Poor Boyle

Boyle Langston Hughes was not a particularly happy man. He'd managed to reach the ripe age of 26 and he managed to do it pretty much alone. Quite a feat for anyone. Something about genetic makeup had managed to pigeon hole him into a life of seclusion. First, there was his name -- "Boyle". His mother had always liked the name "Boyle" mostly because she was obsessed with the film "Young Frankenstein". At one point she had even toyed with the notion of naming him "Gene Wilder Jeffries". Instead, it was "Boyle". Not a horrible name, if it's a last name, but if it's a first name and you have a glandular issue that makes you more robust than the average kid, "Boyle" can be a nightmare. "Gonna pop you like a Boyle, fat-ass!" "Eww, is that a Boyle on my dick?" Mom didn't really think that one through.

Then, there was "Langston". And "Hughes". The last name was inevitable, but the middle name...this was his Dad's call. His father considered himself a bit of a poet. He was constantly turning everyday situations into prose. Even when it was embarrassing, MOSTLY when it was embarrassing. That aside, his middle name had gone mostly unnoticed until a ninth grade English teacher pointed out the origin of his name in front of the entire class. It wasn't meant to be derogatory, but when you're then asked to read a poem by the author who is your namesake, in front of the entire class, it can be "socially harmful". Especially when the poem is titled "The Negro Speaks of Rivers".

A disgusting growth on your body and a famous African-American poet. Then there was anemia. Boyle had it. Low red-blood cell count. He got tired a lot. Bruised easily. God forbid he got a paper cut. It wouldn't stop bleeding. This always made for some fun on the playground. There were constantly games to see who could run up behind Boyle and "tag" him. Whomever left the biggest "tag", won. Boyle hated this game, though he was never really involved with the rule-making aspect of it.

A childhood that was solitary and meek, which led into an equally depressing adulthood. He went directly from high school into a job working at his local grocery store. He stocked at night. Saw it originally as a chance to work with very few people. He could work by night, sleep by day. Limit his "exposure". This had lasted for the past nine years. And, so far, it had worked. Women? Not really. He had slept with one woman. Her name was "Trudy". At least, that's what she said it was. Boyle knew that probably wasn't her real name, but it was all he knew. He saw her once, paid what he had to pay, and that was it. And to be perfectly honest, he was worse off because of it. When she left his apartment, he felt an emptiness that he'd never experienced before she had been there. It had been a little over three years since that night.

Things were bad for Boyle. Always had been and he didn't really see a light at the end of the tunnel. So when that hooded motherfucker asked him if he was "ready to die", Boyle looked him in the eyes and said, "I've always been ready to die".

Only thirty minutes before that --

Things had been going on like normal. Boyle finished work at 9:00 am. Grabbed his bi-weekly paycheck and walked down to Ed's Coffee Shop. He went there every morning to eat some hot cakes(one of his few pleasures in life), and read the "calendar" section of The Times, just to see the lives that others lived. After his cakes he walked to the bank and waited for them to open at 10. He could have easily deposited his check through the ATM, but Boyle never really trusted those things. Not with deposits. He had always feared that he would put a check in and then it would tell him to deposit his check again. Not acknowledging that he'd already done so, and then it would escalate from there. So -- he waited.

But not alone.

A girl was waiting, as well. An attractive girl.

A very attractive girl.

She was tall. Taller than Boyle. That wasn't saying much,( Boyle was only 5'7"), but she was pretty tall, nonetheless. She looked "carved". Sculpted. At least she did to Boyle. Due to his introverted lifestyle, he rarely got the opportunity to enjoy some of the finer things in life. Things like mid-afternoon tea, picnics, and the smile of a pretty girl. Yes, she smiled at Boyle.

The doors unlocked. She walked in first. There wasn't a puddle but if there was, Boyle would have thrown his coat down. She walked to one of the loan officer desks and sat down. Boyle watched her. He tried not to make it too obvious, though it was. Very. He filled out the deposit slip. Watched her.

"Sir?"

He continued to watch her. She was so cute the way she complained about her adjusted APR.

"Sir?" Boyle turned. He was "Sir". He walks up to the teller.

"Sorry. I was..zoning out."

"That's okay." the teller said, a young Latin man of about nineteen years. "I get it."

Boyle realizes just how obvious he was.

"I..."

"Bro, don't worry about it. She's fine. I follow you."

The teller looks at her. So does Boyle.

"You gonna talk to her?" asks the teller.

Boyle turns to him. "I don't know. I mean, I could, like, maybe go over and..."

"You should."

Boyle looks at him.

"Listen Bro, girls like that...girls that look like that, sometimes they feel alone too. They feel alienated 'n' shit."

Boyle not quite following. The teller reaches for his wallet. Pulls it out, opens it to a picture of a breath-taking Latin woman.

