Night Clicks 

by Juan Carlo Rodríguez

Click.​

The sound was distant, shy almost. Enough to ​be ignored​. If it hadn’t repeated itself
almost immediately. With a little brother right next to it.

Click-click.

The couple was enough to make me look up. It wasn’t my imagination, nor the couch.
When I heard it a third time --clic-clic-- I also knew it hadn’t been the computer.

It was the door.

I lived alone, and Andrea hadn’t stayed over that night. “It was hard enough to make a
dissertation without a wild night of sex and dope”, she had said. Since no sex or dope,
that night I was ​quietly​ sitting at the couch with only the laptop, the rum, and any
ideas I found in it. ​At three in the morning, the story I was writing was starting to
show legs and was giving its first tempting sttrides​.

Click, click.

I hadn’t turned on the light at sunset. Some say I’m fucking up my eyes writing in
twilight, but hey, that’s how I best see the words. All I needed was the glow of my
faithful Assus to concoct the great story that would elevate me to a Chekhov status. At
least a Saunders one. I wish.

But that meant that, from the street, my home seemed either abandoned or
non-vigilanty. ​Just​ the thing your average working B&E specialist would want.

Was it ​really​ here?, I thought, the burgeoning buzz giving way to my awakening
senses. Maybe it’s next door...

As if to answer me, I heard the voices.

--So waddup, hurry it.

--Shut the fuck up, they goan hear ya.

And any doubt galloped away. There were two. Two thugs. Right at my door. And
they were trying to break in.

Fear clawed at my arms for the first time. Every hair I had from the neck down stood
in attention. Adrenaline raced through my body Paul Revere style screaming
“Danger!” to each of my cells. My first instinct was to stand up and scream till I woke
up the entire building --heck, the entire block. Thief! Thief! Police! Two
motherfuckers trying to rob me! Help!

Looking back, that would have been the sensible thing to do. The guys would have
run, never seen your face. You would have ​quietly​ changed your shit-stained shorts
and ​be done​. There, you asshole, start screaming.

Except I couldn’t get up. Let alone yell. My eyes ​were glued​ to the door. Fear had
wrapped me up in a stone blanket. The light from the Assus shone on the face of a kid
with big glasses, frozen in panic. ​I tried telling myself that, when they got in --not if,
when-- they might ​just​ run away, having missed the element of surprise​.

Except I was five feet nine and weighed a hundred and twenty pounds, hundred and
thirty soaking wet. I had the long hair of an out-of-style hippie, a goatee peppered with
a little gray. I was wearing nothing but some old Star Wars boxers someone gave to
me a lifetime ago. I was the opposite of intimidating. ​I felt that the two guys would
see me and ​probably​ start laughing, beat the crap outta me, take what they could, and
left me there in a bloody pulp​. Or worse, if they had guns.

That thought didn’t scare me more. In truth, it pissed me the fuck off.

I thought of all the times I got bullied at school for being the kid that didn’t play
sports, that couldn’t do a sit up, whose only friends were as geeky as he was​. Who
always had his nose up a book. Who ran the school newspaper. Who always was
teacher’s pet. Who cares he was always willing to help anyone, except for the
troublemakers. I had had ENOUGH.

This assholes were not going to push me around. ​Not in my own house, not after I’ve
become a grown ass man who had fucked at least five different women in the last two
years, got hammered in some of the best beaches of the country​. I have a book on the
way. People listen to me, read me, even fucking respect me, you dick-eaters. This is
MY fucking house and you will NOT fuck with me, you hoodlums.

I even felt the “charge” trumpet blare in my head (yup, I watch too much TV). I
carefully​ laid the Assus on the couch and closed it. It made its own loud click, but the
silence on the other side of my door said they still thought the coast was clear. (How
long does it take to open a door, anyway?) I got up and felt for my cell phone. After
finding it on my couch’s arm, I turned on its flashlight and tiptoed to my bedroom. I
heard their voices once more, but muffled. No loud noises, please, we’re pros.

Bastards.

I reached my room, filled with a bed that still had evidence of Andrea’s body
topsy-turving over it and me six hours ago. ​I ​quietly​ but very ​sincerely​ thanked God
that she had decided not to stay, ignoring protests from my lovesick heart and dick​. ​I
walked over to what ​was agreed​ was "my" side of the bed and finally the strange
impulse I had when I leased this place two years ago ​was justified​.

Have I already said I was never big on sports? ​I never had a “Sandlot” gang; the
closest I came to playing baseball was on an old Intellivision, before upgrading to a
friend’s Playstation​. I root for the Red Sox and the Lakers, but ​I think​ it was more to
have a reason to bond and party. But going to a stadium? Never. Go to a house to
watch a game? Yeah right. Point is, I’ve never hit a ball with a bat in my life.

But you don’t need a permit to have a bat in your house.

It was leaning between the wall and the nightstand, since that day I rescued it from my
neighbor’s trash. If I were a believer I’d say God told me to grab it. With all the care
fear could give me, I shifted my phone to my left and grabbed the bat with the right.
Rojas steps up to the plate, men on second and third...

