Michael

Michael was a very successful writer. Or at least he thought he was. In all reality, Michael was a mediocre writer for a dying newspaper in his home town of Pueblo Colorado. He lived in a tall gray building about four stories high. On the outside, his building looked nice enough to call luxury. The inside was a different story. The walls were a crusty green color that made the halls look like the inside of a sick child’s nose. The doors often didn’t work and looked like office doors with a see-through glass pane in the middle. To make things worse, there was one communal bathroom one each floor. It was not the greatest living situation, but it was better than his mom’s basement. He lived on the top floor, last apartment to the right. Apartment 4G. He stepped out his front door and turned towards the opposite end of the hall where the elevator was. He noticed a piece of white printer paper taped to the elevator doors. “SORRY, Out of order.?” The sign read. “S***.” Michael said to himself, “Of all of the things to break down, it had to be the damn elevator.”
6 flights of stairs later, Michael went over to the left side of the wrongfully named “lobby” it was just a bigger hallway with a table that had a blue flower vase tipped over on it, and where the residents got their mail. He went over to the mailbox that was had all 16 residents’ names on the boxes which needed a key to get in. because of the stinginess of the owner of the apartments, the lock was the same on every mailbox. Every resident’s key could open every other person’s mailbox. But most people respected each other’s property and kept to themselves.

Michael put his key in the lock and turned it to the left until the mailbox opened and showed him what the state decided to send him that day. “Bill, bill, crap, bill, Oh well.” He took his various bills and coupons and his American Express credit card offer and threw them into the nearest trashcan. “I don’t need to pay bills, I’m an artistic genius.” He went outside his building, which for how horrible it was on the inside; it was in a very nice neighborhood. Michael looked outside to see a yellow Lamborghini parked just to his left. He walked towards the car and went to open the driver’s door and go to work. Right as he touched the handle of the sports car a man shouted “Hey Bro! Don’t touch my car!” a man in a gray business suit walked out of the star bucks across the street. He had finished his coffee and typed another chapter in his book only to find Michael touching his car. “You heard me! Get away before I beat your ass.” Michael wasn’t a fighter. The last time he got in a fight he was face down in the sand within ten seconds, in his defense the girl he was fighting was ‘’Huge.” Michael recognized the situation and just moved along to the first tree along the street where his ten speed bike was chained up. He unchained the bike and went on his way to his job at the Pueblo Times newspaper.





The Bike ride to work was always full of surprises. Michael had witnessed many things that would make people see the small town of Pueblo as the new Compton California during the riots. He saw Mrs. Johnson, his old high school geometry teacher be stabbed over not giving a homeless man the change she had just poured into the salvation army donation bucket on the street corner. He saw the mail carrier be mauled by a large dog on his way to deliver a package to Mr. Davis, the elderly man who was a good man with a big heart, and who received monthly packages of insulin for his diabetes. Because of the dog attack, Mr. Davis, would never receive his necessary life sustaining package. The ride to work never seemed to be a pleasant one.
“Michael you’re fired” was the first thing he heard when he walked into the office of Jay, the editor of the newspaper. Michael was hoping when he would walk in that office, he would be given the chance at a cover story. Those thoughts were shattered within seconds of opening the heavy oak wood door. Michael stared into the blue gray eyes of his now former boss with a lost expression on his face. Reality had not completely hit him yet. “What?” was all he could say that didn’t sound like the first words of a one year old baby. “I said you’re fired Michael… Pack your things in your desk and vacate the premises immediately” “But I don’t understand why?” The thoughts were slowly returning to Michael’s brain. “I have my reasons; now please leave as we have lots of work that needs to be done” Michael packed his things in an old printer paper box and left the building. He unchained his Bike and started on his way home. He didn’t even notice the drive by shooting to his left as he rode past the park.

Michael awoke to the sound of a group of motorcycle riders cruising past his building. As if he had only dreamt it, he got out of bed and dressed for work just like any other Tuesday morning. Then he noticed a box on his kitchen table that looked familiar. A closer look revealed that it was not just a dream. There in the cardboard box lay a picture of his mom on top of a stack of random papers on leads for stories that would be his “Big Break.” His mom’s smiling face couldn’t make him feel an ounce of joy. It really was over. He was unemployed, and wasn’t any closer to becoming a famous writer.
Michael rode his bike to the liquor store closest to the newspaper building. There he spent the rest of the money he had in his bank account and wallet on as many alcohol bottles that he could buy. “Partying tonight huh?” the clerk behind the counter of the liquor store said to him. “Something like that” he said with a blank expression on his face. Before he left the store he turned to the young clerk and said “hey man, do you know what going postal means?”
“Never heard that before” he said not knowing what was going on. “Well after tonight, it won’t be called going postal anymore” a big smile filled his face. “What will it be called then?” He looked at the clerk, smiled again and calmly said “Going Michael” He left the store leaving the clerk looking completely confused but he assumed it had something to do with the party and ignored it. Michael crossed the street to the parking lot of the Pueblo Time Newspaper. He put down the bags with the bottles in them and pulled out a bottle. “This one is for me” He put the bottle I his pocket and went over to the wall of the building.


He opened the bottle of whiskey, held it up to the night sky and said “Here’s to you Jay”
His party had started. Michael drank that bottle of whiskey until there was none left, but he wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t know exactly what he was going to do. He went over to his bike and grabbed what was wrapped around the frame of the bike. It was and old worn out white pillow case. He walked over to his bag of alcohol bottles and took them out; twelve bottles in total. He opened all of the bottles, and began to rip the pillow case. He tore the pillow case into twelve crude strips and stuffed a strip into the neck of each bottle. He counted the windows of the building, thirteen windows. “Oh well, I needed a treat for myself”

His plan was about to go into action. He needed to act quickly if he was going to be able to use all of his bottles. He took the first bottle, if he only got to throw one bottle, then it needed to be this one at the top middle window; Jay’s window. He threw the bottle as hard as he could. It smashed through the window with ease and hit the carpet and engulfed the office in flames within seconds. There was no time to enjoy the sight of his former boss’s belongings burning. He had eleven more bottles to throw. He picked random windows that he thought would do the most damage. He managed to throw all of the bottles. Now he had time to enjoy the sight. He could not stop smiling. He had done what he came to do. He was accomplished. He circled the block and waited for a crowd to gather before returning to the scene of the crime.


A crowd had gathered. Everyone wondering what happened and more importantly, who did it. Everyone had their own theory. “It was the gangs!” “It was the Government!” “It was the Occupy Movement!” No one was sure. One man in the crowd who knew that the newspaper was there said “Maybe some guy just went postal” the clerk from the liquor store was in the crowd. “What does postal mean?” he said, knowing that the answer to this could mean finding the man who bought all of those bottles, the man responsible. “It means a person who lost their job and tried to get revenge on those who fired him.” The clerk knew who was responsible for the fire. “It was Michael.” That was all he said as he ran back to the store to call the police and inform them who had done this.
The police quickly found out Michaels apartment and surrounded the building. They went up the stairs to apartment 4G. They knocked on the door but no answer. They kicked in the door and searched the tiny apartment. Nothing looked to have been taken except a pillow case from his bed. No clothes, no food, nothing was taken by Michael other than the pillow case. There was no sign of Michael. He couldn’t be found anywhere.
A man’s body was found along the freeway one week later. It was identified as Michaels. It was found on the side of highway 85 near the town of Las Cruces, New Mexico. It was found 50 miles away from the border between Mexico and the United States. He was found wearing the same clothes as the security video of the liquor store. He couldn’t make it as a writer, or a fugitive.