"Who's that?" inquires Boyle.

"That's my wife, bro. Now look at me. I'm nothing special. I ain't rich. Not particularly good-looking or nothin'. Can't carry a tune to save my life. But what I did have was the balls to walk up to her and tell her the way that I felt. Now she's my wife. And I still tell her the way I feel. Everyday. That's why she loves me."

Boyle looks at the picture. Then at the girl.

"Here ya' go". The teller hands him his deposit receipt.

"Thanks." Boyle nods. "I think I might just hang out for a few minutes."

"Good Luck, bro." the teller smiles.

Boyle walks over to the chairs in the waiting area. Sits down. He flips through various brochures. Different types of accounts and such. Reads about student loans, for a brief second wishing he went to college. Almost immediately thinking against it. Reads about some new checking accounts that has really low interest rates as long as the balance never drops below $10,000.00. Boyle has never had that amount of money in his checking account. Or savings. Wishes he had more money.

She's still at the desk. Still talking it out with the loan officer. Probably a student loan. She looks "learned". She looks like she maybe went to an Ivy League school. Or Pepperdine.

CRACK!!

Boyle quickly turns! Sees the security guard drop to the ground! His head split open by two armed men!

"Nobody fucking move or a bullet goes into the head of this dumb fuck!!" His Glock pointed at the fallen guard.

The other hood runs over to the loan officer desk and grabs the guy by the back of the neck. Gun to his head.

"Listen to me very carefully. You are going to walk me behind the counter. Then you're walking me into the safe. It's just that simple. You trip an alarm? You die. Someone tries to call out? Another dies. Anything even remotely stupid, someone dies. Do yourselves a favor and don't test us. There are only..." He takes a silent headcount. "...seven of you in here. Mistakes can accumulate quickly. That number could drop faster than you'd like."

The loan officer nods. Walks him over to the counter and types in a code. They enter.

In all the chaos, Boyle has just stayed in his chair. Frozen. Not really noticing that "she" has made her way over towards him. She's retreated as far back as she could get. Just so happens that happens to be right next to Boyle.

"I'm sorry." She whispers to Boyle. "I just -- I'm scared."

"Me too."

"Really? You seem...not. You seem calm."

"You two!! SHUT THE FUCK UP!!" yells the lobby gunman.

They stop talking. But only for a second. Boyle isn't going to miss his chance.

"You can be both. Scared and calm. -- Ever been bullied?"

She shakes her head.

"I have. Once you lose count of every time it happens, a calmness hits you. It becomes an inevitability. Doesn't mean you're not scared, though."

She looks at Boyle. She's shaking like a leaf. Petrified. But she still notices that he's cute. And probably the most honest man she's ever met.

"I'm Emma."

"Boyle."

She smiles. "Oh my god, Woof"

Boyle just looks at her.

"Young Frankenstein? The Mel Brooks movie?"

Boyle is silent.

She shakes her head. "Nevermind."

BLAMMM!!!!

A gunshot from behind the counter! Blood and brains all over the security glass!! The safe gunman stands up on the countertop.

"I told you all not to test us. But this bitch had to go for the silent alarm. And let me warn you, if the cops are on their way then I ain't got no reason to keep you alive. Cuz that means we ain't leavin' either. There's six of you now. Don't make it five." He goes back to the safe.

Boyle looks down. Emma's arm intertwined in his. She's gripping him.

"I don't want to die." She whispers. Pure terror in her voice.

He rests his hand on hers. "You aren't going to die. Trust me."

She looks at him. Not sure why -- but she does trust him. Completely.

Boyle looks around the scene. One security guard, unconscious on the floor. One masked man above him. Two tellers behind the counter, against the wall.(one of which is his friend). One loan officer in the vault with the other masked man. One young woman named Emma. One young man named Boyle.

"Hey Fat-man", the lobby hood calls. "The fuck you looking at?"

Boyle just shakes his head. "Madness."

"Say what?"

Boyle clears his throat. "I said, madness. I'm looking at madness."

The gunman takes his foot off the security guard. Starts walking over towards Boyle.

Emma's grip tightens. "What are you doing?"

"You'll see." Boyle whispers.

The man walks over. Stops in front of them.

"So, madness, huh?"

Boyle knows what's coming. "Yeah. That's what I said..."

CRACK!! The pistol gets whipped across Boyle's jaw. He spits blood. A huge bruise almost immediately appearing.

"That's fucking mad. You're turning violet, Violet!" The masked man begins cracking up.

BLAM!!!

The laughing stops. The man looks down at his chest. A smoking hole through it. Looks back at the security guard who has woken up long enough to fire a round right through the guy's chest. Then the security guard passes out again.

The masked man falls to the ground. Dead.

