The Death of an Errand

The sun shines, distinctly, on the awakening city. The birds clamor as few clouds drift about. The day is quite unseasonal. The roads come to life with cars shuffling about. A small green house stands amidst it all. And inside, Jack eats the last of his oatmeal and his wife, about to head to work.

            “I love you Jack, have a great day.” She says. Grabbing her purse, she bends over Jack, who sits at the kitchen table.

            “I sure will. I’m gonna go to the insurance place and square that away,” Jack replies, between bites. He rubs his smooth round chin as he mentally thinks of his chores. He kisses his wife. “Have fun at work honey, I will have dinner ready when you get home.”

            She replies, “You are the best, Jack, I love you,” as she heads out the door.

            Jack finishes the cold oatmeal and begins collecting his things. Not tall, but lanky, Jack dons a flannel and a down vest. He finds the package for his dad, paperwork, and the shopping list and stuffs them neatly inside his small rucksack. His nimble hands fill a bottle with water and grab an apple. A mental man, he constantly runs thoughts and ideas through his head before speaking or doing most things. Acknowledging he has packed everything he needs for the day, Jack sits down to roll up his pant leg to prevent it from getting caught in the bike gears.

            Jack steps out his front door and notes the warm weather with a smile. These pleasant winter days are my favorite. He pauses, looking up and down the street and noticing the street is calm and relaxing. He steps onto his stoop, turns, and locks the front door. I should sit out here and read a book this afternoon. He hops down the stairs and goes around the side of the house and gets his bike and rolls away. A car speeds by as Jack turns onto the street.

            A few hours later, Jack has already been to the DMV, a coffee shop, the bank, and the post office. The traffic is busier than normal but Jack thinks nothing of it as he rides towards Albert’s Grocery Store. He is accustomed to the ebb and flow of traffic, but after watching a friend get hit by a car, he prefers empty streets, and avoids the busy ones. But today, the 13^th of February, is different and he pedals, methodically and in sync with his music.

            After checking out and grabbing his two paper bags of groceries, Jack walks outside into the warm air, fortified by a cool breeze, and ponders; I can’t wait to make dinner. I need to hurry home so the bread can rise. He transfers the food from the paper bags to his rucksack and the crate on the back of his bike. A jug of milk, sack of potatoes, bag of flour, onions, cheese, and more. He balances his load between pack and crate. After years of commuting, he has become quite adept at balancing a load of groceries on his bike. I could have bought more, oh well. Plugging headphones into his ears, he sat astride on his bike and pedaled out of the parking log.  

            Taking a left at the stop sign, he comes to a large and busy intersection. He pauses, waiting for the light. Should I head home the long way or the short way? I need to make bread. The light switches from red to green. Cars begin to shuffle into the intersection. I’m sure ready to get home and relax. The quick route. He makes the right turn onto a main thoroughfare through town. 

            He finds his place on the side of the street. A small rivulet between stagnant and flowing traffic. A precarious position for the adroit bike rider. But the music comforts his nerves. He stops and goes, playing red-light, green-light with the vehicles. After a few lights, Jack feels comfortable. And continues on. Stop. Go. Red. Green. His mind lost amidst thoughts. Up ahead, an empty intersection with no waiting cars on either side street. Noticing this, Jack peddles faster, hoping to get there before the light changes…

* * * * * * *

            “Hey Amber, how ya doing?” Jennifer chatters into her cell phone. The other side responds. “I’m good. I just got off work, got paid, and am ready to par-tay tonight, are you at the house?” Jennifer mentions. Her pink phone neatly tucked under her lavishly pierced ear with her right hand. The other grips the steering wheel. More talking from the other side and Jennifer has a hard time hearing. “Hold on Amber, I can’t hear you, let me turn down the radio.” She reaches down to turn down her radio. Glancing from the road to her dash. She finds the knob and begins to turn it…

* * * * * * *

…Jack flips over the hood of the car, followed by his bicycle, and soaring groceries. The car screeches to a halt and Jack and the bike smash into the ground. Jack bounces and skids to a grating halt. The milk explodes onto the pavement. Potatoes and onions bounce and roll all over the road. The sack of flour ruptures and drapes the street in white.

