The Runner of Tchoupitoulas Street

The air hung about their shoulders, held aloft by fumes whispering from stale candle wicks and the thick muggy heat of New Orleans in July. It caped the patrons of Suzie’s on Tchoupitoulas Street and held them upright as they swayed back and forth to the slow staccato rolling from the upright piano. As the piece’s crescendo peaked, the air parted and yielded to their movements, suddenly frantic, as if they were galley slaves shedding their chains on some unspoken cue.

It was through this swirling air that he saw her. Across the room, tucked away in a darker part of an already dim room. Her features so faint in the last vestiges of a dying candlelight, he was not certain she was even there. Perhaps she was a sprite, her elements conjured from some combination of thick air, sour mash whiskey, and a better part of the day spent cooped in a bar. Something inside him begot a move closer to where she had cached herself. As he approached, he discerned the realness of her being and along with that, a certain realness welled up in his soul from somewhere deep and calloused, a place not oft handled with tender husbandry.

Jostling past bodies consumed with gyration, he dared not avert his gaze lest she vanish into the mass of humanity, forever an aberration. An aberration lost in the moment, but also somehow lost in the shuffle and scatter of his life, and in the lives of everyone who had ever crossed the threshold from the street which stank of Mississippi mud in the summer into this den of truth-stretching and grandiose recounting; a tragedy both small and ample. A tragedy of both the present and of the last three hundred years of toil under hot suns and shade of Spanish moss, beset by spring floods and fall ‘canes, and all manner of crooked-toothed swamp beasts. This compelled him to act, at the least to confirm his eyes did not betray him –  that her beauty was so, and at the most to disavow himself of shame and accountability given the gravity of such unending tragedy.

Her figure revealed itself slowly. Long locks of auburn curls splayed loosely about a slender face adorned with high fleshy cheek bones and a jutting, yet evenly sloped nose. Her long and slender limbs perched upon the short stool, gave the effect of some sort of large languid bird, a heron, he thought. As he drew close across the tepid expanse, he paused. It did not stem from a lack of will or courage. No, it hissed from a failed joint in the stand pipe of his gut, escaping a pinhole patched so many times, it had become threadbare to the point of collapse. How this affliction was bestowed on a man of such character and principle to this degree and why the repairs never took, escaped him. In the same vein, a man of such principles could not spit in the face of fate and tempt Satan’s will to inflict the tragedy of lost possibility. And so, he hewed another misshapen lot of tin into a dressing of sorts and swallowed the lump in this throat, consuming the bitter elixir of inspired trust he quaffed a thousand times before. He knew the world tended to roll-up and thrash about the meek in eddies of white foam; it was better to be vigorously swimming in any direction, even upstream.

   

A rowdy bump from a backpedaling dancer snapped his attention to the present. Her features were more defined now and he realized that she was closer to his own age than first perceived. Lightly furrowed crow’s feet were present ‘bout her eyes, but everything was framed upon flawless sunny caramel skin, floating beneath a thin strapped, abstract patterned dress hemmed well-above her knees. In the capsule of time that enshrouded him at that particular place, in that particular trice, something spurned him to action.

He took several large sudden strides without forbearance and collided with a waitress carrying a tray full of cocktails. Lowballs, highballs, and martini glasses blended to a cacophony, flattening into a soupy mess of cragged glass peaks on the floor. Soaked about his mid-section and shamed all over, he did his best to offer stymied condolences to the poor soul, before hastily beating a retreat to the bar. As he fled, he tendered one last glance at the woman. She, within earshot of the incident, surveyed the scene, his bemused expression and smiled. A smile of sympathy and mischievousness. It did little to assuage his embarrassment, but did ease the sting of the moment.  

Planted at the bar, he cursed the clumsy act. His belief had always been that fate offered one a set amount of chances in life at events that mattered. Chances at mundane or uneventful occurrences were limitless and their outcomes mattered little in the montage of life. But a small set of chances could, depending on their outcomes, alter one’s course through a replenishment or dearth of consonant future chances. That belief perched upon his shoulders, pinching the muscles around the base of his neck into a wrinkled mass, as he nursed a Sazerac, the black licorice and Peychaud’s nursing him equally back.

An alight on his arm brought him round in his chair. She stood donning the same smile, her head level with his seated shoulder. Fate had made a second pass in a single night. Pleasantries were exchanged and conversation came easy. They stayed until the dancing died and what candles left burning were extinguished. They talked of life, love, of philosophy, and how they both forgot what it felt like to be cold. Throughout the narrative, he found it easy to be in her presence and sensed she felt the same. He felt a stirring in his gut – the elixir had found its way to the pinhole, bonded, and begun to cure.

As Suzie’s ushered them out on to the now silent street, he learned of her checkered past with the city and love. Not a native like himself, she moved from the northeast to chase a man and dreams of forming a musicians’ cooperative. Both pursuits soured and she found herself battling a bout of chemical addiction and depression. But, like so many others who pilgrimed to the lascivious muddy bosom of the Mississippi, she fell under the spell of the city and did not flee. She lent her heartache and regret to its long narrative, to later be told by a heavenly bard perched atop the tomes of eternity. And lent her hands and northern spirit to set about rebuilding her life and the city after each flood, the two labors becoming as routine as taking afternoon tea on the balcony of her Rampart Street apartment.

He empathized with her story, as one himself who seldom took the straight and narrow approach. The walk flowed with the easy of familiarity. He gestured to various buildings and indulged in their history, so intimate his knowledge of his birthplace, he felt compelled to share it with whomever lent their ear. His was a dying wisdom, replaced by a digital fabric he did not trust. Between emphatic gestures, he embraced her ‘round her hips and they rocked slow to a croon from a far-off horn.

They sojourned at her small apartment on the north side of the Marigny. He found it to be simple, yet altogether tidy and neat, with just enough creature comforts and rustic art to put him at ease. And later, when the wine ran low and conversation faded to hushed tones, they withdrew to her bedroom loft. There their bodies moved in supple harmony for having just met; even their unplanned syncopations compensated for with pleasurable adjustments and well-timed utterances. And after, when they lay at opposite sides of the bed with a sweat-soaked mass of sheets and pillows discarded on the floor, they careened headlong into deep boozy dreams absent a word between them.

The heat of the loft awoke him. Of all the stifling apartments in the city, he had ended up in perhaps the most oppressive. It didn’t help that no matter the season or pursuit, his lithe body ceaselessly radiated heat. After what seemed a short eternity lying awake, he climbed over his companion’s curled body, gathered his clothes and climbed down the loft ladder. He dressed and retired to the balcony in hopes the humid night air would offer a sliver of respite. Some unease began to build within his soul and his heart, the specific origin unknown to him. But the feeling was familiar. It had played out on noisy street corners, in the middle of decadent meals with well-suited company, and now, leaning forward over a railing overlooking a quiet stretch of grey asphalt lit by white street lamps and the yellow of an immature harvest moon.

It did not reassure him of the essential tenants of life and nature. That all would find its place, the course of his life and of all lives, cutting a swathe through bedrock and finding the path of least resistance in the end. No, it burst through his makeshift tin patch and flooded him with panic and unrest. Where could this tryst go, save for downhill, bogged and mired in jealously, mistrust, and acrid words that stung long after they were uttered, he thought. It was not that he was a skeptic of love or its endurance when fertilized and cultivated with care, but that far too often neglect creeped into crevices of once impenetrable bonds, frozen and split, leaving behind shaky ground upon which one tread with trepidation and cowardice. This drove him from her balcony. Out of her building and onto the street which he had gazed down upon at moments before. This street he knew. This ground was solid. And he knew the way home.

#10: An American at Marne

It was after dawn.  The horses had risen earlier than the men.  Their black nostrils chuffed the air and dew soaked their hooves.  Overhead English starlings wheeled and turned against the grey morning sky.  The men lay dug into their holes.  Patches of craters pocking an immense fallow meadow.

Corporal Taylor stirred.  The foxhole bottom still clung to some of the night chill and he was suddenly aware of his bones poking at odd angles.  Soon the chalk soil would be baked in the July sun and retain a heat well into the next eve.  Taylor was still unaccustomed to waking in such a manner.  He forced himself to recognize his surroundings.  His breath turned white on black as he exhaled the day’s first rolled cigarette. 

His foxhole mate, a Brit by the name of Gillespie woke.  Gill had been on the front for the duration of the western French campaign.  His fatigues bore a tincture of hastened age.  Of gunpowder and sun bleached patches smattered in white mud.  They had talked little since Taylor’s arrival a week prior. 

