Necessity

Punctuality just didn’t fit David’s lifestyle, not that he didn’t try. He always brushed his teeth first thing in the morning. He combed his hair with ease — it was a buzz cut — and tied his ties the night before, right after he set the coffee maker. But something always seemed to nag him whenever he was about to leave the house. A light was turned on, or a bit of dust had fallen onto the coffee table. Maybe the coffee pot hadn’t been rinsed thoroughly enough, or the eggshells left in the sink from his brother’s careless cooking methods needed to be cleaned up.

Whatever the reason, David always found a way to be late for any and all appointments. That’s why, when David locked his front door and made his way to The Office this morning, he was surprised to see that he was a full half-hour early.

8:15, his watch read. He didn’t even have to be there until 9. What a glorious day this would be; for once he would be there before everyone else. For once he wouldn’t have to suffer in tardiness.

For once he would be the first to receive the daily plan.

For once, he wouldn’t be the first to die.

David enjoyed this morning’s walk as he did every day. The hint of rain just on the tips of the fingers of clouds above, yet never quite breaking through. In two hours, the clouds would clear, the sky would become a bright blue, and that was always how it was every day, every morning: the threat of rain followed by the clarity of blue skies just before lunch. Just before his death.

This morning, as always, David narrowly avoided a child riding his bicycle — without a helmet, of course, because why would you wear one here? He sidestepped a hefty chunk of dog feces, and stepped up to the curb just as the bus arrived. David took a breath. This was the first time in his memory of living here that he’d made the bus. He smiled through the window at the driver, pulled cash from his pocket. The cash was multi-colored, appearing to form the printed text as he straightened it on the edge of the sign post. David knew this was a trick of the light, but this was the first time he’d seen money in as long as he could remember. The words on the bills made no sense to him, but they didn’t need to. Two bills should be enough.

He waited.

The bus lingered, as if the machine itself was unsure. David stood there, smile on his face. He began to frown but was rescued back to smiling just as the bus doors opened.

“Uh, you going somewhere?” The driver was a large woman, her face as round as a basketball, her body distorted as though full of melons of different shapes and origins. David smiled up at her inquisitive look.

“Going to work, of course.” He boarded, placed the bills in the register which sucked them down, hungry to be fed. The bus was otherwise empty. “It’s nice to catch the bus for a change. Did you know I only work two miles away, but it’s just impossible to make it to work on time when I walk!”

“Huh. Must be.” She closed the door, waited and watched as David turned and chose the seat closest to the driver. David thought it odd that no other passengers were aboard, but he held on as the bus pulled slowly from the curb.

“So, how many more stops until the Office District?”

“Office District?”

“Yeah, that’s where I work. It’s a complicated system of buildings and cubicles, so I just call it the Office District. I think it’s labeled stop twelve on your map?”

“Twelve. Well, this is stop one, so it’ll take some time. That is, if there are passengers at any other stops.”

“Ha! Somehow I doubt that!” She glanced back at David’s laugh, and shook her head. David closed his eyes and breathed in the fumes, placed his hand on the seat beside him to absorb the rumble of the bus as it moved forward. Nothing like catching that bus, knowing you’ll make it to work on time, before everyone else and able to greet everyone as they walk through the door.

“I won’t be dying today.”

“Oh no?” Her concentration had returned to the road, so she said this with less interest than a cat might have for, anything other than bathing or sleeping.

“Nope. Well, not first anyway. They like to think they know how to penalize us, but it only hurts if you’re the first to die. Otherwise, the mercy comes quicker and you can wake up feeling fresh tomorrow.”

“You think it’s a good thing? To die?”

David almost answered, then closed his mouth. A good thing? He’d never considered death as anything other than a necessity. After all, everyone dies today, so why not accept it? “It’s a necessary thing, to die. That cannot be denied.”

“But do you think it’s good?” She pulled to the next stop and opened the doors. Three people climbed on, an elderly couple and a young woman just out of high school. The couple shuffled to the rear of the bus, barely acknowledging David’s presence. As the bus started moving again, David looked up to find the young girl staring down at him, chewing gum loudly.

