Two years gone, and he was never coming home. Her hands were cracked, her back a mess, and there was so much more to do under the oppressive sun or the morning damp or the chill of night, a wolf in every shadow.
She saw the stage coming up the road and stopped and balanced her chin on her hands, her hands on the hoe handle, the hoe balanced beneath her in the tomato patch. There was music coming from the coach, and a woman in a faded scarlet dress sat next to the driver, who grinned into the sun under a worn silk top hat. The music came from inside, and she was just enchanted enough to forget to pick up the shotgun at her feet.
The coach ground to a halt, cloaked in a plume of dust, and the man lifted his hat and produced a pistol and sheepishly asked if they might have a bite to eat. Sarah couldn't help but for a moment consider that rejecting Jason's proposal of marriage might have been a mistake, though the vision of that haggard old man with the pot belly soon dispelled that thought from her mind. Everything in her life had been a mistake, and this was the crowning moment.
Sarah dropped the hoe and turned around and began walking towards the house, her fingers straying towards her apron, wherein lurked a small pistol John had given her when he left. She couldn't hope to kill the lot of them with it, but she could use it to deny them a complete victory, for she hadn't yet been forced by man or beast to do anything against her will.
She fondled the weapon as she walked up the hill to the house, her mind mulling it over, her fingers dancing about the weapon, made warm from its proximity to her body and the labor of the day, dancing around it but never grasping it.
Sarah turned on her heels, leaving the pistol to lie in her apron. She walked with purpose down the hill towards the man with the gun and the woman in the faded dress and walked right up under her tired face, and squinting in the sun, asked, "Are you headed north?"
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Sunday, November 24, 2013
29. Treadmill
She nuzzled in his neck and whispered in his ear, "I found your notebook. It was lovely."
He could only stare at the ceiling, for a beat or two, and then roll away from her and vault off the bed, his hand giving her bottom a sharp smack as he did so. She was unfazed. He stretched a bit. His lower back was a bit stiff, and his ribs hadn't healed quite right.
Jake walked to the mirror, and gave his chin a bit of a rub. He needed a shave. How the hell could a man be as stupid at 34 as he had been at 24?
He could only stare at the ceiling, for a beat or two, and then roll away from her and vault off the bed, his hand giving her bottom a sharp smack as he did so. She was unfazed. He stretched a bit. His lower back was a bit stiff, and his ribs hadn't healed quite right.
Jake walked to the mirror, and gave his chin a bit of a rub. He needed a shave. How the hell could a man be as stupid at 34 as he had been at 24?
Saturday, August 24, 2013
28. Dine and Dash
Jake make a right onto 18th Street and headed for the south side of Zenith, a tough area and one he would have preferred to avoid. Still, if there was any chance the voice on the phone could be trusted, the meeting would be worth the visit.
Four blocks down the street and into the south side, he instinctively checked that his gun was in his shoulder holster. As his fingers grazed the gun, a blue sedan lurched out of a side alley. Jake had to jerk the steering wheel hard to avoid the car. His own car leapt onto the sidewalk and caught a light pole, spinning it around. Jake tensed as his car did a 180 degree turn into the thankfully empty cross street and rocked to a stop.
A quit inventory of bone and sinew proved there was no permanent damage to Jake, but he could see clearly that the right front of his car was pretty well smashed. He was going to need a tow. As his head cleared, he saw the blue sedan returning to the scene of the crime, carrying two grim looking characters that had their stared fixed on him. This was no accident. Jake felt woozy as he reached for the handle to get out of the car and look for cover, but as he did he saw a red-faced cop running up the street in his side mirror. The men in the sedan saw the cop as well, and moved on.
Jake tumbled out of the car, a couple gents in the crowd that formed helped him to sit down as the cop arrived. As the cop looked for answers, the crowd erupted with them, and it took some time to clear things up. Fortunately for Jake, a few witnesses saw the blue sedan nearly run him off the road, and it turned out the cop knew his pal Curly. As the cop got on his call box to call for a tow, Jake, feeling steadier, hoofed it across the road to a diner. He was dry, and hadn't had a bite since breakfast.
The diner was clean, even if not entirely inviting. The diners were all black, and they gave Jake a hard stare as he entered, a mix of trepidation and wonder, as most of them had witnessed the accident. The waitress behind the counter was a bit friendlier, as they usually are. She poured him a cup of coffee and Jake picked up a menu.
