The Chosen

collapsed.

Chuckles fluttered overhead, like bats. Paul’s pain drew him into a fetal position. He couldn’t move. But it was only a moment longer before Dim’s big hands grasped him by the back of the collar and the back of the belt. Paul had a pretty good idea that he was going to be escorted out.

“What luck, huh Dim?” Georgie jested. “That our fine guest here should pay us a visit on garbage night?”

“Righty right,” Dim responded. Paul was then lifted aloft and carried out to the loading dock, while Georgie held the door.

“See you next time, brother. And have a good evening!”

Paul was heaved, turning in the fetid air. He landed in a great BFI dumpster half-full of slimy refuse.

The back door slammed shut.

Paul lay atop the garbage for a time, reflecting that he’d had better nights. When the crushing pain in his groin became managable, he crawled out of the dumpster. He stumbled back out to West Street, shaking himself off as best he could. It was so cold out, the whiskey cream turned to frost on his face. He passed the closed office of The Voice, the smaller city newspaper. They’d purchased his singles bar series, and the editor agreed to take him on as a contributing writer, so at least he was still writing and getting paid. Not that he felt all too ebullient at this given moment, reeking of garbage and still thrumming in the dull pain of Dim’s mason-jar-sized fists. Do I deserve this? he asked the moon, looking up. Do I deserve to be beaten up by rogues and thrown into a dumpster?

Yes, the moon seemed to answer him.

It seemed like part of his brain had shut off that night. He couldn’t remember much of what happened, but he remembered enough. Kaggie’s, that infernal dance club. He’d been there to research his singles bar piece. He’d gotten drunk. He’d picked up two girls. He’d—

God almighty, he thought. He had to stop, leaning against the most machine at the corner of Calvert, trying to shake the awful images which rattled in his head like broken glass. There was no denying it. I did it, he realized. He was nearly crying. I really did it. I cheated on Vera.

That he had, and in grand style. The jagged memories made him sick, even sicker than the laced dope he’d taken. Insecurities were one thing, but when you were so insecure that you’d do something like that, you were in trouble. He didn’t deserve Vera, he knew that. She’d actually walked in on them, hadn’t she? Paul didn’t even want to think about how hurt she must have been. That skanky, skinny blonde had been bad enough, but the redhead…

Boy, Paul, when you cheat on a girl, you don’t cut corners.

West Street stretched on in desolate cold and eldritch yellow light. He trod on, like a condemned man on his way to the gallows. I might as well be, he thought. Without Vera—and knowing now what he’d done to lose her—Paul Kirby didn’t see a whole lot worth living for. Beyond the great dome of the State House, the moon seemed to scowl at him. An unmarked city police car prowled by, a featureless face behind dark glass eyeing his shambling steps. Probably thinks I’m a bum, Paul considered. Shit, I am a bum.

A couple stood arguing in front of the Undercroft, a good-looking blonde in a long brown overcoat, and some wan-faced guy wearing a blue shirt and bleached pants with a rip in the knee. Apparently the guy was getting the sack, and not taking it too well. Paul picked up fragments of their outburst: “You led me on!” “Oh, I did not!” “You said we could get back together!” “Oh, I did not!” “Why did you tell me to call?” “Just go back in the bar!” “What, I’m an asshole for—” “Yes, you’re an asshole!” The blonde