“Hello there.” He smiled up at her. She smiled back, for a long moment, unnerving David until she reached up and tugged the gum through her teeth. Back and forth, she built up quite the impressive ball of gum before yanking it from her mouth and flicking it onto David’s lap. He stared at it, unable to move, blocking out the sound of the bus and the snicker of the girl who remained standing over him

“That’s for hogging the seats at the front of the bus.” He looked up at the girl, confused. For a moment, she glared back at him. Then she reached down and pulled up the wad of gum from his leg. “I’ll help you out there, flaccid mad.”

“Flaccid man?”

“Yeah, you lose your balls somewhere in the last ten seconds? ‘Oh, I’ll say hello to this cute girl in the hopes she talks to me, all the while remaining an oblivious asshole to the rest of the people on this bus’. Brilliant. Dick.”

She stepped past him, took a seat and turned on her Walkman before David could utter another word. He looked at his knee, brushed at the small glob of saliva that remained when she pulled the gum away. He thought the driver would reprimand her, but then reminded himself that she had no power, not even on this bus. She probably went home each night, slept fine, and then came to work the next day to an all new vehicle which she had equally as little power over, all the while not realizing the necessity she refused to believe in. Good? Maybe for some people more than others.

The girl, she was another story. David had never faced confrontation like that before, not even from the Executioner at the Office District. At least that one had the decency to keep his voice just shy of a whisper during his death strokes. This girl, with her loud gum smacking and blaring music — and a Walkman? Really? Of all devices to try and hold onto, why a Walkman?

David decided to say something to her. He would show her that he was anything BUT a flaccid, weak man who didn’t know how to speak up for himself. He stood up and walked back to her seat, crossing his suitcase from left hand to right. She looked up, just as he was about to give her a piece of his mind — and then he lost his breath.

Her eyes. The violet iris, the large black pupils, and the bloodshot, hectic manner in which she stared up at him. David fell back into the seat across from her. She chuckled. “You know, I was just kidding. They always ride in the back. That’s where they get their smooch on.” She gestured, and David glanced back. The old couple kissed each other passionately, the old man’s hands running freely over the woman’s body.

“That’s…that doesn’t seem right.” David looked back to the girl, but couldn’t meet her eyes. Instead he focused on her Walkman.

“Nothing about this situation is right.” She followed his eyes. “You wanna give a listen? Really, it’s none of your business but since you seem like the obsessive type –”

“No! No, I’m alright. I’ll leave you alone. It’s almost my stop.” David struggled to his feet, and pulled the cord along the window. He dashed to the front of the bus as the driver frantically pulled over. She had not been prepared for the stop, and David noticed her face burned red as she struggled to make the stop, but the shade of red on her face was just a bit brighter than that of her shirt, which was a blood red, deep and empty.

“Alright, stop ten.” She opened the door, looked over at David expectantly. He glanced out the doors, at the still morning air, the faint hint of the smell of rain.

“Ten? I’d thought we’d have reached twelve by now.” He waited, no response. The driver stared back at David for a moment.

“Honey, I have all day. Not a lot of folks along my route, so I’ll wait for you.”

David looked outside, at the clouds which seemed to refuse to dissipate above. He sighed, closed his eyes. David felts his heart race, a bead of sweat collecting at his temple. Perhaps he should be walking to The Office. Perhaps the morning air would do him good, make him feel more at ease with his fate.

He looked at his watch: barely 8:30. He still had time. He could get to The Office on time, collect his thoughts and plan of action. He could settle into his routine and truly prepare for his eventual death. Something was different today. he could feel it. Perhaps he would even be the one to — “Okay, I’ll get off here.”

He stepped off the bus and began walking when he heard her call. The Driver, her face still red, driving the bus slow alongside David. “Well? You never answered me.”

David stopped, not looking at her. The smile fell from his face. He no longer felt that this was a good day. “Answered you what?”

“Do you think it’s a good thing to die?” She stared at him expectantly. David opened his mouth to answer but glanced back at the girl with the Walkman. She was wearing sunglasses and her headphones, but he could tell she was looking straight at him, waiting perhaps with the same anticipation as the bus Driver.

Instead of answering, David continued walking. The Driver shouted something, but it almost sounded like a different language. As the bus rumbled past him, David could almost make out a crowd of people on the bus, yet no one else had climbed on board. He shrugged off the image as morning mist in his eyes. He rubbed them, shook his head to clear it.