"What's the special today," he asked as nonchalantly as he could, eyes on the menu.
"Roast beef," shot back the waitress, a touch of nervousness in her voice.
"Yeah, that'll do fine. Thanks."
Jake put down the menu and pulled his notebook and pencil out to jot down his impression of the two men in the sedan. As he scratched away, he heard somebody behind him say, "What the hell are you doing here?"
Not wanting any trouble, he kept his eyes on his notebook. Could be two old friends or enemies. No need to get involved.
"Don't ignore me whitey."
Okay, maybe Jake was already involved. He slowly turned around on his stool to see a black man with a thin mustache in a crumpled white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, a fedora askance on his head, beads of sweat on his forehead.
"I just came in for a bite to eat. Don't want any trouble," returned Jake, fixing his eyes on the man in a hard stare. He became conscious of his gun in the shoulder holster, but didn't dare make a move for it. It was a dicey situation. Jake couldn't afford to make the first move, for it would probably bring four or five other men down on him. In a street fight, though, if you don't make the first move, you lose. He wanted to look at the faces of the other folks in the diner, read them. Was he as outnumbered as he felt? Was this guy a well-known blowhard? His hand itched to grab his gun, but his reason got the better of his fear.
The man continued to stare. He wanted a fight. Maybe he just lost his wife, maybe his job, maybe both. Maybe the last few years of his life had been a string of failures and set backs. Whatever it was, he wanted a fight and Jake was a likely target. A sitting duck on the south side. Jake concentrated on the man's eyes and on his own breathing. It finally occurred to him that the gun might get him out of trouble without leaving the holster. He slowly let his left hand drop to his side. He took the hem of his jacket between finger and thumb and drew it back, just enough to let the holster peek out.
The gun registered on the man's face immediately, and Jake could see him doing the calculus. Could I get to him before he drew the gun? Was it worth it? If he'd had a couple friends nearby, Jake would have seen him motion to them with those eyes, but they stayed on Jake, steady and ever more fearful.
"Just see that you don't make any trouble."
That was it. The man withdrew to a booth near the jukebox and Jake turned around. He hated to turn his back on the man, but he was lucky to get out of the situation as it was and didn't want to push his luck any further.
In 10 minutes, the roast beef was eaten. It was good. In five more a cab was called, and five minutes after that it arrived. Jake made a hasty retreat from the south side, little the worse for wear but exhausted and frustrated. He gave the cabby directions to his sister's house in the suburbs and leaned back, wiping his forehead with a hanky that was overdue for a rinse.
Four blocks down the street and into the south side, he instinctively checked that his gun was in his shoulder holster. As his fingers grazed the gun, a blue sedan lurched out of a side alley. Jake had to jerk the steering wheel hard to avoid the car. His own car leapt onto the sidewalk and caught a light pole, spinning it around. Jake tensed as his car did a 180 degree turn into the thankfully empty cross street and rocked to a stop.
A quit inventory of bone and sinew proved there was no permanent damage to Jake, but he could see clearly that the right front of his car was pretty well smashed. He was going to need a tow. As his head cleared, he saw the blue sedan returning to the scene of the crime, carrying two grim looking characters that had their stared fixed on him. This was no accident. Jake felt woozy as he reached for the handle to get out of the car and look for cover, but as he did he saw a red-faced cop running up the street in his side mirror. The men in the sedan saw the cop as well, and moved on.
Jake tumbled out of the car, a couple gents in the crowd that formed helped him to sit down as the cop arrived. As the cop looked for answers, the crowd erupted with them, and it took some time to clear things up. Fortunately for Jake, a few witnesses saw the blue sedan nearly run him off the road, and it turned out the cop knew his pal Curly. As the cop got on his call box to call for a tow, Jake, feeling steadier, hoofed it across the road to a diner. He was dry, and hadn't had a bite since breakfast.
The diner was clean, even if not entirely inviting. The diners were all black, and they gave Jake a hard stare as he entered, a mix of trepidation and wonder, as most of them had witnessed the accident. The waitress behind the counter was a bit friendlier, as they usually are. She poured him a cup of coffee and Jake picked up a menu.
"What's the special today," he asked as nonchalantly as he could, eyes on the menu.
