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.