Over the horizon, in the direction the bus was headed, he could just make out the pale grey roof of his building in The Office District. The inside would smell like freshly painted walls, and the windows would be clouded with condensation. The entrance lobby would have several of the yellow caution signs from the night crew’s mopping, and the elevator would be empty. All of this David knew, having been through it before.

David enjoyed the rest of his walk, the air clearing his head. When he entered the building at The Office District he ignored the Security Guard’s request for his name to sign in. David intended to be upstairs first if it was the last thing he could do. His mind flickered to the bus once more, to the girl with the gum and the Walkman. Something about that Walkman remained oddly familiar. David stopped in his tracks, but the footsteps behind him did not.

Darkness.

David opened his eyes, little by little, and found himself staring at a leak in the ceiling. The brown stain of water overhead, the familiar sound of dripping water into a bucket. He tried to sit up, but found his hands bound behind his back, his legs tied together at the ankles. The floor next to his vision was riddled with blood and the bodies of his co-workers lay nearby. They were splayed in odd directions, bodies contorted, all faced away from him. He could barely identify any of them beyond male or female, the blood was so plentiful.

If his mouth wasn’t covered with duct tape David would smile. He wasn’t be the first to die. Not this time.

He frantically pushed himself up, felt his wrist twisting with pressure as he shuffled himself up to a sitting position against the wall. He watched as the Executioner strolled from Cubicle to Cubicle, the falling of the Executioner’s axe and the subsequent spray of blood toward the ceiling.

David was soon alone with the Executioner, and held his breath. The elevator dinged, and the Executioner rode up to the next floor. This is how the afternoon progressed, how the situation  escalated, as the news reporter spoke every day. He looked at the bodies around the floor, wondering who was the one to die first, which unlucky soul had been late today, walking in at the most inopportune moment.

But today will be different, David thought as he tugged and twisted at the tape around his wrists. He felt his sweat and blood lubricate the tape around his wrists, allowing him to pull them free at a slow pace.

Just as his right hand came loose, numb from blood loss and exertion, the elevator dinged and the Executioner emerged, walking straight to David. With nowhere to turn, David raised his free hand and smiled. “Wait, wait! I just want to wait a little longer. Please. I’ve never lived this long before.”

“Lived?” The Executioner ripped off his hood, and David suddenly fell into terror.

Her eyes were still purple, but her skin had fallen pale, ghostly white. The girl from the bus, still chewing gum. Her headphones and Walkman were gone, her bag gone from her back. She looked down at David with pity. “You haven’t lived for a long time, David. This is not living. This is beyond that. Good or bad, this is Eternity.”

“But, but, I made it. I made it first. This was different –” David tried to raise his voice, but her axe fell, blacking out his vision once more.

As David lay in bed, dreaming of blue skies and cold rivers washing over his body, her image faded from his mind. He sat up, unable to sleep. He tugged his hand from under his back, and waved it to wake it up. After he emptied his bladder and ignored the shower, David tucked his shirt awkwardly into his pants, and snatched up his suitcase. In the kitchen, the coffee machine kicked on — 6:30 AM.

David walked briskly to the Office District and filled out the front desk form for the Security Guard by 7:15 AM. The guard gave him a stern look, and David only glanced up at him. He flipped through the forms, saw his name: David Glockney, David Glockney, David Glockney, at the bottom of every page. Today, he was at the top of the page. First in. Again. He almost mentioned the girl, the Walkman, then decided against it. Perhaps the Guard was helping her.

At his desk, David opened his suitcase — a Walkman with headphones, and a pack of gum. He strolled from Cubicle to Cubicle, but none of the computers worked. He turned on the morning news, but the only story that ran – over and over – was that of a hostage situation in which one of the suspects were apprehended, a disgruntled female, but she managed to grab an officer’s gun and shoot herself before they could get her to the car. The male assailant was still inside, identified and image on screen:

The man on the screen is David.

Outside the Office Building, the rain came down. David would not be the first to die today.

The Cold-Hearted Tasks of Constable Royley – Part II

READERS,

You can read Part I of this collection of tales about Constable Royley HERE. This is part of a larger sequence of events in which I’m trying to expore this character for use in an upcoming script. Let me know what you think! I hope to have Part III up much sooner than it took to get from I to II.

ENJOY!

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PART II

Sunrise.

Any man who is awake to watch dawn birth over the horizon is a dedicated craftsman, a certain kind of gift to mankind — a farmer, or a merchant, perhaps, aligning his wares along the market streets.

