The September wind blew gently against Stan. He turned, cupping his hand in front of his cigarette as he lit it. The flame created shadows across his arm as it touched the cigarette’s tip. No one would be watching at 12:30 in the morning. The lone exception might see him, but whoever that potential person might be, it was likely their wakefulness stemmed from their own vices. “Nothing good happens after 9,” his grandfather told him at least a hundred times.
The nasty smoking habit allowed him to disappear from work more frequently than his coworkers. As well as to stand around watching without being noticed. Most of his coworkers needed a break more frequently than they enjoyed them. Some of them undoubtedly needed shock therapy. Their nerves were more frayed than a forgotten sailor’s rope. He knew that nicotine inflamed his nervous system. His IQ told him that much.
Stan stood at least ten yards from the back of the shopping center. The canopy of the trees still held its crest of leaves. Anyone exiting the rear door would need to stand for several seconds to even attempt to see a solitary figure standing under the trees against the property’s edge. Stan wore black pants and a grey T-shirt. The clothes blended in with the unmaintained wood fence behind the trees. At this hour, no vehicles park behind the shopping center.
Waiting didn’t bother him. Like most creative people, he could sit for hours, apparently bored. Nothing was further from the truth. Unimaginative people fail to observe the million interdependent moving parts of the people and world around them. Stan’s curse was that he learned human behavior by being raised by his grandfather Quinn. He’d spent a career as a detective and a follow-up career as a private investigator that carried him until the day he died.
At 12:45, the door opened. An average-size male stepped outside. He winced against the ridiculously bright security light bathing the door. It was Sebastian, the person Stan anticipated.
Sebastian froze as Stan spoke.
“Hey, don’t make any sudden moves. It’ll take you longer to swipe your access badge and open the door than it will for me to make you regret it. You can run if you want. I need the exercise.” Stan’s voice carried well in the quiet of the night.
Stan flicked his third cigarette away but didn’t move closer.
“Who are you? Surely you know who operates this business?” Sebastian attempted to make his voice sound confident. He failed.
“Yeah, I know. Big whoop. He’s not here. You’re by yourself.” Stan laughed. Laughing in such situations caused amateurs to become scared and legitimate players to understand when they didn’t have the upper hand.
“We’ll figure out who you are. No one messes around with us.” Sebastian sounded more assertive this time as he spoke.
“Maybe. But you must explain to your boss why you broke the rules and went out alone. And out the back unprotected, no less. I could take your badge and burn down the place.”
There was silence for ten seconds as Sebastian thought about his predicament. “Can I smoke at least?”
“Of course. Just get your cigarettes from your right pocket and avoid going to your left side where you keep your gun, and maybe we’ll both be okay.”
“Damn! Who ARE you?” Sebastian said in surprise. As he spoke, he moved to slowly extricate his pack of cigarettes. Sebastian pulled the lighter from inside the pack and lit one. Though Stan just finished smoking, he craved another one. That was the problem with smoking; the habit needed constant affirmation and practice. Even when recently begun, the habit had a way of taking control.
Sebastian pulled hard on the cigarette as he smoked, one giant gulp after another. “You’re not going to shoot me, that’s for certain, or you’d done it already. What’s your game?”
Stan laughed. “Believe it or not, I want a job, Sebastian. Just a job and nothing more. And I need you to help me get it.”
Sebastian snorted. “A job? You’re joking, right? You hold me up in the middle of the night and then want a job?”
“Yeah. I could rob you, but then you’d have to attempt to hunt me down. Your line of work doesn’t exactly advertise.” Stan grinned, although he knew Sebastian couldn’t see his face.
“You think I’m going to trust you after this?” Sebastian’s confidence grew with each question.
“Yeah, I do. Think of this as my interview. I got the drop on you because you got lazy. You all are convinced that no one knows what you’re doing in the back of the two storefronts you use to camouflage your real business.”
“You’re crazy. I don’t hire people. If you’ve been watching, you know who does.”
Stan laughed and stepped out from underneath the overhanging tree limbs. He continued to walk calmly toward Sebastian. Sebastian threw his cigarette on the ground and ground it out with his right foot.
“Well, now I recognize you. I’ve seen you around.”
Stan continued to grin. “Anonymity isn’t what I’m here for. I’m showing you my face to let you know that you could come for me easily. To give you an edge.”
“You’re definitely crazy. I don’t see a gun. That doesn’t mean you don’t have one. Or an accomplice watching from several vantage points.”
Stan nodded in agreement. He stopped less than ten feet from Sebastian.
“I’m intrigued by your craziness. If I agree to introduce you to my boss, what makes you think he won’t just close your mouth and be done with you.”
