by Mark Lingane
He looked into the shop. Only Kumar and Mahesh remained. They waved.
“Hello, Kumar,” he said.
“Hey, Mr. Joshua. How are you going today?” Kumar had his usual huge smile.
“You had a whole army of those coppers in here. Oh, they’ve taken all the terrible food.”
“It’s not terrible.”
“It is. And it’s getting worse. Does it even qualify as food?”
“People get what they pay for. If they don’t want good food, I don’t sell it.”
“Fair enough.” Joshua glanced around the store for something edible. He let his gaze drift through the front window onto the remarkably police-free street. “Where’d they go?”
“I guess they’ve gone back to their cars to hide from the criminals who come here and steal things from my shop,” said Kumar.
“I thought they wandered the streets inflicting their slogan ‘Do nothing, and nothing will happen to you’ on those smaller and weaker than them,” said Joshua.
They both laughed. The radio that had been murmuring in the background burst into life.
“The Department of Agriculture has announced a surplus in pig produce, thereby making this month’s special: bacon. Your local food outlets will be selling this at half price. It’s an offer you won’t go past,” said the radio shouty-man.
“Mahesh, change the station, I’m bored with this one,” shouted Kumar.
Mahesh clambered up his little ladder to the radio. His fingers left grubby marks on the chrome facade as he pressed the next-station button. He polished the large metal monstrosity with its little reminder—LISTENING IN—etched into the plaque above.
“Are you being seen in the right gear? Dark blue is this season’s color. Your local fashion house will be offering clothes in this color at fifty percent off. It’s an offer you won’t go past,” said the radio shouty-man.
“Boring,” said Kumar. “Can you find one without the ads?”
Kumar waited patiently for a pause in a female’s determinedly happy and unending babble about orange-juice shares until another segued and droned on about the importance of nothing in particular.
“Oh, forget it.” Kumar threw his hands in the air.
Mahesh slowly descended to the shop floor.
“Ah yes, the burden of the state-supplied radio with its ineffectual off button,” Joshua said, laughing.
“Shh. Not in front of the radio. Remember, they’re listening in,” whispered Kumar. He raised his eyebrow to reinforce his concerns.
“Just because it’s on all the time doesn’t mean they’re continually eavesdropping,” Joshua said. “I guess it’s possible, but unlikely.”
“I’m not leaving it to guesswork,” Kumar said. “In this shop, like everywhere else, day or night those radio ears are open.”
“Better not do anything just in case something happens?”
“Mr. Joshua, you are a braver man than I, or indeed all of us, but please be aware we do not all share your cavalier attitude. What can I assist you with?”
“Can I have some smokes?”
“They’re very bad for you.”
“Who says?”
“The big sign on the front of the box,” Kumar said.
“This annoys me so much. Signs ordering you to do this; don’t do that. Cross here. Don’t wait here. No standing here. Walk now. No parking here. Don’t cross. No loitering here. Go this way only. Don’t go this way. Stop here. Pause here. Wait here. Only turn here. Don’t turn here. No U-turn here. Queue here. Pay here. Pay before you eat. Pay before you purchase. Proceed with caution. No trespassing. Keep out. No stopping. No speeding. Keep left. Keep right. Give way. One way. Wrong way—back out. See other end for instructions. Open other end. Dead end. There are a million demands designed to keep millions of people going in one direction, and one direction only. Less thought involved in the process, less trouble from the people. We know where you are and we know what you’re doing. The powers that be are out of control in their quest for control. We’re people, not just an anonymous group. We’re herded this way then that, and lord help us if we’re not where we’re meant to be or not doing what we’re meant to be doing. Cross the rules and suffer the full attention of the overburdened arm of the law. What’s happened to our freedom?”
“Yes, that was a very nice speech, Mr. Joshua, and if I didn’t know you better, and hadn’t heard you recite it many times, I would be impressed.”
