The dawn broke grey and cold, but Fil took no notice. In fact, today was the happiest day of his life. He might be going to live with Grandma Pearl. It was just a might. He didn’t even know if she had found his note, but this was the first thing he had had to hope for in…ever. Waking up in the morning and being able to lounge in bed. Wow! A bed! He’d never had one of those. And he could go to school, and maybe get a job. Most importantly though, he could give back all of the things he’d “borrowed”. So he woke with these thoughts did not notice the chill wind and darkening sky.
Cheerfully, he scurried down his tree and headed to the underpass to get the day’s newspapers He reached the crossing as two cars came up, turning left and right. Fil went on straight, and…what was this? Where were his newspapers? He looked all around, but nothing was in front of him wherever he looked. Fil sat down and pondered for a long while. Finally though, he thought of two things. It could just be a mistake. They’ll probly just bring them tomorrow. And what does it matter anyway. I might not even be getting papers much longer. Wait! What if Grandma Pearl was the one leaving the newspapers, and now that she read my note, she knows there’s no point in me doing this anymore! He thought about this idea, and decided that it was stupid, but there were other reasons, so he got up and plodded back to town. It was nice not to carry those heavy words. Those grey papers were his past. He decided he would even throw away the left over papers he kept in his tree. Fil reached the apartment building and stopped, deciding what he would do today. He wanted to go see Grandma Pearl, but he didn’t want to rush her. Fil decided he would just meander up and down the street. He had never done that before. Just stood out in the open and didn’t care about anyone seeing him. He had never done a lot of things before. But today, today he was going to live a new life. Where was everyone? He wanted to give someone a big grin and a hearty hello. Why would people not be out on a gorgeous day like this? Oh, wait. There’s Mrs. Flogsbottom-head-bent, hurrying to the store. Peculiar woman.
“Hey there Mrs. Flogsbottom! Lovely weather!” he said as he gave her a big smile and a wave. She looked up with an expression of total incredulity, then looked at the sky.
Well, I guess it’s true that I never talk to anyone. Quite a shame, as everyone in this town seems so pleasant. I’ve wasted part of my youth, but I’m young. I have so much more to look foreword to. It’s ok. Fil wandered up and down the street for hours, taking it all in. Oscar’s meat place. Lovely man. Taxidermy shop. A little strange, but she did seem to love animals. The local grocery store. Fil looked at the place with a feeling of relief. In the future, he could go in there and get whatever he wanted, knowing he had a pocket full of money. Last of all, he went to the bus stop. The bus had come and long gone. He stood standing there for a long while. This single place could take him anywhere. There were so many places he could have gone. Could have, maybe should have, but there was only one place he wanted to go now.
The day began to wane, so he headed back to his tree for the night, taking one last look at today, because tomorrow, everything would change. Fil was so excited about the idea of something different, that he barely even felt the raindrops starting to fall onto his face. As he reached the platform of his tree, the wind picked up swiftly. His platform was more than three-fourths up the tree, and it started rocking back and forth. Usually during a storm, Fil stayed on the ground and found a place to sleep, but he simply had not noticed the weather on account of his thoughts. However, he had weathered storms before after all, so he hunkered down in his bed pile, pulling his covers and all of his belongings tightly around him.
As the night wore on, the storm increased its fury. The tree swayed violently, as rain, sleet, and chunks of ice beat ferociously against Fil’s thatched, make-shift roof. Terrified, Fil hugged the floorboards., occasionally having one peal up from beneath him and whirl away with the howling wind. Fil hung on for dear life as the storm raged on around him. All thoughts of anything except survival were driven from his mind. Soaked, battered, starving, and exhausted, Fil did not know how much more he could take. Soon the storm would win, and Fil did not know what would happen. The whirlwind night dragged on for years with periodic lightening strikes to mark the seconds, it seemed, but finally the rain started to abate, and the wind died down. Dawn approached. Fil’s strong, solid oak, had proved its worth. Its roots ran deep, and it had outlasted the storm, and was sure to outlast many, many more. This was his home, his life. He and his tree would continue together. With a relieved sigh, Fil started climbing down the tree for his feet to meet the hard, solid earth. The last of the rain was drizzling away, taking Fil’s fears with it. He was about thirty feet down from his platform, though, when the storm decided to give one last parting shot. The sky boomed and a mighty lightening bolt struck the very limb on which Fil stood. The branch gave a resounding crack, and snapped from the tree, gathering speed toward the ground, and taking Fil with it. Fil gave a mighty wail as he flung out his arms, grasping desperately at the leaves and twigs, trying to break his fall. An eternity passed by as he fell, and finally, he crashed to the ground, as the branch on which he had a second before been standing, crashed down on top of him.
Fil blacked out.
He woke on his back, with a heavy weight pressing on his chest, yet strangely, he felt nothing. His body felt light and warm, as his fingers soaked up the wetness on the ground around him. Rain from the storm, he thought. Fil looked up and saw the remains of his tree house far above. Something grey was floating down through the sky.
I did good. It’s an angel come.
Pearl saw the newspaper page resting softly across his tiny chest. It was the job ads. She picked it up and read the first description, circled with red sharpie.
