Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Bruno (a work in progress)

I kill people for a living. I wear makeup to relax. My name is Bruno.
Killing became my vocation the way it does for anybody else; I have no specific talents and zero patience for rules, corporate or otherwise. I tried on other careers but they never seemed to fit.  Growing up in the north end of Boston in a full blooded Italian family, I was exposed to a lot of characters. Shady guys who sat around a lot, outside the pork store, in front of Italian restaurants featuring exquisite cuisines. They all dressed the same; lots of gold, hip length two tone button down shirts, supple Italian leather shoes. Pinky rings. Their hair was immaculate and so were their nails.
I was encouraged to get an education so I could avoid “the life”.  As a youngster I didn’t even know what that meant. As a teenager, “the life” became an obsession. I wanted in.
My accounting degree meant nothing to me. My days were spent in a cubicle. The nights in front of Santoro’s.  Frankly, the education I got at night made more sense to me.  Black and white, injustice and justice, crime and punishment. The sense of loyalty, the camaraderie, and the vibration of danger made me feel alive.
I got the hell out of accounting and immersed myself in the life. As with any other career, if you love what you do you will excel. I moved quickly through the ranks.
Killing people is not as hard as you might think. There is no emotional involvement; you are hired to shoot somebody you have never met before and you do it from a distance. Questioning the motive of your employer is not part of your job description so there is no conscience involved. And it pays very well.
I never really fit in and this created a problem for me. I am sensitive, my employers are not. Acting the tough guy, treating women like meat, being forever crude was not in my nature but it was a requirement of the job. My personality got buried down deep until I couldn’t stand it any more.
I really connected with the women, the strippers and hookers, in a deeply emotional way. The look in their eyes told me everything I needed to know. They took the shit but maintained their individuality and their hope. We had relationships and I began to believe they were tougher than the tough guys.
I wanted to be like them so I started wearing makeup. Eyeliner, rouge, mascara, lipstick. Only when I was alone in my locked and bolted apartment.  It made me feel sensitive and tough at the same time in some strange way, and I began to make a confused connection between makeup, toughness and killing people.
Things got difficult when I exposed my new persona to the light of day. The first time I killed someone in makeup (me, not him), the false eyelashes got crushed against the scope. Poked me in the eye; I pulled my head back and lost contact with the victim. Fortunately for me, he had stooped to pat a Dachshund. When he stood with a loving smile on his face I shot him through the forehead. Pet lovers.


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