“Well, I like speeches.” Joshua raised himself up and bridled with indignation. “They occupy my mind.” He settled back to his usual slouch. “Mind you, it’s not one of my best. You’ve been here a long time; surely it hasn’t always been like this.”
Kumar shrugged.
“Don’t let your life become a constant gray haze like the rest of those suckers walking the planet, Kumar,” said Joshua. “Boredom’s sunk into their bones. They look like walking ghosts.”
“I’m sure they don’t mind. There’s always something exciting around the corner. Look, a squirrel.”
“Where?”
“See? I don’t think anyone cares. We all tend to forgive or forget horrible memories from a long time ago. And now, what splendid offering can I propose from my humble shop?”
“I’ve had a good day and I feel like something special. Hey, you’ve got cigars up there. Give me one of those babies.”
As“Are you sure, Mr. Joshua? People will think you’re a man of means and mug you. Or laugh at how preposterous you look.”
“Hit me with it. I feel like being dangerous,” said Joshua Dangerous Richards.
“Fifty credits.” Kumar indicated to Mahesh to get one of the prized items.
Mahesh made his way back up the ladder to the special-items shelf. He opened the box, extracted one of the cylinders, and slowly made his way back down again.
“How much?” asked Joshua, looking at the label. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“This is the price I’m giving you,” said Kumar.
“But fifty? That’s insane.”
“You wanted something different. This is the price of something different, like everything else. That’s why it’s covered in dust. No one wants different. It’s too much money. And it makes you look silly,” Kumar added.
“You know what; I’m going to take it. I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”
“Good for you, Mr. Joshua. Stick it to the man.”
“Smoking a dusty cigar is hardly sticking it to the man,” Joshua pointed out.
“Well, sir, it appears beyond the ability of everyone to do something different. I watch them come in every day and they stare at the special-items shelf. Sometimes they ask to see something, but they all run away. It may be a fear of the unknown, a lack of self-esteem, or the comfort of feeling similar and safe.” He paused. “Maybe it’s simply the price. We make poor decisions and belittle our own worth within the great whirlpool of society.”
“We are talking about cigars, aren’t we?”
“In a way, yes. And in another way, no.”
“Are you being all Eastern mystical?”
“The cigar, Mr. Joshua. I wish you to smoke it like there is no tomorrow.” Kumar bowed and presented the cigar to Joshua. “This is your moment to enjoy it. And when you do, think of me.”
“Yeah.” Joshua gave him a strange look. He picked up the cigar and gave it a suspicious once over. “It’s not poisoned or anything, is it?”
“No, sir. Enjoy. Live for those who are afraid to.”
“That’s it, you’re weirding me out now. Kumar, it’s been … interesting. Stay safe.”
“One thousand blessings be upon your house.”
Joshua gave Kumar a final hesitant glance before legging it out the door.
Kumar received a message. It made him feel sad, but he understood the reasoning. “I’ll miss you, old friend,” he said to the diminishing figure of Joshua.
Joshua strode down the street looking for shelter. He found a seclu
ded alcove, pulled out his new cigar, and struck a light. His face turned red from the glow of the match. He puffed until the end caught, inhaled and coughed violently. The wall provided support until his head stopped spinning. Cigar-lovers must be made of stern stuff, he thought. He needed a drink to settle his lungs.
He struck out back into the cold night air, coughing occasionally. He glanced at the garbage, human and otherwise, littering the streets. This place needs a good mayor or something, he thought. Someone who could open the windows and let in some fresh air. Throw out the garbage and start afresh. It was a pity they were all corrupt lowlifes who talked too much and did too little. Joshua believed they needed more than a mayor. They needed a whole new team. It was a pity, he thought, that there wasn’t even one person who was up to the challenge.
He wandered off toward his favorite public drinking establishment. He often thought about drinking himself to death so everyone could make a graduate-level and so unfunny pun about it being his haunt. Small minds annoyed him like that, or perhaps it was just students.