I left the cell phone on the bed and held the bat with both hands. I carried it like a
samurai sword and walked in darkness back to the main entrance hall. I had started
sweating like a hog; I could feel the old electrical tape around the bat’s handle start to
slip. My initial anger had not faded, but neither had my fear. Who the fuck do you
think you’ve turned into, boy?, I wondered. Batman by way of Alex Rodriguez? And
how the fuck do you know who Alex Rodriguez is?
I made a flash layout of the situation. The door opened inwards, of course, so I could
be pinned​ against the wall. A frontal was out of the question: easy target if they had
guns, and I was assuming they did. Best to assume Murphy wanted to play that night
and his famous law could become completely true. On the other side of the door?
They would see me even faster.

--Dammit ese, what’s taking so damn long?-- one of the voices said--. We coulda
found a store to rob by now, son!
--You goan be quiet or what, muddafucka?-- the other hissed in reply--. Almost there!
Shut the fuck up before they hear us, nigga!

And suddenly... another click, and a clack. The double lock slid. The door ​was
unlocked​. And there was no chain. Panic stretched its fingers again, but I shook them
off as best I could. Whatever it is you’re gonna do, do it NOW, I thought. And then
the second voice confirmed my largest fear.

--There, what I say. Now hand me that piece, don’t want no surprises.
--Done.

At least one of them had a gun.

Fuck my life.

Well, you’re here, son. Time to nut up or shut up.

A tiny thread of light materialized on the left side of my frame. I moved to the right
and raised the bat over my head. Oonga boonga, said my feverish mind. Haha, so
funny. When I die I want John Mulaney at my funeral. Don’t know how, figure it out.

Something sleek and black slid inside, and I knew it was the gun. An automatic, if all
the movies and CSI were good for anything. It ​was followed by​ an arm covered by a
black sweater, ​surely​ a hoodie. Every muscle in my body asked me to unleash the bat
over the hand, which would drop the gun and flee. A sick part of my brain refused to
let them go so easy. No, I had to fuck them up. I forced myself to wait until they were
in, and I prayed they would come in to their right, away from me.
And they did. The first one came inside, and yes, he had a hoodie on, so I couldn’t see
his face. But I could smell the street, the sweat, the thuggerie. Thug Number Two had
his hand over his homie’s shoulder, did not have a hoodie.

--Waddup?-- whispered the outside voice. First one was completely inside.
--Don’t see nuthin’. Keep it quiet th---

I didn’t let him finish. ​I built up all the time I had without fighting, all high school
frustration I hadn’t treated in therapy, all the furious frustration because of things I
hadn’t been able to achieve, and let it all out in one swift hit to Number One’s head​.
He went down like a sack of potatoes, ​hopefully​ unconscious.

Before Number Two could react, I rammed myself against the door and pinned his
arm. Fuck being careful, when your arm ​is broken​ (shit, did I ​really​ break it?) you
scream. And the thug screamed. He tried to free himself, but judging by the size of his
arm he wasn’t much more than a kid. ​I pushed harder, and the little thug screamed
again, and between insulting my momma, my grandma and any women who helped
create me, I heard him start to cry​. ​Maybe​ in frustration, ​maybe​ furious, ​maybe​ fear.
He screamed to let him go or he was going to FUCK! ME! UP! For a second I felt pity
wanting to come; I pushed it far, far away. Oh, what, you’re not the badass no more?
Start hurtin’, bitch.

By now I started to hear the building come to life. Mrs. Peña next door was the first
one that cried out what has happening, my God, what happened. Someone upstairs, I
suspect Mr. Cassini, bellowed for people to shut up, he was trying to sleep. Someone
else answered shut up, you old asshole, something happened. Peter, my neighbor
down the hall, the only one I’m on first-name basis, started to open the door. Before
he could I yelled instructions at the top of my voice.

--PETER! COPS! NOW! THESE BASTARDS TRIED TO GET IN MY HOUSE!

I heard Peter’s door slam shut while the entire building finally woke up, thousands of
anxious voices wanting to know what had happened​.

I turned the light on to see my handiwork. Yup, Number One was on the floor
motionless. ​He had fallen with his faced turned away from me, so I couldn’t see what
I had done, but there seemed to be blood on the top of his hoodie​. Number Two’s
trapped arm was starting to turn blue. Its owner had not stopped yelling for me to let
go, but he had changed from threatening to pleading. ​Maybe​ he was ​just​ a kid. In a
single movement, I held his arm and spinned off the door to release him. He screamed
in pain again, and now collapsed to his knees.

When I opened the door, he wasn’t quite a child, but he was still fifteen years younger
than me. Or more. And yes, he was crying, and yes, he ​was scared​. “Mister”, he said.
“Mister, please, you broke my arm, ese... I’ll leave, you won’t see me no more, just let
me leave, my momma’s sick... If I go to juvie I’ll die... and she’ll die... Please
mister...”