Constable Royley is simply a restless man without sleep, a man who spent the night cleaning blood from the floor of his carriage — the Magistrate’s carriage. The City”s property. He had scrubbed blood from the seat, had combed through the floorboard with water and bourbon —  in between generous gulps of the latter — and even painted a new coat of paint along the steps that had stained when he’d dragged the body to the muddy ditch along the canal.

The hoggee ditch, as the Irish called it, consisted of wet sludge, a mud beyond mud, and if you were to step in this ditch without the proper cane or walking stick to use as leverage, you’d have more than enough trouble climbing out. Many Irish workers had fallen into this ditch, never to return, and lately more and more drivers who disappeared along the Erie Canal were said to be haunting passengers of the tiny steamboats entering the city of Albany.

Royley used the fear of this ditch to his advantage, though last night was the first time he’d buried a victim of his own acts. Typically, the Magistrate would provide a location, and a time for pickup, and Royley would only follow through on the final disposal. Young women who’d refused the Magistrate’s advances were sentenced to the fate of death, though the bludgeoned faces and bruised bodies led Royley to believe these death were slow affairs, and never painless.

When Royley was finally able to cover the body of the thief with enough sludge to hide his pale, freckled skin from the dawn’s light, he sat upon the heap of dirt and knocked back the remaining drops of bourbon, wiped his filthy brow, and prayed to the Lord above for a moment of rest. Not forgiveness or guidance back toward the light, but only for sleep. Rest would surely bring about a new epiphany of how he could escape from his Devilish duties. But that moment of rest was soon to pass, as the sun crested the horizon and Royley  himself wandering the winding path back downtown.

The sunlight bothered him this morning, perhaps because he’d been outside all night, or perhaps because he’d emptied an entire bottle of bourbon between his belly and the cleaning of blood — or perhaps because the light reminded him of the path he’d strayed from when he buried the first of many of the Magistrate’s victims in the hoggee ditch six years ago. In any case, the city called for him, or more likely, his bed was calling for a few hours of wear.

Oliver Royley was born in Schenectady, but moved to the state capitol after his father, Matthew Longstrum Royley III, one of the last remaining Patroons, had finally sold off all his land and stock to the Van Renssalaers. Determined to live a life in service of the public, Matthew attempted to win a seat in the state senate. But in the waning days of the election, a man who Royley only knew as ‘Uncle Phil’ had come to visit with cold eyes and a sandy voice. Though very few words were exchanged between the old men, Matthew would never be the same, and his heart failed him two years later.

Uncle Phil (who Royley realized later was actually Philip Van Renssalaer, the richest man in all of Albany) stood behind his father’s chair, waiting for Matthew to sit. Matthew was a tall man, with a gaunt face that seemed to shrink in an inverse relationship to the amount of food he consumed each night at supper. Royley’s father tried to wait out Uncle Phil in the sitting game, but Matthew was a kind man, and simply nodded before taking his seat. Uncle Phil had remained standing, and Royley would always remember how the man had glanced in his direction – a discreet hiding spot behind the open door of the bedroom – before beginning to speak in that dry, sandy voice that surely commanded attention despite being scarce more than a whisper.

“Folly, Matthew?”

Matthew had stared at the floor a long moment, for too many minutes. Royley, the shy boy he was, watched his father, urging him with his mind. Speak! Look up at him, right in the eye, and speak! But Matthew remained silent, refusing even to move.

“Whether you intended to win or not, know this: if you continue to pursue that Senate seat, your boy will breathe his last breath before his next birthday.” Uncle Phil looked at Royley, smiled at him, and said nothing more as he walked from their home.

Matthew’s veins showed through the skin of his neck, and at his temples. He’d looked old, then, much older than before Uncle Phil’s arrival. “Go to bed, son,” Matthew told Royley. “It’s not for a boy’s eyes to see a man cry out of fear.”

“Why are you afraid, pa?”

“I said go to bed!” Matthew had stood so quickly that Royley fell backwards, bruising his back on the floor, a bruise that would be yellow and blue by morning and painful for days after. He and his father never spoke more than a few words between them for weeks after Uncle Phil’s visit.

