Jefferson's string of Robin Hood-like robberies had been successful up until that night. He had amassed a small collection of riches hidden under his floorboards that he had purloined from undeserving drug lords, which he intended to distribute to the poor somehow. But he made a mistake; he had to have the car. It was a beautiful yellow Lamborghini Miura he had found in one particularly well-off drug dealer's garage. The Lambo was pristine and collecting dust, proof its owner didn't use it. Jefferson didn't know how he would return it to the community; he just knew that its current owner didn't deserve it in the least. So Jefferson stole it. The theft wasn't difficult; cars that old didn't have that much of a security system. The garage, on the other hand, did.
As soon as Jefferson started up that glorious engine, three thugs with machine guns ran out of the dealer's crib. Jefferson gunned the Miura in reverse and broke through the garage's wooden wall. He slung the car around and flew down the street. The thugs peeled out of the garage in two black Cadillacs. The Miura was much faster than the Cadillacs, but the thugs had machine guns, and he couldn't outrun a bullet. The thugs fired at him; his car was riddled with bullets, and his rear window shattered. Jefferson swerved left and narrowly missed hitting a minivan. The Cadillacs followed easily. Jefferson weaved through traffic wildly, but the thugs still kept up. Then he saw flashing red and blue lights in his rearview mirror - three police cars had not surprisingly taken notice of their activities. Two of them rammed the Cadillacs and forced them off the road. The third followed Jefferson. Jefferson floored it. The police car could barely keep up, and Jefferson almost got away. Then it began to sleet.
The sleet made a sound similar to the bullets as they hit his car. Jefferson could barely see. A truck pulled out in front of him and he swerved into the left lane, then back into the right as another car almost hit him head on. Jefferson spun out of control, but regained it and sped down an adjacent street. The police car was still hot on his tail. Jefferson slowed down; the Miura's speed was no use to him if he couldn't see. The hail grew heavier. Jefferson looked in his mirrors. More cars had joined the chase. This would have to end soon. The lights of Washington Heights stood out in the darkness. He would have to ditch the car; he knew this now. At least it wouldn't be in the hands of a drug dealer. Suddenly, a black van pulled out in front of Jefferson. He swerved right. He didn't see the small coupe until it was too late.
The coupe backed out of the garage. The Miura's headlights illuminated it suddenly. Jefferson didn't have time to think. He slammed the brakes. It was useless. The Miura slammed head on into the coupe's trunk. The trunk was obliterated. The Miura lost contact with the ground. It flipped over several times. It landed in an abandoned storefront. Everything stopped.
Jefferson came to. The hail had stopped. He was lying upside down in an upside down Miura in the front of an abandoned building. Everything hurt; something was bleeding. Cars that old didn't have much of a safety system. Jefferson laboriously pulled himself out of the wreck. He knew he didn't have much time before the police got there. He peeked out of the gaping hole in the front of the building. The coupe was sitting in the middle of the street, its rear end completely smashed in. A trail of glass and metal lay between it and the Miura. The coupe's owner was climbing out of his car. Jefferson recognized him as Ryan Ford, one of the tenants of Washington Heights. He looked shaken but mostly uninjured. Then Jefferson saw the police cars zoom around the corner; they must have been stopped by the black van. Jefferson stumbled out the back of the abandoned building and into the street.
He was able to evade the police as he limped back to his apartment. He walked behind the Chinese restaurant near Washington Heights so that he could get in through the back entrance. He saw the kid who worked there speed away on his bike. He hoped the kid didn't see him. Jefferson snuck in through rear entrance of his building and into the elevator. He pressed the button to his floor. He felt terrible. His mind raced and he couldn't think straight. He pulled a shard of yellow metal out of his bulletproof vest and dropped it on the elevator floor. The doors opened and he walked awkwardly into the hall. He stumbled to his room, opened his door, and fell straight onto his bed. He felt terrible. Sirens sounded throughout the night.
5 comments:
Typical
Smoking his pipe on the corner, Holger readjusted his leather coat that he fashioned from a road-kill he found in West Virginia - where it is also legal to eat road-kill. The sleet pelted his animal pelt coat. Suddenly, he viewed a most amazing chain of events where he saw a Lamborghini speeding away from the chasing Cadillacs and coppers. A black van pulled in front causing the Lamborghini to become Kersplatten. There was no need to be riled, this sort of thing was typical. He refilled his pipe with fresh tobacco he got from his friends in southern Virgninia. The sleet began to fall more heavily.