            “Oh shit!” screams Jennifer as she drops her phone, slams on her brakes, and looks to the right. A red bike. An immobile man. Both surrounded by a mangled collection of groceries. She looks up at the light just in time to see it turn from red to green. No cars move. Stunned into confusion, she opens the door and runs around the front of the car to the man. “Are you okay, sir?” she yells. Oh fuck, what did I do? What do I do? Returning to her car she grabs her phone, “Amber I have to call you back.” She quickly hangs up and dials 9-1-1.

            The back wheel of the bike is still spinning as a crowd begins to gather. Sirens grow louder and the crowd thickens. Jennifer sees his chest moving, then blood. Growing light-headed, she sits down, leaning against her tire and begins to cry, her tears irrigate her thick makeup down her face. Sirens are near. Oh god, please hurry. Perplexed and aghast, she waits, quivering under fear, shame and sorrow.

            Paramedics arrive. They have braced his neck and repressed the profuse bleeding. The police question Jennifer as she watches Jack get lifted onto a gurney and into the back of the ambulance. And her cell phone is in a plastic evidence bag. The crowd starts to dissipate and traffic begins to unclog. A stranger pulls the red bike off the road. An officer sweeps the potatoes, onions, and other groceries off to the side. The cops escort Jennifer to the station and the ambulance, with neither lights nor sirens, pulls away with Jack inside.

Expectations of a Cafe

The small cafe is filled to the brim with chatter as people come and go. The espresso machine periodically hisses in tempo with the fluttering conversation. I sit at a corner table, away from the bar and line of customers. The register clangs shut. The ebb and flow of the café unfurls in front of my voyeur eyes.

            I pause from writing, take a glance and a sip of warm coffee. Laughter erupts. Conflict develops. Discussion thickens.

            Two people, sitting nearby discuss the sorrowful economic gloom:  “desperate people without money,” “my paycheck was too small,” “I need more hours,” and I think to myself, here we all are, splurging a handful of dollar bills on coffee.

            A young girl sits on a couch across the naturally lit room. Something about her interests me. Her eyes are buried in a book. I catch them darting up, often, at one of the baristas. Her face is tense. Worry spills over the book. Great Expectations. Dickens. I wonder why she is reading a good ole Chuck novel. School, maybe. Perhaps she enjoys the taut lifestyle of the 1800s. Will she someday tell a story about her life, an event that happened years in the past, looking back with the wisdom of age?

            She nips at her coffee. Her short brown hair stops just beneath her small, round ears. Parts of silver dangle below her hair, competing for attention. Her clothes are neat and comfortable. The kind you would wear for a lazy Sunday afternoon of reading in front of a large window with a cat at your side. Furtively, she glances up; the barista and her exchange an awkward lock of eyes. Realizing this, she swiftly dashes her eyes back into the world of Pip. The barista’s face shifts from peach to red. Embarrassment emanates from him like a summer rainstorm.

            My coffee is cold from my distractions. But fortunately, it still appeals to the palate. The chatter seems to close in, stuffing the room with words completely unrelated. I order another coffee. I want the earthquake jitters, driven by too much caffeine—the emptiness in the gut and the queasiness and foreboding of too much coffee.

            Her book sits heavy in her hand. Her hand clutches a paper cup. Coffee, I presume. Between pages she takes delicate sips. The barista, now aware of her presence continues to create concoctions of espresso and water. Ill at ease, they barter glances again, both flushed, like a toilet, in red. Something happened between these two. A major event ties the black haired, hipster serving coffee to the shorthaired Dickens reading girl on the sofa.

            A steaming cup of coffee appears on my table. I thank the barista and notice his nametag, Nathan. He glances at the girl on the sofa as he returns to the espresso machine. She is aware of his tactical movements. She delicately keeps her nose hidden between her hardcover book covers. Solid black with a white barcode taped to the back cover. I can just make out the words, Washoe County Library. She glances up again only to watch Nathan pour the espresso and answer to the needy caffeine junkies like myself.

