No matter how many times James Fitzpatrick read the report from the doctor, the words never changed. Blood pounded in his temples and drowned out the chaos that brewed outside. “Why didn’t they print it on black paper?” he said to the empty house. A tall, slender man, James cursed his shaking hands. His father would be so ashamed of him, he mused. Swallowing hard, a tremor skittered across his chest. “Sorry, pop. I just couldn’t take the death sentence and throw salt over my shoulder.”
           His hands curling into fists, James stalked through the house and tried to ignore the noises outside. The pictures of his infant daughter on the wall made his stomach turn. The voice of his late father, who died for no good reason in a Saudi terrorist attack, rebounded in James skull: “Gave her a death sentence too, kid, good job, loser.”
           A dull sob escaped from his clean shaven face as that reality dawned on him. He may as well have shot her. Little Eliza would never grow up and it was his fault entirely. James had it all: Wife, good job promoting musicians in Chicago and all the perks that go with it. His own arrogance and weakness for the women led to his situation. For all of his blustering vanity, for all of his swagger and smart mouth comebacks in negotiations, he could not resist dipping his hand in the cookie jar. He smirked at that analogy. “If I stuck to cookie jars, my daughter wouldn’t have been born with AIDS.”
           Stupid, foolish, ignorant, all of these were his personal names for himself as he fumbled around amongst old possessions. How could he not expect to pay the piper after bedding so many nymphets over the years? It was fun to knock off the rock star cast-offs, even after he married. James tried the faithful life for a spell, but it never lasted. The drugs, the fame he gleaned from the performers, it was all too much. James vulnerability led to his condition.
           He picked up the aluminum baseball bat and proceeded to destroy the China cabinet. With every blow, a wedding gift obliterated. With every stroke a place setting died. Someone spent a lot of time shopping for nothing, he thought. For nothing. Tears came to his eyes as that sunk in. He was really NOTHING, a big ZERO…for no matter how much admiration he received from his kids, business partners or female associates; all James turned out to be was another carrier of an incurable plague.
           The doctor assured James that a strict medication regimen would prolong his life for years. James knew those were lies. His life was over. There would be no more parties, coke lines or oily orgies. There would be no more shmoozing with rock stars, hanging out in strip clubs with basketball players or group sex session with porn stars in strip joints. That life was over--the dark side of his life, well, but it made up his life, didn’t it? The sweet existence of a happy home shattered forever when his death sentence was read. His status, his will, his very being received a fatal blow as sure as if the doctor beheaded him with an ax.
           When he told his wife, she did not take it very well. Exploding would be a kind word for her reaction, James recalled as he smashed their wedding picture on the wall, ignoring the voice on the bull-horn outside. If only he possessed his father’s courage, James could have ended Anna’s diseased life instead of breaking her nose during the argument. Anna had enough when the scales fell from her eyes and she went off like a firecracker on him. James slapped her out of reflex, probably wanting to lash out at someone. Now, the cops were outside his home in Bedford Park, requesting his presence because of the battery. James knew he would have to go face them eventually or they would come in. He smashed the huge mirror over the couch in the living room, not really afraid of any more bad luck.
           James stood in the doorway and the four police officers raised their pistols. One shouted, “Drop it!” He let the bat fall and the cop shouted again, “Drop the weapon!”
           Standing on the front step, James recalled how he loved the applause he received when introducing an act. It was as if they loved him as much as the band being promoted. For some there could be more to life than swimming in the thrall of hero worship. James could not see such a placid future. His blood raged and still desired the smoky rooms, the teased hair and the silky thighs of women alien to his bed. There was no way out for him but this.
           When he raised his right arm, the shots rang out. A half dozen bullets struck his body, many in his chest, propelling him back against the doorframe. James fell forward and his body went limp. The object in his right hand clattered on the concrete walk as his infected blood spewed all over.
           Ears popping, he heard one of the cops rage, “Oh Christ! Will you look at that?”
           Another voice cursed and still another said, “Damn. Didn’t see that. We will have to answer for this.”
           As James’ life ran out on the concrete, he prayed that the cop was wrong. James dying thoughts were a fervent prayer that there were no gods to hear his prayer. His eyes never closed, but stayed focused on what he dropped as he died…his son’s toy cap pistol.

©2004 Steven L. Shrewsbury