He turned to his left watching the other side of town. The manhole was open but the road workers stopped weren't working. "Typical." The government spends money to pay people for jobs they aren't doing. His hand dug through some keys, a knife and crumpled bills before finding another match in his pocket.
The sleet momentairly subsided as a kid on a bike rode past. Of course that hoodlum had no helmet on – he was too B.A. for that. He was going so fast that he couldn't evade the manhole in time. Holger's deep, booming laugh forced his abs to expand and contract so ferociously that the last piece of dough in his chest popped out and rolled off the curb onto the street into the manhole. "Die Ratten werden keinen Hunger haben."
Charlie passed by a out-of-place ice cream truck just as he reached the edge of Washington Heights where the hardware store was. He would have been more alarmed by the truck, but back in Brooklyn, you could buy crack or Fudge Sickles out of every ice cream truck.
He reached the front door of the store and pushed it open. Immediately, his nostrils filled with the scent of paint, fresh wood, and metal tools. Charlie looked at the sleazy cashier with a bad perm and asked her where the spray paint was.
"Over there on the back wall." She answered in with a twang of bossiness.
Charlie choose to not thank the rude girl and walked straight to where the spray paint was. He quickly picked out the 15 cans he would need for his masterpiece. He knew the job would only take 13 or 14, but he always liked to have a little extra paint, just in case. Struggling to clutch every can, Charlie walked up to the register and set everything down in front of the cashier.
"Got everything you need sir?" She was even more sassy this time.
"Yes." Charlie muttered.
"Well. You better paint a pretty picture for your mother, she loved you, you know?" she said.
"Excuse me?" Charlie asked.
"Nothing. I didn't say anything mister." she replied.
Charlie started to feel reality slipping away. His mission for his mother consumed his world, and he couldn't take much more of it. He was hearing things, seeing things, and all around going crazy.
He quickly collected his things, threw a hundred in the slut's face, and ran out the store.
Running out, he happened to bump into none other than George Jefferson. Jefferson was looking shifty, and a little on edge.
"Yo Jefferson, my man," Charlie said. "I heard a car crash last night, then saw you come running. Whats up?"
"Oh boy. I'll tell ya. I got fucked up man. I stole this dealer's car, and shit man, it was too fast. Now I gotta buy supplies here to fix my wounds, they ask to many questions at the hospital." Jefferson said.
"Well. Good luck with that man." Charlie said.
"Thanks, say what you need all the paint for kid?" he asked.
"It's for my masterpiece. Devoted to my deceased mother."
"Cool man. Way to go." Jefferson said, he appeared to still be a little out of it.
Jefferson waved goodbye and walked inside. Charlie started on the trek back to town. He listened to the rain start to fall onto his head. The rain tasted especially salty, like tears. Then Charlie realized it was he that was crying. He brushed at his face and kept walking, eyes on the masterpiece he would create.
Clinic Duty
Let me see...Mr. George Jefferson stopped by this morning for treatment. Major bruising and cuts. Refused to answer questions pertaining to injuries. Left before actual treatment. A similiar situation with a Mr. Ford...
Well I imagine he would be in a hurry to leave the clinic when they ask so many penetrating questions in this cloister of a city. In fact, in the bulk of the patient records there are few who stay more than one night. Of course it makes for a harder investigation when every single person acts suspiciously.
"Oh-Um...officer Seebach?"
"Ah, forgive me, this is Seebach."
"Um, yes. Thank you for coming in. It's always good to know you are helping out in hand with the clinic."
Even if I had something to do today, at Ms. Evans invitation, all the red markings on my calendar had magically disappeared. Even if she requested we meet on the 29th of February, I would still be there. Who cares about something as trivial as a leap year? It is always a profitable source of information at the free clinic. Injuries tell secrets.
"Well please continue to report in officer, thank you very much."
"Ah. Please turn the light out as you leave."
"Aren't you reading--? Alright."
