As requested. I told him three stories.
Three only I can recite and known to no one, about when I first found the central library's door's unlocked at night and how I understood a stranger's inadvertently act may end him as well as saved a lost soul on the street.
The second. Is about the first time I met them. How I learned to forget and abandon all that defines a person and how little significance it holds. How we could become anyone with a wrong turn of life. And how I've become unconcerned if that's a bad thing or if it'll eventually doom me. In the next second or many decades later.
The third is about last night. The fight at the pit scored us enough to get out of that dump we lived, shit, slept in for longer than anyone should. How I went in and got out by the skin of my teeth. Scraped off some of the hide on palm and almost unhinged my jaw, tibia and knees still burning.
"You should see the other guy. He ain't moving on his own for a long time if not ever."
The old geezers at the table under the lamp keep on bickering over some politicians who've been dead for a long time. The bartender is now rinsing the neck of a whiskey bottle if that makes sense. The air is still for a moment after I finished the stories in one go, I raise the glass to my mouth and find the liquor tasteless.
A gram of salt fell slowly into the brown liquor as if it were normal before dissolving.
The man by my side leaves his drink untouched. In the duration of my telling his expressions, if any, are behind the collar and the eyelids dropped too low for me to read his eyes. He kept his leather-clad hands intertwined and elbows on the edge of the counter.
"Do you think." The man's voice is like a beast's. Throaty and.....uncivilized. "You'll tell the same stories. Tomorrow? A week later? A year? Ten?”
Without an answer to his question, I shook my head and tried to shrug but felt like I didn't do either.
"You will. And you will become a better teller. But for now. Thank you."
He reached for his glass, the worn-out gloved hand spread out like a spider as he drew it behind his collars and downed the quarter-full brown liquor. He rotates the glass along with his head tilting left to greedily catch the last drop of it without raising his head.
"Now for my end."
***
My eyes open to the sound of rain bearing the glint of sun splattering on windows. I peer at the left before moving my head in confirmation I'm not plagued by hangover today.
It's closer to noon than morning now.
With the sun high above and the clouds not thick enough to completely block it, each dribble of rain is lit like plastic fairy lights on holiday magnified by my blurry vision.
I rub my eyes and roll my feet to the cold wooden floor. Some fragments of dialogue and details from whatever the hell I dreamt of still linger as I walk to my phone by the table to find no missed calls from the sisters. Not sure what I was expecting.
Walking downstairs, I turn on the 24/7 news channel before going to the bathroom sink. The cold water from faucet shook me wide awake from the tangible grip of 12-hour slumber. The voices from the living room go on and off as the sound of water down the drain triggers a slight tinnitus.
"Last night at the North Valley residential area......."
I run my closed eyes to get rid of the dryness cause by whatever. Tap water washes down the edge of my eyes to the cheeks till made it to the chin.
"Report of a break-in from the famous producer......"
My left leg hooks the door shut to block the inconsequential. Not that the media are afraid of reporting the actual crimes going on down south and by the docks, they did, and the rating barely holds up to weather podcast. No one gives a blink about their own shitty life or the life around them and I was on the spur.
When I felt a certain resistance to my rough palms against skin, I dried off the drizzle with sleeve and took a deep breath. My eyes swum to the mirror and my face in the mirror.
Line of sight fixed on the eye bags in shades of gasoline under sunshine, short and stiff hair sticking out to all directions from the middle while some covered the earthworm-shaped scar above my right brow. I open the faucet to get them moderately fixed up into the worst definition of a side part.
"As the vehicle cruises off the exit, we can 'clearly' see that the......”
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Turning off the water, I walk back out to the third CCTV recording playing back on the crossroad from Monclea to the Lanes and decide the weather anchor's voice sounded less galling.
The rain is still going on as an occasional reflection of glitter stings my still sore eyes. Don't remember puking from the vodka last night. I thought to myself while putting the coffee capsule in slot. I open the top shelf to find a shot glass small enough to fit under the coffee maker and press start.
Sound of an airplane taking off incarnated behind me as I started cleaning up the glasses in the living room along with the bottle by the bookshelf.
Throwing the mugs and all containers in sink, I turn on the faucet adding to the statics coming from the TV, rain drops against window, and coffee maker. They reminded me that I downed almost a litter of vodka before sleep and it won't reckon no consequences.
A sharp pain goes through my left ear and spreads to the edge of my jaw and up to my temple like there's a generator on the double inside my head until the coffee is done.
I grab the espresso smelled of microwave and fake aroma to rush the blunt caffeine down my organs. The headache intensified for the next 6 minutes or so until my body started to detoxify whatever the hell was inside.
Could've taken a puff upstairs.... About the tenth time the thought flew by my mind in the past 24 hours. Now the voice tainted a sense of sarcastic sadism. And I punish it by gulping down three glasses of tap water.
