A New Direction

I haven't written in a very long time. No more stories. I also decided I was out of clever titles. So I'm sticking with this blog.

I saw a sort of special interest story on Sportscenter today, it outlined the events of the murder of Ray Caruth, a football star, and the murder of his girlfriend. A gunman was hired to shoot the woman who was, at the time, eight months pregnant. The child was born, but with Cerebral Palsy, and in the third grade is just managing to walk 200 steps without any help, and may soon climb a flight of stairs.
The gunman is sentenced to some fifty years in prison, and during this time he has converted to the Islamic faith, and sought forgiveness from the grandmother who cares for the child, Chancellor. She granted him this forgiveness. Yet when asked what he would do if he saw Ray Caruth, who he claims involved him in this mess, he said that he would kill him.

I also saw, on Sportscenter, a NASCAR crash. This was no ordinary crash-the two drivers had bad blood. One, in fact, sent the other flying in an earlier race and it nearly killed members of the crowd, who to the best of my knowledge, were not involved in their feud.

All of this made me wonder if people stop at nothing for revenge. Where is the line drawn? A man converts to a peaceful religion and seeks forgiveness for the suffering he has caused, yet he wishes to kill someone. Two well paid stock car drivers do not even stop their fighting when their disagreements almost kill bystanders.

I hope Sportscenter did not, all of a sudden, develop a conscience and tried to illustrate a point. I'm hoping for coincidence.

The View From Above

The snowflake danced around him, unmotivated by the gusty wind, until it finally landed softly on his jeans. It didn’t melt. He didn’t expect it to. He sat on the park bench, accumulating mass one precious flake at a time, and looked like a snowdrift. The snow wasn’t welcome; it was March, that precarious middle ground between Winter and Spring, where the bulbs try to push their way through the softening ground. At least people couldn’t see him, looking like some kind of half covered, hyper-realistic statue done in some kind of art nouveau style.

A man sat down next to him and unsurprisingly paid little attention to his presence. He leafed through his newspaper with the kind of arbitrary glance that could only possibly absorb the headlines. After another cursory glance at the front page, there was a pause, as though he pondered further reading or some kind of disposal. The choice was never made, as his coronary artery failed, and turned his face as white as the snow that melted on his reddening cheeks.

He jammed his hands into the pockets of his blazer and walked away. He cleaved the crowd cleanly, no one noticed him, but no one dare so much as look his way, wary of his presence through some kind of subliminal sense. Eventually he stopped, as the people continually swirled around him, creating some kind of human eddy that would look interesting from the sky.

A moment’s pause managed to create a revolutionary thought. He wanted to quit, his job simply did not fit his taste any longer. Another moment produced another thought. How could he quit? He had no boss, no secretary, no office building, he didn’t even have a dental plan. He allowed his tongue to search around his mouth. He could use one.

All that drove him was some kind of innate feeling, an impulse inert to his desires and wishes, something that told him where to go and took him there, something that told him what to do. That was the way things had been since he could recall, which was a very long time. How could he override the subconscious? Was there a way to destroy the invisible? As the thoughts swirled around his mind and the people whirled around his body, he felt the feeling that had become so familiar. He was supposed to go somewhere new and claim another life.

After deliberation, he decided to plant his feet firmly in the ground. Nothing was going to move him except his own will, and the bonds he had should be broken. Though fresh out of his teenage years, as he had been since he could remember, he was somewhere between lanky and wiry, hanging dangerously over some point of divergence of the unattractive and the even less attractive. The energy in his body seemed to build, as he began to strain his neck while his body quivered. Eventually, the force was simply too much, and he vaulted into the sky.

There was grace period, where he felt as though he hung in the sky, within arms reach of the stars, and hanging above the world as if he could pluck the clouds and make them into a marshmallow pie. Soon enough, gravity relieved ecstasy and he tumbled to the earth, the edges of his blazer and the frayed ends of his jeans toying with flames.

Unfortunately, his back was to the quickly approaching mountain, which he dutifully plastered himself against. After a moment, the snow shook him loose and he careened down the side of the mountain until he was met with a tiny hamlet, where he courteously plowed through a house before coming to a complete stop. He felt something building within him, coming fast from some kind of hidden internal source. With that, he was flung again into the air again.