The rain had gotten heavier again and fell in torrents off the buildings. It flooded down the walls, washing away the memory of the city. The roads were nearly rivers. Small pools had formed where the drains couldn’t cope with the continual onslaught of the weather. Neon signs dribbled gaudy colors, assaulting his eyes and trying to sell him everything from toothpaste to sex. Some were old and had shorted out in the rain. Some with the new holo-projection feature displayed images around him as he wandered, alone. The Small.Exe software company advert was still trying to tell him the world could be his, and images of exotic animals, instruments, places and the occasional general protection fault circled around him, oblivious to reality.
Joshua was a dichotomy. A casual observer standing next to him would notice he was a big solid man, and his swinging moods of depression and effervescence made him larger than life. Yet, from afar, he gave the impression that there was nothing much to observe. No one ever noticed him as he walked toward them until he was suddenly an overwhelming wall assaulting all their senses. For many, it was like death turning up with some reaping equipment and a sad note saying that time had passed nigh.
But Joshua wasn’t the Grim Reaper; he was just a guy who had no distinguishing features except for his eyes, which made him stand out like a beacon. They glowed like fading stars, fierce but ancient, and seared right through those he looked at.
The bits of him people could remember made him seem like an aging detective who had seen too many crimes, too many fights, and far too many drinks. He was a black vision wrapped in the dark gray—that was once possibly white—coat in which he seemed to live, and a dark gray, wide-brimmed hat that covered his face. He wore his clothes like armor. Sometimes he wore small round glasses, but most of the time he just drank from them.
This apparition from a 1940s detective movie with the otherworldly eyes trudged the horrible streets full of rage and/or depression but never defeat. He would fight against injustice, for the small person, the put-upon, most importantly the unbound, unquestionable and undeniable ruthless truth, and slightly less importantly, a big fee. No one ever looked at his boots that, for the sake of completeness, were big and black with a two-inch oil-proof sole.
Joshua pushed open the door to his smoky lair, the Blind Duck, and the rain diminished to an incessant and dull distant drumming. He removed his hat and dried his small round glasses with an old and nearly clean handkerchief retrieved from the depths of his coat pocket. He put the glasses back on and swept back his hair.
The oasis of flickering pink and blue fluorescent lights and characters of ill repute gave the bar a melodramatic feel. It was ideal for drunk and defeated detectives to visit in the early hours, where they could spend their rent money washing away years corroded by hate and bureaucrats. It was not, generally, a happy place, but then Joshua was not a man around whom happiness fell gently. But for a little while—while here—he was at least a little less melancholy.
I wonder how long I’ve been coming here? he thought. Years? Decades? All he knew was this familiar path that gave him some kind of solace from the door to his stool and his glass.
He sat on his barstool.
“Josh!”
“Pete!”
“I see we’re back again. Hey, nice cigar,” observed the barman, his thin, potholed but happy face displaying the same warmth that filled the bar.
“Pete, you astound me. You’re so observant you should be a detective.” Joshua swiveled on his stool.
“Yeah, you’re so witty you should be a know-it-all teenager.”
“Guess why I’m here,” Joshua challenged.
Pete looked over his shoulder at the obvious collection of beverages. He plunked a glass on the bar and rocked back on his heels. He put his thumbs behind his braces. Taking a deep breath, he said, “I would detect that maybe you’s here for an alcoholic beverage.”
“Very good,” Joshua replied in mocked amazement. “And why would I be requiring an alcoholic beverage?”
“Ah, now this is the tricky bit,” Pete mused. “Using a bit a the ol’ cunning,” he said, tapping his temple with his finger, “and based on the evidence of your previous actions, like …”
“Yes?”
“I would say you intend to get absolutely legless, like you’s always do when you get some money.” Pete put down his glass and leaned forward to be level with Joshua.