"......further expecting the rain to continue till at least the end of week, or also likely till the end of the season....."
I take a peek at the drizzling rain relentlessly washing the window for me while sipping coffee, thinking about what I left off last night.
"Areas by the shore might experience a rise in humidity......." Swallow the last bitter drop of espresso, I leave the shot glass in the sink and close the TV.
A dizziness from the not-so-sweet slumber last night still left me longing for an even longer unwind. But it's time to work again.
Standing in front of the city map, I pick the tape measure by the oven handle and round it on the pin stiffed at Central Park and draw the red string to an inconspicuous small church on north lanes. In fact, it's likely the smallest Catholic Church in Faust, counting out the shrines in Disalos.
42 centimeters..... About 50 minutes.
Say what you want about this city, but you can't deny how the circle line under Via Martinase made our life easier. A quick mental math can get you a pretty good idea how long of a ride it takes from one side to the next, of course traffic, blockade, nasty neighborhood, Disalos, snooping pigs around downtown need to be spent separately.
I untie the end at Kirov and bring it to the one on top of The Market, a bit south of the church....12 minutes.
Leaving the tape on map, I climbed back upstairs contemplating what to do before a confession. After closing the hatch, I settled for lunch by the lanes not just because the beef roll last night was palm-size, but also that these four walls ricochet too much of my thinking.
Slipping the shoulder holster on, the extra 300 mg of steel proven to be quite a big differences as it drags the leather belts down much more than the 509.
Gonna need a shoulder pad at some point.
I double check if the bulky pistol is tightly fit in place before putting on my jacket and three new heavy envelopes in its inner pocket. And a mental note to grab a new pack of cig as I feel the rattling against packaging on the one in hand.
***
Either my luck is turning or the scorching rock in the sky really hates me. The rain had stopped during my slow march down the stairs and the sun blinks through the dented cloud as I shut the front gate.
A smell of mold and gasoline swirls in the bright noon's air, breathing it in feels like chewing something tangible, something you could choke on.
Pedestrians put down their umbrellas and let it drip down their hoodies and coats. I turn right toward the closest station on Via Martinase, or I was about to-when a small group of intellectually challenged jumps out of the grocery store by the park. They grin ear to ear while the two in the back smile at each other with hands in pockets, eyes beaming with nothing but fierce excitement. They burn unknowingly in the fiesta to come and dance a path of crushed grass, igniting the world as well as their own. Thinking the sea of flame is everything they ever wanted.
I can tell by their steps they ain't on anything external. As preposterous as it is, walking like you own the fucking road is tiresome and demands a certain level of focus, like circus clowns dancing on a rope. And those guys, as high spirits, are still composing the facade.
"Told you it's coming soon! Didn't I say it? Didn't I?" The one walking backward out of the shop while facing his pals exclaims. His steps wide, from left foot on the stair to right heel on the pavement before bringing his whole body around and slipping his empty hands in pocket just like his mates.
The taller one walks out with his toes pointing in two different directions and heavy thumps like he's walking with heels. A sly smile draws a hint of vain in his otherwise dull face before turning right to walk side by side with his friend.
The last one in the back tilted his right foot to 45 degrees on the stairs before the left seemingly kick itself into the air as he tramped on the cracked pavement behind the other two and hook his arms around their shoulders, startling a man in yellow cap behind him who was numbed in his own thought just like the three lousy fellas.
I take two steps to the left and walk on the edge of the driveway while controlling my sway of arms to be less abrasive. Keeping eyes on the front but lowering my head a little. Turning my body left towards rows of cruising four-seaters to pass next to the taller one of the three. Narrowing my shoulder, softening my steps, dragging the edge of my lips downward while clinging to my teeth to put up the look of another miserable day halfway through on the street.
Did as much as I can to not be an instigator of bullshit 20 meters away from my doorstep. But two quick paces later, as my torso's still facing the driveway, vertical to the pavement.
Shooting a glance at the boys without moving my head. The taller one knock the arm of the loudmouth while his pupils roll between them and me. The same excitement from earlier had carried on to something else.
Should've head straight for confession…. Gonna have a bountiful to talk about later.
Among a few dozen pairs of footstep, it ain't as hard as it seems to distinguish those three. Especially after they stopped talking.
I withdrew the act and resume my usual demeanor, steps not further than the sway of my arm, moments when soles off the ground reduced to a minimum.
A slit of irritation must've slipped cause a couple of passersby in the opposite direction kept me well distanced and so did the three morons in the back as their footsteps sounded drawn out to the rest of the city hums.
But the growing pressure at the back of my neck didn't cease. I signed internally. The metro station at Via Martinase is about 8 minutes of walk, double without going through dark alley or blind spots.
I could of course, take the cab again.
But spending 9 bucks for them feels too much of a compliment. So I keep my ears to the back and eyes wide for more surprises.