Borg and Boy

Borg and boy saunter (or whatever the disjointed, awkward shuffle and bounce steps they'd adopted could be called) on stage. The lighting and fog makes it difficult to see the audience. The boy harrumphs loudly:

"Ladies and gentlemen, you have been great sports. Thank you for sticking with us. We hope this has been worth your while. This series was made for September, and with September it will go. It has been a pleasure being here with you."

The borg took over:
"For everyone born in September, this is dedicated to you. Have fun great guns before your time here is done. Welcome to the last episode. One more thing: if anything is not the way you wanted it, you know where to find the director of this production."
"Cheerios!"
"See ya..."

---

'El hogar es donde está el corazón' is the Español rendition of ‘home is where the heart is.’ It is a statement that means one of two things to most people: home is the place they love the most—surrounded by family and friends, it is where they feel loved and can let down their hair. For others, it is wherever you feel most at home, that physical place or social setting wherein one feels a sense of belonging more than any other. There are those who would not be bothered with finer points of distinction, for them, it is enough that the concept of home did not elude them.

Natalia Estevez fell into that category. More than anywhere else the Three Steeples United Methodist Church of Champlain was home. She had never really known one—a chequered nonage saw to that. She kidded that the figurine of El Cristo hanging on the crucifix by the door had said to her, ‘mi casa es tu casa,’ the first day she walked into the church. She was warm and so good to kids that people often took her for a Children’s ministry worker instead of Assistant Director of Youth Ministries.

When they began to get serious, she insisted that he follow her to church. After the service that first Sunday, she introduced him to the Reverend William Powell, the minister in charge. The man met with him severally over the next few weeks and helped him to work through his grief and the issues that had brought him to that point. They were having coffee with cookies the Rev’s wife had made one afternoon when he said,

“You do know that Jesus can set you free from homosexuality, dontcha? Without salvation, all them counselling sessions you been attending are nothing but palliative measures.”

He paused to consider the statement and the cleric who made it. Will-P could be accused of anything but diplomacy; convicted in his beliefs, he presented them as absolutes.

He gave it plenty of thought. If this Jesus of Nazareth thing worked as much as they claimed he might as well give it a try. 'Abyssus abyssum invocat' was a Latin expression that had stuck since he chanced upon it in an ecclesiastical handbook. In all honesty, it was an apt summary of his existence ‘hell calls hell; one misstep leads to another.’ The next time there was an altar call, he was the first respondent. Natalia was touched; she went to stand with him.

Over the following weeks, it became obvious that something had happened to him. His eyes lost their lackluster disposition, he smiled more and could actually reminisce without getting upset, and wishing Juan ill. He knew he was over it the day he clicked on a mailed link and it opened a gay-porn site. He felt no stirring whatsoever. He deleted the mail. And in no uncertain terms told the sender to desist—he lived that life no more.

Natalia did one more thing for him. She convinced him to apply for jobs in his country of birth. She reasoned, correctly, that he would always connect America with the loss of Claire and his role in it. He saw a number of openings and applied perfunctorily for a few.

The University of Lagos sent him a mail one afternoon. They would be delighted to have him on the staff. How did an associate professorship sound?

That evening they had dinner in a cozy, outdoor restaurant. He told Natalia he was returning to his country. He would rather go with her, if she didn’t mind. She was still framing a response when he added,
“Of course, mi amor you are not coming back. We’ll have us a litter of kids, sí?” It was a crazy way to propose but she did not mind. Being with him was all that mattered.

“Sí...” She replied.

Three days later, he was loading groceries into Natalia’s car when he felt something cold press against his temple. It was a gun, wielded by none other than Juan himself. The poor sod had greatly emaciated and had a wild look about him. He was wearing a fitted tee shirt that had seen better days and only served to draw attention to his bony frame. 'Juan what happened to you?' He wondered. His eyes rested on the needle marks on his arm and he knew.
“Get in.” Juan ordered.

“Look, you can have my wallet. I’ve got money in it.”
“Money” He snorted. “You think this is about money?”
“I don’t know Juan, you tell me.”

“You killed her. The only woman who ever understood me, el único! I loved her. And you killed her.”
He was stunned beyond speech. Was that Juan or whatever shit he was on speaking?
“I have waited a long time for this.” Juan continued, turning off the safety catch; “Nos vemos en el infierno, see you in hell, estúpido!”

“Drop your weapon! This is the Police.”
A patrol officer had seen a citizen being held at gun point. He was now covering both of them with his pistol.

Most crooks make the mistake of thinking that if you whip a gun around fast enough that you can squeeze off a round before your adversary. They are both right and wrong. You will get a shot off. You will hit nothing or something other than your target. Juan opted to travel that road. What he did not know and had no way of knowing was that the policeman had never shot that gun, outside of the firing range, before. And he wasn't going to take chances. Before Juan could bring the gun around, Officer O’Donell’s gun boomed twice. The first missed. The second caught Juan square in the chest. He surrendered to the pull of gravity.

With quick, short steps the officer eliminated the distance between him and Juan, gun held at the ready. He kicked the firearm away from fingers that were fast becoming lifeless. He turned to the African American. He was leaning against the car, hand pressed against his neck, a strange expression on his face. Then the lawman saw why. He was leaking life-juice from there. The first bullet had not missed after all.

Slowly, he slid to the ground. The irony of the situation did not escape him. The cop was using his radio to call for help. He tried to tell him not to worry, that everything would be fine. Blood came out instead of words. In the distance he heard the faint wail of sirens.

Somewhere in his mind, P.Diddy and Skylar Grey’s 'I’m Coming Home' came on. He had balanced his account with Claire. From the day he came to and learned she had left him, each moment had been building up to this. A Chrysler convertible chose that instant to pass, 'C U When U Get There' by Coolio blared from its speakers. He smiled and closed his eyes.