dizziness sets in and causes him to vomit. His brain hammers against his skull. Gingerly walking to the front of his car, he runs his fingers through his boy’s bloody hair.

“Alex, wake up, buddy. Please wake up.” Tears flow from his green eyes. Every non response causes his tears to flow harder. His body shakes, ripe with emotion. He grasps his boy’s hand as his fears appear to be true. The pain inside his skull is getting worse. His vision starts to fade and becomes blurry. Suddenly his body gives in, and he falls to the pavement.