George's Fiction "Four Beats In A Movement"

This is part of a series of short inter-connected stories I wrote. Read "The Boxer" here.

It was a cold gray Sunday. On top of this, it was snowing.

The snow fell on every side of the island and fell aimlessly, noticeably flecking the hoods of black cars with ash tainted tufts. Jack walked for no reason other than the possibility of adventure. He carried with him only a deck of Mallard playing cards, Noah's purloined silver lighter, and his nearly empty wallet. The streets were wet. A passing car, unnoticed by Jack, sloshed water over the curb and wet the bottom of his jeans and sneakers. He turned up his collar so snow would not run down his neck. It did anyway.

Jack stopped on an overpass built to continue the avenue level without intersecting the sloping street below. He surveyed a throng of dilapidated apartments that sprung up like bulbs in an overcrowded planter. Long abandoned, one rusted monolith stood minus its glass and guts, susceptible to pedestrians peering through the structure with the hope of seeing something beyond. A timely thunderclap raised a flock of birds that swarmed out of the building and channeled over Jack's head to the rooftop garden of the building behind him where a bare tree leaned over the brim.

Jack looked over the railing. He scanned the area up and down. Down at the old woman with the shopping cart, up at the Brown building circa 1944. He turned his head left towards busy Flatbush Avenue, right towards quieter Market, and then strait on, across the avenue from the dark alley with the twisted signpost. He paused, strained his vision, and leaned dangerously over the rail.

Steve was walking in the direction of one of the less foreboding old ivory apartments. It resembled an Egyptian temple but with its upper floors stained black with soot. He had a recognizable strut.

Jack scampered in his squelching sneakers down the low wall to the rusted industrial stairs that put him on the lower street. He ran to Steve and panted, "I thought that was you. I'd know your face anywhere."

This was true: Steve had a profile identical to John Lennon. He even wore little glasses that looked like cubes of ice in wire tongs set high on the bridge. Indeed now, as he paused and turned to Jack, he pushed the frames higher up his nose as he brushed his cinnamon hair aside.

"What are you doing here?" he said good-naturedly.

"I was taking a walk and spotted you from the bridge," Jack said, pointing to where he had been standing on the overpass. "What are you doing here?"

"Just visiting a friend. You want to come along?"

"Sure," said Jack.

"You think you're ready?

"For what? Oh, oh yeah, sure. What the hell, I've got time now.

The first floor of the tenement had once been a restaurant. Now it was faded yellow tile and blotchy cream paint and built-in urns that held only cigarette butts and sand. The air was pungent with the smell of ammonia. Steve pointed Jack towards the diner and told him to wait. Jack walked to the old lunch counter leaving a trail of wet prints. He sat on a stool and noticed that although the diner had gone, nobody had told the roaches to vacate. He sat there, next to the customary warped cardboard NO SMOKING sign, impatiently looking around until Steve tapped him on the shoulder and led him to a creaky elevator.

"Who are we going to meet?"

"A old buddy of mine."

"Who?"

"Kind of a business partner."

"Did he buzz us up?"

"Couldn't; the buzzer's broken.

The noise from the ancient grinding cogs high up in the shaft had reached a piercing whine. Each floor they passed was a flash of lighted numbers on their way to uncertain destiny, or so Jack thought. Steve was eyeing him uneasily, regretting. Jack broke the tension by saying, "You can trust me."

From there, they rode in silence. The car stopped on the fifth floor. Steve led him down a corridor of yellow doors and peeling wallpaper to room 5-O. Jack emitted a sarcastic single laugh at the pun. Steve knocked on the door and whispered, "Just play it cool. Ant's a bit paranoid, so... try to get on his good side." After a pause he yelled, "Hey Antoine, let me in!"

