Big Shot of Karma

A vulture floats high above the desert, looking on the highway below and hoping some small critter will dash across the asphalt at the wrong time. He has a keen eye for creatures that are weak and struggling; he knows when they are in trouble and waits for their inevitable collapse. Hot spiraling air pockets that rise from the beige earth make gliding for the vulture easy, and it rarely moves its wings.
The desert is an inhospitable place to live. The days are bone dry and blistering while the freezing nights are alive with monstrous insects and howling coyotes. The plants are equally unfriendly, all armed with sharp thorns.
Karma
Russell Hilton wondered why so many people chose to live in the sprawling metropolis of Phoenix. Maybe they didn’t like the color green, or disliked rain unless it was accompanied by a spectacular lightning show. For Russell, the desert was something new, a change from the temperate New York climate, and Russell loved to throw himself into the unfamiliar. After two years in the arid land of Arizona, he became accustomed to the heat and thrived like the scorpions that scuttled about preying upon weaker insects.
Mr. Hilton leaned on his podium. His piercing blue eagle eyes surveyed his students. His baritone voice was calm, steady and mesmerizing, one of his many natural tools that helped him captivate diverse audiences.
“Most of you will never make it beyond paper shuffling and filing,” He told his class, “It’s not that you can’t—everyone here has the ability to succeed, but you need to push yourselves to rise above your peers.” Russell saw many of his students shift uncomfortably, but there were a few who smiled. Not me Mr. Hilton. “In the business world, sometimes you need to step on toes to get up the ladder. Sometimes things go wrong, and when they do, make sure the blame doesn’t fall on you.”
Everyone on campus knew who he was: The Great Russell Hilton, former CEO of Elitech, the software corporation that had squashed both Microsoft and Apple once Russell had taken over. It wasn’t even clear to Russell why he had left the company to teach global business management. The idea of retirement disgusted him and he wanted to pass on his knowledge, but really, Russell felt like teaching would open a new chapter in his life. He could prepare people for the real world, something that none of his professors had done.
“It’s a cut throat game,” He said, standing erect and straightening his tie. “They’re going to smile to pacify you and try to convince you that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be in life. But it’s your job to prove them wrong. It’s your job to someday be the one with the pseudo-sympathetic and patronizing words of encouragement. Throughout the quarter, I’ve noticed that some of you have really made progress,” He winked at Jeremy who sat front and center. “But many of you are still trying to find your path—and that’s okay—I didn’t have a clue what I was going to be in my early 20s.”
Most of the class was only half-listening to what he was saying; they were eyeing the large stack of essays on his desk. Russell knew this, but he didn’t want to hand them their papers until his class ended.
“On Monday night we’re going to have a potluck,” Russell said, “If you want to bring a friend or two go ahead—it’s a time to relax. You’re not required to come to the potluck—the grades are set, but I’d like to see you there. Also, if you want any clarification on the comments I gave on your essays, come talk to me in my office before the potluck at 8pm.”
As the class retrieved their papers from his desk and filed out, Russell watched their reactions. Many of the students would not pass his class, and a few of them relied on the essays to raise their grades to a passing level. There were a few nodding heads, but also many sighs and a few profanities spoken in harsh whispers.
“Excuse me, Mr. Hilton?” Rosa said. She was the only person left in the room.
“Yes Rosa?” Mr. Hilton said as he slipped his briefcase strap onto his shoulder.
“I know you have a problem with me, or maybe it’s just my writing style, but I mean, like—you’re totally unfair. I deserve at least a C.” Rosa folded her arms and pursed her lips. Rosa was a first generation Mexican American, a very quiet girl. Rosa dressed like many of the other Latina girls in Phoenix: blue jeans and stiletto heels and bright shirts with little quotes or intricate floral designs. Her hair was flattened, sprayed and combed across her head accept for her bangs which were curled up like a wave that crashed a half inch above her eyebrows. She had two springy locks of hair next to her ears, vaguely reminiscent of Orthodox Jews. Her dark brown eyes were outlined in black, and she had blue eye shadow powdering her eyelids.