Soon the morning scouts would be pressed into action.  A survey of the German lines along the river Vesle would determine strategy.  Some days they poked at the lines, others they sat entrenched.  A mess of canned stews, cigarettes and soggy card games.  Taylor preferred action to the gloom of waiting.

The Germans would shell daily to keep the combined French and British force at bay.  A lazy jab that convinced Taylor they were mounting a vicious onslaught.  Everyday more Americans arrived; the French command deploying them to patch holes in ranks.  Soon they would be enough to form more rear lines and flesh out the flanks in the surrounding forest.

Two thousand yards were all that separated the forces.  The purgatory in between was occupied by barbed wire and rotting cow carcasses.  Their bovine forms enmeshed with the wire formed a horrible panorama.  They had lain slaughtered before Taylor’s arrival.  When he asked Gill, he told him both sides had picked them off for fun in the early goings.

As one of the first Americans to arrive, Taylor felt a deep sense of purpose.  His friends and brothers were still in boot camp or deployed far behind the Western Front.  They had not contributed yet as he had.  Every morning he would take his Springfield rifle and sight the far riverbank.  The shot was impossible, but he fancied striking someone at random.

He had only ventured on one forward attack.  Several days before the scouts had returned, reporting dawn activity in the Kraut artillery batteries.  Mostly they shelled only gas into the trenches.  That day, it appeared the howitzers were changing positions.  The French command feared the mount of a creeping forward barrage.

Marching orders were passed through the first few lines.  They would double time to the near bank, take cover and fire at the forward machine gun nests.  Earthworks on the bank had been built high and afforded excellent cover.  Later the Krauts would raze them in light of their effectiveness.  Settling for too long would invite mortar fire and they were instructed to retreat along the wooded flanks.  The aim was to feint an attack and impede the Krauts from launching any major offensive.

Taylor readied himself.  He advanced alongside Gill, mirroring the veteran’s diagonal tacks through trampled sections of barbed wire.  The rapid press was unanticipated and the morning fog masked them.  As the first line approached the earthworks, the nests roared to life.  Taylor swung his Springfield into action.  Aiming for the sunburst of each barrel, he ripped through several stripper clips.  His hand was steady as he palmed the breech open and closed.  White mud slung about his line of sight as the German Maxims pummeled the berms.  Everywhere chalky white mud.  His hands slimed with it and soon his chest clip pouch sagged from frequent reloads.

He switched between two nests until one fell silent.  Taylor could just make out a corpse draped over the sandbag.  His hand had begun to pulse with cramps from the bolt.  He did not yield.  Months of pent up frustration and anticipation fueled him.  Headlines read across an ocean dulled aches.  It wasn’t until Gill grabbed at his nape that he paused.

The Brit’s finger pointed skyward.  Taylor’s eyes followed it to a somersaulting boot shape that apexed before tumbling.  The crude trench mine fell at an angle that captivated the entire company’s attention.  It seemed to cascade down on every man.  A strange trick borne of intense focus.  Taylor retracted his rifle from over the berm and curled into a ball.  The shock was crushing.  It rolled him into Gill with toppling force.  When he came to, he could see, but not hear the cries of nearby men.

One lay facedown in the mud motionless, his helmet a full crescent against the ground.  Another convulsed sporadically, his face a dripping mess.  A third lay silent clutching at tattered tentacles of sinew that hung from his shoulder.  With the nests roaring popcorn yellow bursts, Taylor raced half crouched towards the right tree line.  The rest of the company followed suit and engulfed him.

He had difficultly sleeping for several nights.  Soon though, exhaustion triumphed.  Images from that morning seemed far from the present.  Taylor now watched Gill begin the day with a cold can of beans.  He saw him massage his knuckles as his hands cramped and curled around the tin spoon handle.  A white powder of dust shook free as he did so.  After, they would take shifts between cleaning their rifles and staring at the river.  Taylor spent an hour writing his folks.  The stationary had become brittle from the summer sun.  His pen often sputtered, leaving thin letters he had to retrace.

Always first, his childhood sweetheart Bridget.  He found starting with her prudent, as the mood typically darkened with each successive letter.  His parents followed and he wrote his youngest brother last.  Too young to serve, he wanted to impart the gravity of his honor and graveness of the situation, to him.

He was interrupted by a stir running through the lines.  Soon a runner arrived and between pants told them the news.  American reinforcements were arriving in droves, mostly from the 3^rd Infantry Division.  Taylor felt his pride swell.  The Allied forces were low on morale and the Germans appeared poised to unleash their stormtroopers.  An injection of fresh legs and spirit would be crucial to holding fast.

Their arrival spurred the enemy’s attack.  Soon after, the German guns began their shelling.  For the entire afternoon, their trenches were pounded.  With the enemy out of reach Taylor could do nothing but hole up.  During a brief lull, he surveyed the river.  It was teaming with activity.  Stormtroopers floating atop canvas boats and makeshift rafts gave the appearance of rats in a sewer.  Bare boned bridges had materialized and dotted the foreground at perhaps a dozen narrow points.

The shelling slowly eased and the Allies responded.  Taylor and Gill took turns firing indiscriminately at the fast approaching ranks.  He found aiming for their bell-bottomed helmets to work best.  If he overshot, often the round would travel into the next rank.  Aiming low resulted in many slugs buried in deep clay.  The advance was unhindered and steady and Taylor surprised himself with his calm demeanor.  The circumstances dictated panic, but upon feeling his brethren’s presence, he became comforted.

Dusk fell in short order.  Soon both sides fired at near ghosts.  French bombers strafed and bombed the river in a merciless fashion.  Their number so great, they seemed a cloud of slow gnats infesting the once azure sky.

As he could feel the reinforcements’ arrival, so too could Taylor feel the vanity of their defense.  The Germans had organized for weeks and moved too swiftly.  A counterattack would be the best tactic for slowing their rhythmic progress.  The French command knew as much and a British runner with orders briefly graced their hole.  They were to conserve their ammo and charge within the hour.

Taylor shifted his gas mask to the top of his head as he began to prepare his belongings.  He shedded his canteen and foodstuffs onto the foxhole floor.  His letters were placed in a jacket breast pocket and his dog tags untucked from his fatigues.  A brief pat on Gill’s shoulder and a last tug of a cigarette were shared.

Over the top he went.  His path was straight and cause righteous.  Never had the enemy seen such fine valor.  Bayonet fixed, he hurdled a trench.  A field of fire burning with brimstone lay before him.  It would consume his being that day, but till the last gasp his resolve persisted, intact.  His efforts laid bare with no thought given to glory or triumph.  Somewhere near, a broken bell in a ruined church rasped a weak toll in a strong breeze. 

#9: Waste Not, Want Not

He glanced at the long white legal page before staring back across the table. 

“So you’re asking me to do what, with this account now?”

“The air in this conference room is always too cold, don’t you think?  I guess it’s offset by the tranquil view.”  The respondent, a graying man in a navy blue suite peered through the question.  “I think they should bring back the old coffee brand, what do you think?  I was a really big fan of the sum – ”

“Karl, I have a four o’clock.  Sorry, just need some clarity on this.”

This time it stuck.  “Right.  So as the CFO of this fine organization, I strongly suggest you spend the remaining amount before fiscal year end.  I know you’re not quite up to speed on how things in this town work, but it’s a lose it or use it situation with cash.”  No one rushed to speak.

“Let me get this straight,” asked the more junior and debonair of the pair.  “You want me to spend the savings I’ve been working hard to accumulate, in order to inflate next year’s budget?  This, in the face of last quarter’s layoffs.”

“I am not suggesting you inflate anything Geoff.  Just spend the money on a nice year-end reception for your staff.  God knows they need a morale boost, especially because they lost a few colleagues.  Rent a nice banquet room downtown.  I don’t care; we’re going to kill our quarterly revenue projections.”

Geoff was a few minutes late for his four o’clock but still managed to repair home on time.  The office was conveniently located near Mass Ave, thus affording him easy access to a newly purchased Bethesda home. 

The meeting with Karl had rattled him.  Their employer, a small beltway research firm that peddled political insight to Wall Street, was scarcely weathering a do-nothing congressional session and dismal economy.  They had managed to survive by laying off mid-level managers and analysts, whilst bringing on a few high profile K Street power brokers.  He had ridden on the coattails of a phoenix to a new town, a new house and life. 