He hung for such a time that he felt as though he was stationary as the world rotated beneath him. Though it kept rotating, he began to fall, reaching some kind of terminal velocity as he flailed wildly to avoid his clothes from catching fire again. This time, he landed in a road, and after being run over by a few unsuspecting cars, he lifted himself up and managed to straggle into the nearest building, which happened to be a coffee shop.

Few people appear handsome after a trip around the world, and it was even more remarkable that he somehow managed to maintain some decency in his appearance given his mode of transportation. He bore some kind of beautifully tousled look, as though he purposefully singed his clothes and shaped his hair like patch of grass on a football field. That is, after a match, of course.

With one foot in the café, he stopped. His knees buckled slightly as he forced his eyes shut and balled his fists. He expected that sometime soon he would be catapulted to some distant location. Remarkably, his assumption was incorrect, and after blocking the only way into and out of the coffee shop for some time, he continued his previous straggling, finding the nearest seat.

His eyes were met with a woman sitting across the table. Her eyes were wide, and bright, so bright he squinted slightly, and she served ample contrast to his tattered, dirty state. Though she took a sip from her oversized coffee mug, her eyes remained fixed on him. For what felt to him like a while, she seemed content merely to observe his minimal actions. Eventually, she lost her patience.
“Do you have a name?”

He squinted one eye and thought for a moment, cocking his head to the side. “Not really, no.”

She smiled, and probed deeper. “You don’t even have some kind of nickname? A pen name?” She ventured. “A serial code even?” She joked.

He opened his mouth, and then paused. “Well, I guess you could call me Death if you like.” He finally stated.

She furrowed her eyebrows for a brief moment, and then bit her lip and smiled. “Well then, my name is Inspiration.” She joked again.

For someone not accustomed to discourse, he adapted quickly, and soon learned to appreciate it. There was something mundane about ‘being human’, but he still enjoyed it. He felt permanently callused though, as every mention of life and death seemed so passionate and emotional yet he failed to relate. Eventually, he let his back rest on the chair, finding comfort in knowing that the cycle had been broken; he was not longer bound by his morbid obligations.

He found some newfound comfort in his existence, as if he had been tense for so long and only noticed when he allowed himself to relax. The monotony of speech, the bell ringing every time the door opened, there was something so satisfying about knowing what would happen before it happened, because it happened so many times before. He also came to appreciate this “Inspiration”, whatever her real name might be. It dawned on him eventually that she assumed him to be so hopelessly romantic poet yuppie from an urban city, the kind that acted poorer than his salary would suggest. Perhaps that was his attempt at being poetic.

He drank his coffee quickly, unaware of his burning tongue. One final sip was left and he stared at it, swirling it around, expecting it clear like a cloudy crystal ball, revealing some prudent foresight. Instead, he felt it within him again. He sensed that energy that welled from his innermost regions and radiated outward. Unfortunately, he did not brace in time, and was scarcely prepared for the trip. He was vaulted upwards, slamming into the ceiling of the coffee shop, raining plaster on the people below. He dropped slightly and rammed it again, this time breaking through. Eventually he reached some limit, where ice now nipped at his singed clothes. After a seeming eternity, he dropped from his floating stasis back to earth. He landed on a tree for a brief moment, and then fell to the ground.

His eyes were met with Inspiration, albeit a more a stunned version of her former self. Tears welled in his eyes. The particular feeling was back, and he lost all control. He allowed the inevitable to play itself out, scripted, but forever painful. She dropped to his feet; her gaping mouth facing the sky, hoping gravity might force some air into her nearly lifeless body.

He wept, cradling the only person he had known, the only one he liked. There reached a point where he clutched her so tight any last vestiges of life within her hollow body were likely squeezed into the cold air. Suffering was total; a feeling he never had, nor ever wished to have again.

Some other foreign feeling crept into his body. The various cuts, scratches, gashes, and wounds he accumulated from his makeshift air travel began to sting. They began to burn and to hurt. A person passed him and asked if she should call an ambulance, looking him right in the eye. He nearly smiled.

“I think she’ll be fine.” He assured her.

The woman nodded and walked on.

“If only the same could be said for me.” He whispered.

