The Legend
Written by G. A. Augustin
Copyright © 2013 by G. A. Augustin
“She has been the sole presence that's keeping me balanced.”
Prelude
“Duane, can I ask you a question?” The doctor suddenly inquired while examining my vitals on the heart monitor.
“What?”
“If I took these leather restraints off your wrists and ankles, what is the first thing you would do?” He sauntered towards my bedside. His right index finger and thumb caressed the stubble around his chin while his arms crossed over his stomach. The inquisitive doctor seemed interested in hearing my response.
“These restraints are the only reason why the man that killed her is still alive.”
“Do you really think retribution will make you feel better?” The doctor asked.
“I’m certain it will.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I can’t feel any worse than what I’m feeling now.”
“How have you been Duane?" Detective Bernhardt inquired ending the awkward silence. We're sitting in a packed downtown café just a few blocks from the dry cleaners I work in. He's been asking to meet with me for some time now. I finally took him up when he offered to buy me dinner. With the salary I'm making, I'll take anything free nowadays.
"I'm hanging in there." I responded.
"Have you been able to sleep lately?" The heavyset detective followed with a mouth teeming with chewed up pieces of cheeseburgers and fries. He doesn’t even look at me while he’s speaking. He’s too caught up in his eight dollar lunch. I'm too disgusted to finish mine.
"No."
"My psychologist friend said you haven't been answering his calls."
"Been busy."
"Duane, you need to talk to someone."
"What is there to talk about? I got beat up! They took my money!" I snapped at him. Detective Bernhardt responded with a dissatisfying sigh.
"You still taking the medication the doctor prescribed?" He asked.
"I can't run the machines at the dry cleaners while I'm on th..."
"Duane, do you remember any of the suspects’ faces? Any one of the muggers?" Bernhardt blurted out; interrupting me and concluding his roundabout inquires.
"No."
"Duane, please! Try your best to remember something. Anything... Height, weight, complexion, hair color, clothing, something please!"
"I can't remember."
"WAITER!" He barked. "I'm ready for the check. I'm paying for his and mine!" The waiter approached and placed the tab on the table before the detective. He sucked the ketchup, mustard and grease off his fingers then wiped his hands dry on his white button down shirt. He snatched a twenty dollar bill out of his bulky worn brown leather wallet and slammed it on the check. "You still have my card don't you?" Bernhardt barked.
"Yes." I replied. Even if I didn’t I wouldn’t take another from him.
"Call me if you remember anything. I can't help get these muggers off the street if you don't help me out!" The detective demanded. He jostled the table with his large belly as he slid from the booth. He yanked his black trench coat and matching fedora hat off the coat hook. He then bustled past the servers and patrons and headed towards the exit. You'd assume if someone was so concerned for my well-being they'd offer me a ride home.
I glanced out the steamy café window and followed the detective's rapid departure in his unmarked navy blue ’95 Crown Victoria. Dark clouds started masking the city sky. Cracks of lightning and distant roars of thunder began to emerge. The perpetual rain; as if it wasn't gloomy enough here. I exited the café and quickly headed to the elevated train station.
A week ago, after locking up the dry cleaners where I work, I was jumped and robbed. I always thought I'd be able to handle myself in a situation like that. After all, I studied Judo for five years at a neighborhood YMCA back in my hometown of Brooklyn, NY. I also stand at six feet two and weigh just under two hundred pounds. What I didn’t know is when you’re frightened you hesitate. When you hesitate, you doubt your abilities. I was also outnumbered. Three ruffians snatched me up from behind, dragged me into a desolate narrow alley and shoved me to the ground. I made desperate attempts to get to my feet but the barrage of punches and kicks kept me at bay. Unsure of how to fend off the blows, I curled up and shielded my body and face. I got a brief glimpse of the individuals. They were all slim males and appeared to be around my age; twenty three, give or take a year or two. They were shirtless but sported black leather vests. One was unusually pale-skinned. He had a five inch spiky red mohawk with a sleeve of skull tattoos on both arms that extended past his neck up to the lower half of his cheeks. The second was a black male and the other appeared Hispanic.