            I continue to feed my addiction. Pure black gold. The robust depth of coffee settles nicely on my tongue as I swish it around. Swallowing it only when I’ve satisfied my desire for flavor.

            Nathan pours a cup of coffee, but no customers wait. He takes it for himself and walks around the bar. I notice the large white clock on the wall next to the espresso machine. The large black hands sit comfortably at eleven o’clock. The tide of conversation has faded to murmurs.

            He sits down on the couch. The girl stops reading. He sips his coffee. She sets Chuck down, open, face down on her crosses thighs.

            “What are you doing?” she asks. I can hear every word. Promiscuously, I listen and search for a connection between the two.

            “Taking a break. How’ve you been?” he answers back. Nathan sets his coffee down.

            “Well, yourself.”

            “Good. I just started working here. Do you come here often?” he asks. Delaying the answers to the questions he desires to ask.

            “I do,” is all she says. I could see her disgust and lack of desire to maintain this conversation. Her eyes focus on the shiny silver band on his left hand.

            “Cool.” The conversation grows stagnant. Nathan notices her eyes. He discloses his marriage. Her name is Judy.

            I can see her eyes welling up. The light glistens on the moisture. She holds her tears back.

            “Congratulations,” she mentions. “How long?”

            “Just over a year now. She is the love of my life.” He says, not realizing the implications.

            “Nathan, you’re an asshole. I don’t give a shit about her. Or you. You just sit down here like we’re best friends and start talking about the love of your life. What made you think I’d want to heart about that?”

            Struck with confusion, I can see Nathan struggling to find the right words. “I just wanted to catch up. Say hello. I figured you wouldn’t mind. It’s been almost two years now.” He nervously sips at his coffee. “I never met to hurt you, you know that—”

            “Bullshit. I don’t fucking believe you.” The outburst halts a few floating conversations. But the girl doesn’t seem to care. “If that was the case, you wouldn’t have fucked her, while dragging me along for pity. Come on Nathan, stop lying to your self. I loved you and you threw me in the dirt.” Her face now filled with the red of anger, remorse, and sorrow.

            The small enclaves of people struggle to kick start their conversation. Realizing the sudden silence, the two begin to speak softer. I sip at my coffee.

            “Alice, don’t be so rash. I want to apologize. Believe me, I never meant to hurt you, honestly. Things just happened too fast and I couldn’t, I mean, I didn’t know what to do. I dug myself a hole. Anyways, I just want to say, I’m sorry.” He stood up and returned to espresso machine. A few customers had just paid for eloquent coffee drinks.

            Alice just sat there. The book draped over her thigh. I could see resentment rising from her trembling hands. A moment, a time of despair and sorrow in her life, flashed back, in full detail. Could the dryness of a Victorian England re-captivate her attention? She slammed the book shut and slid it into her handbag embroidered with flowers.

            After another sip of coffee, feeling guilty for watching this drama unfold, I glance at her and catch her eyes. I offer a discomforted smile. Hoping to comfort her shaken world. Her heart had been shattered and she hasn’t repaired it. But what could I do? A fifty something, caffeine addicted derelict of a poet. She smiled back and disappeared. Nathan barely noticed her silent departure. The realization of what he had done to her hit him as sudden as the crash of a wave on a rocky shore. 

Musings of the Pubic Library

I sip my coffee at undisclosed intrevals as a man types on a typewriter behind me. Click. Clack. Boom. The noise fills the wide open library. Jug-band music blows away into my ears, not too loud, so I can hear the soundtrack of the public library.
I arrived just after nine o'clock in the morning. Within ten minutes, the empty room full of tables filled up. People of all shapes, sizes, and sorts filed in to use personal laptops and the fifteen some odd provided computers for the internet. The fountains on the floor below trickle away, waiting for anyone to toss in a penny or dime, a hopeful wish, at least.

