by Travis Pasch
CHAPTER SIX
Homeless Patrons
Azelia's legs burn from the long walk. She fears sweating through her work clothes and slows down despite already being late. Why in the world do they make the baristas park so far away? She walks the well-known route from the parking garage in a zombified state. She closes her eyes for a moment, seeing if she can make the walk from memory, she fails instantly, bumping unceremoniously into a large woman.
A man, whose obvious lack of style puts him far out of place here, grabs her attention the second she opens her gray eyes. Anxiety swarms over her at his glance- she's felt a supreme lack of self-confidence since things with Clint worsened. The feeling of hopelessness doesn't pertain to her looks, she knows she's pretty enough. It's just the idea of starting something from scratch, after spending her entire adult life with a single person, it scares her half to death. The two months since their breakup have been horrendously hard, but the pain is starting to fade with every passing day. Unfortunately, the paranoia has increased exponentially, every day Clint seems to become more unhinged. She doubts he will ever let her live in peace. In those two months she's often wondered if she's meant to die alone, meant to fade into obscurity with no one to pass the time. The out-of-place man helps change her opinion on staying lonely and alone.
She crosses the final street to her work, the cool breeze quells her building nervous sweat, much to her relief. The shift manager working today finds a sick joy in making her life a living hell, and her newly multi-colored hair won't make dealing with him any easier. Clint sneaks unopposed into her mind again against her wishes, just what she needs before dealing with snobby people for the next six hours. She can't escape thinking about him on a daily basis. He's been relentless and invasive. She tries to pinpoint a day since their break up that he hasn't tried to contact her at least once, nothing rises to her thoughts. She's changed her number twice, to no avail, like some cell phone ninja he finds her new number within hours. She tries to see his side of it. He did give up a life of normality and comfort to be with her, a fact not lost on her, but she can't understand why he's being so difficult.
Amidst her swirling thoughts she almost forgets about the man from earlier. She doesn't want to forget him and tries to hold his image in her mind. She's already attached an entire made-up persona to him, turning whomever he may be into her savior. She knows she's way too mixed up right now to do anything about him but what can daydreaming hurt? As a bonus, the thought of him helps expel Clint from her mind. She uses the momentary lapse and a deep calming breath to wipe the slate clean and climbs the brick stairs to work with aching legs. The smells of coffee and self-absorbance overcome her the second she gets a whiff of the familiar and crowded room. This place could not be a more typical coffee shop, dark wood decorates every surface and comfortable chairs adorn every inch of available floor space. Normally this place holds some form of comfort for her but not today, even people working quietly by themselves raise her blood level to dangerous highs. She feels a pair of eyes bulging at her from behind thin rimmed glasses, as her creepy manager eyes her up during the short walk, his comb over makes her want to slap him into tomorrow.
"Azelia, you're late, two minutes," her manager says and looks to his watch for confirmation, his hairless pale arms unnerve her. She points to the clock on the wall, prepared for his onslaught.
"It says I'm three minutes early," she retorts while power walking across the room. If she's going to be scolded, she really doesn't want it to happen in front of all these people.
"How many times do I have to tell you? If you're not five minutes early you're late."
"Sorry, won't happen again," she answers.
"I hope it doesn't, I really don't want to have to fire you," he says, his scratchy voice laden with contempt. Maybe she should just give in and start sucking up to him like the large contingent of bimbos working here, it would certainly make her life easier. She un-shoulders her blue bag in the small break room and recomposes herself. She takes solace in the fact that Maya is on shift today, a co-worker who has become an actual friend.
"Hey girl," Maya says, her disproportionately thick legs carrying her quickly into the break room. Azelia always wondered how such a thin girl could have such big legs.
"Hey," Azelia responds, and dons her already dirty apron.
"What've' you been up to?" she asks.
"Nuthin' really. Wishin' he wasn't here."
"He givin' you a hard time already?"
"Of course," Azelia answers, trying to stall in the back of the shop as long as she can.
"You know how anal he is, why can't you be early once a week?"
"Guess I'm too hard headed. What you get into this weekend?"
"Same old stuff," Maya answers. They both, begrudgingly, head out front.
"I'd kill for some normalcy right about now, I'm still living in a tent for God's sake."
"You're feisty today, you gonna be ok?"