Help wanted: flying instructor.
The warming sun broke over Washington Heights. It was going to be a gorgeous day.
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Henrietta couldn't help but stare at the tree that took Fil's life. She had liked the little fellow, he had even spoken to her- probably the first time ever. "They were probably his first words," she sighed sadly, walking closer to the tree, feeling the warm moist bark. She had not heard from Achilles, seen him, she could not even go to the store. He was taking too long, maybe she had been wrong, maybe he would never love her.
Henrietta let her rotund body sit against the base of the tree and looked at the mocking sun smiling back. She did not notice Rizzo walking down the street, or acknowledge her nod as she passed. She did not see Achilles, looking nervous with his balding hair pushed to the side to resemble a bad comb over. Or the white and red flowers in his sweaty hands. His orange plaid shirt with puke green stripes, and his shoes that were untied. She didn't hear him walk over to her; she was consumed in the silence that was the tree. Fil had lived here, the scattered boards were his life or all that remained. He was not the gray papers he sold, but the bright green leaves of the tree that took him. They danced with the light wind, they were bright and happy.
"Mrs. Flogsbottom," Achilles said, waking her from the surrounding silence. She looked at him and stood. "Mrs- Henrietta. I have loved you since the first moment you walked into my store. I think you are the most beautiful person on this world and the next. Your smile is brighter and bigger than any banana in my shop, and your eyes are like two blue plums. When you came into my store the other day and stormed off- I felt apart of me dying with every sway of your hips. I didn't know what I could do- how I could win you back... I asked a few of my patrons that had talked to you- they said I needed to read a romance novel, and I would know. I understand now. Chapter 5, it was so obvious but I was scared. Then Fil... He was such a young kid, and I'm not- if he can di- if he could leave so young, it made me wonder how long I had. Well, with any time I have, I want to spend it with you. I know this usually doesn't happen till chapter 13, but will you marry me Henrietta? Please?" Achilles fumbled down onto his knees, dropping his flowers and produced a small fruit box with a small pearl ring inside.
This was everything she had ever wanted and more. "Yes my sweet Achilles, yes."
That night they made clumsy love, but for both it was the most beautiful experience they ever had. They married in the fruit section of the grocery store, and had one child (from their first "encounter") and they named her Fillina, and decorated her walls with pictures of trees, and random clippings from the newspaper. She was their angel and reminder of the boy that started it all.
Soon Charlie reached the abandoned warehouse, cracked open a bottle of the cheapest Vodka money can buy and chugged it down. Now he could begin his masterpiece.
Hues of Red, Black, Blue, and White bled across the rusted and rotting walls of the old warehouse. Charlie knew the ways of grafitti well, and he never made mistakes. The paint can became an extension of his body, like the paint was flowing from his finger tips. His lungs filled with the toxic fumes from the cans, but Charlie could have cared less, he simply washed the paint down with more cheap Vodka.
Slowly, the masterpiece began to take shape. Everywhere on the 20 foot space there were red and white roses, and they were beautiful, only the roses were bleeding a deep, dark red. And then a beautiful face began to appear on the wall. Charlie had committed every curve and dimple of his mother's face to memory.
At one point, Charlie paused to puke up a little Chinese food from earlier. Then he proceeded to wash the taste of death out of his mouth with even more Vodka. The liqour helped the pain, painting for his mother gave him more pain, so Charlie drank more.
Soon after, Charlie saw Fil wander by mutterring about this or that. Fil asked Charlie what he was doing. And Charlie explained he was painting for his dead mother, so she could be remembered in her home town.
Fil shook his head, "Death ain't easy Charlie, but its gotta happen to everything. Dying is the only thing you have to do in your life. And thats the truth. You just gotta know when its your time."
Charlie was taken back by Fil's comment, partially because he didn't think a hobo would be so intraspective and partially because he was drunk as shit and anything can have a profound affect on a drunk person. Charlie thought for a moment, shook his head and went back to painting.
Later, Marcus Manuel passed by, looking terribly shaken and bruised up.
"Yo! Where's that old man Oscar at?" Charlie shouted, though his words now were terribly slurred.
Luckily, Marcus spoke drunk, and said, "Oh we got into some trouble last night, he's probably still recovering.
Charlie nodded, he knew not to ask anymore questions.
"Well... I'm glad someone is finally making this old piece look nice. Keep up the good work Charlie," Marcus said.
Before Charlie could respond, Marcus was gone. Charlie's hands looked like they were dipped in paint now, but he kept working. Soon, the sun started to rise, and Charlie's masterpiece was nearly complete.
As the first light of day fell onto the rundown town of Washington Heights, Charlie's masterpiece caught a beam of sunshine. His mother looked beautiful and so real in the light of the sun. Charlie completed his work by signing his name, and writing, "...And even the Angels will envy her beauty and kindness." in black paint. Charlie stepped back from the wall, admirred his work and began to cry. He bawled his eyes out, like an infant, and he was so intoxicated his tears tasted like Vodka. It was his best work, it was perfect, and it was all for his mother; all for her that loved him so much.
