The Problem With Paul

By Ronn Venable

 

I didn’t want to do it, but I had to.

 

He’d done it once too often and I’d already told him that if he kept it up I’d do something about it. I guess he didn’t believe me, because he just wouldn’t stop. That’s the problem with Paul; he won’t quit doing it.

 

I was at Paul’s place just last week and got serious with him. I said “Paul, if you keep it up I’m not going to be responsible for what happens.”

 

He laughed at me and said, “Oh yeah! Is that a threat?”

 

I said, “No Paul, it’s a fact”. Then I left, leaving him sitting on his sofa, munching Captain Crunch and watching cartoons, with a Marlboro burning long in the ashtray.

 

The next day I stopped by to see him, on my way to work. Damned if he didn’t do it as soon as I walked through the door. I doubled-up my fist and caught him right on the nose; I think I broke it. With blood dripping off his chin, he looked surprised and spattered out, “What the fuck was that for?”

 

I told him, “I warned you, but you thought I was shittin’ you.”

 

 “Fuck you, Terry.” He says back to me. Then he went in the bathroom to clean himself up. I was out the front door at the same time, ‘cause I knew he would do it again, just to mess with me.

 

Paul was like that.

 

I hadn’t seen Paul for a couple of days, until he found me at the Plastered Parrot Bar where we hang out. I barely got hello out of my mouth before he did it again. That time, it was on purpose and I knew it; now he was doing it just to get on my nerves. Sitting on the stool next to him and chugging a beer, I stared at him in the mirror behind the bar, hard and long.

 

Before I had time to think about it, my beer bottle was coming down on his head. He said, “Shit Terry!” as he fell off his barstool. His head was bleeding a lot more than his nose did.

 

The bartender helped him up and said to me, “What are you? Some kinda fuckin’ idiot? Get the hell outta here,” while a big guy in a black t-shirt grabbed me by the shoulders and threw me out the Parrot’s  door and onto the sidewalk. I slid across the concrete ripping my jeans and flesh; stopping hard against the heavy base of a newspaper box. With my jeans torn and my knees stinging, I limped my way back home.

 

I didn’t want another beer anyhow…

 

I had cut my forehead and I didn’t even notice. Before long, there was blood collecting on the front of my shirt and my head started to hurt. You can bet that the next time I see Paul, he’s really going to get it for that one.

 

Soon enough he calls, “Hey Terry, wanna do something tonight?”

 

“Yeah, that sounds good, but I’m kicking your ass if you do it again,” I warned him.

 

The short silence told me that he heard me.

 

“Fine, I get it. How about a movie?”

 

“Yeah, that sounds good. You want to meet me here?”

 

“Sure, I’ll be over in about ten minutes, that’ll give us time to get to the theatre.”

 

 “Okay, see you then” and I slam the phone down, thinking, ‘He’d better not do it again’.

 

The chimes rang and when I opened the door, before he even got through the threshold, he did it again. I grabbed the baseball bat leaning on the wall and jabbed him hard in the stomach. He doubled over and almost puked on my floor, but we still had time to make the early movie.

 

It was a good movie - not some chick-flick. Lots of blood, explosions and action.

 

After the movie, in the alley walking back to my place, the son-of-a-bitch looked right at me and did it while I was talking to him. I pulled out my Buck knife, opened it and flung it toward the ground - it stuck in the top of his shoe and he yelled, “Holy shit! You fuckin’ stabbed me!” loud enough to wake the dead.

 

The knife was flung across the alley by his foot flailing around. I found it, wiped it on my jeans and folded it up. “I told you not to do it again,” I said and kept walking while he jumped around screaming profanities at me.

 

He followed me back to my apartment like that - hopping around on one leg, whining and sniffling about his fucking foot, the bump on his head and his goddamn nose the whole way.

 

I left him sitting on the side of the tub, washing the blood off his foot and went into my bedroom. In the closet, in a small box, I keep the solution to my problems. So I dig to the corner. Underneath a couple pairs of old sneakers (I thought about giving Paul a pair, since he’d just ruined his and we’re the same size). I find and open the box.

 

The ‘Colt Firearms’ logo, stamped on the shiny-black .357 Python, glints in the closet light. I move to the bed, sit and fondle the weapon. Grinning, I shout, “I dare you to do it one more time.”

 

He laughs and yells, “You threatening me, again?”

 

I step through the bathroom doorway, and just as I figured he would, he does it. The vanity is open at just the right angle and I see him smirking at me in the fogged mirror. Paul clears the glass with a towel to see me better. Then, he does it, just to piss me off.

 

Watching his moisture-blurred image in the mirror, I place the Colt to his temple and this time I beg, “Please Paul - don’t fuckin’ do it again.”

 

When I pulled the hammer back, the gun quaked slightly in my hand and I watched him flinch when he felt the tremor at his temple. The mirror was starting to fog up again. I waited with my finger resting on the trigger, because I knew he’d do it again.

 

That’s the problem with Paul, he won’t quit doing it.