“Rosa,” Russell said with a sigh, “The world isn’t fair. Your essay was about some other planet where everyone will eventually be given American wages. This class wasn’t about the politics of labor wages, Rosa; it was about managing business in the real world. You were supposed to come up with a business model, and this simply wasn’t what I was looking for, and I think you know that.” There was a tone of finality in his voice that Rosa did not accept.
“But it’s not wrong of me to try and make a difference is it?” Rosa moved her head from side to side, a movement that reminded Russell of an Egyptian dance he had seen in the 80s. She had one hand on her hip and the other was gesticulating wildly, her fingers punctuating each word that she spoke.
“Rosa,” Mr. Hilton said, as he slipped his briefcase off his shoulder and onto the table, “This is a global management course, and so far, although your papers have been very organized and thoughtful, you’re writing about how the world should be, and not how it actually is.”
Rosa was quiet for a moment, and then she smiled before her expression went ice cold.
“You think you know something about how the world works, but you obviously don’t, Mr. Hilton,” she said. “In my life I know I’m gonna make a difference. People like you keep my people in sweat shops, and that just ain’t right.” Rosa paused thoughtfully, twirling a lock of hair by her ear. She stared blankly out the window, shaking her head in a dream.
“I don’t know if you believe in karma Mr. Hilton,” Russell thought of his friend in high school who had borrowed his mother’s car that they named Karma.
“I don’t,” Rosa continued, “Because people get screwed just for being born in the wrong place, but you know what?—maybe karma is real when people make it real.”
There was a moment of silence as Russell faced her with a listless expression. Sometimes it was best to let students vent their frustration. He was expecting her to give him a speech about starving children and diseases, but she didn’t. Raising an eyebrow Rosa smiled, and then walked out the door without another word.
Russell shook his head as he left the classroom. The quarter had been interesting; a couple students in the class had failed, but there were also a couple shining stars. Jeremy had written an excellent paper about the commercial industries that focus on the best aspects of their products. Russell would always remember one of Jeremy’s closing statements: “If Obama, the great humanitarian, can decide that the public should not see photos of American’s abusing detainees in Afghanistan and Iraq, surely a business should feel no shame in keeping some of its endeavors from the eyes of American consumers.”
Russell went out into the parking lot thinking about Rosa. She wasn’t a bad student, she simply needed to change her major and perhaps go to a different school. She did have a bad habit of texting during class, and the way she worded things revealed that she had grown up in a Spanish speaking house. He was constantly correcting these Latino students who used the word “seen” instead of “saw”. Undoubtedly she heard stories about how hard life was in Mexico, but she was in America now and it was time to take advantage of the great liberties and opportunity that the country offered.
When Russell walked across the parking lot to his vehicle he frowned. There was a long scratch along the driver side of his black Escalade. Russell stared at it for a moment wondering if he should make a formal complaint, but the quarter was over and he would allow Rosa’s little cathartic bout of poetic justice against his car… his karma.
Chivalry
Tim and Cheryl had met half way through the quarter at Thunderbird. Cheryl, a history teacher at the college, had locked her keys in the car. She was nervous walking through the parking lot when she was done grading. Her class ended at 9pm, but she had a habit of grading for a couple of hours in her office before driving home. There had been reports of car thieves and two years earlier there had been a rape, so Cheryl would walk to her car holding a can of pepper spray, but, unfortunately, that was attached to her key chain. She walked to her car, hoping that one of her doors had been unlocked, but when it wasn’t she felt vulnerable, and a wave of paranoia came over her.
Tim had been driving around the electric golf cart collecting trash when he heard a woman yelling. He looked around and saw Cheryl at back of the parking lot waving both of her hands in the air in a sign of distress. Thinking she was in danger, Tim jumped out of the cart and sprinted across the parking.