For the briefest of instants I thought of ramming the bat into his teeth. Two seconds
ago you were gonna rob me, you little punk, I thought of saying. But now since I
fucked you and your homeboy here you’re shitting in your pants, right? Did you soil
your undies, ese?

Instead of that, I stared into his eyes and placed the bat on his face. And very, very
slowly​, I let go of his arm. “Get up”, I hissed to him. He made an effort to get up. I
thought of threatening him if he came back, but that lie didn’t come out. ​What I did
say is what a policeman once told me when I was a kid in a parking lot, and he had
threatened to arrest my maybe-joint-smoking ass​.

--It’s a three count and you’re gone. One.

He didn’t let me say two. He sprinted down the stairs holding his hurt arm. I had no
idea how he was going to get out. ​Maybe​ they left the front door open. I turned to
check the one on the ground. I guessed I should tie him up or something, before the
police arrived. ​And, you know, before he woke up, took my bat, cracked my head
open like a cantaloupe, got away and left there dead and feeling like an idiot​. Not in
that order.

Click.

A cord would do. Must be one in the kitchen. Of course, he could wake up before I
went in there. Or worse, that he was playing possum and grab my leg while I stepped
over him. I could get out, lock him up, but he could mess up my apartment while--

Click click.
---there were things that--

That was not my imagination, I thought.

I raised my head from the Assus towards the darkness of my apartment. I had been
writing for at least four hours non stop. The clock on my screen said three o’clock in
the morning. You’re fucking kidding me.

As an answer, I heard the noise with all clarity. Click, click. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t.
I had got so sucked into my story that my mind was projecting the noise. Fuck that
they were trying to get in my house. FUCK. THAT.

The Universe could read my mind, ​apparently​. Because from the other side of my
door came the answer.

--Hurry up, man.

--Shuddup, nigga, lemme work.

A very real fear took hold of me. This was not shitting around. This was real. Yes, I
did live alone in an apartment. Yes, I was a skinny, hairy writer. Yes, there was a
baseball bat in my room. Yes, somebody for real tried to get in my apartment while I
was in my couch writing.

But in real life, people who want to play heroics get killed. No thank you.

I placed the Assus aside and sprang to my feet. And bellowed with all my strength,
“YOU FUCKING TRYING TO GET IN MY HOUSE?! MY HOUSE?! I HEARD
YOU MOTHERFUCKERS! I CALLED THE POLICE! GET THE FUCK AWAY!
GET OUT! OUT! OOOOUUUUT!!!!”

I heard one of the two thugs mumble “Shit, shit, shit!” as they stumbled over each
other. “Move it man, move it!”, the other said, followed by sounds of a hasty retreat. I
heard voices all over the building waking up frightened by my yells. Cassini opened
his door, saying he’ll sue me, it’s three in the fucking morning, you stronzo. Peter
opened his door and asked if I was ok. I said yeah, two thugs tried to open my door.
Yeah, they left a toolbox behind, he said. “I’ll call the cops”, he added.
By the time the cops would come, if at all, the two punks would be long gone. I turned
on the light and walked over to the fridge for a beer, trying to calm the adrenaline
rush. I sat back down on the couch, closed my eyes and took a long swig. I took a
deep breath, let it out and opened my eyes. The Assus was in on the lap cushion I
used, closed. I opened it and read what I had written. When I had started it, I thought it
had potential. But when reality shows you how, well, reality ​really​ is, it can dampen
your expectations.

I thought about Andrea. ​We shared musical and movie tastes, and to a point book
tastes (she was more open in her reading tastes, I was more demanding)​. But what we
most shared was a strange affinity for one another. I don’t know if she’s “the one”, but
in your thirties you tend to think about those things. ​And what happened that night
made me think in one crucial aspect of life: would I be able to step up if her life were
in danger​? If she had stayed, I wouldn’t have been writing on the couch; I would’ve
been asleep. We both would have. I don’t think I would have heard the door open.
What would I have done if they had come in with Andrea there? Would I had
protected her?

If I know Andrea, if she were here. she’d be giving me hell for thinking like that. But
she wasn’t here. And I missed her. Bad.

I finished the beer and saved the document --who knew, it could ​be saved​-- and shut
the Assus off. ​I turned off the light from the living room and shuffled off to the
bedroom, feeling the beer’s first push into the Sandman's domain​. I crawled into the
sheets and stared onto the roof. I felt a single urgency, and decided I had to write one
last thing.

I felt around my nightstand to find my phone, and texted Andrea.

Today I realized how grateful I am that the world stopped and made us meet. That my
world turns is only because you’re there to push me. I love you. I’m sorry if I don’t
say it enough.

I sent it, but I didn’t think it was enough. I sent another.

f I told you what happened, you’d think I smoked the whole little bag or chugged the
whole bottle. And ​maybe​ that’s why I’m all mushy. First part untrue, second part only
partly true. ​Just​ you wait for the story. How about you come for breakfast? Oh by the
way, good morning!

There. I thanked the poet Montejo for his inspiration, and put the phone back. I closed
my eyes, and let the world keep on turning.