"What the fuck!!!" The other man runs out and sees his dead partner on the ground. Gun still in his hand. Looks at the security guard. Gun still in his hand, as well. "Stupid motherfucker." He makes a b-line for the security guard and then fires a slug into his skull. Blood everywhere. He looks back at his fallen partner. Walks over and rolls him to his back.

Talking to his dead partner, "Forgot to take his fucking weapon, bro. Big mistake. Big one." His voice emotional. He's trying to sound hard, but he's not fully pulling it off. This one will linger.

But he "feels" something. Someone watching him. He raises his gaze to meet Boyle's. Who is staring him right in the eyes. His partner's Glock in his hand. He stands slowly, setting his own gun on the ground.

Boyle stares him down. His hand shaking. "Big mistake. Big one."

"Listen, pal. You don't have to do this. You and your girlfriend are free to go, if you want. Just walk right out the door. Pretend nothing happened."

"Nothing happened? People died here. Innocent people!" Emma runs over to hit him...

"Emma, NO!!" Boyle screams!

She runs right into Boyle's line of fire! The gunman draws a blade from his sleeve. Slamming it into Emma's stomach!

She gasps --

Falls right on top of it, collapsing on to it. The guy spins her around and holds her in a chokehold, facing Boyle. The blade at her throat. Her stomach bleeding badly. Trying to cope with the immense pain. She looks right into Boyle's eyes.

Boyle looks into hers. Unsure of what to do, but feeling connected to a person. For once.

"Lower the weapon or your girl is fucking dead."

Boyle doesn't see any other way out. He delicately lowers his arm. Defeated. "Please, just...just don't hurt her anymore. Please."

The gunman, still holding on to Emma, bends down and retrieves his gun.

"Well, someone has to pay for this shit. We told y'all not to fuck with us. I would most definitely call this "fucked with"."

Boyle looks at her face. Her eyes. So soft.

"I'll pay for it. Take me." Boyle says, never feeling so sure of anything. But still scared.

"No shit? Dying for your girlfriend?"

"She's not my girlfriend."

The gunman scoffs. "You stupid then, man. Must be ready to die. That right? You ready to die?"

Boyle sets his gun down. Looks at her. She looks at him. At his heart. His soul.

"I've always been ready to die -- I just never thought it would be for love --

BLAM!!!

Boyle takes a shot to the chest! Catapulted off his feet, against the wall. He slumps down.

"Boom!!" The gunman throws Emma to the ground. "Hope you know what had when you had it, bitch. I sure as fuck wouldn't die for your sorry ass."

He walks over to Boyle's body. To finish the job, if he's not already dead. "Yoo-hoo..." Rolls Boyle's body over --

SHTICKK!!

Boyle jams a utility knife into the guy's throat! Rips it out, dragging most of his throat with it!! The guy collapses. Dead.

The knife falls to the ground. Boyle gasping for air. He has a massive sucking chest wound. Emma crawls over. One hand over her stomach. Holding her wound. She perches herself above Boyle. Puts her other arm under his head, cradling him.

The other people, the tellers and the loan officer, pop up. Boyle's latin friend, "I called 911!!"

Emma nods. Notices the utility knife.

Boyle, struggling with his words. "I...I'm a stocker."

Confused, Emma looks at him. "You're a what?"

Seeing the possible mix-up in his choice of words, he laughs. "Not that kind. I stock groceries. At night. I stock groceries."

She laughs. They share a laugh together. Until a surge of pain rushed over Boyle. He's "close". And he knows it.

"God, it was nice to meet you." Struggling with his words.

"I know it was. But it's not over. You're not going anywhere. Ok? Besides, you never asked me out? You waited that whole time for me to finish and never asked me."

His eyes widen a bit. A slight smile. "You knew?"

"Of course. A girl always knows."

Boyle smiles.

"The answer is 'yes', in case you're wondering. "

A tear runs down the side of Boyle's cheek. He's never been as happy. Another surge.

He's going. And she sees that he is.

"Boyle, what...what can I do? What can I do to help?"

He struggles with his breath. His lungs filling with fluid. With blood. "Just talk please. Anything. Anything is fine."

Emma doesn't know what to say. This may be the last words that he ever hears, and she doesn't-know-what-to-say.

When it hits her --

"I've got it!" She smiles. "When I was a freshman at Yale, I studied poetry for a semester. It wasn't really my thing, but there was one poem that I never could shake. Every time I would sit in stillness it would come to me. It's the only poem I know."

Boyle just nods slightly. He can't speak.

Emma runs her hand over his forehead. "I've known rivers: I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins."

Boyle smiles. He knows this one.

"My soul has grown deep like the rivers. I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young. I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep. I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it. I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset."

Boyle's head slowly drifts to the side. Emma still runs her hand softly over his face. Caressing him.

"I've known rivers: Ancient, dusky rivers. My soul has grown deep like the rivers."

Boyle closes his eyes. And rests in her arms.