This story––which my father didn't title––scares me because it features a hot tar roofer (like my father) who works for a specific company in Paterson, N.J. (the same one as my father worked for) and decides to try killing someone war work (like my father did). Too autobiographical for comfort.

The date on this piece is about eight months before its author finally cracked and tried to kill somebody. Did his intended victim Walter Suhaka ride him like this? How many times had my father fantasized about killing somebody? How many times had he tried to put it down on paper like this? 

Does using fiction as a vehicle to fantasize about killing people help or hurt your emotional health? Well, I think the answer is obvious, given the empirical evidence at hand here. Scarier still: this may be the last thing he ever wrote, and he spent eight more months festering until he finally broke, and life tried to imitate art. 

“Corby, Escorla, Lewis, Tregaskis, Portello, Currie, in the red van," snarled John Erskine as he slowly folded the job slip and placed it in his hip pocket.

The men groaned collectively––another day with Simon Legree. Some of them cursing aloud, but always with a smile so he knew they were kidding, for John Erskine was one rotten son-of-a-bitch.

Jim Currie neither joked nor smiled, but silently threw his tool bag in the back of the van. 
"You drive, Currie," Erskine ordered.

Jim didn't want to drive. In fact he hated it, and the trucks and vans of J.P. Patti Co. were mechanical monsters with sticking shifts, hard steering, and bad brakes. But Jim climbed in the driver’s seat and turned the key. The van wouldn't start.

“What's the matter, dummy, don't you know how to start the goddam thing?" John snarled with that curling lips of his, the lip Jim Currie wanted to smash, but didn't dare.

Erskine leaped out of the van and hurried over to the mechanic. Jim Currie watched him closely. Erskine was about six feet, two hundred pounds with short, red curly hair and the florid complexion of a heavy drinker. He weighed fifty pounds more than Jim though they were the same height and Jim was thin and pale with long black hair combed straight back to hide the many battle scars on his head.

Jim watched the mechanic install a new battery, then Erskine climbed back in. "Move it," he said.

"Same place as yesterday?" Jim asked quietly.

“Yeah, stupid," was the reply.

Jim pulled onto the highway while Erskine muttered about running a job with a bunch of stiffs and generally putting down his entire crew.

Currie drove quickly through the traffic and cursed, as he always did, the day when he and John were friends and Jim admitted to having been in prison. Nobody stayed John's friend for long and he had held that knowledge over Jim for two years now, subjecting him to constant abuse, knowing that Jim couldn't afford to hit him because John had promised to have him arrested should he ever even raise his hands. Jim feared no man but did not relish the thought of more years in prison. At best, Jim was thankful that John had never told anyone else but was content to use the information as a personal club over Jim.

Jim had a wife and two kids now––hostages to fortune, as he had once read. Erskine's abuse gave some of the other foremen and workers ideas and they rode him sometimes too. Jim wondered how they'd act if they knew he had killed a man to go to prison.

He accepted the abuse as a joke from a few of the men and kidded right along with some of them, but it was John Erskine who really got to him. Jim blamed John for the loss of sixty-five pounds, the stomach pains that were probably an ulcer, the tension headaches and the sore jaws from clenching his teeth in anger. Every fiber in his body told him to smack this man, but Jim was forty now. Ten years in prison was enough––he was too wise to waste any more of his life in that hellhole.

They reached the job, changed their clothes, and went on the roof.

“How’s your back today, Currie?" Erskine asked sarcastically.

"All right," Jim replied.

“Good. Take the insulation off the conveyor. When the truck’s empty, I’ll have something else nice for you.”

Jim stared at the truck on the ground––five hundred bundles, about eighty pounds each. He'd spend some time in the tub tonight and the old Ben Gay would get plenty of use, he thought as he started the conveyor.

Three hours later, the truck was empty and as if by magic, Erskine was next to him directing him to clean up the piles of slag left on the finished part of the roof. More bending, Jim thought. He nodded and picked up the shovel and went about his task wishing he were younger and wild as he used to be.

As he worked along, he thought again as he did so often of quitting his job; he hated it and his body seemed no longer to be able to take it. But what was the alternative––two bucks an hour in some crummy factory? He could barely live on what he made now. He had to take it!