"I doubt it," Azelia answers, they both laugh. They start their rounds around the full cafe, wiping down the few unoccupied tables and picking up empty glasses. The manager was going to put them on the unwanted duty one way or the other, they might as well not give him the satisfaction of issuing the order.
"Wipe harder! I can see the dirt from here!" the manager yells from across the room, every patron in the place turns their wandering eyes on the girls, they blush from head to toe. Azelia wonders if the man has respect for anything other than his hourly twenty minute visits to the bathroom, she shudders at the thought of his activities in there. Her arm tires from the new intensity she puts into her scrubbing, she uses that pain to forget about her boss. Maya taps her shoulder pointing her eyes towards the entrance, a heavily bearded bum is the object of her impolite staring. He ignores the judging looks of the richer patrons and begs with every ounce of power left in his body for food or money, looking for compassion in those same ignoble people. Judging by his emaciated frame she doesn't doubt the truth behind his claims of hunger. If he didn't have on so many layers his ribs might poke through his parchment paper thin skin. She feels a twinge of guilt at the amount of people turning down his pleas. She falls to that guilt, heads to him, and hands him a few dollars without a word.
"May God bless you," he says with approving eyes. Helping the man fills her with warmth.
"Sir, you have to leave, we can't have you in here. This place is for paying customers only," her manager says, leaving his precious counter for the first time today. She tries to use mind control on the bum and make him slug her manager in the face. It doesn't work and the bum keeps his arms by his side.
"Have a heart my friend," the bum says with pleading eyes.
"Get out," the manager retorts. The homeless man's head hangs low as he trudges to the door. A lightning bolt of an idea hits the man before he reaches the door; he turns on a dime. He snags an empty tray from a trashcan and swings down into an empty seat. He slams the tray down with more force than necessary and presses his fingers all over it, just like it's a keyboard.
"What're you doing?" the manager screams.
"I'm just being important like everyone else here. Working on something so great everyone in the world will praise me," the homeless man says still typing away on his tray.
"Get out or I'll call the police," the boss seethes, grabbing the bum's arm. The man twists away and persists in his passionate pursuit of pretending to be pretentious. He stands up to deliver the rest of his performance.
"Look at me, look how important I am, working so hard, ooh, look at me!" he screams, sits back down, and keeps pretending to write. "Get me a coffee, SIR!" he demands and puts Azelia's fresh money into her manager's hands.
"I don't think..." he starts to say but is cut short.
"Now even if I pay, you won't let me stay and work?" the bum asks sweetly.
"Get him what he wants."
"Not her, you," he says while staring straight through the diminutive manager. He accepts the money and grumbles
to himself all the way to the counter. The homeless man and Azelia smile at one another; it uses every ounce of self-control she possess to not break out in joyous laughter. Today's already held two high notes for her, something that hasn't happened in over two months. Maybe her boss will let her off easy if she is out of his sight for a while, she heads out back to deal with the ever present trash.
__________
This constant brooding certainly isn't helping Clint's mood, but he's incapable of not helping himself to the pain. His whole backside is beginning to sting from sitting so long on the park bench in Azelia's campsite. He feels good being this close to where she's living, even though she's not here. The shade cast from the massive water oak hanging above him cools his seething anger and helps him feel at home. He marvels at the tree's audacity for life, how can something meant for water survive in the opposite of climates? Not only survive, but flourish? The tree makes him feel worse about his inability to adapt to his new situation. He tries to drop the comparisons between himself and a plant.
Despite the blistering dry heat, cold chills assault every inch his body as the idea of ridding the world of Azelia tries to sneak into his brain. He knows that he can't let the idea fully form or things might get out of control and no one could guess what that line of thinking might cause.
He looks around the site, debating whether or not to trash the place. It would make him feel better, even though he knows it wouldn't help anything. His legs carry him to her tent, he pulls back the flaps and looks inside, fixing his hair as he does so. Chaos reigns supreme inside the orange tent; he couldn't make the place look any worse. He leaves the inside unmolested.
He lays back down on the splintery bench and thinks about what he can do to right the situation with her, he knows for a fact he's been overreacting to everything. He can't seem to control his constant anger anymore, his father would be disappointed. He's wasted every waking moment of his adult life on her and he's still struggling with the prospect of throwing away all those years and never seeing her again. The idea of dishing out pain to anyone associated with her burns its way into his brain and embeds itself firmly there. With each second he's slowly able to get himself back under control. He just wants to show her how much he still loves her and that he would do anything for her, regardless of her many transgressions against him. How can she not understand that? He can't let her go just yet.