“What’s wrong?” Tim asked breathing heavily when he reached her.
“My, I thought chivalrous men like you had disappeared,” Cheryl said. Tim went back to his cart and found a Slim-Jim to unlock her door, and in return, Cheryl asked him out to share a cup of coffee.
Cadillac
Russell got up early to watch the sun rise on his deck. He lived in a condominium across from a country club where he enjoyed golfing. The beautiful pink and purple sky that brightened into gold before the sun peaked above the horizon always helped him wake up. Birds chirping in the cool morning air sounded cheerful as they woke up in the citrus trees across the street. Enjoying the leisurely morning, Russell sipped his cup of coffee and read the Wall Street Journal. There were no stacks of papers to be graded, and other than the potluck, which might have a few disgruntled students, he could look forward to the winter break at his vacation house in upstate New York.
Christmas with the family was a tradition, and even though he was no longer with his ex-wife, they had agreed to be civil to one another on the holidays. His daughter had given birth to a baby girl in November and he was excited to meet his first grand-daughter. He felt like he was part of his daughter’s life, thanks to the internet, using Skype’s video-chat as a free way to communicate.
There was a low booming noise that distracted Russell from his daydream, and he peered over the railing to see an old Cadillac on the street between his condominium and the country club. What on earth was this type of gangster-mobile doing in Glendale? Russell tried to make out the figure behind the windshield, but the glare of the sun made it impossible. A car behind the Cadillac gave a short honk, but then drove around, revving its motor in frustration. After 30 seconds, Russell thought about calling the police, but then the Cadillac slowly drove away.
Denny’s Dropout
As Cheryl approached Tim at their usual meeting spot, a booth in the back of Denny’s, he could tell she was upset. She gave a heavy sigh as she sat down across from him.
“Alright, just let it out,” Tim said. He was always cheerful when Cheryl was around. Although this was their third time meeting, he felt like he had known her much longer.
“Well, I thought this quarter would end smoothly, until today, when one of my favorite students told me that she’s going to drop out of school.” Cheryl said.
Tim always loved how transparent she was, completely lacking any semblance of a poker face. He imagined that it must help in her teaching career. He was sure that she must really be able to draw in her listeners with her eyes that could hold so many emotions and convey so many thoughts. But right now she was so upset; Tim was immediately intrigued.
“Dropping out of school—is she pregnant or something?” Tim asked.
“Worse; there’s this new big-shot ex-CEO that joined the faculty last year. My student was taking his class, hoping to major in business, and this big-shot tells her that she should change her major. He flunked her! She’d already had trouble in other classes, and I encouraged her—no one else in her family has even graduated high school!” Cheryl was livid; her bright blue eyes wide open, and her frizzy red hair framing her face like an electric fire storm.
Tim sipped his coffee. He hadn’t even gotten his GED and really had no idea what college was like. For him, life was about making ends meet, and occasionally helping a damsel in distress like Cheryl.
“Well can’t she retake the class or… I’m sorry; you know I don’t know much about this sort of thing.” Tim said. He felt like offering her some consolation.
“It’s alright Tim,” Cheryl said, but she was still upset and hadn’t touched her coffee, which was probably a good thing. “I just couldn’t believe it. She showed me her paper; it was written well, very little grammatical errors, and it looked to me like her ideas were quite thoughtful—though I’m really not sure what they went over this quarter; business is at the other end of the spectrum from my ancient Greco-Roman history degree” Cheryl said looking depressed.
Graffiti
Arizona nights were full of enormous June bugs that gathered in the glow of the orange lights along the campus paths. Tim was used to the sound of them thumping against windows and tried his best not to run them over with the cart, but as he was about to round the corner that led to the dumpster, he heard voices and a hissing sound that he immediately recognized as spray paint.
