Borrow

Borrow. It is such a diminutive, innocuous word. Commonly used on any day in just about any situation. One might for instance request from a stranger in the bank or at a department store register; “May I borrow a pen?” or to a friend or relative one might ask; “Can I borrow some money?” How often it seems we use the word “borrow” in our daily lives. By definition it implies you are going to return said item. Sometimes though, it is used without the objective of returning the item, such as asking a neighbor to borrow a cup of sugar. There is certainly no direct intention to return that same cup of sugar to your neighbor; it more implicitly conveys a possible acknowledgement of an implied debt of courtesy. It was this last case just a solitary year ago, that quite nearly cost me not only my life but my very sanity as well.

My name is Michael Wining and until a year ago, I was a carefree bohemian ne’er do well. At the tender age of twenty-five I lived my irreverent life to the fullest, or at least so I thought at the time made possible in its entirety due to the vast fortune my grandfather left me. I went to only the select snob parties, dined at the finest restaurants, and reveled with the beautiful people. I thought I was in heaven when I gave it any consideration at all, but one late night in July I fell from my towering heavenly bliss and descending deep into the very bowels of Hell’s torment itself.I had been on that particular night barhopping with some friends in the gaslight district of San Diego when I decided I was at my celebratory peak and the appropriate time to go retreat to my lodgings was eminent. I think it was around three or four in the morning. All the clubs were closed down to regular folk and only the caustically wealthy remained after hours. I was feeling reasonably excellent and so in the mood I decided against driving in favor of a brisk stroll back to my Hotel room. The decision was a logical choice reached by illogical means, the last bastion and defender of the drunken and inept; the very least outcome of the evening I desired was a DWI to un-mellow my high. Besides, I reasoned, the hotel was only a few blocks away and an early morning stroll would suit me well. I offered my goodbyes, paid my tab and a departing round of drinks and left the bar. I was well on my way to the hotel when I reached into my jacket pocket to get a cigarette. I pulled out an old cigarette pack but crumpled and tossed it aside as the packet was empty. It always amazes me how much I smoke when I imbibe and at that moment found it difficult to believe I finished off the entire pack in such a short time. I was traumatized, I only smoked Helmars Turkish Blend Cigarettes and looking around, it was obvious a small local convenience store would not be likely to carry them much less even be open at this early hour. A quick glance at all the dark storefronts on the street confirmed my suspicion. I cursed the world, feeling serious nicotine deprived spasms coming on merely from the knowledge that no nicotine was immediately available. A moment of clarity set me walking a faster pace with the realization I had another pack in my hotel suite. All sane thought was pushed from my head with the single exception; I needed a smoke, a thought which may not have held a dollop of sanity in and of itself if I were to believe the surgeon general.

About a block from the hotel, I was wheezing and beginning to acquire a sweaty and unhealthy flush to my complexion. I found myself once again cursing the world for not having another pack of cigs on me and cursing the local shops for being closed between deep gulps for breath. I was about to break into a vigorous amble towards the hotel when the whistle of a soft melody drew my attention. I saw a man, the melody stopped as I exchanged a subtle glance with the stranger standing beneath a streetlight. He was leaning against the pole, dragging slowly on a recently lit cigarette, by no means reminding me of a macho smoke commercial. I stopped for a moment, sizing him up as I thoughtfully observed him deeply inhale a lungful of nicotine.

He was of diminutive stature, a small man, maybe 130 lbs. He wore tan khaki pants, a smart sports shirt with hibiscus blooms patterned in Hawaiian fashion covered by a cerulean blue nylon windbreaker with a logo I couldn’t quite distinguish. His footwear were stylish deck shoes wrapped around clean white ankle socks made visible by the short wader cut of his khaki cuffs. I guessed his age to be maybe late forties or early fifties. My brain, inhibited by the absorbed alcohol judged him as not likely to be a threat. Cautiously I approached, hoping he proved to be a Good Samaritan who would facilitate a fellow smoker with the gracious act of sharing. As I drew near he turned his face towards me. He had green eyes the color of dirty dollar bills; the most penetrating I had ever seen and they watched me approach with a modest sparkle of amusement in the recessed corners of those dusky verdant portals.I cleared my throat and asked him, “Hey Buddy, would you happen to have a cigarette I could borrow?” It was such a simple question.

