A Man Named Alan

There I sat with the blood of my companion on my hands. His posture was erect but not rigid. Seated comfortably in his favorite armchair by the fire, his left hand clasped today’s newspaper while his right held an empty mug of coffee. Its contents were spilled down his lap and onto the floor. Being a simple man, his face bore no creases or wrinkles and he wore no clothes of great complexity or extravagance. His eyes were open and his mouth agape, showing how surprised he was at the person who shot him. The bullet wound was in his head and his brains were scattered on the wall behind him. His name was Brian Wisniewski, and he was 48 years old.

I heard the pounding of footsteps on the stairs and Mark entered the room. He stood there for a second to take it all in, and what a sight we must have been! Brian’s corpse leaking blood from the forehead onto the floor from which I now knelt. Tears came to Mark’s eyes and he looked away to hide them.
“Who did this?” he whispered.
“We both know perfectly well who did it,” I replied. Mark’s face turned pale and he seemed to bite his tongue.
“Did you call the police?”
“Of course not. What would they do? Everyone knows the Mafia’s paying them to not do their job.”
“Well we can’t just let his body sit here!” he screamed. He turned away again and rested his head on the wall. There was a moment of silence.
“He was an idiot you know,” I said “He refused to pay them. You just can’t do that to the Mafia.”
“Well someone has to stand up to them if the police won’t!”
“But not us,” I replied calmly, “We’re not fit for that sort of thing. See?” I indicated Brian’s body. Mark ran his fingers through his red hair. He heaved a deep sigh and looked me in the eye.
“If that’s true then we should get out of here. The mob won’t want us interfering with their business.”
“I hardly think they’d care,” I responded. “They’re not inhuman you know. They too care about the loving bonds between family and friends. Debt, however, is an unforgivable sin.”
I stood up and wiped my bloody hands on my jacket. “Speaking of which, Mark, how are you doing on your bills?” The tears were back on his face, flowing gently to the ground.
“I’m behind of course. It’s the damn economy! Nobody can get a job and nobody can pay their outrageous prices! HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO SURVIVE?”
“Mark calm do--”
“HOW DO YOU PAY YOUR BILLS? WE EARN THE SAME AMOUNT OF MONEY!” There was a pause.
“I don’t know Mark, I guess I’m just more financially responsible.” He sank to the ground in a blubbering heap.
“I’m done for Matt. That stupid representative of theirs has shown up on my doorstep three times this week! He grabs me by the collar, slams me against the wall, and asks where the money is. I tell him I don’t have it, but I’ll get it soon. This usually subdues him, but this last time he told me that I have one more chance. He says that Alan Capolli himself will visit me!”
“Alan Capolli is a myth,” I replied. “The Mafia made him up to strike fear into the hearts of the weak minded. I truly believe that they have no leader, they’re just a large organization that knows how to cooperate with itself.”
“Maybe,” he said, “But I don’t think so. I looked into that guy’s eyes and they told no lie. He knew what he was talking about.”
“Your emotions are going to your head. You can’t think straight.” I reached my hand out to him, he took it, and with our combined effort he was lifted off the floor.
“We can’t talk here,” he said. “I don’t feel comfortable with Brian’s eyes on me all the time. Let’s got to my place, I’ll feel better there.”

A short drive, a change of clothes, and a cup of tea later, Mark was feeling much better. His tears were once again gone and he appeared to be more relaxed. We sat in his living room, trying to ignore the miserable gray and rainy weather outside. “Perhaps you could lend me some money?” he tried.
“Not a chance, Mark. This is your battle not mine.”
“But we’ve known each other since grade school!”
“My answer’s final. Get your own money.”
“Why won’t you help me?”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
“I find you annoying. Ever since this whole Mafia business all you’ve been doing is whining. At least Brian shut up and took his punishment.”
“I can’t believe you just said that!”
“You’re such a drama queen! I can’t tell if you’re a 40-year-old man or a teenage girl.” His expression became dark and a shadow passed over his face. He put down his tea and went upstairs.
An hour later he came back down, with a gun. “What the hell are you doing with that?”
“I have a new plan. If you won’t lend me money, then perhaps you’ll fight with me. When that Alan Capolli comes over here, I’ll put a bullet between his eyes and end this whole charade for everybody! That way I’ll be a hero and you’ll have to call me a man!” I boggled at him.
“Matt, say that I’m brave.”
“What?”
“Say it!”
“Fine. You’re a very brave person, Mark Watterson.”
“Thanks. Now are you in or out?”
“I’m in of course!”
“Good. I’ve locked all the windows and doors and I’ve even drawn up routes for us to patrol and positions for us to take should a shootout take place.”
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with that teenage girl thing would it?” “What on earth are you talking about? Just grab your gun and sit over there.”

And so we sat. I soon realized that Mark didn’t know when Alan would be showing up. Though his defensive schematics were very good, his plans for food and restroom breaks were not. During this long period I asked him some personal questions. I figured that he’d be dead soon, so I might want to try to take an interest in his life. It turns out that Mark was a single child and grew up in New York City. Born into poverty, Mark never got to experience the luxuries that other children his age did. His mother had drug problems and his father left her with the baby when he discovered that they would be too expensive to take care of. He met me in the third grade, and we had been friends ever since. The topic turned to money again and Mark admitted that for a while, he had actually planned to escape. “I had a little money saved up and was about to move to another state. I was so close, Matt! But the day before my planned departure, that damn representative showed up and took everything I had!” Despite my bad feelings toward Mark, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. “I’m going to tell you a secret Matt,” he said suddenly “I actually have enough to pay that representative, but I need this money to escape. I was going to do it a couple of days ago, but once again he came to my door. Though he didn’t take any money, he informed me of this Alan Capolli business, which scared me stiff. I was too nervous to do anything!” He laughed “Well, nobody can say that anymore can they! Look at us Matt, standing up to him like this. Younger generations will look up to us for what we are about to do.” I stared at him.
“You’ve had the money?”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t matter, remember?” I kept staring.
“I can’t believe this.”
“Are you okay Matt? You look really pale.”
I stood up. This action took Mark by surprise for he winced a little. “Matt, are you sure you--”
“I’ve always hated that name,” I whispered.
“What?”
“Matt is a terrible name.” I took a step closer. He remained sitting but scooted back an inch. “It’s not my real name either.”
“Huh?”
“I made it up and gave it to you and Brian.” He was baffled.
“Why?” I continued to stare. I could feel the fire in my eyes.
“You should’ve paid the Mafia.” Any last words died in his throat as the bullet ripped through it. He sputtered and coughed as he grasped his spewing gullet. A second bullet passed through his eye and he fell over backward. He reminded me of another man that I had shot that previous day.
“My real name’s Alan.”