“Ah, very good, Pete. Now if—”
But Pete, detective-noir, hadn’t finished. “I hadn’t finished. And cause you’s got some money, by your obvious apparition an’ a fact you want to get legless, you can pay your back tab”—Pete pulled his notepad from beneath the bar and quickly tallied—“which comes to three hundred and fifty-six credits and sixty-five cents,” he finished triumphantly. “But if you pay now I’ll make it even.”
“Pity you can’t serve that fast, friend,” Joshua replied as he handed over the money card. “By the way, do you have any bagpipes around?”
“Sorry?” Pete questioned.
“What?”
“You mentioned bagpipes,” Pete continued.
“Did I? Sorry, I don’t know what came over me, really. Bagpipes, indeed.”
It was a typical Joshua comment designed to let you know you weren’t smart enough to know you had been insulted. Pete knew them well.
“So what do you want?” he asked.
“I want vermouth.”
“You can’t handle vermouth.”
Then they both laughed because it wasn’t funny even though it was.
“Gimme a shot of that terrible gin.”
Pete served him his usual drink in his usual glass and went about his usual business waiting for the inevitable moment for which bartenders everywhere wait and are trained to deal with—drunken depressive introspection.
Tick … tock … tick … tock …
“Drinks ain’t meant to be used as bandages, you know,” Pete said as he philosophically polished a glass.
“But when I drink, so many things come back to me. Every day, memories seem to slide away. They’re all I have yet they’re dying in front of me, slipping from my grip and sinking into a dark ocean of despair and disillusionment impenetrable and without redemption. The daylight is a curse that robs me of everything of value. Like … her. It’s like I can see her rising out of the smoke like a phoenix or angle.”
“Angle?” Pete queried and wiggled his little finger in his ear.
“Yes, dressed in white, floating through hell to come and get me.” Joshua’s eyes misted over and became a little teary. He wondered how long it had been since he had been hugged. Sadness welled up as the icy clutches of loneliness took hold. The pain sat there, gnawing at his heart.
“What kind of angle would she be, then?” Pete said, getting interested despite himself.
“Most prob’ly a cute one.” Joshua sniggered and shook his head, pleased he had been allowed to get away the pun.
“Y
ou’s too smart for your own good, Joshua, and certainly for my entertainment. Have another drink.”
Joshua downed his drink and looked decidedly slurred.
“So what was this angle name?”
“I …” he started. “I can’t remember.” Joshua slouched forward onto the bar and looked depressed.
“Where did this money, which you have wisely used to pay your debt, come from?” Pete asked.
“Solvedanothercasetoday,” Joshua said.
“Has it been six months already?” Pete said.
“Wha’?”
Pete tried again. “What case?”
“Did you read about the murder in today’s paper?”
“You mean the suicide?”
“No. Paper said ’twas sooyside but ’twasn’t.”
“No?”
“No.”
Pete inhaled deeply. “Wasn’t suicide?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m glad we’ve cleared that up.”
“Y’see? You can’t believe what you read in the paper.”
“You don’t say.”
“No.”
“So, you can’t believe what you read in the paper.” Pete hated this form of conversation. “Well, who can you believe, then?” he prompted after no further information was forthcoming.
“I’m glad you asked.”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
“I’d better go somewhere else,” Pete said, turning to make a quick escape.
“Y'see, you can’t believe anyone, ’cept yourshelf,” Joshua said, lunging forward and grabbing Pete. “Only what’s inside here.” He pointed to his head, nearly stabbing himself in the eye.
Pete looked over his shoulder to check his shelf that carried all the spirits. It looked believable to him.
“We’re nothing but the ideas in our heads,” Joshua whispered, “ ’cause troof’s a subjective thing. Tr’f’s d’ff’r’nt.” He looked down toward his mouth, wondering where all the vowels had gone.
“I-iee-o.” He’d found them. He tried again. “Troof’s different for each person, an’ because of that there’s no real troof, there’s only you an’ your thoughts and ideas. There’re two kinds, big an’ small. Small is fleeting an’ is struck with the individual, who can be deceived by the senses. Big can’t be accepted by the mind ’cause it’s too big.”