He looked me up and down, obviously trying to assess the situation. His eyes met mine again, I felt a cold shiver run down my spine but I shuddered once and ignored it considering the cool hour of early morning. Then he smiled at me, “Sure Buddy, always happy to help a fellow smoker.” With that said he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack. Tapping it on the side of his hand to get one out, he said to me “You know my Mother, may she rest in peace, always taught me to be careful with my grammar. She was a stickler for grammar my Mother was. ‘Sammy’ she would say, it was her pet name for me, Samael is my given name but she often called me Sammy. ‘You must always use proper grammar. If you don’t, people will think you are uneducated. Say what you mean and mean what you say.’ That is what my Mother rest her dear soul, would say.”He handed me the cigarette he pulled from his pack and I took it, thanking him as he lit it for me. That is when the impression of Heaven actually materialized wrapping my mind in a cocoon of pure ecstasy as that first puff was like sheer manna to me. The nicotine beast within was finally placated. I stood there for a moment, my eyes closed; taking pleasure in the exquisite taste when I remembered Samael was still standing there beside me. I opened my eyes and found him staring intently with a big wicked grin on his face. “You really must have been dying for a smoke Buddy. I never saw anyone enjoy a drag like you just did.” I returned his smile, “My name is Michael, nice to meet you. Yes, I thought I had another pack on me but I was wrong, I was just now trying to get back to my hotel to get one. Thanks again for the cigarette.”Samael just waved his hand, “Oh please, no need to thank me, I am glad I could be of some small assistance. So you are heading back to your suite, what hotel are you staying at?” he asked as he took another cigarette from the pack and lit it for himself.I continued to smile, I was in a self indulgent state of nirvana and felt no menace from Samael as I looked down at him and I thought to myself the least I could do for my grinning savior was to lend a sympathetic ear to bend for a few moments while I finished my cigarette. He struck me as a lonely man just wanting some one to talk to; why else would he be out on the streets at such an early hour in the morning?“I’m staying at the Sheridan Grande Hotel.” Samael let out a small but sustained whistle, “Wow, that is some pricey accommodations you have Michael, I once knew a lady who worked the night shift there, Maggie was her name. Nice enough girl but she had such extremely poor grammar.” He spoke wistfully.With my nicotine addiction temporarily satisfied, my bladder then spoke up to warn me that it was a good deal too full to continue holding the imported beer I had consumed before leaving the bar. “Sorry Samael, but I have to get going, but maybe I’ll see you around and thanks for the smoke.” I turned and started to jog towards the hotel. Just before I got out of earshot, Samael yelled something to me that sounded like “I’ll see you soon Michael.”The next morning I awoke with a pounding headache. I had forgotten all about Sammy and the cigarette and his peculiar grammar lessons by then and I called up room service ordering some breakfast and a few aspirin for my miserable spinning head. As I was eating the few bites I dared ingest without risk of losing everything I received a call from my friend Paulie who proceeded by informing me that he had finally and succesfully accomplished the conquest of a certain socialite he had been after for months. I listened with a half heart while grabbing my fresh pack of Helmar’s and lit one up. I cut Paulie short telling him I had something urgent to do and made plans to meet him later that night at said socialite’s elite gathering on her daddy’s little boat dockside at the Blue Moon Harbor Yacht club at slip L337.