"Roast beef," shot back the waitress, a touch of nervousness in her voice.
"Yeah, that'll do fine. Thanks."
Jake put down the menu and pulled his notebook and pencil out to jot down his impression of the two men in the sedan. As he scratched away, he heard somebody behind him say, "What the hell are you doing here?"
Not wanting any trouble, he kept his eyes on his notebook. Could be two old friends or enemies. No need to get involved.
"Don't ignore me whitey."
Okay, maybe Jake was already involved. He slowly turned around on his stool to see a black man with a thin mustache in a crumpled white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, a fedora askance on his head, beads of sweat on his forehead.
"I just came in for a bite to eat. Don't want any trouble," returned Jake, fixing his eyes on the man in a hard stare. He became conscious of his gun in the shoulder holster, but didn't dare make a move for it. It was a dicey situation. Jake couldn't afford to make the first move, for it would probably bring four or five other men down on him. In a street fight, though, if you don't make the first move, you lose. He wanted to look at the faces of the other folks in the diner, read them. Was he as outnumbered as he felt? Was this guy a well-known blowhard? His hand itched to grab his gun, but his reason got the better of his fear.
The man continued to stare. He wanted a fight. Maybe he just lost his wife, maybe his job, maybe both. Maybe the last few years of his life had been a string of failures and set backs. Whatever it was, he wanted a fight and Jake was a likely target. A sitting duck on the south side. Jake concentrated on the man's eyes and on his own breathing. It finally occurred to him that the gun might get him out of trouble without leaving the holster. He slowly let his left hand drop to his side. He took the hem of his jacket between finger and thumb and drew it back, just enough to let the holster peek out.
The gun registered on the man's face immediately, and Jake could see him doing the calculus. Could I get to him before he drew the gun? Was it worth it? If he'd had a couple friends nearby, Jake would have seen him motion to them with those eyes, but they stayed on Jake, steady and ever more fearful.
"Just see that you don't make any trouble."
That was it. The man withdrew to a booth near the jukebox and Jake turned around. He hated to turn his back on the man, but he was lucky to get out of the situation as it was and didn't want to push his luck any further.
In 10 minutes, the roast beef was eaten. It was good. In five more a cab was called, and five minutes after that it arrived. Jake made a hasty retreat from the south side, little the worse for wear but exhausted and frustrated. He gave the cabby directions to his sister's house in the suburbs and leaned back, wiping his forehead with a hanky that was overdue for a rinse.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
27. Money
She scowled a bit when we entered my office/apartment. It was a little dingy, I admit, and in need of some decorating, but I didn't think it was that bad considering what I pulled down following around unfaithful husbands and scouring the city for folks who forgot to pay their debts.
"Don't like it," I asked, trying not to sound too hurt?
"Needs work. It's old."
She wasn't wrong, of course, but I wasn't entirely sure it wasn't a commentary on myself.
"You don't get rich in my line of work. Well, most of us don't, especially when you hate the work as much as I do. It'll have to do. Besides, if I made a million dollars, I wouldn't know what to do with all of it."
"You could spend it on me," she remarked, so casually I had to stop myself from laughing out loud.
"Don't like it," I asked, trying not to sound too hurt?
"Needs work. It's old."
She wasn't wrong, of course, but I wasn't entirely sure it wasn't a commentary on myself.
"You don't get rich in my line of work. Well, most of us don't, especially when you hate the work as much as I do. It'll have to do. Besides, if I made a million dollars, I wouldn't know what to do with all of it."
"You could spend it on me," she remarked, so casually I had to stop myself from laughing out loud.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
26. Lady Loves
Every poet, every artist, every writer needs a woman to pursue. Somebody just outside their grasp but not entirely out of their reach. A possibility - a potentiality. They need somebody to dream about and obsess about and churn up every uncomfortable feeling in the book - love, lust, regret, despair. These are the meat and drink of the artist, and nothing can stir them quite like a woman or a war. War often has a terrible finality to it that really puts a damper on one's artistic output, so in all cases a woman is the preferred option.
Jake's problem wasn't a lack of women in his life. There had been several. His problem was a difficulty in falling in love with them. He could never quite get over the line in terms of love - they all turned into friends he flirted with and took out to dinner and show, maybe some dancing, a few time quite a bit more. But they never quite made it deep into his soul, that secret spot where a man really lives.