My unemployment has allowed me to enjoy as much time as I want. My daily routine is usually as follows:

• Get up and dressed. Calm the dog, who prances at my side with a urgent bladder, I presume.
• Throw on a jacket and let the dog out, forgetting to put a kettle on the stove, I return to the kitchen, and fill the kettle up and place it on a burner.
  The dog by now has wandered, but sometimes not, to his favorite peeing and pooping spot. If not, I take him there. The cool air shocks my sleepy eyes awake. 
• I let him do his thing and usually stretch. My back stiff from sleep needs a stretch. Much like I need a beer after a long day of traveling.
• I then return to the kitchen, hoping to beat the whistle of the kettle so as not to stir my dozing wife. Whom adores sleep as much as I adore her.
• If the whistle has not arrived, I sort through my box of loose teas for green or black. Sometimes I throw in a bit of licorice root tea. This morning, I blended green and licorice. The whistle. Shit, I need to turn it down, it is early, I think to myself.
• With the tea steeping, I corral the pup. This takes patience as he likes to think he is in his teenage rebellion years. And he is good at it. I usually take a tied up bike tire tube, and through the art of deception, play tug of war. Tugging him all the way into the house. 
• Finally, I can repose in the glory of what is morning. 
• With my tea beside me, I sit at the kitchen table and crochet. Last week a plastic bag holder. This week, a jacket for Clovis, the pup. He is McKnab and Collie. Short black and brown hair. He gets cold out in the snow easily.
• I may make toast of oatmeal. Or eggs. But I will usually drink one, two, or three cups of tea while I crochet. 
• From here, the day begins and I am free to wander about.

The usual progression of my days. Come the time I have to wake up, put on my shoes, and go to work-what will I do without my morning routine? Adapt and devise a new one. 

Excerpt from: BENEDICTION

Lobo stirs before David. She shuffles around the van and wakes him. A Volkswagen Vanagon purchased two years ago and has since slowly been reborn. He rebuilt the engine and inside he fabricated for living. Right behind the driver’s seat is a desk, where David writes and reads. Candles and books clutter the desk. All the way in the back a hammock stretches across the van for nights when David is alone. When Eleanor comes along, the two sleep on the floor.

            Next to the desk is the kitchen, simply consisting of another small desk with a cabinet in the bottom. Screwed onto the top is a large wooden cutting board. Inside the cabinet are a small two-burner propane stove, an iron skillet and Dutch oven, a large wooden spoon, a few forks, a brick of homemade butter, and a bottle of whiskey. The ceiling of the van is strewn with gear—his two rifles, a .30-06 and .22, canoe paddles, and his fishing poles. It may be claustrophobic to many, but to David his van is therapeutic.

Whenever David and Eleanor can get away, they go. They fuel themselves through adventure and together they have fallen madly in love. Many nights, cold and dark, the two have slept in this van, and now, upon waking, David misses her dearly. He wishes he had not left her home alone. He hates to do this. But he had to leave town. He had to reset his spirit, mind, and soul.

The sun sits below the horizon leaving the sky aflame with broken clouds idly drifting as they have exhausted themselves. David looks outside; the snow must be three feet deep. And he has overslept. He rolls over in his sleeping bag and looks towards the East. The sun spills over the horizon and into his eyes.  David flinches in pain and quickly stuffs his head into his pillow to avert the harsh light.

With a deep breath, he climbs out of bed, rubs his eyes and searches for his eyeglasses. Lobo is eager to get outside. Her tail fervently thumps the floor. She loves the snow. David shuffles around in the van to open the driver door and let her out. She flies out in haste as snow eagerly pours in. Grunting, he kicks out what he can and drains a bladder full of beer and whiskey. David sets his eyes on breakfast.

He pulls out the stove and attaches it to a propane tank. Grabbing a small pot from the floor, he sets it down on the stove and fills it with water. He lights the burner and finds the jar of oats he soaked the night before and adds them to the water. He sets about making coffee. The air shivers through his bones. He pauses to put on a wool sweater. With coffee and water on the burner the oats have thickened. Adding butter he sits back while they cool. He grabs a jar of maple syrup and mixes in a spoonful. The coffee foams and boils over the pot. Hissing, David rushes to turn off the flame.