Other than Tim, Larry the security guard patrolled the grounds, but he had seen Larry next to the gym, smoking a cigarette, on the other side of the campus. Tim’s cart was equipped with a walkie-talkie that he could call Larry with, but he wanted to see what was going on before he called.
The cart was nearly silent, as it ran on a battery instead of an engine, but Tim didn’t want to be seen. He got out of the cart and walked around the library where he saw three guys in baggy pants. One of them was spraying on the wall and the two others were talking to each other while they watched. Tim thought about going back to his cart and informing Larry, but he decided he could probably scare them away.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Tim yelled out, trying to make his voice sound deep and authoritative. All three of them looked up at Tim, and then bolted, the one spray painting tripped, fell and the can went flying out of his hands, but he didn’t pick it up as he followed his two friends through the parking lot.
Tim smiled and chuckled to himself as he watched them scurry away, but then it dawned on him that he would have to clean up their mess. They had been spray painting near the dumpsters, so Tim walked back to his cart and drove down with the trash.






There was a skull circled by a garland of roses. Whoever had painted this was obviously an accomplished graffiti artist. There were tribal designs on the forehead of the skull; it really was a beautiful piece. Those kids should be in an art class instead of out here on the street. Tim emptied the trash and went to the janitor supply shed and retrieved some pink paint. As he painted over the skull and roses, he felt miserable, and wished he had a camera to preserve the art. Even cell phones had cameras these days, but Tim didn’t even have one of those.
Potluck
On Monday evening students started coming in bringing dishes, chips and soda. The mood was relaxed, but Russell noticed that most of the students who had failed didn’t show up. Jeremy walked in with two friends carrying a six foot sub-sandwich; everyone cheered. People rushed to put two tables together for the sandwich; Jeremy was just adding an exclamation point to his outstanding performance in the class.
Jeremy walked over to Russell with his two friends who took turns shaking Russell’s hand. While other students wore jeans, Jeremy and his friends wore slacks and dress shirts.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Hilton,” one of them said, “Jeremy told us your class was awesome.” He grinned while nodding his head for a moment, but then frowned when he saw that Russell was distracted looking over his shoulder.
Jeremy and his friends turned around to look at the door. Rosa had entered followed by three men dressed in baggy jeans. One had a plaid shirt that was only buttoned at the top—his hair was greased back accept for where it was shaved on the sides of his head. Another was wearing a white tank-top, his arms covered in tattoos, and the third, the largest of the group, was wearing a long white T-shirt that hung almost to his knees and a gold chain. They were all Latino and none of them were smiling.
Bump in the night
Tim was mopping the girl’s bathroom when he heard a muffled crack that sounded like some sort of explosion. He stood still and held his breath. For a moment there was nothing, but seconds later he heard a scream and then muffled cracking sound that reminded him of the string of black-cat fire crackers that exploded like a machine-gun—or was it a machine gun? Tim hoped it was just students fooling around with fire-works, M-80’s or something, but the scream—that gave him the chills. It was quiet for a moment, but the pounding in his ears made it difficult to listen. A moment went by, and then Tim heard a door slamming and feet running. There was the squeal of burning rubber and a revving of an engine exiting the parking lot, then only the sound of blood surging in his ears. For a moment it sounded like someone had escaped, but it could have just as easily been the pranksters running off—pranksters or gunmen; Tim didn’t like either scenario, but he hoped for the better of the two. He unscrewed the mop handle. What are you doing Tim, if it is a gun, what’s a mop handle going to do? Although he was a yellow-belt, having taken six months taking Kenpo Karate, he had never done exercises with a staff, but the handle felt good and solid in his hands. He slowly opened the bathroom door and peered down the hall. The noise had been faint, so he it must have been around the corner.