He knew there was nothing left for him in this shithole town. He knew there was no one left who even loved him on this shithole earth. He missed his mother.
The paint had barely finished drying when Charlie pulled out the Desert Eagle from his bag and flipped the safety off. He looked up to the sky, and pushed the cold steel barrel into his mouth. He could taste the gun powder, and he could imagine what the hollow points looked like, just waiting to be released.
Charlie said a prayer, but he knew God couldn't hear him.
He tried hard to picture his mother's face, and opened his eyes and realized her face was right in front of him.
Charlie pulled the trigger.
Oscar Alcazar
Another day broke. His hulking form once again rose to unlock the door. The ancient "New York Strip" sign flipped to read "Open." You just can't beat the gambling industry. Money was fine, social life was fine, but Oscar knew he was stuck in a rut. "Maybe it's time for me to move on" he thought. Maybe.
The seemingly constant breeze hit his unshaven face as he swung his door open. The light fabric of the umbrellas flapped gently in the wind. He surveyed the street, like always, but something caught his attention. Something was off, something was missing. Oscar strolled down the sidewalk, which was refreshing. He liked walking. The pas few days' events flashed through his mind. his good friends... Charlie, Marcus, Dominic... Basement Babe. Well, she mighta been a bit more than a friend. Oh well. time to move on. Time to move on.
Oscar reached an overpass and realized what was different. A large oak tree was gone. Missing. No... it was still there, but broken. Limbs were torn off, a treehouse wrecked. But then his heart jumped. Down there, on the ground stood Grandma Pearl. She crouched, investigating something. Oh no. No. No.... it's body. Buried under a thick branch.
Oscar pulled out his mobile phone, dialing three numbers. Somewhere in the distance, sirens started, wearily, but came closer. Oscar again drew his hand into his pocket. This time he pulled out a pistol. He stood atop the overpass, directed his gun straight up, said a prayer, and fired three shots in honor of this dead companion.
Oscar turned and headed back toward his humble shop. Back to his own life. Back to the same job. Back to the only routine he could count on.
The sun had not yet bloomed when Elizabeth left her apartment. She hadn't slept well since she'd received the letter. What would have appeared gratifying to most, sat crumpled on the floor beside the wall at present. It was a stain of her past that needed to go. As Elizabeth reached for the piece of parchment, it all came rushing back — the anxiety, the anger, the remorse, the fear, the love, the despair, and the hope. A tear rolled down her cheek as she went out the door. A tear for what she could not tell. Only the need for fresh air and a stroll was known. After a single glance out the window, her plan was shattered. A thunderstorm was raging outside, blowing the trees like mere wheat stalks in the wind. Elizabeth turned back to grab a sweatshirt before she headed for the stairs. It was almost meditative now — the climb down the stairs. She'd learned to appreciate it, especially when it was raining, and slow down. With each step it was as if she was falling into serenity again. A serenity previously lost and now gained. It wasn't the book that made her loose her it. It wasn't even Malcolm or that dude in the shadows. It was her inability to be satisfied with herself — with her decisions. That's why she hated writing the novel. She hated having to relive every moment she regretted. But as she descended the stairs, she finally realized that she never took the time to look the good consequences among the bad. She had been so focused on the steps of despair that she didn't think to give the wicked things in life a chance.
'Like having a guardian shadow,' Elizabeth thought, smiling. She didn't know his name or purpose, only that he seemed to have been watching her back since she arrived in Washington Heights. 'You can't get that in San Francisco. It's too ...' She didn't know. She'd never experienced anything like Washington Heights before. It was ...
The rain appeared to have stopped as the sun began to shine through the window of the fifth floor. She threw the letter in the platform's trash bin before she sped down the remaining flights. Life was finally calling again. She would no longer hide from the world to cower in the past. She would live with a lesson learned — to never give up on passion and chase whatever called her.
A shattering crash reverberated through the streets. Elizabeth broke into a sprint as she passed the chasm of smoke and shadows where she once gave lunch to a man, later learned to be Naublus Croseman. The memory of his astonished face flew from her mind as she came upon Grandma Pearl. Sirens began to echo from streets beyond. She was standing over a tree branch, or was it ....
"Oh my god," Elizabeth whispered as she arrived at her side. Grandma Pearl wasn't just standing over a tree branch, she was standing over a body.
"Kind of ironic, isn't it?" Grandma Pearl asked as she held a page of the newspaper.
As Elizabeth looked from the circled add to the body, a hand covered her mouth as she gasped. This man. The man under the branch. The dead man. He was the man in the shadows, whose protecting presence was lost.
"I know him," she whispered to herself.
Her guardian shadow lost forevermore. As the sun continued to rise, Fil's peacefully mangled body fell deeper and deeper into the shadow of the tree. It was ...
Tragically beautiful.
I roughly pushed open the door to the rooftop of the apartment building and hurried through. My arms were full, and I was sure to drop something if I didn't move quickly. The door banged shut behind me in the good breeze that had worked itself up throughout the morning. I dropped my armfull of objects and settled down next to the flowers I had planted so carefully a few days before. Besides looking extremely battered by the storm of the previous night, they looked to be doing well. I had always loved pansies, and the pansies themselves seemed to somehow be thriving in the gloomy environment that was Washington Heights.