Between bites and sips, he thinks up a plan for the day. The van must be dug out. The road is only one hundred feet away. And he must get there by the end of the day in order to return home. He swallows his last bite as he slips on a pair of wool underwear, wool pants, and finally, his deer-hide pants. Then his boots and a wool brimmed hat. He finishes most of his black coffee and tells Lobo to rest up for the day. Grabbing his shovel, he slips out the driver side door.

The snow is deep, fluffy, and he sinks right through. Losing his balance he falls, right into the warm yellow snow. But it is light, and easy to move. He begins the shoveling then stops and listens. The air is calm. Still. And pure. The mountain air levitates about with dignity, freshest immediately following the early fall snowstorms the air is the freshest. The snow removes all the particulates from the air. He feels invigorated, heavily breathing under the work. He focuses on the rhythm of the shovel. His pace is arduous but he holds steady, first establishing a corridor around the van. He misses Eleanor.

Working steadily, he stops to clear his glasses from fog. Suddenly, on the edge of the clearing, about two hundred yards from the van, stands a large whitetail deer, trying to poke its way through the small clearing. David looks up, leans on his shovel, exhales, and sees the deer. Silently, he opens the door and is immediately greeted with a wet, slobbery tongue. He shoves Lobo out of the way. Reaching back, he grabs his .30-06. A lever-action Winchester. His favorite gun. His grandfather had passed it on to him when he graduated high school. He keeps it loaded at all times, always prepared for a moment like this. He turns and noiselessly closes the door. He must decide—shoot the deer and spend the day dressing the carcass, or let it be and dig his car out. He looks up towards the deer, and with a flicker of the tail, its head rises. David can see the breath, pouring out from each nostril. The buck acknowledges David and halts.

He kneels down at the side of the bus. Missing Eleanor, he sees this as an offering. He pulls the gun next to his body and quietly pulls the lever. Adrenaline races in his veins. With a muffled mechanical click, a bullet slides into the chamber. He pulls his rifle up to his shoulder. Resting the wooden stock in the small of his shoulder, the scope stands between his eye and the deer. He switches off the safety and rests his finger on the trigger. Holding his breath, he poises for the shot. Abruptly, a snowplow roars its way down the highway. And with it, David fires. The smoke floats up from his gun. The deer is nowhere in sight.

“Fuck! Damn truck, spooked the deer,” exclaims David. He puts his gun back on safety and leans it against the van. He hopes the deer is lying there in the snow. After post-holing the 200 yards to where the deer stood, he surveys for tracks. He finds them. Coming and going. No blood. Cursing the snowplow, he returns to his van, picks up his gun and empties the chamber. His heart beats heavily with adrenaline. He pockets the empty shell as he picks up the shovel and returns to the strenuous work.

The Bustle and Hustle of a Cafe

Voices clamor all around. The espresso machine whistles for attention. Clicks, clatters, and taps fill the air. Music beats, falling from the speaker above. Too may conversations to follow just one. A cozy refuge, I have found within these walls. Away from the icy fog and windy streets outside. With one cup of coffee down, I am considering a second one.

It is good to get out of the house. Our heater is costly to use and with limited income, my wife and I have chosen to not use it. To get out into a warm dwelling is certainly a gift. Deep in winter, our house seldom climbs above 65˚F. The average settles around 55˚F. We are constantly bundled up in sweaters and blankets. But I do not mind, I enjoy the plight. We keep ourselves occupied with books, knitting, cooking, games, and talk.

We do not have a television nor the internet. And this limits what we can do. It is interesting. I grew up with the internet and a television, and now, have moved away from the technological addictions inherent to them. I still utilize the internet, but it has become more useful to me and less wasteful. I no longer waste away hours browsing the web, searching for the unknown. We occasionally watch movies on the computers and watch television at our families houses. But for the most part, when we are at home, we have little to distract us.

All in all, it creates an interesting dynamic between my wife, dog, and I. Our dog constantly wants to play. As soon as he awakes to far past my bedtime. He is young and rambunctious ready for adventure. The three of us get by nicely in our cool, cave-like dwelling. Our vegetables stay fresh longer and our bones are well adapted to the cold.