While being pummeled, I felt one of them rummaging through my pockets. Seconds later he snatched my weekly pay and signaled the others by belting out a sharp whistle tune. The barrage suddenly stopped and I heard departing footsteps scamper deeper into the alley. I noticed the words "Fallen Saints" spray painted on the back of their vests. Their laughter echoed off the tall brick walls as they disappeared in the dark. A witness alerted the police and that's how I came to meet Detective Bernhardt.
Just as I paid my fare, the red graffiti tainted elevated train rumbled into the station. It made a grating squeal when the conductor applied the brakes. I made my way through the turnstile and bustled into the center car after the double doors parted. I searched for a seat amongst the discarded snack wrappers, newspapers and vagrants lying on the benches. I found a vacant one by a window. The double doors closed and the train rolled out of the station.
A heavyset uniformed Capitol City police officer strolled into the car as the train trundled to the next station. He kicked the trash in his path aside and twirled his nightstick as he sauntered past the passengers. He was a seasoned officer; his leather belt was worn, brass was dull and his shoes no longer had a luster to it. His uniform was two sizes too small; his short sleeve light blue button down shirt struggled to hold his potbelly in. The only piece of his uniform that fit was his eight-point hat that leaned off the right side of his head. I doubt he could catch a fleeing purse snatcher but his mere presence still made me feel safe. I hoped he stayed in the car until I reached my stop.
I glanced out of the window as the elevated train made its way over the downtown brick buildings. The billboards fixed on the rooftops are still displaying ads from a decade ago. Some are torn and others are covered in graffiti. No one invests in advertising on this side of Capitol City anymore. They know the residents here don’t have any money.
"Capitol City": a humble seventy square mile rhombus shaped city just north of Virginia. Its population is six hundred thousand. It's cut perfectly in half by the George Washington River. The northern half of the city adopted the moniker "Uptown." It's home to some of the wealthiest people in the region. A vast amount of the nation's historical landmarks, memorials and monuments are located there making the land value one of the highest in the country.
South of the river is the complete opposite of uptown. Unfortunately, it's also where I live. This side of town is known for its violent crimes. My boss, Mr. Delancey, took his employees out for drinks one night on his tab. Sal, a bartender and a childhood friend of my boss, told me downtown wasn’t always like this:
"About seventy years ago Capitol City was an industrial city. The majority of the citizens were laborers. We farmed, sewed, welded and hammered for a living. It wasn't until recently where businesses and office buildings starting replacing the factories. Then the wealthy business owners started investing in real estate here. It drove the property value up. If you didn't own anything already, you couldn't afford to move in. But there is something about those white collar f
olks that I just don't understand. They don't want the working class living amongst them. They want to feel exclusive.
Councilmember Dooley was running for mayor. There was no way he could knock off Mayor Vesey from getting a second term. However, the wealthy had established forty two percent of the Capitol City's population. They told Dooley they'll get him into office if he gets rid of us working class. Dooley agreed to the promise and he becomes mayor. Next thing you know taxes goes up, rent goes up, taxi fares goes up, subway fares goes up... People were outraged. He increased the fees for everything but put a financial freeze on the city that prevented workers from getting raises. With the factories closing, a lot of people went unemployed. Most of the laborers didn’t meet the educational requirements to work in an office. So they staged a 'Blue Collar Protest.' The protest lasted several weeks and it made the new mayor look incompetent. In order to bring peace back to the city, Dooley developed low income housing on the southern side of Capitol City; opposite the river. We all go flocking over there like birds flying south. Dooley then put a toll booth on the bridge charging twenty two bucks to cross it. We don't have that kind of money to travel uptown. Dooley’s plan worked and the upper class citizens were happy.