His SUV churned up still taupe fallen leaves onto suburban lawns as he neared his block.  An autumn phoenix, contradictory as it was, was better than sifting through ashes, Geoff thought.

He had given up a tidy brownstone on the Upper West Side of Manhattan and daily cross-town commute where he led a research division at a large commercial bank.  The division focused on special investment vehicles and made Geoff a hot commodity following the meltdown.  With all eyes on Washington, he had skipped town and staked a claim at a boutique firm, trying to stay a step ahead of new regulatory moves.  In truth, he felt like a convict who was so adroit the government had started consulting him in exchange for time served.  Hollywood stuff.  Except no one was incarcerated or losing sleep, save for the poor sops that were on the outside to begin with.  He didn’t take sides politically and wasn’t about to now in the District, as the locals termed it.

Still, the notion that he should throw a party and waste precious private funds seemed fantastic to him.  Granted his team regularly traversed the eastern seaboard throwing elegant cocktail parties for lawmakers and Geoff understood the point of maintaining a certain level of spending.  He could recall the faces of new colleagues, perspiring from the June humidity, as they packed their offices and cubicles.  One must slash and burn in order to cultivate at times, he thought.  

He reported early the next day and started planning the party.  There were several high profile client meetings in the afternoon and he wanted it sorted and the bad taste gone.  He phoned his executive assistant.  Geoff always wanted to slip the word secretary or a modifier like “secretarial task” in the conversation, but some reserve restrained him. 

“Veronica, can you book us a room at the, let’s say, the Sofitel the first week of next month?  Get us a banquet room and a spread.  Also make sure it’s not a cash bar.  Don’t worry about cost; just get an estimate for accounting.  I’m sure it will be fine.”

An hour later, whilst he was scouring the Journal, she rang back.

“Geoff, they want to know if you would like French bistro cuisine, as they are known for, or something slightly more exotic.” 

Her formal tone irked him.  “I trust you are capable of making that decision Veronica. You know the staff much better than I.  Have to prepare for today’s meetings now, thanks!”  He flipped to a piece on the Eurozone’s future and washed his hands of the business.

The next few weeks passed faster than he was accustomed.  His team had become inundated with deciphering some newly proposed Senate bill that everyone knew wouldn’t clear the House.  Still, it held some interesting implications for credit derivatives.  There was a remote chance a severely watered down version could pass and that alone had his New York clients in fits.

On the eve of the party he left his office early and drove southeast, downtown.  He aimed to scope out the lay of the land.  Parking and logistics mainly, as it was rumored a group of protesters were occupying a neighboring public park.  Geoff found the hotel with relative ease; he had attended a foreign affairs panel there several months prior.

After parking he began to realize the excursion was just an excuse.  His staff was perfectly capable of handling themselves and if they weren’t, it was their problem.  Rather, he was escaping a boring commute to an empty house where he would continue working against the drone of financial cable networks.

The air between the buildings was still and crisp.  Oat strands of low-slung light caught metal street fixtures and caused Geoff to squint.  If it wasn’t for the eagerly browned maples, it could have been spring.  He leaned against a street light post and unfurled a cigarette pack from his slacks.  Having kicked a serious habit as a young trader, he limited himself to one per day, usually consumed in the car following work. 

Nearby, low bass notes throbbed, drawing Geoff around the corner of the hotel.  What he discovered was remarkable.  An entire city of plastic tarp canopies had overtook most of the green space in the downtown business park.  Signs hanging from every fence and tent pole spelled derision and anger; the messages a near personal affront to his livelihood. 

Having been stymied by the recent uptick in work, Geoff had only heard murmurs of the movement’s development.  It hadn’t occurred to him that they were staking a claim, an open sore, at the heart of the power nexus.  So befuddled, he had to ask the person suddenly standing in front of him to repeat himself.

“Say, you got another smoke by chance brotha?”

The inquirer was a young white man in his 20s, sporting dreadlocked hair and donning what appeared to be a rug for a shirt. 

“Sure do.  I’ll part with one if you tell me what you’re mad about.  Not anyone else, but you specifically.”

“Well man, ya see?  I’m pretty pissed that we bailed out those big banks and then they didn’t bail us out when the going got tough, ya know?  If it was up to me, I’d fire the whole congress and start fresh.  Too much corruption and personal greed.  A few people are winning at our expense, ya know?”

Geoff forked over the smoke, nodded dismissively and returned to his car.  The whole encounter, the whole scene, had irked him.  He was mostly confused.  As a realist, he understood their frustration, but didn’t understand how their actions were going to change anything.  What naivety?  Why weren’t they volunteering at soup kitchens helping out those in worse situations?  What about looking for work?  Where did the park’s regular homeless go?

He rushed back to suburbia in a daze.  Deciding to forego further work, he quickly swilled several lowball glasses of bourbon before retiring.  Outside the wind kicked up spiraling a skeleton crew of leaves into the house’s flanks. 

Geoff passed the next day at the office with his thoughts adrift.  In the middle of several calls he blanked and had to cover his tracks.  While the impending forced social gathering weighed slight in his mind, it was the scene he had encountered the day before that threw him.  Son of a second generation immigrant, he had always believed that individual moxie would trump hard times and shortcomings.  His economic knowledge and common sense had been tugging at that sentiment lately.  Seeing the encampment filled with young people driven to such ends further disillusioned him. 

The day ran its course and he made his way down to the venue.  Purposefully he avoided the park and its inhabitants fearing another glimpse would fester his self-doubt.  Opting to valet his car, he entered the hotel and sought out the bar.

Inside, off-white crown moldings subtly reflected the soft light of crystal chandeliers.  High ceilings and plush carpets graced the banquet room.  His staff was only twenty or so, but the room looked to accommodate twice that with ease.  A mobile mahogany bar was set across one corner and he strode over to the tuxedoed barkeep.

Geoff had to squint while addressing him as the unblocked sun streamed through slits in the antique wrought iron window grilles. 

“Maker’s, neat please.” 

He spent the next half hour stalking about the room awaiting Veronica and the rest of his team.  A few minutes before the majority arrived, the kitchen staff laid out the evening’s feast.  It appeared Veronica had opted for the more exotic fare as a cold bar complete with oysters on the half shell and crab legs sat adjacent to a mini chocolate fondue fountain. 

Hell, we’re going to chew right through the reserves tonight, he thought.

“Another Maker’s please.”

As they shuffled in, in small groups, Geoff greeted each with a smile and most with a handshake.  The workplace was somewhat tiered in that the more junior analysts tended to associate separately from the senior policy and subject experts.  Geoff spent most of his time delivering research to clients, so he wasn’t too familiar with anyone yet.  It set the stage for an awkward evening.

At first he rotated between the groups like an island ferry.  Casual chatter here, shop talk there.  Most seemed genuinely impressed with the venue and spread.  Geoff was beginning to come to terms with the event being a necessary evil.  After a few rounds, he ran out of ice breakers and parked himself by the cold bar.  There he was able to survey the field, answer passersby’s questions and slurp oysters in peace.

The relative idle state though, jogged his thoughts.  He began to recall the names and faces of those he had let go, just a few weeks into his tenure.  Some had been employed since the firm’s founding ten years ago.  The images from the park replayed in his mind more sharply.  If his former colleagues, some of the brightest and most astute individuals in the area couldn’t assert their worth, what chance did these kids have?

Brooding, he began to judge his surroundings.  Perry, the Fed expert, looked so clichéd in his purple pinstriped suit, his red bowtie and caramel wingtips.  Josa-, he couldn’t quite recall her name, was gluttonously ambushing passing hors d'oeuvre servers two at a time.  He felt disconnected, superior and ashamed for having judged. 

A few more Maker’s, a few more trite greetings.  He grew restless.  Suddenly he fixated on the crab leg display.  Spiny limbs sprung towards the heavens like spring tulips anchored in a loose ice loam.  No one had even touched them; too perfect was their planting.  He rested his glass on the bar and gripped the stainless steel garden bed. 

Geoff felt himself flushing with exhilaration as he hoisted the tray and marched toward a side exit.  Flinging the door open with an upward knee, he nearly tumbled onto the sidewalk.  Glancing wildly up and down the now empty street, he started towards a near sidewalk bench. 

The sun had slipped lower but the air didn’t have any true bite yet.  The stillness of the air contrasted sharply with his mood but did soothe his flushed skin.  Underfoot, once tanned leaves turned burnt coffee, slowed Geoff as he sloshed forward.   