I toyed with the golden badge on my shirt as I hunched over a box of documents. The small closet was a bit more spacious than the room in my apartment. Gratefully many people don't see what's important, just the uniform. Of course that is as good a factor as bad in a place like this. The name on my uniform read "Barnheart." Technically it was Brone's uniform which he uses on certain occasions, but thats why I took his identification for alteration earlier.
Ring Ring.
A normal ringtone for my normal role-playing.
"This is Seebach."
"Michael, what the hell. Give me my ID."
"It's purpose has not reached fulfillment, I would like to use it at least once."
"I need it much more than you idiot. Don't think you can trade me a hundred bucks for it."
"You were asked for identification? Really?"
"Unbelievable huh? but that's not important, of course I'm calling you for a reason. So listen carefully, because I'm serious about it."
You called all of a sudden just to say you're serious? After such an ambiguous sentence, my wits were at an end as to guessing just what he was trying to say. Listening carefully it did seem he had a real reason for calling me rather than to complain. This could be a critical situation.
"Perhaps...I shall rendevouz with you later, time and place shall depend on the developing situation."
I thought I would be finishing up around here but it seems the grandson of that cookie woman has just arrived.
"G-g-g-g--!"
Ghosts? Grandma? Speaking of which, Mrs. Pearl seems to be holding a klondike bar. Should I ask her for it-No, she's already seen me before, I can't ruin this relationship I hold at the hospital. I should be meeting with Brone shortly, before the scene dissolves to nothing. While i'm walking, let us organize Alexander's Andromeda Strain-induced ramblings. Not to say it has something to do with clotting.
Perhaps Mr. Jefferson. Strangely enough, he is the only person whom I can recall with a "G" in his name. Ah, well. Out into the rainy streets.
Oscar
As little Alexander was carted slowly through the apartment door, Grandma Pearl scurried behind, wiping flecks of blood from his clothes, her clothes, her floor. The kid would be fine, Oscar knew that, but he hated to see the innocent put to harm. "Not in this town. Not in my town."
"What was that Oscar?" Grandma Pearl said.
"Nothing Pearl, it's gonna be alright. You get some sleep."
He thought about this Jefferson guy for a little while longer. His pounded down each step of Washington's ratty stairway. He repeated the name. With each syllable, his huge body jolted, blood pounding and squeezing through his exhausted veins. This was the same George who had crashed through is ceiling weeks ago... while swordfighting no less. The same George who had curiously scoped out the butcher shop a while back. Was he not a policeman? Who knows.
Oscar took a few deep breaths as the cool air hit his face. he needed to calm down and look at this situation from a neutral standpoint. As he waited to cross at the curb, an ice cream truck blew by, knocking his large frame back a step, the piercing jingle reverberating in his head. Alex was a good kid, somewhere in there. He just did some incredibly stupid things, mean things, dumb things. Alright the kid was an asshole. But he was a kid no less. Nothing he did could have deserved physical retribution from a grown man. Jefferson would need to be handled.
He knocked twice. Three times. He reached for a fourth, his blood pulsing, but the door swung open. There stood Jefferson. He looked surprisingly clean. Suit, tie, suede shoes. This guy was stunting.
"Buddy."
"Dude, what do you want, man." Jefferson's voice had a slight quiver.
"Look, I don't usually do this, but --" Oscar's burly arm lurched forward, grabbing Jefferson's necktie. He pulled the man's face up towards his. "A little boy named Alexander came home bleeding today. He said one word. Your name. Explain."
Leaves floated to the ground and the wind swirled among the branches. Night was beginning to fall. Across town, Oscars boys ran his underground gambling empire. Here, he settled his own business. He was fair, just, responsible. He was only looking out for his customers.
Delilah lay in the garden. She felt the soil dirtying her wind-whispered white dress as she watched the stars exploding in the black sky. She reached her five fat fingers out beside her, eager for the feel of fresh earth on her palm. Instead she felt hair. Piles and piles and piles of hair. And something alive. Somethings. Somethings tickling up her forearm, between her toes, gliding soundlessly across her scalp. She looked down to find her body engulfed in tiny caterpillars, their millions of feet trespassing upon her freckled skin. She tried to scream but couldn't. She tried to move but couldn't. She could only lie beneath the vast sky, feeling the caterpillars overtake her ribcage, her chest, her throat –
One by one they began to slither into her helpless, gaping mouth. Her breaths quickened and then died away as hundreds of caterpillars inched down her dry esophagus. Delilah felt them congregate around her vocal chords, spinning miles of cold, lifeless silk string, wrapping it again and again and again and again. A soundless sarcophagus.