His walkie-talkie was outside on his cart, but he thought about Larry and his lethargic movements. Tim walked the opposite direction, and down the hall, to where he thought the noise had come from. He knew he should call security, which was protocol, but having the broom handle in his hands, cocked like a bat and ready to swing, gave him the feeling of power. Taking slow and silent steps, Tim tried to calm his breath and keep silent while his heart felt like it wanted to escape his chest and run for cover. A flash of the Ninja Turtle Donatello popped into his mind, and he readjusted his grip, holding the handle in the center, balanced.
At the end of the hall, Tim peered around the corner, being careful to only expose a small part of his head. There was nothing. What room had the commotion come from? Had it been outside?—perhaps it was in a different building. But as he crept around the corner, going over the memory of what he heard, he decided that the sound of the running footsteps had to have come from this building.
He was about half way down the hall when he heard a muffled voice.
Tim took quicker steps past two classrooms to where the voice had come from. He peeked through the box window on the door of the building. His heart pounded—there were bodies lying all over the floor covered in blood.
What if they’re still in there? Tim crouched down below the box window. He was breathing heavily out of his mouth when he heard the voice again. It was a female voice coming from the room and it definitely sounded like a “help”. Tim was leaning against the wall next to the door. He thought about tapping on the door to draw anybody with a gun out. I’ll just stab them with the handle—they won’t know what hit them. Cursing himself for not calling Larry, he made the decision and tapped the door. The next seconds seemed like minutes, but then he heard the voice again—this time he could understand the words.
“Is somebody out there, please help! They’re gone… help me!”
Tim decided that was enough information and opened the door. The red blood was so vivid, but he saw the girl and everything else faded. She was hurt; her blue shirt stained with blood.
“Oh my God what happened?” Tim said as he ran over to her.
“Mr. Hilton, he…,” the girl said, her cheeks stained black with eye make-up that was running with her tears.
“What—he shot you?” Tim asked looking at the body she was pointing to. It didn’t make sense until he saw the gun in the hand of the man lying on the floor.
“He just went nuts—we were having a potluck and… he just snapped or something.” Tim saw that the girl had been shot on the top of her left shoulder; luckily it wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been.
“Okay, I think you’re going to be alright,” Tim said.
“There were these two other guys, and one of them had a gun, so he…” the girl pointed at the teacher’s body. Tim frowned and suddenly realized he had missed the other variable to the equation.
“Wait—so it wasn’t a suicide?” Tim asked.
“No, these other guys—I guess they were gangsters or something—one of them had a gun and got it out of his pack—but Mr. Hilton had already shot everyone.”
Tim heard the girl, but it didn’t sound quite right.
“He didn’t shoot the gangster guys? Why? Were they part of the class?”
“No,” she shook her head, “They turned over that table,” the girl said pointing to an overturned table next to an enormous sandwich. Tim looked around the room and suddenly realized that some of the bodies might be alive.
“Please, could I borrow your cell phone, mine broke—I need to call my mom,” the girl said.
“I’m sorry I don’t have one—but I need to call the cops; what’s your name?”
“Rosa Garcia”
Big Shot
The news of the massacre was printed in every newspaper and magazine cover across the nation the next week. With 28 students dead, the school was shut down for a week—but it was Christmas break anyway. At the police station, Tim and Rosa had given their statements, and the police were puzzled. What could have made Russell Hilton snap, and who were the other shooters or shooter? Russell Hilton had used an Uzi and sprayed the students with the small 22 caliber bullets; many of them lodged in the sheetrock throughout the class room. The trajectory of the bullets was from the place where Mr. Hilton stood. Rosa said that she had survived by pretending to be dead, but every other body had multiple bullet wounds.
Russell had been shot once in the chest with a 45 caliber bullet. Why had the other shooter run? The police didn’t like the story—a business teacher with an Uzi?—but Rosa, the only witness, said she closed her eyes tightly and didn’t get to see the other shooter. When the police pressed her, asked her to try and remember the scene before the shooting, she would break down in sobs. Once they had to get a paper bag for her to breathe into when she started hyperventilating.