There on the bench a disheveled elderly black man with a graying beard sat.  Geoff had noticed him there the other day and assumed he was destitute.  He calmly glanced Geoff up and down.

“Here, I want you to have these.”

A nervous chuckle as he met Geoff eyes.  “And what the Hell am I supposed to do wit ‘em?” 

“Well, thought you probably are having trouble cus of those protesters and all.”

A more relaxed laugh.  “Nah man.  They ain’t bothering me.  They actually give me food and space in a tent when I need.  Say, wacha want me to do with those things?  I could sell ‘em maybe.”  More raucous laughter as he waved Geoff off. 

His fingers numb from cold and arms burning with stress, Geoff slinked back towards the hotel.  He quietly dumped the tray in a street trash can and motioned for the valet attendant to fetch his car.  Dusk entrenched the street and cast the hotel in a gothic light.  Geoff wondered what an appropriate tip was for the man.  

#8: A Pitfall

            He couldn’t recall a time when they worked this late into the night.  Of course he had just joined the dusk shift a few weeks prior.  The men didn’t complain to the foreman, as the toils of overtime were well rewarded.  One by one the trucks pulled up to the excavator and one by one he filled them.  Giant Martian rovers with tires as high as ceilings, he imagined.  Most of the day, steeped in monotony, he was the captain of deep space miners, the vanguard of earth’s economy.

            In reality, the dust, now a grey fog in the excavator’s headlamps, was a by-product of copper mining in Arizona.  Near Morenci, they stripped an open pit nearly round the clock. 

John Brigham was approaching middle age with grace and humility.  Son of a small town plumber, he had left home at eighteen in search of fortune.  Along the way he acquired a wife, two children and a modest living.  In return, he spent half the year away from them living in a company doublewide.  He had traded the trappings of a suburban life for solitude.  Each time he returned, his children’s faces were a little longer, their limbs less chubby, more gaunt.

In the evenings the men on his shift would gather and play cards.  He preferred to watch and conserve his earnings.  They ribbed him for being tight, but he would just laugh and visualize the wallet photos of his son and daughter.

He had one close friend whom he trusted.  Günter was a veteran of the mine; the engineer responsible for placing the de-watering bores and pumps.  Like an avalanche control expert, he decided when and where to relieve water pressure in the mine walls.

John first crossed paths with him in the field several years ago.  Günter was high above on a batter near the pit’s first berm.  A small team of men were assembled around the borehole and appeared to be waiting for something.  John had noticed them through the dirt-pocked film glazing his excavator’s windshield.  He had just left the access route and was hugging the batter’s base.  His scheduled dig was nearby and this was the most direct route.  Suddenly his cabin radio crackled, cutting through the chuff of the diesel under load. 

            “Ah… excuse me.  Where do you think you’re going?  I’m referring to you, trackhoe with the red orange boom.”  The accent was southwest, but tinged with Bavarian. 

            It took him a second to self-realize.  With some arrogance he continued on his path, yanking the hand mic from its slide perch. 

            “Yea.  Roger, this is John speaking.  Who’s this?”

            “Which is it, Rodger or John?  Listen.  I don’t have time for formalities.  I am about to press a pump into an iffy hole up here and I’m not sure if it’ll take or blow back.  If it blows, you can kiss your sweet ass goodbye.  I advise an immediate ninety degree right turn away, back to the access route, over.”

            The no bullshit tone was convincing enough.  A few moments after re-joining the route he heard a tremendous rumble.  A glance in the rearview yielded a chaotic scene.  A large slab of bedrock had come loose on the batter above and taken the pump along for a ride.  John purposefully stalled the excavator.  He peered for several long seconds in his rearview, trying to discern figures through a rising dust cloud.  The pump, a device weighing nearly a metric ton, had crashed, as predicted, at the batter’s base.  Remembering his cabin radio he shouted at the mic.  Spittle laced with dust peppered the horizontal slits. 

            “Is everyone OK up there on the first berm?  This is the excavator that was just at your position.  Do you copy?”

            A few tense moments passed before an answer.  “Gocha trackhoe.  We are all here and accounted for, less a half a million-dollar pump.  Good riddance.  Anyway, you owe me a beer after shift.  I’ll be at the cantina.”

            John was taken with his matter of fact nature, but had a chuckle nonetheless.

            He was able to repair earlier than normal that particular night.  His dig was cut short on account of the accident.  Some men had been diverted to help salvage the pump. 

            The walk from the equipment depot to his trailer was usually the most savored part of his day.  Through the chain link fence of the depot, his first step outside afforded him a vista few ever witnessed.  High above the pit rim, the berms splayed out like earthen tree rings, each discerned by caged floodlights spaced every hundred yards.  The vertical pit walls between each berm, the batters, were the focal points of the light.  The stepped berms combined with the even cascade of light against the grey washed walls gave the appearance of a vast amphitheatre.  Instead of music, there was the droning of reversing trucks, both their gearboxes and nasal warning tones.  Instead of spoken lines, there was the clanging of dump buckets dropping open, the reverberations just as dramatic.     

            John would stroll back slowly to his trailer, stopping frequently to peer through the fence.  He imagined it a secret government complex where giant machines of war were being assembled.  Daydreaming had always been a favorite hobby since youth, but time spent in the excavator saddle had rekindled his passion.          

            The night of the accident he diverted past the power plant on the way to the cantina.  The white castle hummed and spewed high frequency tones.  Cast below and before it, the neatly arranged sterile trailers reflected the light and tones.  A fiefdom that burned bright all hours, indifferent to the desert sun. 

He found Günter alone at the bar.

            “The name’s John.  John Brigham.  I really want to thank you for the head’s up back there.  It was too close for my liking.”

            “Don’t mention it.  Here, pull up a stool.  I’m Günter.  I’m an engineer, here on loan from a German sister company.  Hence the cockamamie accent.  Although I’ve been here going on a decade now, so I dink it’s fading.  And you, where are you from?”

            “I hail from Mobile, Alabama.  The fishing life never appealed to me, neither did the rigs.  Damn water’s too unpredictable.  Well I guess you would know a thing or two about that.  Got two kids, been married once.”

            Günter nodded in acknowledgement.  “Had a wife.  She was a real drag.  Don’t think I could be out here alone, with a family.  Why do you do it John?  Or I guess, how do you do it?”

             “That’s as good a question as anybody’s ever asked me.”

            The two began spending most of their free time together when shifts allowed. Günter was a pleasant diversion from the more rough-mannered men on his crew.  As an engineer he approached problems methodically.  He never gambled, seldom drank; two things in common that John hadn’t found in anyone else at the mine.  One day Günter welded a protective shield around his engine’s air filter.  Less dust clogged it and his cruising speed increased a fraction.  Negligible over the course of a day, but his workload seemed to ease with time.    

            He had seen much less of him now that he was on the twilight shift.  Every now and then he would hear some engineer traffic over his cockpit CB and strain to make out an accented voice.  This particular shift the radio was silent, so he entertained himself in the usual fashion. 

            Abruptly, he lost hydraulic pressure in all lines.  His right hand stick controlling the boom height went dead and the entire rig went crashing down onto the truck bed.  The sheer tonnage of the bucket slamming down had caused the truck’s front wheels to rise off the ground at least ten feet.  Fearing for the men driving, John threw the excavator in reverse.

            As he expected, the maneuver relieved some of the angle and pressure.  The truck’s wheels began to lower and he goosed the throttle more.  His radio buzzed to life.

            “Stop John.  You’re on the edge of the berm.  STOP!”

            The cry was of sheer terror.  John’s entire body coursed heat.  He clutched his kill switch and pressed.  He could already feel his equilibrium tilting.  A glance in his side mirror revealed a small portion of his right track resting out over the edge. 

            He practically ripped the parking brake from the floor as the engine shuddered to a halt.  Just like during his daily toil, his mind sped.  Except instead of a dull, timeless wandering, it was crisp and jolting.  He saw his children’s faces like the wallet pictures he kept. 

            He later recalled hopping out of the cabin and running.  Running away from the dig site up towards the power plant.  Careening past the card trailer, past the cantina and up Günter’s mobile home steps.

            Completely out of breath he managed a few words.

            “I see what you mean now brother… I can’t be out here alone no more… out of respect… I want to say goodbye.”

