In all fairness, if there is such a thing, Kathy knew Chris when Chris felt like Chris. Though his name had not changed, everyone knew that with age, this man who once frolicked and spun webs of youth had now run out of muster and lust and revivals. All that was left was a Christopher, and that had connotations of boredom and proof of enthusiasm that had since grown sterile.
Kathy’s happiness was dependent on Chris’ happiness, and in this, love is demonstrated. But back to purpose because while purpose is not fuel, it can be a compass. Kathy was lead to a life of non profit organizations and people that felt they could change the world with their intent and actions that start small and see growth, far beyond the life of those that were there from inception. While Chris shared the main street mindset, he wanted to be known, whether it was making the local paper or naming the sandwiches after he and his closest pals.
They each had a purpose, but only one had happiness. Chris would spend months engineering a vision for his business but blindly leaving Kathy out of the picture. Kathy became a third wheel to Chris’ business, or maybe a training wheel–there for support and a lurking suspicion of maturity that brings about departure. Before Chris could grab the toolbox, Kathy grabbed her suitcase.
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In the moments after 8PM, the mysterious man sat back and chewed a last bite of food that included mostly a tortilla wrap dipped in the remains of buffalo sauce on his stained plate. With a sip of low wire coffee, he presented a tight smile, showing off his teeth and an unenthusiastic gaze.
“It wasn’t great,” he said, delivering the news as if his presence were solely based on the critique of food. Chris shifted in his seat then sat up.
“Well I know people who love it, so…” Chris trailed off but maintained a sense of stance on the matter with challenging, incredulous eyes.
“So what would you like to know?”
“How about everything” chimed Chris, “Starting with your name.”
“Thomas Collins. I’d say ‘like the drink’, but I don’t care for the shortened version. Tom is quick and dull and forgettable. Thomas is something else entirely.”
“Okay Thomas. What did you mean by teaching me to paint fences?”
“I did say that. That’s right… Leroy has been watching you for weeks, and not only you, but around 5 other gentlemen in the area that match the criteria for this position. It’s a position of power, having far less to do with you holding it and far more to do with you exerting it. Delegating. Taking the blur of a situation and making it visible for all to see.”
Chris knew that while Thomas had said a mouthful, he had not truly revealed much of anything. Nevertheless, intrigue had set in, as well as a near-certain feeling that this position was something you learn by doing. Trial by fire. It would not require a training session in Toledo or a handbook of chapters. You were allowed to write the book yourself and pass each test separately. And all else was out of your control and all else would be hidden from you.
“Well why me? And what if I don’t like it? What if I’m not good at whatever this thing is?”
Thomas took in a breath and looked at Chris, admiring his presence, a presence Chris was unaware he had.
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think you could do it. Part of why we chose you was availability. If you think this is busy, don’t step inside the Giordano’s on Rush and Wabash. You’ll shit yourself. We also chose you because you look the part and act the part.”
Chris stood up, almost sick to his stomach, grabbing dishes and cups and taking them behind the counter. Thomas continued.
“Why not try it on for size? If you don’t like the fit, you won’t wear it. The last thing we want to do is hire someone unwilling and unsure of themselves.”
Conscience and clarity began to eat away at Chris’ imagination and his yearning for coloring outside the lines. There are so many questions unanswered. There are so many people not met. Thomas had now become an acquaintance, but would he ever feel more than a stranger?
“I’ll give you a number. By tomorrow morning, when you wake up, please call it with a yes or a no. If no, you can go back to your empty pockets and your sack of Scrabble letters. And if yes, lets get you fitted for a suit and issue you a firearm.”
Intrigue had set in.
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It was not a real firearm. It was a word. Chris had this word to bail him out, in the event that the event became too eventful. An uneasy questioning lead to repetition in phrasing and physical ticks. For Chris, it was a tap dance of his index and middle finger against his thumb. As for his phrasing…
“What the fuck am I… this is so fucking… awe fuck it.”
Chris gave up, only to give in and enter a loading dock door to an abandoned brick building that was not so abandoned. Walking in, he felt the dusty breeze of movement and a shuffling of conversation. The conversing was calm, but the voices had a natural born intensity and bite to them.