The day continued with John on Jim's back, constantly cursing, shouting, calling him names that would have meant certain death ten years ago. But Jim knew it wasn't worth it. He remembered and would remember forever the humiliating day he asked John to ease off. John had replied with a tirade that lasted about five minutes and gave Jim some insight into the man.

That outburst and various other stories from the men and pieces of gossip revealed that Erskine was actually to be pitied: a henpecked mouse who vented his frustration on his subordinates, a would-be cop too dumb to pass the test, and an ex-Marine still gung ho from boot camp although he had been a company clerk. It tore Jim up to take his shit, but what could he do?

It's tough enough getting a job when a man gets out of prison, but to land a high-paying construction job was a bonanza.

His wife Eleanor knew something was tearing him up and urged him to see a doctor or a psychiatrist. She told him to give up the job many times. He would have loved to, but how would they live?

The day finally ended and on the way back to the shop, Erskine ordered Jim to pull into the parking lot of a tavern. Jim didn't drink anymore––he couldn't afford to––but the rest of the men poured out after John, eager to dive into the swill.

Erskine returned to the van where Jim sat. “What's the matter, your wife didn't give you your two dollars spending money this week?" he asked sarcastically.

"Give me a break John,” Jim pleaded. “Get off my back for a little while, please.”

Erskine stared Jim with a vicious look of hate that Jim couldn't understand. "You've got a long wait pal,” he told Jim, "a long wait." He turned, then walked away.

It was a long wait, hours. Eleanor would be worried. But Jim had no choice, he'd blow the job if he left them there.

They finally all staggered out, playing around, shouting, and when they finally calmed down, Erskine somehow brought the conversation around to prisons and ex-cons. Jim was worried, but after a few moments, he realized Erskine was just needling him and wouldn't open up. The drive back to the shop was pure hell as he listened to the idiotic, uninformed drunken opinions being bandied about. Only Erskine knew what he was about as he would suddenly ask, "right, curry, ain’t that right?”

Since Jim wasn’t listening, he simply nodded and drove on. With great relief, he pulled into the company yard. As quickly as he could, he grabbed his clothes, threw them in the car, and drove home.

Eleanor understood what had happened; she had left dinner warm, but Jim couldn't eat. The kids were in bed and he went in to look at them, then slowly walked to the living room and sat in his favorite chair. Eleanor quietly, without speaking, came behind him and began massaging his neck and the back of his head. She must have been psychic because Jim had one of his terrible tension headaches that began at the base of the skull and spread outward and ever increasing intensity. It felt good and he nodded when she asked if he felt better. She then walked to his side and slowly unclenched his fists and kissed his cheek. She left and then a few minutes returned with a tranquilizer, a glass of water, and the paper. Jim swallowed the pill, winked at her, then leaned back to relax.

She probably would be better off without him, he thought; he was always too tired to take her anywhere, and their sex life had become almost nonexistent. She was a good woman, he didn't deserve her.

Jim skipped through the paper and read a few editorials. Then in Jim Bishop's column, a sentence caught his eye: “Sometimes as a man grows older, he confuses caution with wisdom and counts himself a wise man when to be accurate, he has lost his nerve."

Jim put the paper down. He was right, Bishop was right! It wasn't the job, the kids, the wife; he had lost his guts! The guts that kept him alive in hell for so many years; they were gone! He was just a washed up forty-year-old man.

Finally, he rose from his chair, walked to the bedroom, and pulled a manila envelope from beneath a pile of shirts. He rummaged through it, then pulled out a yellowed newspaper clipping. "Man Killed Over Traffic Incident.” Jim thought of how mean and bad he had been. Prison hadn't mellowed him; he came out harder than when he went in. It was Eleanor who had made him soft and time that had destroyed his nerve.

He put the clipping in his pocket, went to the closet, and removed a shoe box. Inside was a snub-nosed .38 Smith & Wesson. Jim hadn't even jaywalked since he'd been out of prison, but he had made a vow he'd never return. The .38 was his insurance. He slipped it in his belt, told Eleanor he needed some air, then drove away.