Later, much later, when Royley added the title of Constable to his name, Philip Van Renssalaer would greet him with weary eyes and a disdainful glare. But Royley had proven his worth to the Van Renssalaers ten times over, having befriended young Abraham in their school days and defending the waif from muggers and thieves on their long walks home through Troy each night.

Abraham loved to call on Royley for deeds best done by men who knew how to use their hands to provide scars and broken bones rather than for writing. It was Abraham who’d put the Magistrate in place ten years ago, just after Royley had become Constable with high hopes of one day serving as Magistrate himself. But Abraham had other plans for Royley.

So long as Royley’s sister Claire remained Abraham’s wife, Royley must follow orders. “Nothing. You’re nothing without me, Royley. You remember that, and remember the name of your protectors. Remember who saved you from a life of embarrassment and torture. Never tell me no. Never tell me yes. You are to do as you are told, no more, no less. Your sister would thank you, if she could remember how to talk.”

“Right,” he would mumble, without so much as a glance up at Abraham’s face. He hated Abraham. Hated every pore in the man’s face, the dark mole on his cheek, just above his mustache. He hated the thought of Abraham’s hands on Claire, his body pressed to hers each night, pinning her down against her will. In Royley’s mind, it was always against her will. That’s why she refused to talk since the day after their marriage.

This morning, as Royley blinked out the bright pink of the rising sun, he made his way past the courthouse without a hint of irony. He passed Phil’s hardware and drug store with no hesitation, and then slipped through the back door of Otis’s Tavern. Otis’s was always open to Royley, ever since he caught Otis in the midst of a risque outing with Elsie Whipple.

Elsie.

Her dark stare flashed in Royley’s mind as he hunkered down in the back of Otis’s Tavern. Her pale face, her devious smile. Elsie could control the hearts of men in and around Albany, with the distinct and shameless goal of self-preservation. Any man with his wits could see that about her. Yet no one could resist. There was a warmth, a dangerous fire in her eyes that comforted the wicked deeds in the soul of the man unlucky enough to partake in her biddings. Elsie…loveless and alone, feeding off the men around her. Alone despite her marriage to John Whipple, and the inheritance he controlled in exchange of a comfortable living space amidst the home of the Van Renssalaers.

John had for many years found ways to have his fun outside of his marriage, which surprised no one, and yet Elsie refused to see it. She would watch him laughing and drinking with Abraham, returning home with the stink of whores and perfume on his clothes, on his breath, and yet she refused to believe he would do that to her. It wasn’t a betrayal to Elsie, no. She simply refused to believe that anyone would take advantage of her without her permission. This was the strangle she held on all men, and it showed yesterday when she retained Royley for the disposal of her childhood friend and neighbor Henrietta. She’d begged, she’d pleaded with Royley, but after years of cleaning up after the Magistrate, Royley’s ears had grown numb.

And yet he still agreed to take on the task personally. But he would have to come up with the plan later. First, another drink. And then, sleep.

Constable, please. Help me.

Royley stopped his hand, the bottle inches from his mouth. No, that wasn’t what she had said. Her words were more subtle, her intentions more disguised. He looked about the Tavern, the night’s events fading from his memory, dissolving like the morning mist that parted under the rising sunlight. Otis hadn’t unlocked the doors yet, so he was alone here, safe from the outside world, safe from the Magistrate and the Van Renssalaers. Yet her voice was clear in his mind, almost as though she was at his ear, whispering.

Constable, now.

He looked out over the bar, stood up, wobbling on his feet. A cold chill trickled down his neck. He felt his hair rise above the goosebumps that drenched over his body in a wave. The voice sounded like the cries and whispers of Elsie, but it was impossible. It was early yet, and no one other than farmers would have the kind of mind to rise out of bed this soon in the morning. He was just hearing things – had to be. He swallowed the rest of the bottle, and collapsed to the floor.

It was not uncommon for Royley to be awoken mid-afternoon by Otis himself. He would welcome the dimwitted bartender later in the day, as long as her voice would stop calling to him.

Constable. It is time.

Royley opened his eyes to take in the sunlight through the open door, and then her legs fell, darkness enclosing upon him. He looked up, but with heavy lids – a full night behind him, a hearty drink in his belly, and the halo of sunlight behind her head. He felt a warm squirt liquid pour suddenly down his face as he fell into darkness, a cold whisper in his ear.

“How…” he uttered, before his eyes fell closed, a dim chill washed down his body before darkness, and warmth, and then silence.