A hoary youth between twenty and forty years in a faded green multi-pocketed vest opened the door two feet inwards and leaned his left arm against the doorframe and his right shoulder on the door. His shaggy hair was the color of toast and it ran down his arms like a powdering. Inside, the room, painted green repeatedly, was smoky and crammed with shabby nineteen-fifties' furniture and small stacks of prehistoric magazines. A few shoeboxes were sticking out from under the immense couch against the far wall near a narrow door. An oversized and neglected birdcage hung in front of one of three large windows. This was the corner apartment. The man spoke:

"Who's the new guy? Your brother?"

Steve responded smoothly, "No, he's cool. Jack, meet my buddy Antoine. Antoine, Jack."

Ant and Jack sheepishly exchanged that special handshake. Jack could feel Ant's questioning eyes asking him "What do you want? What do you know?"

"Are you into it?" Ant asked instead, releasing his hand and wiping it on his pants, which Jack noticed were also adorned with many pockets. He thought the weight of Ant's many pockets must be incredible when they are all full.

"Hey, this kid's read Huxley's The Doors of Perception," replied Steve. Jack felt honored that Steve was standing up for him, but ashamed that he could not stand up for himself.

"And Heaven and Hell," Jack murmured, not wanting to sound completely comatose.

"You want to join our little circle of friends?" Ant asked. Jack wondered who else was involved.

"When my workload let's up," said Jack smoothly, not wanting to compromise his persona of self-reliance with the truth of his unemployment. He was learning to play the dodge ball of dialogue.

They were now standing in the sullied apartment through which Ant conducted his business. A dark-haired girl was half-asleep in an armchair covered with a brown afghan. At least, it looked like a girl. It rolled over. Yes, it was female. Through the window, Jack watched the snow fall and catch on the ledge below the glass.

"Yeah, this kid's smart," Steve turned to Ant, "Do you know where I could get little plastic bags?"

"From an art store, maybe. I don't know. That's where I used to get mine. Now I use envelopes. Less conspicuous."

There was a gentle rumble of thunder.

"Nice place," said Jack wandering about the room, looking at the eclectic paraphernalia and grandmotherly furniture.

"It works," Ant piped. He whispered to Steve, "Where'd you find this guy?"

"He's in my building," said Steve, adding "I've known him for a long time. He wanted to try something new." Jack was not paying attention enough to hear them.

"And you brought him here?"

"He sort of bumped into me on the way. You got any good stuff?" he slipped Ant several folded greenbacks.

"Sure, fresh from the hydroponics lab."

"Yeah, but is it good?"

"You want a sample?"

They sat around a stunted table on the floor. Ant patted his vest pockets and produced a small white joint no longer than a toothpick. Steve nodded to Jack, indicating that this was one of those times Jack could "get on Ant's good side." Jack handed Ant Noah's lighter and immediately regretted doing so. He thought of taking it back.

Antoine lit the fuse, inhaled and sat stiffly, eyes closed. Steve was next, repeating Ant's actions. The two exhaled simultaneously. The girl in the chair groaned and turned over. Ant tilted back. Steve's eyes looked glassy. He handed the joint and lighter to Jack and said, "Are you ready?"

"I don't know. What if we get caught?" Jack said nervously, recoiling and recalling the images of drug house raids he saw on the television.

"And what if we don't?" retorted Steve, "and what if you don't, and regret it for the rest of your life?"

"'Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow.' I just don't know. The more I think about it, the worse it gets."

"When you over think anything it becomes a bad Idea."

Jack hesitated. He sniffled in the smoky air. Then he thought the air grew denser, perfumed from some unseen censer, swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Try it. Trust me."

He did.

This is a fictional story based on actual events and conversations. The names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Tell me what you think here.

Latest Messages

Conversations

Subscriptions

Friends

Julie Andrews has no Friends

See all Friends

Followers

• Alexandra Marie Chaser, Keeper of Voices, graduated Sunday, 8 June - and Very Happy

See all Followers

Bookmarks

This user has no Bookmarks

See all Bookmarks