“I am just so thankful; I prayed to God as I lay there holding my breath, and He saved me,” Rosa said. When the press reported on the extreme poverty that Rosa endured, living in South Phoenix in a dilapidated house with many relatives, anonymous donors started sending her checks.
“My baby was saved by the Virgin Mother,” Rosa’s mother said during an interview. “She is such a special child—Madre de Dios could not let her die in such a way!”
Thunderbird School of Global Business Management offered to give her a full-ride scholarship to complete her degree, but she declined. Days later, Rosa sued the school for half-a-million dollars, but the case was settled outside the court, satisfying Rosa’s demands.
Tim didn’t feel right. The press had tried to interview him, but he didn’t want to be in the limelight. Something was off. He called up Cheryl and they decided to meet at Denny’s to talk a week before Christmas.
“You know, it’s strange,” Tim said as he looked into his coffee.
“Tim, I know I shouldn’t tell you this because of privacy issues, and I’ve thought about telling the police but…” Cheryl looked around the restaurant nervously.
“I think we’re safe here Cheryl,” Tim smiled—he loved how dramatic she was with her big blue eyes.
“Well, it might be nothing, but do you remember when I told you about the big-shot teacher and how he was flunking a good student? Well, the big-shot was Mr. Hilton and the girl was Rosa.” Maybe it was the way Cheryl said the name ‘Rosa’, but Tim suddenly had a memory flash to the graffiti he had painted over—the skull and roses.
“What is it Tim?” Cheryl asked. Tim was shaking his head, his eyes wide.
“Cheryl, I think we may need to go to the cops about this! You know how I said I heard shooting and came running? Well, at first I heard a big shot, and then there were a bunch of little ones.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, how could Mr. Hilton, who was holding the machine gun—how could he have shot the students after he was already shot? I think Mr. Hilton was the first big shot! We’ve got to tell the police about this.” Tim’s voice was getting louder than he realized and a couple of the other customers were looking at him.
“Oh,” Cheryl gasped. She covered her mouth with a hand. There was a look of horror, but it quickly faded. “No Tim—we can’t!”
“What do you mean—we have to, otherwise…”
“No Tim. For one thing, if Rosa does have something to do with this, then she could get us killed, and for another thing…” Cheryl glanced around the restaurant. No one was looking anymore. “Russell Hilton was a monster.” She whispered this leaning over the table. “And not only that, but he was in the business of making monsters.”
“Cheryl,” Tim said shaking his head, “we can’t decide, or at least I’m not going to decide who should die, not to mention that we’d both be accessories.”
Cheryl was shaking her head. Tim decided to approach the issue from a different angle.
“Look, maybe the guy shouldn’t have been teaching, but he didn’t deserve to die—and all of those students! Cheryl, we’re talking about kids here.”
“Tim please!” she reached over the table and grabbed his hands. The energy of the physical connection, something that Tim had been longing for, calmed him. He looked at her, her forehead lined with worry, eyebrows knitted together—but God she was beautiful. He slowly began to let go of her hand, and opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“Tim, I know this is not the right time, and maybe I’m crazy, but you’re a good man.” She squeezed his hands as she said ‘good man’. Tim felt his face redden.
“Cheryl what I saw was horrible,” as he said ‘horrible’, a flood of emotion came over him. He inhaled a deep sharp breath and felt his eyes began to tear over.
“Oh Tim,” Cheryl said as she got up and walked around the table to sit next to him. She hugged him as he let out a moist sigh. Her hair smelled like tropical fruit.
“Come home with me Cheryl,” Tim said in a whisper.
“I’ve been waiting for you to say that since you ran up to me that night in the parking lot,” Cheryl said. Tim released his arms so he could face her.
“Really?” he asked. He was sure he was far out of her league; a janitor for Christ’s sake! But as her sapphire eyes shined, he saw that it was true, and in the moment he realized everything was perfect and exactly as it should be. They would eventually have to tell the police what they knew, but that could wait for another day.