Jim considered himself quite a good judge of men and as he headed toward John Erskine's house, he knew the harassment would end one way or the other. He was sure John would be alone since his wife Annie was always on the loose, but he didn't care anyway. Screw you, Jim Bishop, he thought, I'm wise and I still got my nerve.

There was a light on in the kitchen when Jim pulled up to Erskine's house about a mile from the main road in a sparsely developed area. Jim backed the car into the driveway, walked to the kitchen door, and opened it.

John looked up in surprise. He was sitting at the table drinking wine.

“What the hell do you want?” he demanded.

"I want to talk, John."

"About what?"

“Us, baby.”

"We had a talk before, remember?” John commented sarcastically. 

“This is a different kind." Jim reached into his pocket and pulled out the clipping. "You never knew why I was in prison, John. Read it!”

John snatched the clipping and read of the brutal beating Jim had administered to another youth fifteen years ago. Jim noticed a change in John's complexion; he seemed to pale.

"So what?" he said, tossing the clipping at Jim. "That's just a little more I got on you."

Jim sat across from John and retrieved the clipping. He picked up John's cigarette lighter from the table, lit the clipping, and held it in his hand until it burned his fingers and he had to dump it into the ashtray. 

Erskine seemed less cocky. “What do you want, punk?"

Jim reached for the .38, placed his hand on the table pointing it at John's chest, and cocked it.

"You don't scare me," John said unconvincingly.

"I didn't come to scare you, I came to kill you!"

"You'll get the chair."

"No, John, only life. And because of you, I'm in a prison now. I'm tired John, tired of everything. Do you know any good prayers?"

"Now don't be a fool Jim, let's talk this over." 

Jim shook his head. "I might not even get life; they might say I'm crazy."

Fear showed in Erskine’s face, his lips trembled and his hands shook.

Jim stood up and slapped him across the face with the back of his hand. John whimpered.

"I'd like to put this gun down and beat you to death," Jim said.

Erskine dropped from the chair to his knees. "Please Jim, I'll never bother you again, never. Please don't kill me."

“You're not scared are you? I'm a punk, remember?”

"Your eyes man, your eyes. You are nuts. No, no, I didn't mean that. Please listen to me. I'm not worth it," Erskine bagged.

"You promise you'll never bug me again?”

"Yes, yes."

"You'll never tell about tonight?"

"No, no, Jim. Honest!"

“You’ll never tell I was in prison and why?"

"No, no, never. I'll have you made foreman. You'll have it made, you can pick your job, but please don't kill me."

“Okay," Jim said, "remember your promise."

Erskine started to rise, one hand grasping the table to pull himself up. He stood there bent over and looked at Jim. "We can be good friends, Jim. Real good. I didn't know I was bugging you so much.”

Jim Currie stared at the blubbering bastard. He seemed to notice a strange look and Erskine's eye. Maybe I am crazy, he thought, but this guy will never keep his mouth shut.

"Have a drink Jim," John offered.

“Okay."

Erskine poured a glass of wine and smilingly offered it to Jim. Jim was getting another headache. He raised the .38 slightly and fired a bullet into John Erskine's chest. The wine glass shattered as Erskine fell to the floor with a loud noise. The spot on his shirt grew wider; the blood was almost black. Jim stared. Was it worth it, he thought? Well, maybe he would get away with it. He put the cigarette lighter to the curtains and they quickly burst into flames. He picked up some newspapers, made them into torches, and walked through the house tossing them onto chairs, beds, couches, and anything flammable. In a very short time the house was burning in several places. It was getting smoky and hot, so Jim walked out the door and got into his car.

Apparently none of the neighbors heard the shot, or else they didn't care. The blaze was going pretty good, then Jim pulled away with his lights off. He drove for a while before turning them on. When he reached the main road, he drove as fast as possible without breaking the speed limit and reached the river in half an hour.

He stood staring down at the darkened water, then threw the .38 as far as he could. It splashed with a loud noise. Jim stood there a moment, then turned and walked to the car.

Lost my nerve, your ass, Jim Bishop, he thought as he drove away.