Three very short short stories.
My sister was the costume designer for her local high school’s plays for years. I would often fly in to take our mom to see the production. Towards the end, as her mobility decreased, we’d use a wheelchair.
As anyone who has experienced it would vouch, March in Wisconsin can be volatile. One year we were at the play and the day was cold, windy, and sleeting. Leaving the play, I was pushing the wheelchair as fast as I could to get to the car and keep my mom as dry as possible. A lady, walking back into the building against traffic, crossed paths with me and pointed down. “There’s a curb there.”
I shudder to think of the damage I would have caused if I had run the wheelchair right off that curb. My eighty-year-old mom would have flown out of the wheelchair and onto the parking lot. Instead, I slowed down and found the ramp. We made it back to the car, a little wetter but safe from harm.
Looking back, I’m not entirely convinced that lady was even real.
Lydia was always a little leery of Tuesdays. Following so closely behind Mondays, they could often come across as a little too sure of themselves. When you work in the service industry, it pays to pay attention.
For the last six months or so Lydia has been running a coffee kiosk in front of the vegan restaurant on Eastlake. She fills the orders for the restaurant and handles any walk-up customers as well. For her it was the ideal job, traditionally indoors but she was doing it al fresco. Very Seattle.
As fall made its way to winter, she started getting a lot of sympathy from customers. “It must be terrible to stand outside for hours.” Lydia knew better than to argue with customers, particularly with Mercury in retrograde as it was, but her attitude about winter? “Bring it on!” She especially liked the rainy days, it made everything dreamy.
Take yesterday for instance. A heavy fog engulfed the whole city and lasted the whole day. Like working in the middle of a noir film. “You’ll regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of your life.” Lydia and Bogart, together again.
As is often the case, a foggy Seattle day is a precursor to a crisp day with bright sunshine. Today was that day, with mountains peeking out in every direction. Customers in decidedly better moods. It also gave her a chance to show off her knit trapper hat and fingerless gloves. The right accoutrements, mandatory!
At the end of the work day, as she was rolling the kiosk back into its storage center, Lydia checked her phone for tomorrow’s weather. Rain all day, heavy at times. Oh yeah, baby!
It was over before it began. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a man running up on him. Before he could even turn around, he was enveloped in a bear hug and a second man slipped a hood over his head. He heard a van door open; he was pushed inside, and they took off. As the van serpentined down the SoHo streets they zip tied his hands together.
Granted, he’s always made his living in the periphery of the criminal element, but this kind of thing just didn’t happen to him. At least that’s what he thought, but when the big man hit him twice in the face, he had to reconsider. Even with the hood that got his attention and, it became clear that this type of thing did actually happen to him. Happening as we speak.
The kidnappers were arguing amongst themselves. He could make out three voices; two he recognized. He could tell right away he was dealing with some very low level foot soldiers, the proverbial box of rocks. One voice he recognized was a thug that worked in Hell’s Kitchen; the other was from Hunts Point. They shouldn’t even know each other much less be committing felonies together. He have to think that over.
The big guy, the one whose voice he didn’t recognize, kept asking him about Brooklyn. This is when he was convinced they had the wrong guy. He did deal in information for sale but it was information fragments. Little story pieces that might help someone piece together the larger picture. He learned early on in the business that knowing the whole story was a surefire way to get yourself killed. It wasn’t in his best interests to understand the Brooklyn crime structure.
He was still pleading ignorance when a cell phone rang. The big guy answered. He was getting an earful and replied “Yes, Dashou.” And that identified another key piece. Dashou was the nickname of the second in command in Chinatown. Why would he have this gang that couldn’t shoot straight asking about Brooklyn? A naturally curious person might want to tie those loose ends together but, again, that wasn’t the business he was in. Interesting nuggets, to be sure.
The big guy got off the phone. After some back and forth with the others he cut off the zip tie. “A word of this and you’re dead meat!” With that they stopped the van, pulled the blindfold, and pushed him back onto the street, slamming the door behind him.
He walked away only a little worse for wear: a taste of blood in his mouth; his wrists raw from the zip ties. He decided to treat himself to a big lunch. All in all, it had been an oddly productive morning.