I went back to bed, waking up at five pm in a mood much more to my liking. The pain in my head was finally gone and as I lit another cigarette, I sat at the convenience table, pulled out my laptop and checked my e-mails. I found mostly junk mail except for a few messages from Paulie with jpegs of him and his latest conquest in compromising positions. But one email in particular caught my eye. The subject line just read “Grammar”. I didn’t recognize the address it came from but my virus protector gave it no cautionary disapproval, so I opened it. I couldn’t believe my eyes as I read the content.“Dear Michael,

I hope you enjoyed the cigarette you borrowed from me last night. However, since you borrowed it, I assume you mean to give it back to me. I will be around sometime tonight to collect. Remember, always say what you mean and mean what you say. Sincerely,Samael.” I was absolutely astonished. I couldn’t believe this guy not only found my e-mail address but he also was demanding I pay back the cigarette I “borrowed” from him. I glared at my screen for a moment. I had no intention of him coming to collect a cigarette from me. I mean I would give him one if I saw him again should he ask for one, that would only be courteous but this kook claimed he actually intended to collect on a cigarette debt. It then occurred to me that the message was sent in jest and the lonely old guy must have one sick sense of humor. I placed his e-mail address on my ignore list and went back to checking the remainder of my mail and as I did, new mail came in with just the one lone word “Grammar” in the subject line, they started popping up faster than I could delete them and I found myself thinking this nut must have one Hell of a Spam-ware program and I shut down my computer. I tried to put Samael and the borrowed cigarette out of my mind, concluding that if he did show up and things became violent, I could easily defend myself against his age and slight build and then I would just call the police and be done with him. Considering my financial independence, I was used to having scam artists and such trying to fleece money from me. I decided Samael was one of these people. I also decided I had learned my lesson and from that moment on, I would never again ask to “borrow” another cigarette from a stranger. I would make sure I had enough on me.

I hired a cab to drive out to the harbor, where I met up with Paulie and a few other partygoers. It was a great bash, lots of idle conversation, music and dancing; making out and the best liquor that money could buy. It was obvious early on that Paulie and our hostess were going to hook up again and so when the party started to wind down, I thought it best for me to return to my hotel. I looked around for Paulie and our hostess to let them know I was leaving, but not finding them I reasoned they were likely preoccupied. I went topside and debarked the yacht.

As I strolled down the pier I heard someone whistling behind me, it was an unfamiliar tune but a recognizable tone. I quickened my pace, wanting to make it to the parking lot where I knew a line of cabs and limos would be waiting to transport any party goers off to perspective abodes to sleep off the night’s events or on to the next adventure as their recreational motivated constitution allowed. The faster I walked, the faster and louder the whistling became, now I could hear footsteps behind me as well. I started to run as my muddled brain brought forth the memory of the e-mail I had received from Samael earlier that day. I knew I was too drunk to defend myself now and all I could do was get to the safety of the illuminated parking lot, where there would be safety in bright lights and tangible people. I could see a distinct glow up ahead. I was so fixed on watching the lights I didn’t see the anchor that lay across the deck of the pier. I let out a small yelp as my toe caught it and I went sailing across the wooden planks, skidding for a few feet and ended up sprawled face first on the splintery ground. There was a sharp pain in my ankle and I knew I had twisted it or worse. I rolled onto my back and sat up, rubbing my ankle. The whistling had stopped, so had the footsteps. The only light was the faint blush from the full moon hiding behind thin veils of clouds above and I could only see dark shadows. I held my breath, straining to hear any noise but the only perceived sound was the slight clatter of distant carefree laughter coming from another yacht anchored in the harbor. I waited a few more minutes and when I realized no one was coming after me, I struggled to my feet. My left ankle let me know immediately it would not support any weight, so I started to hop on my right foot towards the parking lot. I had hopped maybe 4 or 5 steps when I heard a voice from behind me say, “That was a nasty spill you took Michael, are you okay?”