I dumped the contents of the metal wastepaper bin I had carried most of the things upstairs in onto the dirt next to me and set the bin in front of my folded knees. I opened and placed carefully around me the candles that had been left on my doorstep by the woman who owned The Wrath. "I haven't seen her since that day I went in to get candles myself," I wondered aloud. "Is she alright?" I arranged the candles in a semicircle and stuck them into the dirt so that they stood on their own. I pulled a pack of matches from the pile next to me and lit the candles one by one. They made me think of my mother.
Now that the canldes were lit and the flames danced merrily in the breeze, I began on the pile that I had dumped so unceremoniously beside myself. First, I picked up my apron from the bakery and dropped it back into the trashcan. A cloud of flour rose above it, making me wrinkle my nose. "I'm so sick of flour and bagels and fingerprints," I muttered as I lit another match. "I'm so tired of that man who makes my life a living hell every time I walk into the bakery." I held the match for a moment, letting the flames creep up the matchstick. "I'm done with taking his thinly veiled insults and his condescending looks." I dropped the match into the trashcan and watched as the flames crept quickly along the fabric of the apron. When the fire had been going for a couple of minutes, I looked at the pile next to me again.
I picked up my little bottle of liquid hand sanitizer and stared at it a moment before dropping it into the trashcan as well. The flames flared as they came in contact with the hand sanitizer. "I'm done with you as well," I said to it as the flames died down a bit again. "I'm done with sticky and fingerprints and smudges and dirt and stains and everything like it. I'm done. I won't worry about it anymore. I won't. I can't." Next, I dropped a pile of neatly folded letters into the bin, the ones from my mother that I had never answered. It was time to put my anger behind me, or at least to try to talk to her again. I had proven that I could live by myself, she had to agree with me now. Finally.
I stared at the paper napkin sitting next to me for a long moment before picking it up. It was from the diner down the street. I had had it clutched in my hand when I had run out on Kevin before. When I finally got home, I was still holding it. "Silly Maria," I told myself, "you hold onto things longer than you should, just learn to let them go, learn to leave them alone and in the past." I dropped the napkin on top of the letters and watched as the paper was quickly eaten by the flames.
There was only one thing left in the pile now. I had cleaned the trenchcoat and folded it as neatly as I could. The folds were messy now after being carried up the stairs in a wastepaper bin, but I could still see the time and effort I had put into making to coat nicer. I hadn't gone looking for its owner though. Besides the fact that I didn't really want to see him after he had witnessed my breakdown in the street, I didn't know where to begin to look for him. I had realized that I didn't even know which floor he lived on. "Shows how much people notice around here. I've been living in Washington Heights but I still don't really know anything about it. I could tell someone where the diner was, but I don't think anyone would understand if I tried to tell them about the people."
I picked up the trenchcoat and stared at it. It was a mark of the past, a reminder that I didn't want with me when I left. While this place had been relatively good to me, helping me find myself again, helping me forgive people, I didn't necessarily want to take any of it with me when I left. But as I leaned over to drop the trenchcoat into the flaming trashcan, I couldn't make myself do it. I paused there for a long moment, stretched out, leaning over the trashcan, trenchcoat in my hands, but unable to finish the action. Finally, when I realized that it was impossible, I moved back to my seat and set the coat down beside me again. I sat there silently and watched as the flames in the trashcan burned lower until finally the flames in the trashcan and the candles around me went out, burned to ashes and melted to waxy stubs.
Before I moved again, I thanked my mother, silently this time, for what she had driven me to accomplish. I thanked the people of Washington Heights who hadn't killed me or stolen my belongings or made me walk on sidewalks. But I wasn't one of them.
So, I stood, picked up the trenchcoat, and slipped into it. I picked a pansy and stuck it in my hair. I walked away from the trashcan without looking back, I walked through the door and down the flights of stairs, all the way to the bottom of the apartment building. I walked through the entryway without changing my course because of the vending machine. I hopped the sidewalk outside and turned down Bucher Drive. I walked past the park without looking right or left even though there was an ambulance parked on the other side of the street. I continued to walk even as people gathered around the park, watching as a stretcher with a small form on it was lifted out of the wreckage of a fallen tree and carried to the ambulance. I walked past the synagouge and the bar; I walked past the Last Resort Thrift Shop without pausing.
I walked in the beautiful sunshine and the breeze. I walked in the road because where else was I supposed to walk. I walked right out of Washington Heights without looking back.