“That’s where you come in, Sebastian. Tell him you recruited me without divulging any of the business secrets. I’ll earn my keep.”
Sebastian laughed at the absurdity of being in a holdup-turned-job-application. He finally replied, “Tell you what. Either you’ll end up in a creek somewhere, or we’ll let you know. How’s that?”
“Agreed. You know I work at the rented office space on the opposite side of your storefronts. I’ll be outside smoking a few times a day. If I hear gunshots, I’ll take it as a “no” for my job application.” Stan laughed again.
Sebastian laughed. “You’re cold-blooded or stupid. We could use either one. But it’s not my decision. I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks, Sebastian.” Stan nodded.
“What’s your name? Creepy-AF-Guy won’t work well as a name if I bring you up.” Sebastian relaxed his arms, indicating that he’d decided no one would get shot tonight.
“Stan. Just Stan.”
“Okay, Stan. Please eff off for tonight, would you? I limit myself to one potentially fatal encounter per night.”
They both smiled.
Stan didn’t wait for further interaction. He turned and walked the length of the building. His instincts told me he didn’t need to fear a gunshot in the back. He had struck just the right nerve of surprise and curiosity. Work tomorrow might be another story. He walked to his Honda parked a few rows from where he worked. He drove a couple of miles before pulling into a McDonalds near the main highway. No one followed him.
Stan leaned over, opened the glove compartment, and pushed twice on the upper inside edge. A click sounded as the hidden section opened. He pulled out a modified cell phone and its battery. Clicking the battery into place, he powered the phone on and dialed the number.
“Section four. ID, please.” The voice carried all the enthusiasm of someone reading baseball statistics.
“Six, one, six, four, six. Pink cotton candy ice cream.” He laughed. He was told he could pick any passphrase he wanted.
“Confirmed. Nice password, by the way. Report, please.” Even less enthusiasm. Secret covert government organizations hired nothing but the most boring people to staff the operations that maintained them.
“Contact acquired. Expect secondary contact within twelve hours.”
There was a pause. “First contact already? It’s only been five days.”
“You’re paying me an exorbitant salary that could easily allow me to retire in ninety years. I saw no need to overthink the situation.” Stan smiled, knowing unseen functionaries would later review each word spoken during his call-in report.
“Report in by 1 p.m. Otherwise, the assumption of failure will occur.”
Stan thought those few words were an interesting way to express that he might be dead within those twelve hours.
“See you for supper, then. Out.” He didn’t wait for a response. He removed the battery from the cell phone and returned to its hidden compartment. Lucky for him, the McDonalds was open twenty-hours a day. He went through the drive-thru and ordered a basket of fries with thirty packets of ketchup. He amused himself by attempting to elicit the greatest number of condiments each time he ordered food.
Tomorrow would be a long day. He almost regretted the idea that he would soon leave his cover job, one way or another. If he got shot, at least his burnt-out coworkers would have something to brighten their day. Nothing invigorates office work like tragedy or drama.
Jake arrived home about 6:15. He went through the garage and heard his wife Jane singing somewhere inside the house. Knowing her well, he knew that meant she was in high spirits. He threw his keys on the kitchen counter, a habit Jane had tried to break him of for twenty years. As he reached into the fridge for a diet soda, he felt his cat Sprinkles rubbing on his leg. He bent down to give it scrunches across its ears. He opened the soda and took a huge swallow. Because they had spent so many years practicing the dance of habit and marriage, he knew Jane would approach him for a hug. She didn’t care that he smelled like an old mayonnaise jar left out in the sun.
Jake looked up to the doorway as Jane entered, quiet lyrics still passing her lips. His eyes widened.
Jane laughed as she approached and wrapped her arms around him.
“What do you think? Good choice?” Jane shook her head back and forth as her hair swirled around her face.
Jake reached up and ran his fingers through his wife’s bright purple hair.
“Wow. It’s beautiful. Like you. I’ve never seen you with any color other than black or gray!”
“I’ve always wanted to color it. When I bought groceries after work, I passed the hair kits. A light bulb went off in my head. I bought two colors.” She smiled, probably tickled by her own audacity.
“It looks beautiful Jane.” He kissed her and asked if she needed help finishing dinner.
“No but thanks. Go wash off the stink If you want a shot later.” They both laughed.
Jane started humming the same song she had been singing and turned towards the cabinets.
“I’ll be a little bit. I have to trim my beard.” Jane nodded and blew him a kiss as he headed toward the master bathroom.
…
Forty-five minutes later, as Jane was finishing supper, she heard Jake come up behind her and kiss her neck. She could smell the aftershave he always wore.