He crosses his fingers steeple-style on his chest, feeling oddly comfortable. He will try his damnedest to make his life livable, he wants nothing more than to feel happy again. He forces himself to hold onto any tendrils of optimism left. If she refuses to take him back, revenge is still a form of redemption in its own right. He desires to return to his old life, but for now that's not an option. The feel of the warm, slight breeze and the type of shade only a good oak tree can give lets his mind run away with ideas. For the first time in months a tinge of exhaustion winks into existence, the girl has been driving him into insomnia. He in turn has been trying to cure the insomnia by a few substances not exactly legal. He bolts to his car and races home, happy to accept sleep for the first time in days. His dreams are violent and filled with vengeance. He's filled with disappointment when his alarm goes off after only a few hours of sleep. He has to make the difficult choice of quitting work today or waking. He eventually relents and rises from his slumber.
__________
The day went by slowly but Maya kept the whole thing bearable and Azelia sane. She notices the man she made a guilty pleasure of looking at this morning again on her way to her car after work; he inches his way among the heavy foot traffic of midday. She gawks openly at him, daydreaming about anyone who isn't Clint feels like heaven. His eyes meet her gaze, she doesn't notice for a half second, when she does blood floods her cheeks. She casts her eyes down and sprints for her car.
She throws her right leg into her car, almost falling over in the process; her already poor balance is thrown off by her embarrassment. She recovers and brings the car's small motor to life. She still can't understand how she hasn't mastered the mechanics of walking yet. Just as she is about to take off, the one sight she abhors appears from the crowd of people into view. A blue arm followed by the rest of the suit that accompanies a traffic officer winds into view.
"Hey," Clint says. This day is turning into a disaster for her.
"What do you want?" she asks, sighing into the ceiling of her beat up car.
"Is it a crime to talk to you Azelia?" he asks leaning on her window.
"Yes! It is, remember? Leave me alone!" she responds and tries to jettison away. He boldly attempts to step in front of her, she keeps her foot on the pedal, her moving car bounces him like a tennis ball off the bumper.
"You coulda' killed me!" he yells after her, she half wishes she had.
She can never understand, or doesn't want to, what happened to him after they moved. He used to be the coolest guy; but something in him snapped when they moved here. She wonders how much pleasure he derives from ticketing people for running out of quarters.
Lost in thought she nearly rams her vehicle into the stopped garbage truck in front of her. She flips on her radio, needing any kind of distraction, only to hear endless news about the first successful human enhancement trials. She flips through the channels until she finally hears some music playing. It doesn't help much as she crawls through the city traffic. She really has to get back to her peaceful tent.
__________
Opening his eyes offers no respite from the darkness. The pitch black of the drab night is complete and stifling, replete with unbearable humidity. Squealing tires are once again the culprit for the interruption, why do people drive so crazily through this complex? Zale can almost feel the pressure from his newfound agent crushing him every second of the day, even in the middle of the night. He knows the deadline's close for a rough draft of his first story, he also knows the chances of him meeting it are slim to none. But he's stubborn enough to keep trying. The trait is often quite the hindrance, but he likes to believe that's just the way he is. He lies back down trying to re-conjure the images. The thought of whether this story is any good hasn't crossed his mind yet, why think on such trivial things?
The fatigue weighing on him is far above what it should be. His arms feel like jelly and his legs not much stiffer. He had such a bout of paranoia earlier he nearly fainted. A pair of eyes were obviously staring at him downtown, he takes some solace in the fact they belonged to a woman. But a tremendous and unfounded fear of being watched is buried deep within his core. He uses those fears as crutches, they make great excuses and he's tricked himself into believing them. Another day had gone by and he still hadn't said a word to the glowing woman, or found a way to live without her- his situation is becoming rapidly untenable.
His thoughts start reminiscing without his permission, transporting him from this dark car to a warm beach and better times. He tries to force the thoughts away to no avail. His father's funeral pops up, blazing out all pleasant thoughts. His death a few years back nearly ruined Zale. He can barely remember the service, save for his pain and anguish, his sisters' bawling eyes hurt the most. His yearning for them mounts higher with every passing day, he avoids talking with them at all costs. A single word from their tiny lips would bring him running home and, essentially, mean giving up his dreams of writing forever. The government should look into using them for mind control.