            Günter simply nodded and closed the door.  He marched past the depot to his trailer with his eyes locked to the ground. Exposed by the scathing white light from the plant, John Brigham packed his belongings and headed east.   The scene unfolded below with the same cadence it always had, less one digger.

#7: Humble Encounters

            She wasn’t nervous, tentative rather.  She took another long drag on her cigarette and watched smoke ascend and curl in the dead air.  Behind her, an electric bass rattled the bar’s bay window.  Muffled screeches and the fuchsia neon of a Chinese takeout across the street.  Her straight blonde hair was cut shoulder length and strands fell loosely about her brow and ears.  Her slight frame carried curves that none would describe as unflattering.  She was thirty, a waitress by day and struggling talent by night.  Clearing her throat, she turned and entered.  

            The crowd was bathed in darkness, but lekos cut narrow paths of light to the now empty mic stand and stool.  This was the most popular Tuesday venue for talent in Seattle’s Ballard neighborhood.  She had to befriend the manager in order to land a coveted spot in the rotation.  This particular night, she planned on offering a few originals and that always made her tense.

            Scanning the room a final time, she ascends the stage, black violin case tucked under her arm.  Someone coughs in the crowd.  The air seems hotter.  The polite silence almost rattles her.  She unpacks her instrument, settles into the chair.  Her face is now focused and stern. 

            “Hi friends.  My name is Chloe and I’d like to sing you a few songs.”  Measured applause.  A few rowdy chirps from young men.  The overhead strand lights form a salve of heat, amplifying her sudden flush. 

            She launches into the most melodic song of the mini-set.  Her voice undulates above and below the pitch of the violin.  Her eyes clench in concentration.  The chorus drives up an octave, another, and yet another until she is belting near capacity.  As quickly as she climbs, she rescinds.  The finish is slow as the once spry notes nearly stall, her voice distilled to a gentle hum. 

            “Thank you.”  A roar of applause greets her.  The hot salve from the lights is now no longer stifling, it invigorates her.  She launches into the next song.

            He noticed his fingers drumming on the raised bar trim.  That rarely happened on nights such as these, in places such as this.  It was something about the way the light hit her yellow hair, spiraling through and hazing.  Framed by the power in her voice and fingers, she seemed a touch angelic. 

            The drumming continued throughout the rest of her performance.  It took a firm hand on his shoulder to rouse him from the trance. 

            “C’mon Whit, time to shine.”  His fellow band mate and guitarist, Sam, turns him on his barstool, breaking the moment.          

            “Jesus, how are we going to follow her?  I mean –”

            “Yea I know.  Well we’re not.”  Sam clasps his acoustic Gibson by the throat and strides towards the stage.  Whit, his intrigue overcoming his nerves, follows, his tambourine in hand.

            Chloe standing bent to pack her violin, looks stunning up close.  Whit harbors a sinking feeling about Sam’s behavior and comment.  He takes up position by the second mic nevertheless and awaits the next move.  With a subtle lean, Sam whispers a few lines in her ear.  A self-conscious smile washes into a devilish grin.  An affirmative nod, the release of silver buckles and the violin is re-seated on her chin.

            Sam bellies up to the main mic, conceding the stool to Chloe.  “A little change in our plans folks.  We’re going to keep this one up here for one more.  What do you think about that?”  Cheers all around.  “My buddy on vocals and percussion is Whit and we’re the Breakwater Boys.  Here’s something I think you all should recognize.”  Turning to Whit he lowers his voice to a near whisper.  “Follow my lead.  October Road on three.  One…two, one… two…three.” 

             They slip into the first verse, each note arriving at their fingers without translation.  Whit senses an energy disproportionate to the soft melody.  He restrains both his voice and hands as he backs Sam.  Chloe’s eyes no longer clench, they dance across the stage and crowd.  Whit thinks how much better her powerful undulations would sound than his raspy backing.  The short song ends.  They peer at each other with the look of toddlers just finished with their first caper.

            “Everyone, give it up one more time for Chloe!” 

            They finish their five-song set as rehearsed.  Whit spends half his attention scanning the crowd for her.  She darts about, chatting up the manager, bartender, a few taken fans.  The other half of his attention he pours into the songs, all originals written over the course of the past year.

            Sam and Whit had first met in college, both broke but hungry.  Their mutual interest in folk music was realized when Whit overheard Sam strumming and humming a few Kingston Trio tunes in the dorm common area.  Formalities were dispensed and the two became close friends.  Sam was a born front man.  Tall, skinny with long wavy hair and prominent brow, he often took the lead with new coeds.  Whit bore a unique sense of style that set him apart.  He often donned sleeveless shirts and oversized sunglasses well before they were the look du jour.  He sported large headphones atop his densely wound, near nappy, sandy hair.  After graduating and schlepping through a few odd construction and service jobs, the pair decided to get serious about music.  They honed their skills, song wrote sober and drunk, laid some demo tracks. 

            Some local airtime on UW’s KEXP station was earned and a few promising write-ups garnered, but the duo stalled.  They needed more components in the form of a bassist and fully functioning drum kit.

            The scene tonight was typical.  They were well regarded enough to play when and wherever they pleased, but thoroughly ill-equipped enough to ever secure paying gigs.  They pair had grown despondent and irritable of late.  Subsisting off of cheap food and even cheaper booze, Whit saw the end of the duo in sight.  Tonight had given him hope.

            He was surprised to find her waiting at the bar alone.

            “Quite a nice little group of songs you two have got there.  Lovely sound.”  He hadn’t noticed before how much playfulness her bangs lent her.

            “Why thank you, really.  They blend together for me these days.  Seriously, I told Sam that we should just play them all straight through, see if anyone would react.”  He earns few full-bodied laughs. 

            “Well I think that’d be a marvelous social experiment.”

            “At the risk of sounding corny, do you play here often?  I can’t recall ever seeing you.”

            “Yea, this is actually my first time here.  I had to agree to have drinks with the manager in order to make the cut.”                                                                  

            “Really?  Stevie?  Crafty bastard.  We actually play here most Tuesday’s, I mean….”  She arches her brow.  He realizes his carelessness.  “Well I mean, we’re not landing regular gigs or anything.  Hey, I’d gladly faux date Stevie for a spot.  I mean, check out those corduroys.”  A near doubling over with laughter.  He was winning her back.  This one certainly has spunk, he thinks.

            “Well I had a great time up there.  I haven’t seen anyone cover JT’s newer stuff actually.” 

            “Yea, all my idea.”  A slight pause.  The stage lights cut out and the house lights come up.  “Well we’re gonna be back here next Tuesday, most likely doing covers.  What do you say about combining our acts?  Give it a shot once, see how it goes.  I mean, still give ole’ Stevie a shot and all.  He’ll really appreciate it when you get up there with us.” 

            “Umm, I dunno.  You two seem like you have a good thing going.”

            Whit has to again restrain himself, this time verbally and emotionally.  Choking back desperation he pensively looks up.  “Yea well we do.  But some sweet, sultry female vocals never hurt anyone’s act that I’ve ever heard of.  Besides the way you play is pitch perfect for our stuff. “             

            A longer pause.  Whit notices Sam off chatting to a few regulars, accepting their offers of pints.  Stevie huddles at the register out of earshot, but his jealous peering is apparent. 

            “Well I guess I could give it a go just next week.  See how we sound.  I’m free to practice any night between now and then.  Oh, save Friday, that’s when Casanova reserved me.  Here, I’ll save you the trouble of asking.”  She whips open a bar nap and hastily scribbles. 

            Whit smiles and pockets.  “Great.  I’ll confer with my ball and chain and we’ll make arrangements.  It was nice meeting and playing with you”  They shake.

            “Pleasure’s all mine.”  Whit leaves her at the bar and collects his tambourine from the stage.  He swings by Sam on his way out.

            “Leaving already brother?”                                                                

            “Yea, tonight was good enough for me.  I’ll just ruin it if I stick around.”  The group nods silently, the way people do when they don’t know what you’re talking about, out of grace.  He leans in towards Sam’s shoulder.  “Got Chloe’s info.  Don’t be a dog and scare her off.  I think she can really help us out.”

            “Well it was my idea so – ”

             “Seriously dude.  We need this.” 

            He taps him on the shoulder, bids the regulars goodnight and strides out of the joint.  Whit is careful not to glance at the bar or its occupants.  He steps out into the street, the salty summer air envelops him.  Starving, he heads towards the day glow restaurant out of habit.  Despite knowing the mediocrity of the food well, he senses that tonight it will go down with ease.