I froze. I recognized the owner of the disembodied voice immediately. It was Samael. I turned slowly, careful not to put my left foot down. He was standing behind me, the moonlight reflecting off his misty sea green eyes, giving them an ethereal quality. He was dressed almost exactly as he was the night before but tonight he wore a navy pea coat and a sailors wool cap. He was holding something in his had but I couldn’t make out what it was. I started sobering up quickly as he strolled towards me, his face covered in an evil grin that made my blood run cold.“Are you okay there Michael, buddy?” he hissed as he came closer. I opened my mouth to yell for help but he was instantly on me. In a brief imperceptible moment I was tackled to the ground and the wind was knocked completely from me. I marveled at his almost super human speed and strength as he punched me in the head, producing dancing stars before my blurry eyes. I tried to put constructive thoughts toward fighting back but my reeling mind could not settle on anything useful and my stunned empty efforts at struggling accomplished absolutely nothing. My ‘buddy’ Sam produced a pair of handcuffs and locked my hands behind me. He then pulled out a roll of duct tape from his pocket, ripped off a sizable selection and slapped it over my mouth just as my senses were crawling back from the deep nether they had retreated to. As my senses revisited to assess the situation, my mottled and blurred vision cleared as well.

He sat cross-legged on the pier, glaring down at me as I looked at him through questioning eyes. “I imagine right now you are wondering what is going on. Well allow me to explain. You see I am a product of my dear Mother’s insistence that grammar be used properly. She used to beat the dog snot out of me if I used improper grammar or etiquette. I tried, my best to keep her happy but day after endless day I failed and suffered for my inadequacies. In the end I had an epiphany as I cringed in my bed late one night, covered as I was with bruises and abrasions from Mother’s disappointments. It was there and then that it became solemnly obvious that only one action on my part could grant my dear Mother peace, and it was up to no one else in the entire world but me to gain my Mother’s approval by giving her what she truly wanted. So one night as she lay sleeping in her bed, I snuck into her room and placed the pillow over her head. She struggled and screamed as I most certainly anticipated, but amazingly for all her proper grammar, in the end she resorted to cussing and swearing like a New York whore. After completing my distasteful task there was for one brief moment a feeling that I was finally free or so I thought, but alas I soon discovered that was not the case at all. Much to my dismay I found people in this world use improper grammar all the time and it drove me crazy! Like when dear sweet Maggie said to me “You ain’t worth spit.” I corrected her grammar quickly; one quick slash across the carotid and it was over. It was the first time I had used a knife. I uh, I wasn’t used to the blood you see? I did find myself sick on that first occasion but over time I diligently built up a tolerance, yes even a taste, a hunger for the bloody morbid service I perform. I often wondered as a young child what my purpose in life would be one day and about ten years ago I realized my destiny was to stop the mistreatment of the English language and “teach” proper grammar to those poor unfortunate souls in need of education and to ruthlessly butchering any wretched abusive soul who proved guilty of butchering our precious grammar. Take for instance you my young friend. Last night you approached me and asked if you could borrow a cigarette from me. Borrow, do you know what the definition of borrow is? To borrow is defined as to have permission to temporarily use another’s’ possession, with intent to return that item. You borrowed a cigarette from me last night and I have come to get it back. Now where is the item I allowed you to borrow last night Michael my boy?”I stared wild-eyed at him. My heart felt as if it were going to pound a path out of my chest. I didn’t know how I was going to make my escape from this maniac. I tried frantically to think when I suddenly remembered I had a pack of cigarettes in my breast pocket. Quickly I started to gesture to Samael, trying to get him to look in my pocket.“What’s that Michael? You have cigarettes in your pocket? Well let’s take a look shall we?” He leaned over, I could smell the sour sweat on his face and a sickly aroma of stale tobacco on his breath as he rummaged through my pocket, “Ah, here we go, what have we here?” he said as he pulled the nearly full pack out from its storage. I mumbled a prayer as he flipped the pack over and read it. “Oh Michael…tsk. .tsk. .tsk. You really weren’t paying attention last night were you? These are Helmar’s, I don’t smoke Turkish Cigarettes because they make me ill. I smoke only American brands. Well I am afraid now my dear friend you will most certainly obtain a valuable lesson in the use of proper phraseology when putting forth direct questions. You see if you had queried if I had a cigarette I would let you have, you would of presented an appropriate question, using proper grammar. But you asked to borrow a cigarette and since you cannot return the cigarette to me, you must learn a terrible lesson and as we all well know education does not come cheap I fear I must extract a most grievous price from you. Now hold still, it’s not as messy that way.”