Delilah awoke coughing and sputtering. She stumbled to the bathroom almost carelessly as she tried to breathe normally. She leaned her head into the immaculate sink and shut her eyes to avoid watching her saliva splay itself across the porcelain. Her hacking finally subsided as her knees gave way and she collapsed to the floor. She pulled her knees to her chest and lay still. Her eyes fluttered sleepily as she found surprising comfort in the sound, her own sound, as it ricocheted off the tile and held her in an invisible cocoon.
Her head banged the tile as Delilah violently started from the floor. No telling how many cracks she had just so haphazardly splayed herself across. As she scanned her body for tell-tale imprints, her eyes fell upon her hands.
Black with dirt.
Horrified, she jumped in the shower and let the icy water pierce its way through her pajamas. She took the bottle of sanitizing soap and squeezed five large globs into her hand. She rubbed until her fat fingers were raw. But they were still black.
Out, out.
She took her nails to the opposite palms until she nearly broke the skin. The water had exhausted to a light drizzle to match the atmosphere right outside her window. But her palms remained tainted with earth.
It's not...real. It's not real.
I need to get out.
Delilah, embarrassed in her own skin, got out of the shower, her clothes dripping icy pellets onto the unforgiving tile. She grabbed the closest towel and began drying herself. She tricked herself into believing that she didn't check the towel for signs of dirt.
But she did.
Delilah grabbed her elegant coat and, today, her red leather gloves. As she walked out of her apartment, she glanced back at the unopened letter on her kitchen counter. Tempted to just hold it once more, she resisted.
One more day.
Like a new mother reluctant to leave her child, Delilah turned her back on the envelope and stepped out into the hall.
The lobby was bustling for early afternoon. It was Saturday after all. Delilah stayed focused on the cracks in the hideous tile beneath her feet, so much so that she plowed into a woman from the ninth floor. She was about Delilah's age, and when Delilah looked up apologetically, she, for once, got the feeling that the woman understood. Understood why she was not looking before, understood why she would not explain herself now. For Delilah, such an encounter was rare and comforting.
The weather reminded Delilah of her uncomfortable situation. The drizzle had become so commonplace that the children continued playing basketball at the park as though it was sunny and 75. Delilah walked around the court, admiring the long, slender, black fingers of the four players as they bounded up and down the asphalt. She longed for one more player to join the game.
As she strolled aimlessly, Delilah begged the neighborhood surrounding her building to provide her with some distraction. Something was changing. She tired of counting the number of cracks careless pedestrians tread upon. She tired of counting pigeons in intervals of fives. Delilah could no longer find peace and contentment within the confines of her own mind.
She began to cough.
When even her well made coat could not deter the rain enough to make it remotely bearable, Delilah began her short trek back home. She kept her eyes on the ground until she neared the building. An unfamiliar sound drifted stealthily towards her. She raised her head and tilted her ear to the wind, trying to identify the soft tinkling. Something was taking her back to Annapolis. Summer in suburbia. Barefoot children running down the road, dodging sprinklers, wrinkled bills in their hands.
It can't be.
Delilah began to think she was imagining things again when a decrepit ice cream truck rounded the corner. The corners of her mouth had just begun to twitch slightly when two strong hands grabbed her from behind and pulled her backwards. Struck motionless from fear and outrage, she nearly choked on both as the half full wine glass shattered right in front of her. She hopped gingerly backwards to avoid to blood red liquid slithering along the pavement. Delilah looked up just in time to see a slender white hand drop a cigarette butt and slide nonchalantly back through the window. The butt sizzled and coughed in the pool of wine and began to deteriorate. Grateful to her savior, Delilah turned back to thank him as best she could, but the tall black man was already a good twenty paces in front of her.
Delilah entered her building as the ice cream bells faded out of earshot, and she thought of the beautiful future that lay right below an envelope flap – a future without falling goblets or the mournful song of a forgotten ice cream truck.
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