#6: Fire on the Flume

            The factory had been empty for as long as they could recall.  It stood on crumbling ground just a few meters higher than the surrounding marsh.  Rumor had it that in its heyday, the daily sewage had strewn moat-like into the tributary.

Now fall leaves coated the earthen causeway in a slick sheet offering a nose of acrid decay.  They were careful to skirt the edges for fear of spiraling into the chilled shallows.  The walkway extended from the city limits to the factory grounds surrounded on both sides by an abandoned and still flume.  No more were the deep grooves of bygone carriage tracks as they marched silently down the crowned path.     

Their hands occasionally brushed due to the forced proximity but they excused it in passing.  The tension of their impeding malintent supplanted any desires for small talk.  A nervous cough here and there peppered their walk.  Occasionally the faded red plastic tank he held in his left hand brushed her thigh, expelling gasses from the air vent spastically.  This marked the first time they had taken this trip together.  The day of the incident she had been on night shift at the hospital, so she had arrived first.  Now they replayed their separate haunted journeys over again. 

She stops short and drops to one knee.  Her eyes clinch shut.  “I can’t…I just can’t go back inside.”  The wind whips up off the flume and stirs her hair.  Brian noticed it growing thinner and more tousled with each day.  He takes a knee, setting the tank down, the weight crunching the dry field grass.

“Bea.  We agreed that no matter how difficult this was, we would see it through.  Think about how it will feel when it’s done.  We owe it to her.  Hell, we owe it to every kid in this godforsaken town.  Once it’s done, we will go.  Start a new life out west.  We’ve already discussed this.”  He pauses for a moment and upon receiving no reaction stands impatiently.  Turning away from her, his eyes fall to his shoes.  “I’m going.  You can stay here if you like.”

Brian bends to clasp the tanks handle but her hand clamps down preventing the hoist.  “Look in my eyes.  Brian.  Please.”  He complies.  “Look and tell me we’re doing the right thing.  Nothing we do will bring her back.  He’s headed to eternal damnation.  This seems an unnecessary risk and pain.  Tell me I’m wrong.” 

“You are wrong Bea.  I won’t ever be able to live in this town and I won’t be able to leave until this is done.  I remember you being stronger when we first met, your belly full of fire.”  The gaze is broken as she nods a tearful consent.  From the low marsh fog a heron takes flight and serenades them with its prehistoric croon. 

            She forces a smile, the upturned corners of her lips funneling and merging her tears.  “Sarah always was mystified when she heard that sound.  Said she proved the dinosaurs were still alive.  In a way she wasn’t wrong…”

            It is his turn to well up with sorrow, but he quells it and lifts the tank with sudden violence.  “C’mon.  It’s getting too close to sundown for my liking.”  Bea pauses and rises after a moment, a shiver retching her body. 

            She had been with a patient when the ER front desk attendant rapped on the exam room door.  Annoyed by the disturbance she apologized to the patient, who was suffering from an apparent innocuous rash, and answered the door. 

            “Can’t this wait?  I’ve only had a few moments with him”

The attendant swallowed and delivered the lightly practiced lines as concise as she could.  “The sheriff is on the line for you Bea.  I don’t think this can wait, it has something to do with Sarah.”  In a setting where chaos and muddled thinking could ruin a shift or a life, Bea answered monotone.

“Which line?”

The next few hours of her life she would never fully remember or comprehend.  The sheriff was exceedingly demure and cryptic with his instructions.  She repeatedly asked him what was the matter and how it related to Sarah.  His response was that she needed to come down to the station immediately, but that it was only precautionary.  Bea’s profession afforded her an ability to read people and she read through his orchestrated calm.

            Her first instinct was to call Sarah’s cell.  It went immediately to her voicemail.  A sinking feeling started to emanate deep from her bowels and her ears began to burn a shade of cherry.  She hung up and dialed Brian.  He would still be in bed at this early hour; it was merely four in the morning.  His cell rang the requisite number of times and she left a curt message instructing him to call her back. 

            After arranging someone to tend to the rash patient, she took off in her car still in scrubs.  Bea found the station bustling for a small midwestern metropolis given the hour. 

            “Where’s the sheriff?”  A paper pusher eyed her for a moment before flicking his head towards a large office in the rear of the building.  Her steps slowed as she crossed the station floor.

            He appeared calm, almost detached.  “Mrs. Ellis.  Sit down please.  I called you down here because we need you to identify a body.”  She didn’t flinch.  “We think it could be Sarah.  We found a car fitting her registered description abandoned with signs of a struggle near the old sugar refinery south of town.  The body was later discovered on the main floor inside the building.  We believe someone or multiple people took her there against her will and killed her.  We’re going to need you to come with us to the scene and ID her; again we are not sure if this is your daughter until you confirm or deny.  I am sorry for having to deliver this news to you either way.”

            “Well it can’t be Sarah.  She was in bed when I left for my shift and we keep a tight curfew.  There’s no way.  Someone, someone could have stolen her car.  Should I file a report, I mean –”

“Mrs. Ellis, that won’t be necessary right now.  If the ID is negative and you believe the car to have been stolen, we will deal with that then.  Please, come with me now.  The sooner we accomplish this, the better chance we have of catching who did it and we need to rule out Sarah’s name to move down our list.”  He knew her current state would render her cooperative but only momentarily.  Denial was a powerful perspective and when channeled correctly could embolden a suspect or witness to supremely horrid ends, or in this case, tasks.  He dared not lessen its intensity with tedious details such as the VIN being a direct match with the Ellis’ registration or that her ID had been found on her person.

            He rose and gestured for Bea to do the same.  She complied and discovered her legs unusually wobbly under her.  Balancing on her chairs arm, she took a few deep breaths and composed herself.  She had a few little tricks for dealing with car crash victims in the ER and she ran through them.  Stare at a distant object – his criminal justice degree.  Ok, now read a few lines.  Shift your weight in your shoes.  Last deep breath, but catch it on the way out.  Empty the mind of emotion or sympathy.

            “Please Mrs. Ellis, we really need to go.  I’ll meet you out front in my squad car.  Get in the back please.”

            The ride was held in silence.  Only the creaking of tired shocks as the car meandered down the uneven earthen causeway.  The sheriff elected to skip stopping at the car, as it would only render Bea hysterical.  His men had cordoned off the front door with yellow tape and planted white flood lamps about the ground floor, their beams angled down at the concrete. 

            “Bea, please follow me.”  She hesitated.  “M’am you’re a nurse right?”  She nodded meekly.  “Well you know how this works then.  You do it slow and the pain drags on.  You do it quick and the patient never knew what happened.  Same thing here.  C’mon.  There ya go.”

            The funeral took place several days after.  Brian had eventually woken and headed to the crime scene.  He found his wife on the ground, unable to stand and his daughter slain on the dirty concrete floor.  Her head was bloodied in a roundabout fashion, lending her brow a Christ like appearance.  The police established there was only one perpetrator and they had used a pipe wrench to take her life. 

            Life for the Ellis’ went on.  They gave statements, made arrangements, and grieved.  Eventually they deduced that Sarah had snuck out past curfew in her car and somehow was lured to the outskirts of town by someone she knew and trusted.  Confirming their suspicion, an older man was arrested weeks later.  He promptly confessed to having been involved with Sarah for several months and that he killed her out of suspected infidelity. 

            The seasons changed and their daily lives became more bearable.  They still wept spontaneously when they absentmindedly laid out an extra dinner place setting or awoke from a pleasant dream which featured her.  The older man was convicted, sentenced to death and executed several years after the incident.  Armed with a slight sense of vindication, they continued to progress towards a normal life, albeit one featuring weekly therapy and a steady stream of antidepressants.  One morning, Bea refused to rise for her shift.

            “I think we should burn it down.”  She waited for a response - anything would have been comforting. 

            “What are you saying?”

            “You know what I am saying.  We’ll burn it down and move west near my sister.  They’ll never trace it back to us and even if they do, do you even care?  We’d get some lenience after what we’ve been through.  The place is a death trap waiting to happen again.  Besides, I’ve been having too many dreams about it lately…. I know you have too.  I feel it when you jerk around in your sleep.” 