END OF PART II.

A Short Reply to My Brother on the Oscars

*In response to my brother’s post on The Everything Film Blog regarding this year’s Oscar nominees, as well as numerous other commentators and film lovers.

Let’s start off with something blunt and obvious: Jonah Hill did not do anything special in Moneyball. I’m sorry to say it, kind of, for people who are big fans of his performance there. If your about to argue that “he was much more subtle than the usual Jonah Hill zaniness” then you really have no argument at all. It is not the purpose of awarding an actor for his work in ONE movie by comparing it side-by-side to the rest of his movies and/or his personality. Jonah Hill showed little emotion, to be true, but he played a stiff character who grew a little to become just a little more outgoing when he has an opinion. Also, he got happy in one scene when he became part of a multi-trade deal alongside Brad Pitt. Jonah Hill is nominated for high-fiving Brad Pitt.

Mark also points out that “The list of Best Pic nominees shows either how safe Hollywood played it this year or how friendly the Academy wants to keep the show to general audiences. It’s almost as if the Academy is trying to counter-correct for awarding smaller, bleaker films (No Country for Old Men, The Hurt Locker) over the past few years.”

Mark, I agree to a point, and then I gladly disagree. The only movies in this list that could be considered part of the “counter-correcting” are The Help, Hugo, and maybe War Horse. Moneyball and Midnight in Paris made millions, but are hardly more popular to general audiences than The Help. The Tree of Life being nominated is a way of the “the Academy” giving a nomination to an experimental film, paying tribute to film as a deeper experience than simply telling a story. And of course there’s The Artist, a throwback and tribute to silent films by a French director, an obvious tip of the hat to an older generation and perhaps a simpler time for film audiences to be “wowed” by the big screen.

Another point Mark makes is the “why the hell is Melissa McCarthy” nominated point — one which has been made by many commentors and critics. Well, I have to say I’m a little bummed that more people won’t support this nomination. Seriously. She carried the movie (much like Kevin Spacey did in The Usual Suspects, or Robert Downey, Jr. in Tropic Thunder) and gave us a monumentally memorable, off the wall character (see: Heath Ledger in The Dark Knight; See: Chris Cooper in Adaptation), one that is a reflection of a personality trait of the main character that has yet to come to light. The only difference between Melissa McCarthy and the past nominees in this category for the last three years is that she’s in a comedy. There could be deeper reading into this, but McCarthy took a one-note character on the page and gave her true life, something that’s not easy to do.

Mark also references Bridesmaids screnplay nomination — and for this I have to agree with Mark. The screenplay is simple, but weak — there are scenes that are out of order and character “issues” that are not truly justified or paid off (cupcakes anyone?). But mostly, it’s a standard comedy arc with a screenplay that is not as good, original, or emotionally impactful as, say, 50/50.

To the note of Tintin missing out on a nomination, I for one am truly bummed, but then again maybe people just didn’t know where to chalk up a nomination — Animators could’ve thought it was a VFX movie, while VFX folks could’ve believed it was only animated. Who knows? Like Mark says, why bother trying to complain if nothing can change? Focus on the good: Gary Oldman gets his first nod, Max Von Sydow is making a comeback, and Kenneth Branagh is nominated for playing Laurence Olivier — a pair of actors who, if they had been able to share the screen, would’ve given us truly great screen magic.

*And on the note of “The Academy,” I want to address Mark’s statement “how friendly the Academy wants to keep the show to general audiences.” I’ve heard this argument, and read it, from numerous other commentors, stating that the Academy should nominate more popular movies otherwise they won’t get high ratings. Well, the Academy AWARDS doesn’t work that way, I’m sorry to say. This isn’t a popularity contest voted on by the American viewing public. This is a prestigious awards show voted on by members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. There’s not a five person committee saying “well it looks like we need to get some viewers so how about we nominate The Help (Although it would be an easy way to explain why The Blind Side even showed up on the best picture list a few years back).

To suggest that the Academy Awards is only about ratings, well, if they are, then they’ve done a piss-poor job of it. And if they are seeking only ratings, why don’t they nominate films like, oh, I don’t know, Transformers? Or Rise of the Planet of the Apes? Or X-Men: First Class?

Then again, I might just be hopelessly grasping for the last truly “award worthy” awards show.

