Rex On The Trigger

Rex On The Trigger
By: Edward Lupak
“Who’s Rex?” Cheryl stands on the other side of the counter in our cramped one bedroom place, her face all mashed into this ugly I-don’t-trust-you-right-now look. “Just a guy from school.” “High School?” “No, college. I knew him in college.” I haven’t looked at her once during the conversation. The Steelers are on Monday Night Football, and Rex is just a memory—an old buddy I used to drink with in undergrad. “He called.” “Who?” “Rex—called himself ‘Trigger-happy Rex’.” I hear it in her voice now, that sarcastic make-a-choice-Mark-me-or-football drone. Commercial = salvation, at least for now. I snap the TV off with the remote, and slowly, with deliberate intention and patience, turn to face Cheryl. She’s all hands-on-her-hips and angry eyebrows. “Oh, did he leave a message?” “Just that he’s in town this week. Wouldn’t say why.” Her shoulders go limp, and she tilts her head a bit. “In fact, he seemed really—odd—like, standoffish.” She steps around the counter toward me, this invisible wire from her eyes to mine the whole time. My remote finger itches, the internal commercial clock in my head screaming football now. “Yeah, Rex was a bit odd.” “What did he mean, trigger-happy?” Shit—I’m not escaping without the whole Rex run-down. So I explain, summoning all the will power I have, about Rex. “Ten years ago, we were freshmen living in the dorms. Rex smuggled in some beer—usually Old Milwaukee or Pabst, something cheap. We played Risk or Axis and Allies all night with a few other guys—Stein, Tallman, and this big farm kid…um, Lumpy. Rex won most of the time.” Cheryl spins her index finger in the air with this get-to-the-point gesture. “Rex loved guns—probably still does. Anything with a trigger. He bought four Chinese made assault rifles just before the ban—showed me this box under his bed full of 7.62 mm cartridges, hundreds of little brass cartridges.” Here she rolls her eyes. “One day these scary girls I knew from high school,” I frown and try to show no interest what-so-ever, “well, they came over to my dorm room. I’ll try to be delicate, but scary as in the brown bag special isn’t going to help.” Cheryl furrows her brow, calls me “asshole”. I continue. “These girls tried to play buddy-buddy, Rex wasn’t having it. One of them brought pepper spray, but not the push on the top kind. This one had a trigger. Rex snagged the spray, pulled the trigger, and filled the whole floor with red eyes and angry faces. The girls exited, post haste. The guys on the floor waited out the cloud in the bathroom. Rex looked at me and said ‘problem solved’.” Cheryl shakes her head without a smile, even the hint of an upturned lip. She isn’t amused. At all. “See, trigger happy Rex.” I’m laughing—enjoying the memory and trying to soften her a bit. “You are an asshole. Go back to your goddamn football game.” She wheels and zips into the bedroom. The door crashes shut. I snap the TV back on and watch the game. I also sleep in the recliner that night. Cheryl gives me the subtle mumbling semi-silent treatment in the morning. I guess it’s because of the “insensitive” nature of my Rex story, who knows. I leave for work while the tension bloats our apartment, distorts the place. # “Tell me about the dog, Mark.” Cheryl’s voice is all crackle over the cell phone while I’m on lunch. “Yeah, the dog.” I start to sweat because I know what she’s talking about. Rex must have called again. “Could you give me a bit more to go on?” Silence, then, “Ok, so ‘Trigger-happy’ called again. Asked me to ask you if you remembered the dog?” “Ok…and…” I fish for how much she knows. “The Peek-a-poo, when you guys were seniors, his neighbor? The gun?” Shit. “Look, that was all Rex. I told him not to shoot, the neighbors…and then we had to dispose of the carcass—it was ugly.” “That’s fucking sick, Mark. I told Rex he is an asshole.” Click. I’m broken down the middle—part feeling a bit bad about the dog—what Cheryl probably thinks of me at that moment, but this little kid in me remembers how funny that screwed up hybrid mutt looked when we would wing it with a few pellets from Rex’s air rifle. One night, when the thing barked like the apocalypse, Rex shot it with his .22, and he buried it in a dumpster. # Later that afternoon I have this voice message from Cheryl: “Call Rex. He’s creeping me out.” # I forget to call. That evening, I think about flowers on the way home, but figure what the hell. Cheryl always wants me to be some “wonderful guy” when I’m just Mark, a guy who did some stupid things in college. I’m sure Rex has grown up too – there’s little room to shoot poodles when you’re thirty. When I arrive at my place, the door hangs open a bit, and I feel this weird squirming in my gut, like lunch might’ve still been alive or something. I push it open and see Cheryl lying on the dining table, her head—what’s left of it—pushed crookedly against the kitchen counter, her legs and arms dangling. Thick, running sprays of blood all over the table, kitchen counter, walls, and fridge still glisten. Her face is split, half just pale and splatter, the other side torn open like beef bitters on the butcher’s floor. The thing in my gut immolates in a burst of fire. “Dude, you’re home.” Rex stands, open-armed. His brown eyes shine black, and his hair cropped and dark—just as I’d remembered. I stumble onto the couch. “She kind of seemed like a bitch.” Rex motioned toward Cheryl’s body with the pistol in his right hand. “Problem solved. You want a beer?”

By: Edward Lupak

       “Who’s Rex?” Cheryl stands on the other side of the counter in our cramped one bedroom place, her face all mashed into this ugly I-don’t-trust-you-right-now look.

       “Just a guy from school.”

       “High School?”