Its a Dog Eat Dog World
Finally! The schmucks living in this town get some good weather. I think the good Lord realized that we deserved some good weather after surviving the terrors of the storm the night before. Its been fittingly dreary for a few days straight now, but as I opened my eyes saw the sun doing the same over the sleepy horizon. I purposed in my head that it was going to be a day of relaxation. I turned on the TV just because the stare of my reflection in the black lifeless screen made me feel alone, isolated. The fact that Money Making Melina aka Rump Roast Rosie was lying in bed next to me didn't really count for anything because I knew after the "festivities" of last night she would be out for at least 2 more hours...bless her little heart. As I searched through the sheets for my phone I heard Monica Kaufman reporting on the damnedest thing. I turned the volume up, to take a better listen, and felt a slight stir in the covers from Rosie, so I put the captions on to see what was going on. Apparently, a hobo was struck by lightning. I knew that this in and of itself was a very rare occurrence. Seriously, what are the chances of that!?! Then, as I read on, all feelings that had potential to turn into sympathy, fled when they reported his location during the time of the storm. This prick was standing in a TREE! Who does that!?! Everybody knows that the number one rule in a storm is DON'T STAND UNDER A TALL TREE. This ignorant schmuck climbed the damn thing. It would have been easier to have just dropped a toaster in the bath with him. But that probably wasn't news worthy, so I settled that his way out was better. At least he got his 15 minutes of fame.
Speaking of minutes, I cant believe that I still haven't found my phone! Then, as if on que, it rang and disclosed its location. It was Oscar inviting me and Lefty to a little early bird meat sampling get together. I asked him the reason for the urgency, and he told me that he just got the nicest "New York Strip" to have ever set foot in his shop and he wanted us to come see a sample of its money making potential for the loyal participants in the back room activities of the butcher shop. Perfect! A little early morning entertainment was just what I needed to start my day of complete and total relaxation.
Lefty and I arrived at the Oscars around 10:00 to find a car that we had never seen before parked behind the Escalade. We exchanged looks of suspicion, and decided to drive around the block one more time, just in case there was a tail or this was some sort of trap. I pulled the fully automatic out from under the seat and tucked it firmly into my waistline. We walked in to the back room at full attention, only to find Oscar taking shots of Hennessy and puffing on a cigar with a satisfied grin on his face. This dog must really be something to have him so excited. And when I looked to my left, I saw the prettiest, most ferocious looking door that I have ever seen in my life. It was beautiful. I asked whose dogs was going to be the competition, and he told me that an old friend of his named Marcus Manuel was providing the opponent......Marcus Manuel......? Why did that name sound so familiar? I know that I have heard it before, but I just couldn't put my finger on when. Then it hit me! The black van, the thugs, the bridge, the interrogation room. The thug that we took into the interrogation room told us that some Colombian prick had sent him and the other henchmen. While he still had his teeth, he mentioned the name Marcus Manuel. I didn't try that hard to conceal my epiphany from Oscar because the Hennessy was doing all the work for me. I shared my revelation with Lefty, and before I could even finish, he left the shop and went to the car to grab a few "items" that he thought might come in handy. Oscar boomed across the room, "Marcus just called. He said he should be here any minute. I wish he would hurry up! I can't wait to get this battle started. The way he's been bragging on his dog, there's bound to be an all out war in here. I'm talkin about a fight to the death! Only one of these monsters is leaving this room alive."
How right you are my friend; how right you are...
Its a Dog Eat Dog World
Finally! The schmucks living in this town get some good weather. I think the good Lord realized that we deserved some good weather after surviving the terrors of the storm the night before. Its been fittingly dreary for a few days straight now, but as I opened my eyes saw the sun doing the same over the sleepy horizon. I purposed in my head that it was going to be a day of relaxation. I turned on the TV just because the stare of my reflection in the black lifeless screen made me feel alone, isolated. The fact that Money Making Melina aka Rump Roast Rosie was lying in bed next to me didn't really count for anything because I knew after the "festivities" of last night she would be out for at least 2 more hours...bless her little heart. As I searched through the sheets for my phone I heard Monica Kaufman reporting on the damnedest thing. I turned the volume up, to take a better listen, and felt a slight stir in the covers from Rosie, so I put the captions on to see what was going on. Apparently, a hobo was struck by lightning. I knew that this in and of itself was a very rare occurrence. Seriously, what are the chances of that!?! Then, as I read on, all feelings that had potential to turn into sympathy, fled when they reported his location during the time of the storm. This prick was standing in a TREE! Who does that!?! Everybody knows that the number one rule in a storm is DON'T STAND UNDER A TALL TREE. This ignorant schmuck climbed the damn thing. It would have been easier to have just dropped a toaster in the bath with him. But that probably wasn't news worthy, so I settled that his way out was better. At least he got his 15 minutes of fame.
Speaking of minutes, I cant believe that I still haven't found my phone! Then, as if on que, it rang and disclosed its location. It was Oscar inviting me and Lefty to a little early bird meat sampling get together. I asked him the reason for the urgency, and he told me that he just got the nicest "New York Strip" to have ever set foot in his shop and he wanted us to come see a sample of its money making potential for the loyal participants in the back room activities of the butcher shop. Perfect! A little early morning entertainment was just what I needed to start my day of complete and total relaxation.