Pawn Shop: A Prequel

Arboran held open his storefront door and wiggled his toes in the water streaming from up the road. He squinted in the dawn’s first light, relishing the first five minutes of the day when trouble seemed to remain at ease. The water carried a few fallen leaves and twigs, but not much else from the typically clean sidewalks along Crenshaw.

Up in front of Magg’s Flower Shop, Magg herself sprayed her sidewalk clean, as she had every morning for the past five years, and nodded down to Arboran before shutting off the hose and turning inside her shop. Magg was not one of Arboran’s favorites on this block, but for these five minutes each morning, his toes soaking in the cool water that trickled from her shop, he felt that an amiable peace was possible.

A pickup truck rolled past, the engine sputtering and fighting through its’ last remaining days, and then the quiet of the street returned. For years now, Arboran slept on the second floor above his brother’s shop, finally moving up to the third floor when Felix passed away, and in all that time he had not once felt the inclination to close his window because of outside noise.

So quiet was the scene that when Arboran moved to re-enter his shop and the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly raised, he knew that there was a disturbance in the air, a fluttering, soundless body across the street that would bother the last remaining peace for a good long time. He waited, for any sound, any indication of movement, but there was only the quiet trickling of water, the slow breeze of the early morning, and the occasional honking horn from two blocks down on Arlington.

The sound of fabric, shaking loose caught dust, sparked Arboran to blink and look around. He found himself behind the counter of his shop, tending to a customer.

“Forty dollars and not a penny less.” The man across from Arboran wore a dark coat and fedora, his face was tied into a knot of serious, but the old man sounded regretful. Around his neck was a white strip, and his shirt was black. He held out a chain, at the end of which dangled a locket for tiny photographs. Arboran took the locket but didn’t bother looking at the pictures.

“Forty is too steep, Old Man — “

“I am a Reverend. You know how to offer respect when it is commanded, don’t you?”

Arboran gathered himself, still unsure what time of day it was. If a man could cover confusion with assured authority faster than Arboran, the world would never know. Years spent behind this very counter in this pawn shop, watching first his brother Felix, then owning up to the run of the place, and Arboran could smell a liar and a street rat from far away, a distance enough to pull out his shotgun and send the riff-raff ten blocks away before lunch.

He’d been swindled once before, because he thought he’d been doing the right thing. Back then, a malnourished teen meant hard life more often than drug addict. This particular kid was red around the eyes, sweat in his hair and sounded out of breath, like he’d been running for miles. He’d traded in a pair of golf clubs, looking only for a ten dollar bill. “To feed my wife. She’s pregnant, bigger than a Guinness World Record watermelon.” Arboran felt pity for the kid, and handed over a twenty. Felix was there, in the waning days of his ownership, and had only given Arboran a stern look before snatching up the clubs and attempting to chase the kid down for the money.

That afternoon, in the hospital, Arboran watched as Felix, just beaten in a police chase, was first brought up on charges for the theft of a city councilman’s golf clubs, and was then later released by the very same councilman — a man who had frequented their shop often to exchange his wife’s earrings in exchange for money to treat his many mistresses. Their business relationship ended after that day.

But that was a lifetime ago.

Now, still standing across from Arboran, the Reverend crossed his arms and gave him that same stern look that Arboran remembered from Felix. “You’ll give me forty dollars, or else I will make this day your last behind that counter.”

“A man of God would not make such threats.”

“You don’t know God like I do.”

“You don’t strike me as the type.” Arboran placed the necklace on the counter, and as he did so he caught the clock in the corner of his eye: ten minutes past eleven. He’d lost track of three hours time since wetting his feet in the runoff from Magg’s hose. Scanning the shelves, he began to take a mental inventory when another set of eyes met his, suddenly and fiercely close. They were bloodshot, sleepless and mad with weariness.

“This man will do.” The voice was deep and pained.

And then Arboran found himself sitting at his coffee table, on which his mug from the morning’s brew rested, now cold and devoid of taste. In front of him sat the Reverend, and another man, eyes now calm, sweat still beading on his face. He was a black man, spoke with a hint of a southern twang, and Arboran could smell fresh grass and fields. When he closed his eyes, Arboran felt safe just by the very presence of this man. But opening them again, his eyes caught blood stains, and anger deep behind the look of the man. This was going to be a very long week for Arboran.