But do you know what happens when you put a bunch of starving rats together? They start eating each other. With the factories closing down and the only available jobs pays minimum wage, crime downtown skyrocketed. Everyone is looking to make money anyway they can; drug dealing, prostitution, robbery, extortion, bribery, you name it. Homicides are at an all-time high. Violent crimes are the norm here. But as long as we're all caged downtown, everyone uptown is content."
I arrived home preceding the storm. Ten dollar bills, dice and Styrofoam cups filled with vodka were placed on the front steps of the narrow three unit apartment building I dwell in. Four neighborhood thugs are laying money on a craps game. I fastidiously navigated about. God forbid my feet struck anything.
The second I stepped through the building door I got an earful of blaring funk music coming from the first floor tenants' apartment. My neighbors are throwing another party. They have one just about every night and I’ve yet to figure out what calls for the celebration. It's impossible to get any sleep here. Benevolence isn't practiced in this building. As I made my way to my apartment, I noticed scantily clad women frolicking around the hallway. Alcoholics stumbled down the staircase as well. They normally post up before the liquor store across the street but they saunter into the apartment building when a police cruiser drives by. I feel like I live in some ratty Irish Pub.
The hallway is dark. The tenants unscrew the light bulbs so passing police officers aren't able to catch sight of the vice occurring inside the building. The flickering red exit signs give some visibility. It reeks of fresh urine and smoked marijuana in here. I've made numerous complaints to my landlord's voicemail. I never get any responses from him unless my rent is late. I continued up the steps, navigating around the garbage and spit, and made my way to my third floor apartment. While sifting through my pockets for my keys, I heard a faint noise over the blaring music. It sounded like moaning. I glanced back and noticed a large male wearing a beige trench coat pinning a female down right underneath a flickering exit sign. They're on the stairs that leads to the roof. His pants and a pair of stained white briefs are scrunched down to his ankles while he laid prone in-between her legs. One of his husky arms is entwined around her left thigh forcing it open. His other hand smothered her mouth. He was belligerently thrusting his pelvis against hers. She peered at me with hemorrhaged eyes saturated with tears. Her mascara seeped down her cheeks as if she was crying black ink. His hand muzzled her screaming. She was pleading to me with her stare. She wanted to be saved from the rape.
I'm petrified and don't know what to do. I just gawked at them. Suddenly the burly male pivoted back and caught me staring. His face is buried behind a full white beard. His black skull cap was drawn down to his white bristling eyebrows. Only his broad red nose and blue eyes were exposed. He unraveled his burly arm from her thigh, sifted through his coat pocket and produced a vintage black snub nose revolver.
"MIND YOUR FUCKIN’ BUSINESS BOY!" He barked while aiming his pistol at me. His voice was aged and raspy. Without hesitation, I spun around and exerted much effort into unlocking my door with unsteadied hands. After several fumbling attempts I opened it and darted inside.
I can't even notify the police because I'm so petrified. I sat on my bed trying to turn a deaf ear to the young girl’s cries but even with the blaring music I can still hear her. Or is it my imagination? I was filled with guilt and remorse. I tried to reassure myself by assuming she incited the rape; hoping to find contentment. But, that was an egotistical way of thinking. It made me feel even more shameful of myself.
While sulking on my bed a sudden "BANG" resonated over the blaring music. I sprang to the peephole and caught glimpse of the assailant bustling down the stairs with his flailing trench coat trailing him. I noticed the female staggering down the hallway with one hand using the wall to stay balanced and the other clenching her chest. At second glance I recognized her. She's the seventeen year old prostitute that lives in the apartment beneath me. She was nearing my front door. I timidly gaited away from the peephole. Seconds later there was a languid knock on my door. That weaken knock epitomized her moribund state. It was unsettling and I didn't know what to do. So I just stood by my door and stared at it.