“It smells good in here,” he said.
“Making chicken and pasta.”
He laughed. “I wasn’t talking about the food.”
Jane turned the chicken in the pan and set the fork aside. She knew her husband well and heard a slight laugh in his voice.
When she turned to give him a quick kiss, she stopped cold. Jake had the goofiest smile across his face. His hair and beard were a wild mix of rusty orange, gray, and brown. It looked like a toddler had painted his head.
“I’m not much for coloring my hair,” he said as he started to laugh. “I think my co-workers will like it.”
Jane ran her fingers through his beard and shook her head. “Lord, they might think you’ve finally gone off your rocker.”
Jake reached out and ran his fingers through Jane’s purple hair. They both stood for a moment, both with smiles on their faces.
“It’s about time to eat,” Jane whispered.
“Supper can wait. Let’s go see what orange and purple make when mixed together.”
As Jake led Jane from the kitchen, Sprinkles sprawled across the floor in front of the stove to keep watch. They would be back in a while. Their hair would probably be a mess but maybe a piece of chicken would find its way to the floor.
The months had accumulated and passed quickly. The early morning appointment on a cold February morning night as well have been ten years ago. Days, years, and decades proceeded that morning. Yet he only vaguely recalled the fog that encompassed him before. Forty-seven years of blindly doing the next thing instead of enjoying life. He dropped out of high school to get a job after his dad died. Followed by a marriage that didn’t last and six years in the military.
Four months later, and most of the people who knew him thought he had lost his mind. He stopped arguing with people and accepted any invitation to be with people. Good sleep abandoned him and he was grateful. He no longer needed to bank wasted hours thinking he needed it. When he quit his job, his mom argued with him and his coworkers were in shock. Seventeen years earned him a reputation as a diligent, hard worker. If he could go back, he would take all of his vacations and probably even play hooky three or four times a year. The best part of his list of surprises since February was a drive to Colorado. He had seen it once for a few days while in the military and fell in love with it. Seventeen days of driving and sleeping wherever he had to. The morning he woke up in Colorado, he had the best cup of coffee he had ever tasted.
Sitting on the the steps in front of his small house, he watched the birds chase each other and felt the breeze buffet him.
He coughed briefly and reflexively looked at his hand. One small drop of blood on his right palm. He had been informed that the drops would escalate. It didn’t concern him.
He watched the tall grass of his yard sway as the wind crossed it. He would mow it if it got above his knees. But not before. Grass was just another one of those idiotic distractions that people need to fill their days.
Steadying himself, he stood up and walked up the three short steps to his front door. He took one look back at the sky and at the birds still careening around its backdrop. He smiled.
Maybe he would see it tomorrow. Maybe not. This had always been the case.
He who possesses an unused passport has no advantage over he who has none.
He who forgoes pleasure in place of the mundane might as well be incapable.
He who has intelligence but fails to be introspective can’t claim superiority over a lesser intellect.
He who stresses regarding what might be invites dissatisfaction.
He who ignores the clock finds himself with no more sand in the hourglass.
He who can’t enjoy beauty might as well be blind.
We all possess intellect and souls. We run on the treadmill of obligation and ego. Some wait for the promise of the afterlife; others substitute tomorrow for today.
The following is a story that came from inspiration for the song linked after the story. It might be better if you listen to the song first (in the comments) and then read the story…
Candles Are Meant For Rekindling
Sam sat on the old couch, waiting for Julia to come inside from work. In front of him, one of his wife’s scented candles burned. He sat there for thirty minutes, time frozen. Tuesday afternoon would be as good a time as any to change the path of his life.
He heard her key in the lock as she came inside. When she saw him sitting on the couch with the candle in front of him, she stopped.
“What are you doing Sam?”
“I’d like to talk to you, honey.”
A strange look passed over her face, one he recognized to be fear.
“It’s not like that at all. Please sit here next to me?”
Julia dropped her purse on the coffee table near the candle and reluctantly sat down.
Sam turned slightly toward her. He took her right hand in his and cradled it with his fingers. He leaned over and kissed her. She looked bewildered.
With his left hand, he reached inside the candle and extinguished the tiny flame.
“What?” She asked
With his right hand, he pulled her hand towards his face and kissed it.
He picked up the lighter next to the candle and carefully lit the candle again.
“I’m sorry Julia. I took you for granted. I can’t explain why I let us grow distant. I relit the candle to show you that I appreciate you and love you. I can’t make up for the years that I didn’t see you for who you were.”
He looked at Julia’s face. It had softened. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes.