            The notion was preposterous to Brian at first, but as they lingered in bed it grew on him.  They talked about how they’d buy a plot of land in the Dakotas, as it was cheap, and build a log cabin themselves.  Being so close to her sister would help them ease back into a normal social life and get them out of their hermit like existence.  She would take a job at the regional hospital and maybe, maybe one day they’d feel good enough to start a family again.  These notions became interlaced with the act.  It would force them to flee to start this new life and in doing so make their future.  A phoenix rising from smoldering ashes. 

            The rest of the walk is measured.  The sun cuts long shadows of the refinery stacks, imposing them on the glassy water.  They hesitate on the threshold of the entrance and it is Bea that leads them inside.  Gone is the tape and caged fluorescent lamps; they go about their business by natural light streaming from the high placed windows.  Brian douses the gas liberally as Bea strolls the floor impatiently, her wanderlust ready to ignite simultaneously with the fire.  Leaving a trail to light, Brian pauses before striking the match.

            “Any last words?” he addresses no one in particular.

            “Yea,” Bea answers.  “To hear the awful words ‘earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ as they fall upon our bruised and broken hearts like the clods that fall upon the casket below; that seems like appalling failure.  But God’s triumph is always in resurrection.  Book of Revelation.  Burn it Brian, burn the motherfucker.” 

            The match is cast.  They sprint away hand in hand up the causeway.  The inferno accelerates behind them, propelling them onward.

#5: A Cape Heart

He awoke to the thudding of rain.  Steel dawn light encased his bedroom curtains, many hours away from a full halo.  No alarm clock was needed; the routine had become sheer habit.  Reflective road clothes were donned, complemented this morning by a nylon rain jacket.  A quick protein liquid breakfast and he slipped out of the side door. 

The air held mist and raw salinity from the sea.  It entered his lungs and coated them with vigor, offering purpose.  This was the most serene part of his day; the only time his thoughts were truly his.  On this particular morning, like most, they fixed on himself.  He was a thirty two year old journeyman and this would be his thirty sixth professional fight. 

Artie “The Hammer,” Breedt was raised on a Western Cape farm, the youngest of five brothers.  Being the youngest, daily torment tempered his will and resolve.  Bailing wheat straw and chopping wood molded his features.  Wet leaves ahead on the shoulder, best slow up and preserve footing.  The road corkscrewed upwards through Cape pines.

He pounded the asphalt at a steady pace round switchbacks for a half hour.  Occasionally his right hand would flick upwards followed by a quick left shadow cross.  Gotta take away his jab, neutralize it with the cross.  Little traffic joined him in the premature hour but occasionally a car would pass and flash their hazards in support.  Artie saluted back with a raised fist and beaming smile.  I’m not anyone’s stepping-stone.  25-10 with five victories in a row, no bru, never anyone’s stepping-stone.  

The journey ended on the beach.  Past the white palisades of Cape Town holiday homes and onto the hard packed powder white sand of Hout Bay he tumbled.  His shoulders slouched from exertion and with hands held low, he sashayed and flipped his hips, running backwards at full steam.  This poor moegoe has got something coming to him.  Overrated green punk has never seen the likes of my experience. 

In the shadow of Table Mountain he careened past street urchins still intoxicated from the night before.  This one is dedicated to little Maggie, God bless her.  She deserves all the fruits of my labor.  Artie slowed to a brisk walk and started on the usual route.  It took him past corner bodegas where Afrikaners and Indians alike beamed with pride and shook their fists. 

“Beat the pants off that blerrie kid Artie,” they’d yell.

To which he’d respond with a simple “Ay bass.” 

He made a point to stop in at the same café every morning for a brief English breakfast and chat with a family member. 

“Hoezit boet?”  Sam, who owned the joint, was married to his cousin and reliable as an in-law could be.  He had acquired the business through hard work and Artie fancied him a quasi-spiritual advisor, always quick with pearls of wisdom. 

“Good.  Good Sam.  I’ll take the usual.  Tall glass of the orange juice as well.”  Highlights of the national rugby team’s, the Springboks, Test victory in Rustenburg the night prior flash across the TV screen. 

Sam glances up from the sizzling eggs.  “They are looking sharp this year, I’ll say.”  Artie half nods.  “Not as sharp a figure as you’re cutting though.  How do you feel about this one?”

“Ah…I feel good, all things being equal.  This is a good fight for me and him really.  He’s fresh off a kak hot amateur career and the pride of the Transvaal from what I gather.  All the promoters want a piece and figure Jean Ingram is the next great export fighter.”

“Do you buy the hype?”  The question is honest and not overly skeptical.

“Yea, I do actually.  I saw him spar way back when he was laaitie in Mitch Ross’ Jo’burg gym.  I saw talent then.  But he hasn’t had to go the distance in a pro fight and he’s never faced a slick southpaw with my skills yet.  I like my chances.”

Sam scratches his head before plating the fried eggs and tomato.  “You’re not such a spring chick anymore Art, nè?  If you find yourself in there, walking down a dark hallway, be smart.  You got a little girl to tend.  There’s no shame in surviving, not with the career you’ve had.” 

It’s mid-morning by the time he returns to his house.  A quick shower before crawling into bed.  He will sleep soundly for an hour and a half, giving his muscles time to repair.  As he drifts off, his arm lashes out sporadically and jolts him awake.  Christ, I’m like a sleeping dog these days. 

Whap…whap…WHAP!  The right hook thuds home square on the mitts center.  Even though he wears heavy training gloves, the foam compresses satisfyingly on his knuckles.  It feels like if only he swung a little harder, he could go clear through.  Bending his knees he sweeps under his coach’s outstretched paw.  Keep the eyes up. Chin in, hands up and eyes up.  Need to see when he tries to shoot the right up the pipe. 

The thirty-second bell tolls twice and he ups his output.  Pushing beyond his minds limits he digs deep and fires combos.  Ratatat…Ratatat…Ratatatat, they go, echoed by hissing exhales.  The round comes to a close and he slumps on his stool.

His coach, a large Boer leans through the ropes from the outside and addresses him whilst wiping sweat and spittle from his face.  “Good round maat.  You need to lean more with your body on the right hook though.  Really dig and shift your weight.  This guy, he’s got a tight shell defense so you gotta really thwack him to break the guard.  The advantage to that though, is he’s slower on the counter and he doesn’t move much laterally, so you have a target to work with.”  Artie looks him dead in the eye to display comprehension.  “Don’t give him much time after the first round to get off punches.  Step in, smother and get back out.  Frustration will muddle this kid’s power and speed.  It’s also going to get him swinging wildly as the rounds go on, so there’ll be openings for you.  When you see one you gotta commit and step in, you got it?”

They had worked together for the past ten fights.  His uncle had coached him since he was a boy, but had succumbed to cancer a few years back.  Pieter de Bruin was the most well respected trainer on the Cape and Artie’s recent string of wins validated that. 

The session marches on to a well-known tempo heard only by fighter and coach.  It spans four hours and its intensity does not wane.  The final half hour is spent sparring with a new partner.

“Artie, this is Sam Debeza.”  They touch gloves.  “He’s going to give you some work.  Seven three minute rounds, minute breaks.  I want you both to go hard, get some shots in.”  They retreat to opposite corners. 

Pieter leans in close to Sam.  “I’ll give you six hundred rand if you get him down.” 

To Artie: “he is the closest thing you’re gonna get to Jean sonny; come-forward, aggressive and fast.  Get in there and do your thing.”

The opening bell sounds and Artie bounds forward.  He’s light on the balls of his feet.  His opponent advances with plodding steps.

True to his purported style, Sam wades in with a high guard and begins to bob and weave.  He’s looking for an opening on my flanks to land a body blow.  Artie shuffles his feet, double jabs and moves to his right.  None of them land, but they put his opponent on his heels.  Before Sam has a chance to re-set himself, Artie feigns a high jab, squats low and fires a hard overhand left at his chest.  The tactic works as Sam’s lead left had drifted away in a parry, exposing his middle.

The punch knocks the wind from him and he covers as he retreats.  Artie, sensing his chance, steps in behind another flicking jab and follows with a hard hook-cross-hook combo.  His opponent rebounds fast though and his shell defense deflects most of the damage.  And as Artie looses his second hook, Sam times it, rolls under whilst stepping in to his left and fires a quick upward hook to his exposed liver.   

He masks the expression of sharp pain that threatens to show, but his quick jabs and two-step recoil betray him.  Sam is on him with a flash of leather.  Artie’s experience lets him screen most of the punches and turn them away with his gloves.  He does misjudge a slip though and falls into a straight right, which stuns him.  This kid is bladdy quick.  I’m gonna have to show him who’s bass.