Empty Inside

A silence engulfed the car, the kind that seems to amplify wind whipping past its thin metal shell, slapping its front and wrapping around its back. It provided evidence to passengers within that it is always colder, harsher, more dangerous outside than within this womb of airbags and seatbelts. It was the kind of silence that stifled any potential dialogue.

Billie kept her hands on her stomach, a peak so slight that it required some kind of tactile feedback to ensure its existence. Every time she lifted her hands and placed them gently on her stomach, she expected some kind of warmth for her shaking extremities, but every time she was met with the same sweaty skin that covered her whole body.

The world rolled underneath Martin’s wheels, the lines of the highway seeming to bend as they approached him. He constantly ran his hand over his face, closing his eyes, and when they opened he was met with a world just slightly different, barely noticeable, and it never failed to disappoint him.

He pulled into the parking space right by the building so gently that he never used brakes, and the car in fact rolled to a premature stop and required the slightest motion to be nudged into the space. He closed his door and went to the passenger’s side, but Billie was far ahead, already being enveloped behind the automatic sliding doors.

An uncomfortable moment ensued, the kind that leaves someone incapable to think, and regardless of the measures taken, is only alleviated by time. After a while, Martin wondered whether to go inside or to stay outside. Something told him that the matter was both completely related to him and not related to him at all. He opted to stand in the darkness between the streetlights, right outside of the automatic door that consumed Billie not too long ago.

Eventually, the doors spat her out, caked in tears. She ran right into Martin, not
seeing him in the darkness of the night, and only recognizing him when he placed a familiar hand on her back and embraced her. They stood there, between the fluorescent glows, as if to fill some overlooked void, something missing not only around them but within them both. The rocked back and forth, leaning into the wind and its changing paths, almost as if they were dancing. Martin looked through Billie’s eyes and watched them close as she rested her head on his shoulder and he closed his eyes as well. Soon after, Billie collapsed to the ground, and remained there, a permanent replacement to the empty void between the lights.