“I’m going to play a song for you. And I’d like you to sit with me and listen. We don’t need to talk. I just want you to know that I’ll never take you for granted again.”
Sam picked up the remote and hit play. The room filled with the reverb melody of the song. Though both of them preferred older music, the song captured the sound and feel of times long past.
After a few seconds, Julia leaned into him and sighed.
They sat and listened, leaning further into one another. Sam smiled. Although nothing had changed, he could feel that everything had shifted.
End…
.
Where love resides, words are superfluous. Presence and appreciation are the only requirements. Love set aside for a future day is a fool’s folly.
May the love you have be rekindled with the reverb of a distant melody.
I handed my guardian angel a cup of bitter black coffee. He wanted it hot. I could see the steam rising from it.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked. “I kind of like having you around.”
He nodded. “Yes. I will only be banished for a ten years. It’s worth it. The afterlife is amazing, but every hundred years, I have to enjoy a cup.”
I laughed. “Yes, I can imagine.”
He pointed to the bench on my porch, indicating that I should sit with him.
As he cradled the cup of coffee between his fingers and sniffed at the pungent aroma, he took a small sip and sighed.
It was hard for me to imagine waiting so many years between cups of coffee. I could almost feel his toes curl with the pleasure of taking sips from the cup.
“Thank you for this. A substitute will be assigned to you while I’m gone. They probably won’t be as diligent as me. So stop climbing trees.”
“Does that mean I’ll definitely still be here in ten years?” I grinned. My guardian angel enjoyed it when I probed for clues about my life or the afterlife.
“Since I won’t get dinged for two violations, yeah, you’ll still be here. But not much longer than that.” He looked over the rim of the cup at me as he said it.
My grin grew.
“Hold on there. That doesn’t mean you’re invincible. I’ll be back before it’s time for you. Maybe we’ll have another cup of coffee?”
“I’m looking forward to it,” I told him. “I’ll be careful. And no one would believe me anyway.”
“I know. That’s the only reason I broke the rules and started talking to you. Well, and the fact that you have fantastic coffee.”
We both laughed.
“It’s time for me to go,” he said. He placed the coffee cup on the bench between us. His right hand reached out and touched my arm. When his fingers made contact, I felt a small jolt of electricity. He started to shimmer, small waves of almost imperceptible motion at first. In a few seconds, he was gone.
I took a few seconds to think about the next ten years. I picked up his cup and went back inside to start my day. The most valuable lesson my guardian angel taught me was that time was both imaginary and the only thing. And that knowing the secrets of the universe evidently might not compare to the beauty and majesty of a great cup of coffee. Take note, Folgers.
I’ll share a picture of him. It’s so vague that it could be a picture of anything. It’s enough for me to know.
I wrote the little bit below these words a few weeks back and was reluctant to share it. We weren’t real-world friends; we were weirdoes connected by only words. And maybe it’s arrogant for me to share it at this point. That makes me laugh because Penni would say, “Hardly anyone uses social media to talk about the depth of their life, the good and the bad. They’re going to think whatever they want to anyway, and that’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”
Penni: For Your Thoughts
I had a fan for years. She read anything I ever wrote across all of my platforms. One of the reasons I made an impression on her was that she, too, lost a spouse suddenly when she was younger. She encouraged me to share and overshare. To jump into being an imperfectionist and just write. She enthusiastically asked for and read many things that no other person had ever read. She often got amused because it was obvious she outclassed me in intelligence and humbly deflected my insistence that it was true.
Her burden must have been incredibly heavy. I don’t know how, at my age, I can still be shocked. But she would have laughed at that and told me that of all the people in the world, I should know everything’s eventual. And no matter how wild the stories sound, they were all lived and earned.
Her stories are over now. I don’t want to get deep into the thicket of what happened; truthfully, we found out about her death in the weirdest possible way. Her passing wasn’t in the news. It was an exercise in craziness just to get a confirmation of her death from the police.
It’s obvious that the only way to show my appreciation for her enthusiasm and support is to do what she always told me to keep doing.
I’ll include one of the few messages I kept of hers.
“…remember when you explained the 10% or the Bald-Head rule to me? People around you aren’t going to see the same light others do. Their familiarity with you and the idea of you they have in their head will blind them. X, you’re creative. And you are your own worst enemy. You already say you’re an imperfectionist. Run with that. Be weird. Write about whatever the hell you want to. With your heart on your sleeve and a curse word on your tongue. Just don’t stop. You’re going to do it anyway. Eff the critics who never take a chance. If I can appreciate you, others do too. You’re going to get into trouble with people if you do it right.”
Now, I note her absence in my posts and on my blog. Just silence.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 