Sitting with his weight on his trailing foot, he picks off the last few of the onslaught before immediately lunging at his partner.  Straight left cross lands flush, followed by a body hook and left uppercut.  It is he now that is bobbing and weaving, slipping a few tired counters and slamming home vicious hooks.  Luckily for the newcomer, the bell trills.

The rest of the rounds are uneventful for Artie.  Sam is suddenly weary to let his hands go and risk a counter attack.  He jabs and stays away, satisfied with surviving, untempted by the bribe.  Artie tries to press the attack, frustrated by the caution.

Hunched on his stool he growls at Pieter through a deluge of sweat.  “If that’s as close to Jean as I’m gonna get bru, I might as well take the next month off and eat what I want.  Pathetic.”  Pieter smiles a reply of satisfaction.  

The next few weeks follow the trajectory set forth by Pieter and experience.  Runs in the morning are followed by long gym sessions with small meals interspersed throughout.  Any free time he spends with his daughter, Maggie.  He takes her on beach walks and reads her bedtime stories that often align with his own nightly curfew.  A few local newspapers and one from the Transvaal contact him for quotes.  Artie gives them little to work with. 

Everything is in place: his weight is inline with the 155lb catch and is he is in the best condition of his life.  The fight is a week away when he falls ill.

It starts with an innocent enough head cold.  It soon progresses to chills and a low grade fever.  He pushes on with training, hoping to sweat it out.  When that fails, he takes a respite and quaffs cold medicine in bed.  Three days before the event, Pieter pays a visit to his home.

“Artie, boet.  I’ve seen you in brighter spirits I have to say.  How do you feel, truly?”

“Good.  Good enough to give this a go still.  I think I’ve improved since yesterday, so maybe tomorrow or the next, I’ll be able to get back in the gym for a tune up.”

“Well we certainly don’t have to worry about you making weight.”  The two share a chuckle.  “Listen, there are going to be other fights round the corner, fights more advantageous.  There’s no shame in withdrawing when the deck is stacked against you and it’s not your doing.”

There is a slow silence before Artie responds.  “Baas, I need this.  This is the fight that will see Maggie through till womanhood.  There is no other way I can see.  Unless you have something to offer.”

They glare at each other briefly before Pieter concedes.  Give was not a trait the Hammer was known for; most had been tempered out. 

His dressing room contained the bare essentials and no fanfare.  Pieter wrapped his hands in silence.  The two had met for one final session the day prior.  Pieter had been frank in his assessment – his tank was three quarters full at most and his punches lacked their usual crispness.  They would have to press early and often and look for the knockout; something Artie had never been comfortable doing.  They had run through the gambit of scenarios and now silence seemed the appropriate course. 

Artie did not showboat per his usual ringwalk, despite the overwhelming local fan support.  A strange clarity overcame him – borne of medicinal side effects or focus, he couldn’t say.  The ropes and large box approached him down a narrowing tunnel, its juncture fixed on him.   

He toned out the ambient noise, the nags from Pieter, and even the referee’s instructions.  His sole focus was his opposition.  Noticeably a few inches taller and leaner, Jean Ingram had acquired the physique of a real contender.  His anthracite coal skin accentuated the features groomed by a youth spent in the gym.  The unstoppable force glared at this immovable object across the ref’s chasm.  Scheduled for twelve, he aimed to end it in the fourth. 

The first two rounds go uneventful, much to Artie’s chagrin.  Working off his jab, he tries nearly every trick to break his guard and get inside to do damage.  Apparently Jean had already seen that show as he manages to skirt his advances and jab out of harm’s way.  Like the sluggish puff adder, he conserves his energy in anticipation of a fatal strike.

As the second round draws to a close, fans begin to boo the pedestrian pace.  Artie’s punch output is high, but Jean slips and parries the damage.  He seems content to pace himself and does not fire many counters.  Right before the bells sounds though, Artie missteps.  He feigns a jab to the head, steps to his right and fires a heavy-handed right hook at Jean’s temple.  Almost as if scripted, Jean drops his lead hand to sucker him into the step and pivots to his left in unison.  By the time Artie’s hook lands, Jean’s left is back in position and it thuds harmlessly off his leather.  Without hesitation his right accelerates across his body and slams home on Artie’s unprotected chin.  Artie’s legs abruptly gel and he falls back onto the ropes.  He trampolines off and collapses to his knees, both gloves planting on the canvas.

The stage lighting had glared overhead moments before, but now they wax and wane.  A viscous dark encroaches upon the edges of his vision.  He opens the door of the dark hallway and it beckons him with black velvet.  Sam’s seer-like words from weeks ago permeate his memory but can’t bridge his corpus callosum to form coherent thought.  The round ends mid-count and standing on the precipice of the hall, he slams the door shut.  

“Fok Art.  You really hit a luck with that one.  Are you alright?”  Pieter’s concerned face looks in through his stabilizing vision. 

“Yea.  Fine.  Lovely, I’d say.  Kid is blerry fast bru.  What did he hit me with?”

Pieter responds as he sponges his brow.  “Straight right.  Caught you right on the button.  But if you’re fine, shake it off.  Keep pressing, keep hammering.  Fok it, hit his arms, his elbows, he’s gonna get tired, sore and drop his hands–”                 

“Excuse me.”  A pair of latex gloves poke through the corner ropes.  “Turn towards me please.”  Reflexively Artie squints at the blinding white pen light.  “Open them please, open!”  A few tense moments pass.  “OK.  You’re fine to continue, if you wish.”

“Bladdy right I wish.”  The opening bell for the third rings, but Artie is already at center ring. 

Jean extends his arm to touch gloves, a sign of respect.  Artie disregards the gesture and lands a jab overtop.  He slides in low on the balls of his feet and peppers his ribcage with hooks.  His weight screws violently from front to back and right to left as he snaps his hips.  While they land on his forearms and fail to score, he feels Jean wince and notices his elbows dropping.  He darts out and feigns a low flicking jab.  The elbows drop in anticipation and he lets his hands go up high.  Thu…Thud…THUD.  Left uppercut while stepping in catches his chin, right hook lands flush on his jaw and straight left up the pipes slams his nose. 

Game for a fight, Jean keeps his composure and counters in quick reply.  A double jab sets up a double left hook combo which Artie eats.  His legs sway as he slips a right, another hook and body shots.  His lack of stamina begins to take its toll and he clenches as much as the ref permits for the rest of the round.

“Piet – nothing seems to be working.  Body shots won’t put ‘em down.”  He labors for breath.  “I hit him with everything up top and he answered.  I dunno how much I got in the tank.” 

“You’re doing good in there Art.  Keep it up.  Got an idea though.  Clench up early and he’ll think you’re gassed.  Really cling good.  Wait till you’re breaking and get off a pair of uppercuts with everything you’ve got.  I gotta hunch he’s not giving you due respect.”  Pieter rubs a red spot developing over his right eye with petroleum jelly.  He knows he’s close to cutting.  Artie slows his breathing and nods in approval.

They meet for a fourth time.  Jean wears a sly grin of confidence and bounces playfully on his feet.  It is now Artie who plods.  They circle each other and exchange a few combinations, none of which land flush.  Jean manages a glancing blow to his temple and Artie senses his chance.  Stepping in abruptly, he smothers his opponent, ties up his arms and forces his forehead between his collarbone and chin.  He sags and the ref hustles to break them.  Artie ignores him and continues to hold. 

“Get out of there.  Get your hands free.  C’mon now,” as he butterflies them.  Jean, conserving energy too, lets him peel off like a slug, failing to protect his chin.  No respect at all.  He sets his feet, springs through his legs and drives home a left uppercut, followed by a right.  It is now Jean’s turn to answer the hallway door.

Artie swings a one-two combo out of habit, but they both miss.  His opponent’s head and torso, for that matter, drop to the canvas as fast as gravity allows.  He’s taking the long walk now.  All black velvet and silence.  The door handle shatters from a hammer’s blow, sealing him inside.     

The ref begins the count, but he’s already turned and headed back to his stool.  He’s thinking about summertime trips to Hout Bay with Maggie.  He’s thinking about picnics under African skies and finally taking her to a game preserve.  He’s thinking of his beloved uncle and Sam, and English breakfasts.  Love surges in and fills the void so long stretched and fouled by violence.  No shame in surviving, none at all.