       “No, college. I knew him in college.” I haven’t looked at her once during the conversation. The Steelers are on Monday Night Football, and Rex is just a memory—an old buddy I used to drink with in undergrad.

       “He called.”

       “Who?”

       “Rex—called himself ‘Trigger-happy Rex’.” I hear it in her voice now, that sarcastic make-a-choice-Mark-me-or-football drone.

       Commercial = salvation, at least for now. I snap the TV off with the remote, and slowly, with deliberate intention and patience, turn to face Cheryl. She’s all hands-on-her-hips and angry eyebrows. “Oh, did he leave a message?”

       “Just that he’s in town this week. Wouldn’t say why.” Her shoulders go limp, and she tilts her head a bit. “In fact, he seemed really—odd—like, standoffish.” She steps around the counter toward me, this invisible wire from her eyes to mine the whole time. My remote finger itches, the internal commercial clock in my head screaming football now.

       “Yeah, Rex was a bit odd.”

       “What did he mean, trigger-happy?”

       Shit—I’m not escaping without the whole Rex run-down. So I explain, summoning all the will power I have, about Rex.

       “Ten years ago, we were freshmen living in the dorms. Rex smuggled in some beer—usually Old Milwaukee or Pabst, something cheap. We played Risk or Axis and Allies all night with a few other guys—Stein, Tallman, and this big farm kid…um, Lumpy. Rex won most of the time.”

       Cheryl spins her index finger in the air with this get-to-the-point gesture.

       “Rex loved guns—probably still does. Anything with a trigger. He bought four Chinese made assault rifles just before the ban—showed me this box under his bed full of 7.62 mm cartridges, hundreds of little brass cartridges.”

       Here she rolls her eyes.

       “One day these scary girls I knew from high school,” I frown and try to show no interest what-so-ever, “well, they came over to my dorm room. I’ll try to be delicate, but scary as in the brown bag special isn’t going to help.”

       Cheryl furrows her brow, calls me “asshole”.

       I continue. “These girls tried to play buddy-buddy, Rex wasn’t having it. One of them brought pepper spray, but not the push on the top kind. This one had a trigger. Rex snagged the spray, pulled the trigger, and filled the whole floor with red eyes and angry faces. The girls exited, post haste. The guys on the floor waited out the cloud in the bathroom. Rex looked at me and said ‘problem solved’.”

       Cheryl shakes her head without a smile, even the hint of an upturned lip. She isn’t amused. At all.

       “See, trigger happy Rex.” I’m laughing—enjoying the memory and trying to soften her a bit.

       “You are an asshole. Go back to your goddamn football game.” She wheels and zips into the bedroom. The door crashes shut.

       I snap the TV back on and watch the game. I also sleep in the recliner that night. Cheryl gives me the subtle mumbling semi-silent treatment in the morning. I guess it’s because of the “insensitive” nature of my Rex story, who knows. I leave for work while the tension bloats our apartment, distorts the place.

#

       “Tell me about the dog, Mark.” Cheryl’s voice is all crackle over the cell phone while I’m on lunch.

       “Yeah, the dog.” I start to sweat because I know what she’s talking about. Rex must have called again. “Could you give me a bit more to go on?”

       Silence, then, “Ok, so ‘Trigger-happy’ called again. Asked me to ask you if you remembered the dog?”

       “Ok…and…” I fish for how much she knows.

       “The Peek-a-poo, when you guys were seniors, his neighbor? The gun?”

       Shit. “Look, that was all Rex. I told him not to shoot, the neighbors…and then we had to dispose of the carcass—it was ugly.”

       “That’s fucking sick, Mark. I told Rex he is an asshole.” Click.

       I’m broken down the middle—part feeling a bit bad about the dog—what Cheryl probably thinks of me at that moment, but this little kid in me remembers how funny that screwed up hybrid mutt looked when we would wing it with a few pellets from Rex’s air rifle. One night, when the thing barked like the apocalypse, Rex shot it with his .22, and he buried it in a dumpster.

#
       Later that afternoon I have this voice message from Cheryl: “Call Rex. He’s creeping me out.”

#
       I forget to call. That evening, I think about flowers on the way home, but figure what the hell. Cheryl always wants me to be some “wonderful guy” when I’m just Mark, a guy who did some stupid things in college. I’m sure Rex has grown up too – there’s little room to shoot poodles when you’re thirty.

       When I arrive at my place, the door hangs open a bit, and I feel this weird squirming in my gut, like lunch might’ve still been alive or something. I push it open and see Cheryl lying on the dining table, her head—what’s left of it—pushed crookedly against the kitchen counter, her legs and arms dangling. Thick, running sprays of blood all over the table, kitchen counter, walls, and fridge still glisten. Her face is split, half just pale and splatter, the other side torn open like beef bitters on the butcher’s floor. The thing in my gut immolates in a burst of fire.

       “Dude, you’re home.” Rex stands, open-armed. His brown eyes shine black, and his hair cropped and dark—just as I’d remembered. I stumble onto the couch.

       “She kind of seemed like a bitch.” Rex motioned toward Cheryl’s body with the pistol in his right hand. “Problem solved. You want a beer?”

Ed Lupak is a high school social studies teacher, editor, and sometimes writer. He was last seen floating in a hot air balloon over north central Kansas with his trusty German Shepherd, Zeb. Ed enjoys a good zombie movie or Twilight Zone marathon. His short fiction can be found in a few dusty, well-worn places if you look hard enough. Check out one of his current projects at Sand: A Journal Of Strange Tales

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