A Life Of Its Own

Spotlights flooded the stage with artificial light, entering every pore of the imperfect hardwood and permeating even microscopic cracks. Phillip did not so much as squint as he stared back into the audience that was invisible to him, veiled by the brilliance, and made a humble bow. He delicately rested his rear and legs on the stool, so deftly that the slight exhalation never resonated through the hall’s acoustics. Resting his hands on the ivory keys, he triggered an explosion of colorful sound that resonated through the ranks of people.
It comes as no surprise that pianists often make natural dancers. Phillip’s movements up and down the keyboard seemed to materialize at the ends of ten miniature feet. Each finger bent, curled, and even swayed as if having its own personality. Often, his two hands would have to cross over, and it was easy to perceive a slight wave between the two, a cordial greeting, a passing wave. His head, too, seemed independent of the other constituents of his body, and gave the impression that it was not being used at all, though this was no mechanized reproduction of a practiced motion. Each finger had a life of its own.
There was an odd dancing effect on the keys too. As they dove down and hammered each string in the piano’s body, they caught the light. A pseudo disco-ball effect pranced on the painted ceiling above. The cherubs that watched over the mesmerized people seemed to float about, rather than being transfixed, static, merely a representation of life. One look in their direction actually sparked fear, an odd belief that all of the holy things in their plump hands might shower down on the red velvet seats.
Phillip radiated beauty to his immediate surroundings. Within the soundproofed walls of the auditorium, he unleashed a beautifully calculated barrage of sound waves, tickling every hammer, anvil, and stirrup with unrelenting persistence. At some point, he seemed to transfer all the life that coursed through his veins to the very tips of his fingers, as if putting the rest of his body on autopilot. Every time his fingertip touched a key it was like a delicate kiss which the porous material seemed to lap up and prepare for the next. One final note rang, one parting exchange between man and instrument, and Phillip rose, bowed, and exited the stage to a roar of applause.
He tried to exit the stage, more accurately. Just a step away, he was met by a man in a black suit with a white shirt and a white tie. The audience could only see Phillip, who was paused, one foot on the stage and one foot out of view. Clearly, the man was either important or considered himself to be, and would not let Phillip past without releasing his statement, as if pent up and slamming on the cage that was his memory. Proper viewer etiquette would suggest that a worthy performance deserves clapping until the performer leaves the stage, and this made conversation between Phillip and the man quite difficult and strained. After bouts of yelling and what appeared to be sign language, the man produced an envelope, made a botched attempt at a hand shake and left, utilizing an unnecessary about face maneuver.
“A draft?” His wife asked him.
Phillip ran his fingers through his hair, and repeated his earlier words. “Yes, a draft. Not a cold wind, not an essay outline, not any other synonym you can pull out of your ass. The kind where you go. And you kill people. And you come home and they don’t even give you a pat on the back. The give you post traumatic stress disorder though. I think that’s supposed to replace a pension.”
“Why do you they want you? A breeze could blow you over. Artillery would be a nightmare. You could lift more with your fingers than you could with the rest of you arms.” She paused, and noticed his face drop. “I’m sorry. Look, it’s late, you’ve had a long day, and we should just get some rest.”
They finally agreed. “You’re right.”
With that, he pushed his chair back a little, moved the pile of mail out of the way, rested his head on the kitchen table and went to sleep.
The bus seemed as discontent as its passengers. Phillip tried to get some sleep, resting his head against the plastic window, and every time he did the suspension let out a grunt and banged his head against the nearest, or more often, the hardest object in proximity. He decided to try napping on the back of the fake leather seat in front of him. The experience gave him newfound respect for the strength of speed bumps and the resilience of the human skull. The bus complained the whole journey, accenting its distaste with the occasional dissonant creak, with subtle undertones of burning rubber to hint at future problems. Phillip shrugged and viewed the other recruits in the vehicle. At least the bus was animated.
Boot camp was bad food. A lot of instances where getting wet is mandatory but not logically necessary. It was beds that were not the same color when they were new. It was a lot of paperwork and education, along with all of the physical labor, unpleasant people trying to make the whole experience more appealing to only themselves, cooks who could care less and cleaners who should have better jobs. Phillip felt like a fat kid in middle school.
After a couple of unforgettable nights certainly worthy of forgetting, boot camp came and went, which originally struck Phillip as a positive event. Of course, he failed to look into the future and realized that the sensible progression of boot camp is actually going to war. Phillip yearned for the black and white keys that he colored the world with. He wanted to sit at his own piano, to feel the stool already conformed to his shape. He wanted a warm drink in a thick ceramic mug. He wanted to sit on his porch and watch the world go by.
Instead, he got a rash. A sizeable one at that. He accumulated some kind of hanging odor that never seemed to leave his side, like the companion nobody would ever want. Sitting in the humvee, he felt at ease, knowing he could no longer attempt, and inevitably fail, at trying to evade the funk. The humvee seemed to grumble too, but more like an angry teenager. The movements were jerky and unpredictable, the undertones of hot shell casings sharp and bitter. Phillip shook his head. He preferred the bus.
After boring days at base camp, he dragged himself, and his smelly invisible companion, into the humvee once again. Manning the turret at the top, Phillip went about the automatic motions he was trained to do in camp. Sweep left, sweep right, look up, gun down, view the starving children on the side of the road, wonder why someone is throwing rice at you, sweep left, pray that that’s a toy gun, sweep right, I’m going to have military tan lines. There was a rhythm to the process, but it felt alien to Phillip.
He woke to saline. His chapped lips were tricked by the tears, first hydrated, and then sapped of any liquid through the salt. The light was brilliant, almost familiar, but it hurt his eyes. He had a one person audience. Something seemed unpleasantly lodged in his nose, as if he was permanently stuck with the feeling right before a sneeze. His body was cold but his hand were warm, almost as if covered by their only miniature blankets.
After adjusting to the light, he found his wife standing over him, silently spilling tears onto the hospital bed and his gown. Even her breathing was inaudible, and Phillip couldn’t help to crack his lips to form a smile. There might be times for words, but now was not such a time. His wife smiled and kissed him on the forehead, and he closed his eyes to lull himself back to sleep, and reached across his body to scratch his arm. He screamed.
Screaming seems to clear the mind, to create some kind of vacuum that only stays as long as a person screams. Phillip wanted to scream forever, to be empty forever, and to never let that cavity be filled. He shot a brief glance at his hands to confirm his thoughts. Both were stumps, and more accurately, he did not truly have hands anymore; he had nothing beyond his wrists but a bundle of gauze. He stared, hoping they would appear, that someone had run out of ideas and made this a reality show, or that his eyes weren’t well adjusted or something-something, anything. Phillip stopped screaming, but the emptiness inside him remained.
It had been a while since he lost his hands, but he was still in the hospital, somewhere in Switzerland, with his wife permanently attached to his side. The odor seemed to have vanished. Phillip considered it a fair trade.
“We can’t stay here forever Phillip. It’ll eat you alive and you know it.” She tried to reason.
“I’ve already been consumed. ‘It’ will just be picking at a carcass.” He shot back.
“You’re alive, i-” She paused. Her first two words felt like enough.
“Well I-” He stopped short as well. They both knew what was going to say.
His wife quieted her voice, as if suddenly aware of an audience. “This is Switzerland.” She whispered.
“Thank you.” He whispered back sarcastically.
She cleared her throat. “They can-they can, you know…” A brief pause “put you down.” She blurted, without changing her expression. “There are two buttons over there. One turns off all these damn machines you haven’t needed for weeks. We can go home. The other one puts poison in your IV drip. I’ll be outside.”
Her exit was so quiet Phillip had to watch her leave to make sure. His head dropped, and he stared at the nauseating pattern on his hospital gown. He reached across the bed and
He reached across the futon to grab the remote, while wondering how someone could sit through the whole movie. A soppy plot, a predictable twist. He shook his head, as if trying to punish pop culture. He turned off the TV, watching the final image, Phillip’s disgusting hospital robe, fade off of the screen. He sighed and dragged himself upstairs, and went to bed.