Samael stood towering over me, I could feel tears running down my cheeks as I watched him pull out a long sharp dagger from his coat. The metal glistened in the musty moonlight as he started to swing the blade towards me. What happened next happened incredibly fast; I’m still plagued by gaping holes in my memory and don’t recall all the details of what exactly happened. One moment I was praying hard, hoping beyond all hope he would slip and fall over or somehow miss me. Then the next moment, I heard a distant “pop” and saw Samael stop, his knife still midway between his maniacal grimace and my rapidly soon to not be beating heart. He stumbled back, holding the knife out in front of him. He regained his footing and took one more step towards me. I heard an additional pop then I saw a large stain growing on his chest. I thought he was staring at me but he had turned his head towards the harbor. Finally, Samael fell to the ground with a loud “thud” sounding to me like a large burlap sack filled with rotted fleshy fish. I sat there, shaking, afraid to even breathe; afraid any movement might reawaken the psychopath laying just three feet from my face. I sat there a few more minutes until I heard several footsteps running toward me. I turned my head and saw two police officers and a rather large fellow with an empty gun holster peeking through his open blazer. One officer ran over to look upon Samael. He put his finger to Samael’s throat, checking for a pulse. Finding none, he proceeded place a call to dispatch. The second officer came over to me and after checking my vitals located a key and removed my cuffs. I pulled the tape from my mouth.“Sir, are you okay? Don’t worry we have an ambulance on the way, just lay still until they get here.” The second officer spoke.The ambulance came and rushed me to the Alvarado Medical Center. It was there as the doctor took x-rays of my ankle that I found out what actually happened. Apparently Mr. “Gun Holster” was an armed bodyguard for a certain celebrity whose yacht had been anchored in the harbor right across from where Samael ambushed me. This bodyguard said he had gone topside on a routine security check. He was used to fans and paparazzi trying everything to get a glimpse of his employer so he used a pair of night vision goggles to make sure there were none lurking about with the intention of annoying his boss. He said he saw Samael at first but did not see me right away, but when he saw Samael was talking to someone on the ground, he made out my silhouette as Sammy bound and gagged me. He ran back to the captain and told him to call the police. The two officers who had saved me were already at the harbor investigating a report of a fight on the nearby boardwalk when they received the call. As they approached the pier they saw Samael with the knife and myself all trussed up. They ordered him to drop the knife and when he didn’t they fired. The doctor said I might not have heard them because of hysterical shock. They hit him once in the shoulder but he still had the knife and refused to drop it, they fired again, this time the bullet entered his side and went through his right ventricle.
It was discovered after the next few weeks of investigation that Samael Waters, was responsible for at least thirty-five deaths over a ten-year period. He was suspected in several others including the mysterious death of his mother twenty-five years earlier. He was a troubled loner who was raised by a cruel and hateful mother. His was a sad story of abuse and degradation actually, and if he hadn’t tried to kill me that night I might have even felt sorry for him.

That was a year ago, eventually the name Samael Waters faded into obscurity, as do most all flash in the pan serial killers. Soon enough the public moves onto another sad and grotesque story that likely has an unhappy ending. People can be fickle that way. As for me, the experience changed my life. I decided to drop out of the party scene and settle for a small quiet little home in a small town where no one remembers the name Sammy Waters or “The Grammar Killer” as one newspaper dubbed him. Here I am safe within these meager walls; here I am free to express myself and to be myself as I was always destined to be. Free to fulfill my destiny and continue what was begun late one night during those sweltering dreadful July hours of darkness a year ago.Someday I will write more about my experience but for now I have work to do. And my work is so very important, I must reach out to my fellow man, I have a lesson to teach. I am the salvation of the uneducated, those who are so blatantly unaware. Now if you will excuse me, the woman next door borrowed a cup of sugar and I must go get it back…