Lefty and I arrived at the Oscars around 10:00 to find a car that we had never seen before parked behind the Escalade. We exchanged looks of suspicion, and decided to drive around the block one more time, just in case there was a tail or this was some sort of trap. I pulled the fully automatic out from under the seat and tucked it firmly into my waistline. We walked in to the back room at full attention, only to find Oscar taking shots of Hennessy and puffing on a cigar with a satisfied grin on his face. This dog must really be something to have him so excited. And when I looked to my left, I saw the prettiest, most ferocious looking door that I have ever seen in my life. It was beautiful. I asked whose dogs was going to be the competition, and he told me that an old friend of his named Marcus Manuel was providing the opponent......Marcus Manuel......? Why did that name sound so familiar? I know that I have heard it before, but I just couldn't put my finger on when. Then it hit me! The black van, the thugs, the bridge, the interrogation room. The thug that we took into the interrogation room told us that some Colombian prick had sent him and the other henchmen. While he still had his teeth, he mentioned the name Marcus Manuel. I didn't try that hard to conceal my epiphany from Oscar because the Hennessy was doing all the work for me. I shared my revelation with Lefty, and before I could even finish, he left the shop and went to the car to grab a few "items" that he thought might come in handy. Oscar boomed across the room, "Marcus just called. He said he should be here any minute. I wish he would hurry up! I can't wait to get this battle started. The way he's been bragging on his dog, there's bound to be an all out war in here. I'm talkin about a fight to the death! Only one of these monsters is leaving this room alive."
How right you are my friend; how right you are...
Mamie Wainwright:
I woke up before dawn this morning, my internal clock ticking and my arthritic knees aching. Happy 60th birthday to me. The wind was howling and lightning was shooting past my window, all centered around the park. I took my new pin from the armoire in the corner, the one that said HAPPY 60th BIRTHDAY!, and pinned it to my blouse. I went to the kitchen and grabbed a quart of milk from the fridge. I slowly poured it into the pot on my gas stove--the stove the super was supposed to fix. I zapped a frozen chocolate eclair and got out the Wainwright china I'd brought up from Georgia. I stuck a small yellow candle on top and grabbed a box of matches.
While the milk for my hot chocolate heated, I went to the window to look out. Yesterday afternoon, I'd seen a nurse walk hurridly down the street, talking on her phone with great enthusiasm--too much for this neighborhood. I often feel lonely here because so many of these people keep to themselves. Or at least keep away from me. Which reminds me, I know what I want to wish for. I quickly fixed the hot chocolate and sat down to my cake. I lit the candle, made my wish, and sang softly to myself. If only I had someone to celebrate with--when my Henry was around, birthdays were always such a big deal. . . .
I looked over out the window again. The wind had died down again. The sun was out and the world looked at peace. An elderly lady stood in the park, huddling over a pile of rags and an old piece of newspaper. She looked excited, keyed up in some way--even from six floors up. She must have seen me in the window, because she waved her arms and shouted something. It sounded like Happy Birthday, but I couldn't be sure. I waved back though. I was surprised she'd know it was my birthday, and I took that wave as a sign of good luck, possibly just enough luck to get my stove changed. So I took the rotting, lurching elevator down to the basement and knocked on the super's door.
"Happy Birthday," he said as he opened the door. "What could you possibly want this time of the morning?"
So I explained the situation to him. "When people fly and sidewalks sing."
Hmm.
Next I ran by Manny's grocery to buy a new battery for my hearing aid. The old one was giving out. When I walked in, the manager greeted me with a smile and a "Happy 60th!" He selected me a new battery and escorted me to the checkout. Halfway home, I glanced at the park and saw a gathering of people-some waving at me, some talking with great excitement, one with a celebratory bottle of wine. Off to the side, an odd woman sang in a low, deep voice. "Happy Birthday." The notes drew slowly down the crowd to merge near the street, where a high pitched siren screamed. Touched to tears, I turned away from the group and headed back to my apartment.
I installed my new battery and sipped on my leftover hot chocolate. Drawn out of curiosity, I once again stepped to the window, my view of the park only partially obstructed. The crowd was still gathered, so I opened the window to shout down my thanks. I was cut short by the same low tune from my walk. The high-pitched screech was missing, and over the noise of the crowd I heard "Somebody died today."
restoration.
When Chloe woke up in the morning, the sun shown through her bedroom curtains and onto her face, waking her abruptly from her sleep. She hadn't experienced sunlight for the longest time. She slipped out of bed and opened the window, sticking her head out.
She walked into the kitchen and made herself toast with apple butter.
A few hours later Chloe walked on the street and passed a woman who was yelling at someone adamantly. Apparently the dog had peed on her. Chloe couldn't help but laugh to herself as she walked on down the street. She sat on the park bench for a long time, absorbing the sunlight for the first time in several months. It warmed her insides, making her shoulders rosy. She got up and walked several blocks before she heard a crowd gathering. An ambulance closed its doors and put on its siren, speeding away.
"What happened?" Chloe asked someone in the crowd. A old woman was standing on the outskirts answered.
"I'm not entirely sure. They took a man away. I think he's dead." Her voice was quiet, but without much emotion.