Right and Left, Right and Wrong

Odell’s mammoth hand barely fit in the handles of the cheap orange packing crates. The neat lattice design was ideal for carrying large loads, but the handles dug into his fingers, turning the pink palm of his hand red and his extremities white.

He looked down at the crate he just picked up and was met with hundreds of smiling clowns, printed on every box of paste to remind every person of its maker. Slowly, he started to make his way to the end of the alley, marching from its entryway to the back door of the restaurant with his head tilted awkwardly to the side so nobody could see him from the busy street. The only thing less glamorous than his salary was the nature of his job.

New York City created a symphony for him, a rhythm to work to. The taxis provided a consistent hum, never losing synchronization with the ever-shifting stoplights, while the other cars provided dissonant sounds as contrast. The gently swaying antennas of the tallest skyscrapers sometimes peeked down on the ground like the best conductors, minimal but important. Almost without thinking, he picked up every crate in time, dragged his feet with the same sense of pulse, and put the load down accordingly.

The heavy back door swung open and slammed against the brick siding of the building unchecked. Odell’s boss emerged, wearing his usual white shirt, top two buttons undone, black slacks and greased, not polished, shoes that were caked in the stuff to avoid squeaking that would give away their actual worth. The image was topped by a black, balding head defiantly slicked back as though to ward off the age, and hair loss, that was imminent. Odell stared at the sight with a mix of disgust and awe as he usually did.

“I said diversify. Remember? Diversify the crates you carry. What good are four crates of angel hair when I need tomatoes, herb, and other things to make the sauce? Jesus O, it’s the easiest job in the world and you can’t do it.” He jabbed.

Odell barely paid any attention to what his boss said, because he focused on the nickname O. It bothered him, because it was accompanied by the word Jesus. It was either ‘Jesus O’, which sounded either like a dyslexic hymn or an abbreviated curse, or it was ‘O Jesus’, which never had a pause between the two and gave him the impression that something was terribly wrong. Of course, in his boss’ eyes, something always was.

Odell brought himself back to the alleyway he stood in and realized that his boss had been staring at him waiting for a reply.

“I could bring them in like you say, but then I need to get crates from the bottom pile, so it takes more time. In the end I’ll get everything faster.” He countered.

“The hell do I care if you get all this here in record time unless what I want gets here when I want? Now bring over that crate of basil. I need it for the sauce I mentioned earlier. Did you forget about the sauce?” He mocked Odell, and then turned to leave without a squeak. “What a start to my weekend.” He muttered.