"HELLO, HELLO! IS ANYONE HOME?" A female detective barked while pounding on my apartment door. "MY NAME IS DETECTIVE WU. I WORK FOR THE CAPITOL CITY HOMICIDE UNIT. I NEED TO TALK TO YOU!" I sat on my bed while clasping my ears with both hands. "I don't want to get involved! I don't want to be bothered! Please, just go away!" I kept crying to myself. The guilt I felt was oppressive. The teenage prostitute died right by my door from a single gunshot wound to the chest after being brutally raped. I could’ve saved her. I could’ve called the police. I was too frightened.
After hours of probing, the police concluded their preliminary investigation. I peeked out my bedroom window and caught glimpse of an attractive Asian female detective departing from the crime scene in an unmarked maroon colored 1995 Crown Victoria. How much more can I endure? I was convinced moving to Capitol City would be a personal betterment; establishing my own identity while no longer under the watchful eyes of my parents and taking the initial steps towards my lucrative career. Lately I've been coming to the harsh realization that I was a terribly mistaken.
I sauntered into my closet sized bathroom and stood over the small wall mounted basin. The blaring music ceased and was superseded with vehement cries and hollers from her mourning family. I peered into the cracked medicine cabinet door mirror. This person I’m staring at is a complete stranger to me. My once wide and rounded face is narrow and bony. My nose, however, has kept its broadness. My dark brown eyes were underlined with hefty black circles. They used to be semicircular but now drooping. I found the faintest strands of gray in my bristling eyebrows. I also found some along the wide hairline on my Caesar haircut. My mustache is cut too low to notice any. My beard is cleanly shaved off. My dark complexion is no longer as dark as it used to be. I no longer smile as much as I used to either. Bearing the stress from this city has changed me.
After a warm shower I sulked in my bed. The violent assault appears when I try to sleep. Reading the novel I’ve been caught up in didn't hinder the thoughts either. I just kept going over the same sentences. Maybe I needed something light like the daily newspaper. I grabbed it off my nightstand and suddenly a comic book, sheathed in a sealed plastic sleeve, slipped out from the pages. "The Urban Legend!" A caped-crusader I remember reading as a child. It’s the ceremonial edition from its 50th anniversary. A free issue was put inside the paper. I decided to read that instead.
The lack of sleep I've gotten last night is causing me to be weary at work. Two hours to endure before I trek back to the cesspool I dwell in. Thursdays are the worst days. The overly zealous pat
rons drop off their weekend nightlife attires to have them dry cleaned in time for the Friday and Saturday night parties. They barge in with their entourages and embellished stories about how popular they are. "When I walk in the club, all of the women start looking at me. I get at least seven phone numbers a night. No bullshit, they love me." "All of the guys always try to talk to me. I can't even walk to the bar without someone in my ear. It gets annoying sometimes but I guess that's what happens when you look this good." I'll admit rooted inside I am a little envious. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to mingle and dance but my minimum wage salary doesn't allow for expendable activities. Besides, it can't be as fun as these actors make it out to be.
In these bleak times, a ray of sunshine emerges in a white spring dress patterned with orange sunflowers. Her name is Lolani. She’s a routine patron and also the most attractive female I’ve seen in Capitol City. Her name was picked by her mother who is a native Hawaiian. It also explains Lolani’s comely Polynesian features; her high cheekbones, her slightly slant sandy color eyes that disappears when she smiles, her narrow face and pointy chin, her long nose that curves at the nostrils and her full heart-shaped lips that she keeps coated with orange lip gloss. Her bronze complexion and long deep brown curly natural hair comes from her Barbadian father. Her scent is always pleasing. It lingers around even after she leaves. She stands at a noticeable five feet nine. She’s slim but not skinny; all of her weight falls in her hips, butt and breasts. She’s complained about her curves to me before. She says it draws too much unwanted attention from both men and women. I, however, have never found anything wrong with it.
"Hey Duane!" She greeted with her perpetual smile. For the past two years since I’ve been working at the dry cleaners, she’s been dropping off her business attires to have them cleaned and pressed for the succeeding work week.
The Legend Page 1