Chloe couldn't deal with any more death. She left the scene and headed back to her apartment. When she got there she opened her window and let fresh air fill the room. A neighborhood cat came by her window and she petted it silently. The tabby purred contently and came into her apartment. She found some tuna in the cabinet and the cat ate happily and then curled up on her bed. Chloe undressed and went into bed, thinking about death, and happiness, and family, and the poor man that died earlier that day. She wanted to know his story, what happened, who he was leaving behind, and all of the things she hoped people would wonder about her. The day grew into night and Chloe got in the shower. The water slipped down her body, and she turned the cold knob one, until the water was as cold as ice, making her shiver violently. She got out, dried off, and went to bed.
She again pulled the covers up over her chin and fell into a deep sleep.
A Clear Day At Last
Patrick awoke to find himself on Kevin's futon in Apartment 983, Washington Heights, Baltimore. The last few days of his life seemed a blur. Earlier that week, he had awoken from a what had seemed like a long, long sleep full of pleasant dreams to find himself sprawled out stark naked on a stainless steel table in an austere apartment lined with shelves of ominous-looking chemicals.
Kevin had told him everything. He filled in every detail, from the plunge off the bridge to the escape from the morgue, and from his arrival in Washington Heights to the burning of powdered intestines and herbs. It was surreal coming back to life, having departed the dreamlike bliss of heaven.
Patrick sat up, rubbing his eyes. He was wearing Kevin's blue Johns Hopkins sweatshirt and an old pair of Kevin's jeans as he had no clothes of his own. Pushing the blanket aside, Patrick stood up and strode into the kitchen where Kevin had begun to make waffles. Eggo waffles.
"Can we please eat something other than Eggo waffles for breakfast? They're horribly freezer burnt," Patrick pleaded.
"I guess we can go to the bakery, if you insist," Kevin responded.
Patrick waited for Kevin to grab his wallet and then opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Across the corridor, a sign reading "FOR RENT" hung on the door of Apartment 982. Patrick, unaware of the apartment's previous owner, briefly noted the sign, but Kevin didn't seem to notice it at all.
The pair ambled down the corridor to the stairwell, which they descended at a rate much slower than Kevin usually did. Passing through the dingy, cramped lobby, Patrick and Kevin stepped out onto the street. The first thing that caught their eyes was an ambulance across the street in the park, surrounded by an ever-growing throng of Washington Heights residents. They watched as the form of a small boy, drenched in blood and sunlight, was lifted into the back of the ambulance.
Patrick turned to Kevin. He could see the glow of the light bulb that had suddenly switched on in Kevin's head glinting through his eyes.
"I know what you're thinking, and it's a bad idea," Patrick admonished. "You did it once, and once is enough. C'mon. Let's go get some breakfast."
Shoulders hunched in disappointment, Kevin followed Patrick's lead and turned toward the bakery.
Pulling the door open, Kevin stepped inside the bakery, followed by Patrick. Kevin was taken aback to find the hulking form of a seemingly-hostile man behind the counter. Maria was nowhere to be found.
Pushing this thought to the back of his mind, Kevin asked Patrick what he wanted to eat.
"How about a chocolate chip muffin?" Patrick asked.
"Good luck with that," Kevin replied. "How about a bagel? Or a...bagel?"
"A bagel sounds fine," Patrick sighed. "Do they have -"
"No, just plain. Don't even bother trying to find variety here," Kevin interrupted him.
Bagels in hand, they departed the bakery. They noticed that the crowd surrounding the ambulance had dispersed and people were now milling about the streets. As he was covered in scars and stitches, Patrick would've normally stood out walking down the streets of a crowded city, but in Washington Heights, even the most bizarre is commonplace. Nevertheless, he felt self-conscious about the dark lines tracing his limbs and converging at the nape of his neck.
Upon their arrival at Apartment 983, Kevin finally noticed the sign on Maria's door. A pang of sadness gripped his heart as he thought of how he would never see her again. But then, glancing into Patrick's eyes, he was comforted by the presence of his longtime friend. One friend lost, another regained.
The pair of friends entered Apartment 983, each relieved by the prospect of escaping the hellhole that is Washington Heights, and each reflecting on their lives together, past and future.
Let Your Nightmares Go
Marcus awoke to a bright and sunny morning, much unlike what he was accustomed to. Baltimore did have a very good bit of good weather, but Marcus hadn't seen it in a minute. He stepped out of the front door of the building and grimaced, shielding his eyes from the intense sunlight. Through the grapevine he had heard about some hobo's death the previous night. "That was a hell of a storm," he thought to himself. It was ironic how beautiful a day it was today. Whatever. He had seen way worse back in his native Colombia. As he turned to go back into the building and get dressed, Manuel heard an all too familiar sound, that of a gun cocking. After what he had been through, Marcus turned cool as the other side of the pillow. "What now," he voiced to the agent dressed in a solid black suit. The only response was the resounding crack of the pistol as it bashed against his head and dropped Manuel into an unconscious heap onto the ground.