“It’s funny you use that term diversify.” Odell yelled after him just before the closed fully. He could see it open again slowly as his boss slid out from the gap.

“Why is it funny Odell? I’m curious. Men of such intellect like you and I should-” he paused to make a regal gesture and search his limited vocabulary “-we should pontificate.” The expression on his face, despite his gestures, remained bitter.

“You tell me to diversify the crates I carry, and its fair, since you do a good job diversifying your workers.” There was an uncomfortable pause where neither of them knew whether to speak. Odell continued. “All the cooks are Latino, all your waiters are Italian and I’m the only one who isn’t either, you hire me because you have to by law, and look at my office.” It was Odell’s turn for a regal gesture. “Beats a cubicle any day.” He shot at him.

“Well, I run an Italian restaurant; do you think they want to see a black waiter?” He posed.

“Do you think they want to find out the best dishes are made by a Brazilian who can’t even read your menu?” Odell posed.

“What do they care? It tasted good. It’s about what people see. They think a waiter with a tight afro and flashy Nike’s would be out of place.”

“And I fit right in right here?”

His boss shook his head and closed the heavy door as hard as his short, useless arms allowed.

Odell walked over to the crates by the street, picked up a crate of paste, and started bringing it to the back door.

The door flew open again and slammed into the building’s side yet again. Odell waited for it to close again, hoping his boss would have second thoughts about a second confrontation. He heard heavy breathing and the ruffling of clothes and without turning back barked at his boss.

“I don’t care if you have a heart attack I’ll leave you there and say I was doing my work like the obedient dog you always wanted me to be. A wish granted to the dying.” He yelled at his one man audience.

The breathing merely intensified, the clothes rubbed against one another even faster, as the railing by the door groaned under the weight. Odell suddenly came to the realization that his boss might actually be having a heart attack, dropped the crate, and whipped around for a better look.

His eyes were met with a man donned in roughly the same garb as his boss, but his shirt was buttoned to the top, and the shoes he wore were in fact polished and appeared to be quite expensive. The hair he had was starting to thin, though he didn’t take any measure to avoid the inescapable fact. Regardless, his hair was a veritable nest above his head, as it was subject to the woman he was kissing and her searching hands.

Leaning against the railing, and putting considerable strain on it, was a woman in a knee length black dress used to accent her lengthy blonde hair. Her eyes were blue, but did not glow; there was no depth to her ring of color around her endless black pupils, they were merely there, only existing, no more or less than the shattered crate next to Odell.

The man’s hand began to search up the woman’s dress when Odell let out a loud cough. He removed his hand from her thigh but continued regardless. Odell’s workplace was already depressing and he didn’t find the allure in making it nauseating too. He opened his mouth to speak, and then noticed the bright gold band around the man’s finger, and despite searching around the woman’s ring finger he could find nothing of the sort.

“This is an alley, not a cheap motel.” He called, holding back his disgust.

The two finally disengaged as such and turned to face him. The woman looked back at the man and they both let out a smile. Odell shook his head and turned his back to them, and went back to get another crate. He heard footsteps behind which quickened within a few seconds. The man and woman ran by him, hand in hand with the woman leading. The same juvenile smile dominated both of their faces as they splashed carelessly through the dirty puddles. They turned right and vanished from Odell’s sight.

The front door of the restaurant swung open, its sound being drowned out in a sea of small talk and Italian music. Sharon stood, shaking, in the entrance of restaurant. It was a blessing she never wore makeup, as her salty tears now caked her whole face and threatened to smear anything in its way. Conventionally, her tears would have started at her eyes and made their way to her jaw line in a polite, neat stream but she was constantly rubbing her face to try and wake herself from the reality she still believed to be a dream. A waiter greeted her with a polite smile.

“Good evening ma’am! A reservation perhaps? A last name please.” He searched.

“Phillips.” She composed herself, though her physical appearance remained unchanged.

The waiter eyed her subtly and then continued politely as before. “Your husband?”

“No.” She replied concisely, though still politely.

Another subtle glance and the waiter noticed a red mark around her fourth finger where a ring had hastily been taken off not long ago.

“Phillips?” He inquired rhetorically, and then checked the sheet in his hand. “No, I’m afraid he’s not here.” He lied.