Strangely enough, this is what was running through his aching head as he sat on the front stoop, his cheek already beginning to swell, his hair a tangle of odd perpenticularities. He needed to love a woman, to get out of the snooping racket and get a job that didn't involve angry husbands and lovers (well, not as many of them, anyways). Soon enough, his head cleared and he regained his composure and his hat, brushed off his pants, and took a stab at standing up. Too soon. Back on the stoop, arms back, eyes to the clouds and more ruminating on lady loves and his lack thereof.
Jake's problem wasn't a lack of women in his life. There had been several. His problem was a difficulty in falling in love with them. He could never quite get over the line in terms of love - they all turned into friends he flirted with and took out to dinner and show, maybe some dancing, a few time quite a bit more. But they never quite made it deep into his soul, that secret spot where a man really lives.
Strangely enough, this is what was running through his aching head as he sat on the front stoop, his cheek already beginning to swell, his hair a tangle of odd perpenticularities. He needed to love a woman, to get out of the snooping racket and get a job that didn't involve angry husbands and lovers (well, not as many of them, anyways). Soon enough, his head cleared and he regained his composure and his hat, brushed off his pants, and took a stab at standing up. Too soon. Back on the stoop, arms back, eyes to the clouds and more ruminating on lady loves and his lack thereof.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
25. Morality
The girl talked about the insanity of war, and how, when you really got down to it, one side was no better than the other. Everybody was a murderer. Everybody was guilty. He smiled. She asked him why.
"You only believe in such moral absolutes because you've put yourself, at no cost to yourself, on the side you believe to be righteous. I was there. There was a difference. If you don't see it, you're either blind or your eyes are closed."
With that, he turned and walked away with a slight limp, a loaf of bread tucked under his arm and blocks under a beaming summer sun ahead of him.
"You only believe in such moral absolutes because you've put yourself, at no cost to yourself, on the side you believe to be righteous. I was there. There was a difference. If you don't see it, you're either blind or your eyes are closed."
With that, he turned and walked away with a slight limp, a loaf of bread tucked under his arm and blocks under a beaming summer sun ahead of him.
Monday, April 15, 2013
24. The Perfect Crime
Every law-abiding citizen is just a criminal waiting for the perfect crime. Frankly, Jake had never seen a more perfect crime than that leggy blonde on the arm of one Mr. Jarvis Hollister, architect and married man about town. He watched the middle-aged Casanova in the side-view mirror as he and the secretary from the office next door took a guilty walk down the street from the cafe they'd met at to the apartment his wife didn't know he rented. At least that was Jake's theory.
Taking his notebook out of his vest pocket, he scratched down that line about "the perfect crime". It was a keeper. As he reached back into the back seat for his camera, he saw the smiling face of one of New York's finest staring back in the window. It was Eddie Meacham, a fat cop who was little more than a celebrated meter maid and poster boy for small-time police corruption.
"You're not going to park here, are you Jake? The price of a ticket is going to seriously cut into your profit margin on this job."
"Of course not, Eddie. Wouldn't think of it. I was just looking for you; wanted to buy a ticket to the policeman's ball."
Two blocks and a five-spot later (thank goodness Eddie was a pal), Jake was taking the steps up to the door of a brownstone, camera in hand, hoping to finish this job and collect his fee from Mrs. Hollister tonight. Rent was overdue, and he hadn't had a solid meal all week. Coffee and chicken soup can only take a fella so far in life.
Taking his notebook out of his vest pocket, he scratched down that line about "the perfect crime". It was a keeper. As he reached back into the back seat for his camera, he saw the smiling face of one of New York's finest staring back in the window. It was Eddie Meacham, a fat cop who was little more than a celebrated meter maid and poster boy for small-time police corruption.
"You're not going to park here, are you Jake? The price of a ticket is going to seriously cut into your profit margin on this job."
"Of course not, Eddie. Wouldn't think of it. I was just looking for you; wanted to buy a ticket to the policeman's ball."
Two blocks and a five-spot later (thank goodness Eddie was a pal), Jake was taking the steps up to the door of a brownstone, camera in hand, hoping to finish this job and collect his fee from Mrs. Hollister tonight. Rent was overdue, and he hadn't had a solid meal all week. Coffee and chicken soup can only take a fella so far in life.
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