Manuel awoke in an apartment room not unlike his own. Except this one was a lot nicer. A plasma TV rested on the wall before him, and as he rolled off of the king-sized bed, his feet connected with a mahogany hardwood floor. "Where am I," he wondered as he touched his head. His hand quickly jolted back from the sensitive skin covered with a thick layer of gauze. He stepped into the parlor. "So nice to see you Manuel," a voice in a chair said. "Please, take a seat." Manuel sat down. The chair quickly turned and revealed an short Asian man. Manuel did not recognize the individual, but did recognize his voice. He had received hit calls, drug locations, and alibi instructions from this voice countless times. "You're.... you're the leader of the Bandanistas," Marcus muttered. "That's right," responded the man. "But what you may not know is that I am also second in command of the DEA. Did you ever stop to think about how in the hell you got away from the most elite tracking team in the United States? You? It was me. I called off the raid." Manuel just sat, puzzled, wondering why this man was telling him these fanatical stories. "But why... why do you think I would save you? Because you were employee of the month." This joke sent the Asian man into a fit of laughter. "Well you'd be wrong. The reason I've saved you is that killing you would be too easy. You tried to double-cross the Bandanistas. You tried to break the code of the streets. And that is punishable by much, much worse than death. First, I'd like to inform you that your family back home is all dead." This the man said with such ambivalence that Marcus was paralyzed beyond the point of reaction. "But next you must know this. Around every turn, every time you wake, and every time you sleep. Every breath you take and every step you take... I will be there. Watching. Waiting. Knowing. The rest of your living days will be lived in fear. Fear of me. And one day you will experience the pain that can only be felt when the streets return the disrespect that you have shown them." "Now," the man said, "Gilberto will show you out. Have a nice day." Manuel turned to the sight of a large man coming down on him with a baseball bat.
Manuel woke up again back into his apartment. This time he remember exactly what had happened. He shivered to his feet and looked around. "WHERE ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU?" He checked under the bed, in the closet. Nobody. He checked in the fridge, he unscrewed the legs off the table, he ripped up the couch, and destroyed the TV. Nobody. "I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL FIND YOU AND MURDER YOU! YOU HAVEN'T WON!!!"
Henry Dupont walked by the apartment, apartment 212, and heard the maniacal shrieks of a man beyond institutions and medicine. He heard a man entirely consumed with fear.
"Damn, I sure as hell won't be missing that in fashion school"
Henry walked on into his endless horizons, leaving behind the inhabitants of Washington Heights to rot in the graves that were their everyday lives.
Here and now is where Lola decided she wanted to be. She could not let the past haunt her anymore. She was going to do something that she should have done immediately after her 347 wrong turns off of overpass 19 and into Washington Heights. She was going to leave. As she was lulled back and forth by the rickety rocking of the train, she stared out past the sullied sights into her future. Washington Heights was full of painful memories that consumed her thoughts, so she had to get away. Out of the corner of her eye, Lola saw Rizzo Sprayberry sitting and cussing at her shoes, a half-eaten bagel sitting next to her on the dirty seat. Rizzo was hissing something about how her only good pair of shoes was ruined by a pissing dog with bad aim. How awful, thought Lola, those poor, pissy shoes.
Lola went back to staring out the cloudy window just as the train lurched to a halt. She stood up and went to the door as it opened with a gust of fresh, sunshiny air. How very lovely and refreshing it was to see sun and smell air that was not filled with the suffocating dirt and fog of Washington Heights. She strolled down the splendidly sunny sidewalk toward the door to her bright future.
"Welcome to Happy Trails travel agency," a cheery lady behind a desk said as Lola entered the sparkling office.
"I need to book a trip to Las Vegas," said Lola.
"Would you like that to be round trip or one way dear?" the lovely lady asked.
"One way!" Lola said as a smile stretched across her face. "I will not be coming back."
"Okay, well that’s easy enough. When would you like to leave?"
"Is tomorrow too soon?" asked Lola.
"Um...no. That is just fine honey. You can leave as soon as tomorrow afternoon."
"I’ll take it!" giggled Lola.
As Lola left the office, she spotted an ice cream truck across the street. Now she could get her rocket pop. That would be the perfect ending to her day.
********
The train pulled back into the Washington Heights subway station. Lola licked the last drop of happiness off of her popsicle stick and saw that a storm was rolling into Washington Heights...as usual. Lola hurried back to her apartment. She had quite a bit to pack before the morning. She packed her belongings to the sound of cracking thunder and the torrential downpour taking place outside. But nothing could rain on her parade. Lola was able to stuff everything into one big bag that she would have to drag, but at least she would have everything. She fell asleep with thoughts of Vegas dancing in her head.
********
Lola was awakened by a tiny trickle of sun shining in her eyes. She couldn’t believe there was actually sun in Washington Heights. How befitting: sun on the day she was leaving, Lola thought bitterly. But then she thought perhaps the sun is just a sign of what is awaiting her. She dragged her bag out the door and left her key under the mat. As Lola dragged her bag toward the subway station, she saw the poor little Fil crushed beneath the branches of the very tree that had been his home. At least Lola thought at least he is free from the cold grasp of Washington Heights. Lola turned into the subway and did not look back.
********
Lola felt the train approach her final destination. She took a pair of beautiful pumps from her bag and handed them to Rizzo Sprayberry as she stepped into the hopeful sunshine, and the doors of the train to Washington Heights closed on her forever. Lola smiled. Here I go!
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