“I know he made a reservation.” Her tone started to show a little bite.

“I’m afraid he didn’t show up for that reservation, miss.” Another lie.

She shook her head and walked past him, diving into the sea of white tablecloths and formal clothing. She walked with a purpose, but without care, shoving the desert tray to the side, pushing people’s chairs in without asking to pass by them, never calling her husband’s name, but always searching. She noticed a table for two that had just been cleared, and approached the waiter still clearing the remains of the unfinished meals.

“Who sat here?” She asked, still closing the distance between them.

“A man and a woman, miss.” He went back to cleaning, feeling the conversation was over.

“Was the man dressed very plainly? All black and white?” She pressed. “And polished shoes?”

The man nodded, having no desire to drag out the conversation. She nudged the table a little to the side and searched for any door other than the one she came through. Her only option was the kitchen, so she pushed through the double swinging doors and into a completely different, albeit equally noisy environment. She ducked under large pots, slid past chefs who took the idea ‘never trust a skinny cook’ too face. She circled the kitchen for another door until she found a back door, still open, in the cold draught outside. She pushed it open, but grabbed it before it slammed into the side of the building, not wishing for anything more to be damaged.

Odell shook his head and turned around to yell at whoever had just passed through the door, sick of unwanted visitors that disturbed his already painful job. When he spun around though, he was met with the shell of a woman-frail and lost, yet carrying some zeal in her eyes that gave her a sense of grounding purpose. Odell’s heart softened instantly and he put his crate down lightly. The woman barely felt his presence, calloused to any gestures now, and searched the alleyway hopelessly, as if to find some magical exit, some escape from her prison. She stopped finally, and sat down on the crate Odell had just lowered. She rested the palm of her right hand on her temple as she tried to erase all the thoughts pacing about in her head.

“Are you looking for something?” Odell asked quietly.

She shook her head. “Someone.” She replied laconically.

He noted the mark of a ring that was once on her finger, just as the waiter had, and bit his lip. He didn’t want hurt her, but it seemed evident to him that she already knew some of the truth.

“Well who are you looking for?” He asked. Acting was never his forte.

“My husband, he said he was going to a business meeting and they call me to ask why he didn’t show up. I noticed his last call was to this place.”

“Well, no need to jump to conclusions, maybe he was meeting with somebody to arrange a surprise… or maybe something’s wrong he trying to keep you safe from.” Odell remained unconvincing.

“Do you know where he went?” She asked the question she had wanted to ask since the beginning.

Odell’s heart pounded in his head. “He turned left, and went down the street as far as I could see.” He lied. “He was alone.” He lied again.

The woman gave a barely audible thank you, added a pained smile, and rose off of the crate, and was soon along Odell’s path of misdirection.

Odell ran his hands over his hair, the bulbous extension of his body returning to form right after his hands trailed off. He exhaled slowly; picked up the same crate she had sat on, picked it up, and carried back to the door.

A few days later, Odell walked to work and was met with a Ford Crown Victoria in place of a mountain of orange crates. His hands were thankful, but his mind raced. Two police officers were resting their backs against the side of the car, legs crossed, clearly waiting for somebody. They faced the alley, so they could only be waiting for one person. Odell tried to put the pieces together but failed to do so, and decided to walk past them without saying anything. The silence was soon shattered.

“Odell Jones?”

“Yes sir.”

“Does this woman seem in any way familiar to you?” The other one produced a photograph of the same woman who was his last visitor in the alleyway a few days ago.

“Yes sir she does, she was in that alleyway only a few days ago. I talked to her briefly, gave her directions, and haven’t seen her since.”

The last statement caused the two officers to look at each other, nod, and then look at Odell.

“She was mugged two days ago, and beaten after resisting. She was in a neighborhood she never went to, and you gave her directions there.”

There was a pause, and then Odell realized the connection the two officers made, and his face went numb and his features lost all life and expressions.

“No-see, her husband was with-I was just doing the right thin-” He was cut short by the cold feeling of around his wrists. He kept trying to explain himself as they pushed his head down to clear the ceiling of the car’s back door. He looked back to the entrance of the alleyway, shaking his head, and saw the crates that were hiding on the other side of the Crown Victoria, and hundreds of clown smiled back at him.