Steps became tip-toes and deliberation became displaced confidence and a curiosity of the potential for worst case scenarios to spring to life and for white walls to fade to black. All he had were brass tacks and bare bones – an instruction and a safe word. That was not a firearm in Chris’ estimation.
But as a moronic defensive lineman and a short Puerto Rican suit grazed the walls to break bread, Chris decided the he would be the weapon. Mr. Collins would have loved this.
“Mr. Scarzano needs you to dispose of the car. Not sell it. Not hide it. He wants it turned to an ashy frame. You can stay the weekend here, but come Monday, head up north for the rest of the month. Here are the keys and some cash to get you started.”
Fluidly, Chris spoke this, tossed the oak tree-of-a-man the keys and passed off a thick envelope to the suave but shady little man.
“How do I know this is enough? And who the fuck are you?” posed the heated young man, almost unnecessarily attempting to prove weight, earn stripes, or flex nuts. This softened the atmosphere enough for the big lug to chime in as well.
“Yeah, that better be a lot of money. ‘Cause we’ve been stuck out here for a long time and we don’t got the Internet or nothin’.”
“And how do we know you’re one of Scarzano’s when we ain’t seen you before or heard nothin’?” The Puerto Rican man now took a wider stance, as if ready for any sudden moves or ambitious turns in the newly acclimated exchange between Chris and this bark over bite duo. Chris knew full well that he apparently looked the part, but now it was time to play the part.
“Amelia.”
Both men froze at this. The muscle lost his flex and took a stare at his feet. The firecracker lost his spark and repositioned his feet. Chris took it a step further and stabbed his once-trembling index finger into the little man’s manubrium – dead center; business was meant.
“The less you know the better and the less you say as well.”
It sort of made sense, but was definitely a sloppy verbal play for Chris, who felt like he had to cement his visit with a nice line at the end. With less than a look and less than a goodbye, Chris imitated Thomas Collins’ mischievous smirk and walked out the way he came.
When he came to the fresh air, accentuated by the nearby body of water, Chris could have been walking away from an explosion, or an unflinching moment of emptying the chamber of a gun. But as he discovered, he would be the only real weapon on these runs, and he could do so with a stroll.
Meeting Leroy at the SUV, Chris received an envelope of his own. It was not a stack of cash like the ghetto Laurel and Hardy had just been compensated. It did however hold almost a dozen dollar bills, their denomination higher than he had anticipated.
Meanwhile, the Puerto Rican man was lit once again, rolling a computer desk chair, and the girl seated in it, with great aggression. The absent-minded giant towered over her crying, duct-taped face, then stood tall and swung a 25-pound metal curling weight to the side of her skull. Her petite frame shook softly and her young face contorted then fell.
“Really?” asked the small to the large. The large just shrugged and dropped the barbell.
Amelia was 16 years old. Her dreams were never realized. Her love was never found. With a single word from Chris, Amelia’s genes would die with her. Had Chris bothered to pitch another one-liner, he would have witnessed Amelia’s brutal passing and left his suit at the drycleaners.
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The next morning was unlike any other at Shorty’s. Jerry walked in to find Chris painting over the walls of the deli. Or café. Samantha found a small bonus of 50 dollars attached to her paycheck with a paperclip and note. Randy walked in and quickly out, when discovering that his recent paycheck was also his last.
“What is all this?” snorted Jerry.
Chris finished a bottom corner of the wall and like an accordion, had a slow but definitively broad stretch in height and width. Turning to Jerry, he knew exactly what all this was. “Jerry… it’s a café.”
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Next Time on The Hindsight Bridge: Robbie Pieschke’s “If Nothing Else” recounts the unexpected summer of an eclectic graduate student, uncertain of her future. After being rejected from several PhD programs, Simone, without a job and without a home, is forced to spend the summer with Chet, her distant and unassuming stepfather. At Chet’s house, Simone experiences the beauty of uncertainty and bonds with a part of her family that she never knew. Revisit The Hindsight Bridge on June 27, 2011 to read “If Nothing Else” and be sure to mention THB to anyone who might be interested in short fiction in the meantime. Thank you for your continued readership.
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