"Stop it," he tells himself. Every thought he lets slip by like that is just one more nail in his coffin, they all bring him one inch closer to abandoning his new life. The majority of the world would look down on his seemingly useless conviction because he really has nothing here, but going back empty-handed would signal his defeat and failure. He uses his proximity to the glowing woman to calm himself down, and put himself into his wanted dream state. Will the courage to talk to her always elude him? Is this odd situation of following her and living in her apartment complex all he will ever have? Breathing deep he once again f
orces himself to calm down. But if she denies him, or worse yet, finds out where he's staying, his entire life will inexorably turn to ruin. He decides those are all problems for tomorrow. Tonight he concludes, is for dreaming, and hopefully he gets something worth writing.
He lies to himself, tells himself everything is going to be all right. He allows himself to be deceived for the rest of the night. He weighs the positives and negatives of smoking a bowl before bed, and eventually decides against it. Sadly the only thing on his mind before he drifts back to sleep is the sound of his sisters' cries. In answer to his greatest wishes a dream of the west builds itself inside his head...
The acute smell of horse dung stings the insides of the hero's dry nostrils. He's never been able to understand the allure of cities and why so many enjoy their claustrophobic confines. Being around people never comforts him. Not to mention the smell, the smell of all cities makes him gag. But for the amount of money Michele is offering him there aren't too many places on earth he wouldn't go.
The mute driver doesn't make many attempts to communicate, he just sits atop the carriage, unmoving and stoic. Despite the total lack of conversation the driver has grown on him, almost similar to how a statue can become familiar. The mute navigates the carriage like a ship's captain, adjusting perfectly around a maze of horses, vendors, and people trying to clog the way. He's obviously been driving Michele for some time and knows these streets well.
"Here will be fine," the woman yells, her voice arrives muffled from deep within her plush ride. The mute reins the horses to a halt in front of a massive hotel, it's soaring walls are dotted with ornate windows and the monstrous columns framing the front archway have somehow managed to stay pristine in spite of this endless filth. The hero can't remember the last time, if ever, he'd seen such a structure. A gaggle of overly dressed men sprint to their carriage; elbows, punches, and a few kicks are thrown among the neatly dressed group. They all vie for the prize of opening Michele's door. Four gloved hands find the handle simultaneously instead of a single victor emerging. More than one of the men has blood trickling off their faces from the scuffle.
"My lady," calls an extremely overdressed man from the mud- unfortunately his hand didn't make it to the handle, his competitors pushed him headlong into a puddle.
"You've really let this place go in my short absence," she retorts, using his body as a stool to save the edges of her dress from the mire.
"Sorry, we've tried our best. You're just so talented, there's no way we could compare," the man whines in a high pitched voice, he's now fully enveloped in the mud and filth thanks to her.
"That much is true, let's get to work," she says and gracefully moves through the admiring group of men towards the ornate archway.
"My payment?" yells the hero from his perch on the carriage.
"Take care of him for me," she says and continues unabated to her gigantic hotel. The mute looks sadly at the hero, he has also become rather fond of his traveling companion and wishes things didn't have to end this way. Fortunately for the hero the sun is full in the sky; if not for the glint coming off of the mute's blade this story would be over and the woman would have claimed another hopeless victim. The hero's instincts kick in and his hand manages to just deflect the killing blow meant for his throat before he fully comprehends the situation. The knife sails past and fastens itself in the ornate wood of the chariot.
The hero reaches for his revolver but a lighting speed punch almost topples him off the carriage into the mud, from which the unfortunate concierge is just now removing himself. The short second in which he reels back is all the time the mute needs to gain the upper hand and jump on top of him. The mute pulls another knife from his boot, and once again aims for the hero's exposed neck. He's once again saved by a stroke of luck, a passing cart bumps the carriage and pushes the mute off balance, this time the hero doesn't hesitate and the distraction is all he needs to shoot the mute through the gut. He pushes him into the sludge and turns to the stunned men waiting below.
"Tell that witch I'm taking the carriage as payment," he says to the shocked men, debating whether or not to finish off the mute. He decides better of it and whips the reins on the horses, sending them careening through the town at near suicidal speeds. He'll never trust a rich woman again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Early Mornings and Late Nights