SOMEONE ONCE TOLD ME THAT I’D BE MUCH TALLER if I didn’t have so much folded under for feet. How does one respond to that – short of something rude, crude, and socially unacceptable? All I did say was, “Oh?”
I’m not a big fan of feet. I have two of them myself and neither one is all that aesthetically pleasing. The best I can say about them is that on most days they both reach the ground.
I SAW A SURE SIGN THAT SUMMER IS APPROACHING. When I pulled up outside the Gas Station/Mini-Mart there was a new sign in the window.
Being the Smarty Pants that I have been since birth, (And possibly before according to what my mother told me one day after she had downed a couple glasses of wine.) when I went in to get a Dr. Pepper for Dawn, I had something to say.
Throwback Thursday – From June 2015
QUESTION OF THE DAY – What is the difference between Jet Lag and death?
I’m going to have to think about that for a while – as soon as I am able to think again.
(Musical Interlude while brain cells attempt to realign themselves. This could take awhile.)
TODAY WAS A DAY JUST MADE FOR GROCERY SHOPPING – COLD, RAINY, AND NOTHING FOR DINNER. It was shopping for the staples of life – meat, veggies, and 48 cans of Dr. Pepper. The stuff that augments the DNA and Stardust that makes us – us.
The Curveball of Life stopped me in my tracks as I pushed the shopping cart up and down the aisles. I seriously hit the brakes as I was passing through the Valley of the Shadow of Greeting Cards.
ADDITIONALLY HAPPY, ADDITIONALLY HAPPY, MODERATE JOY, MODERATE JOY.
A little piece of the jigsaw of my everyday life has fallen into place once more. About a month ago the Little Chinese restaurant in the neighborhood reopened and yesterday the Dollar Store right next to it has returned to active duty. Both places were hit by a pair of teenage arsonists last August. The little intestinal orifices were caught, but I was in Pot Sticker and Won Ton withdrawal for a long time. Now, praise to heaven above, both commercial spots are open again.
Throwback Thursday – from Ireland
YOU CAN EVEN SURPRISE ME once in a while – and that’s not easy anymore. After being so long on this planet one sees most things and the variations on those things that crop up along the way.
While I make no claims to any superpowers. I barely have any skills at all other than an active imagination and decent powers of observation. I do notice things.
THE RAVAGES OF TIME HAVE TAKEN THEIR TOLL ON MY WARDROBE. At least on the part I care the most about – my Hawaiian shirts. The rest of my clothes are there solely to avoid public prosecution, frostbite, and scaring animals and the rest of the population. I do have jeans that have holes in them and shoes that have outlasted their laces, but I cannot allow my Hawaiian shirts to paint me with a colorful deterioration.
I KNOW A YOUNG BLOGGER, whose work I really enjoy. Recently she mentioned that she had decided to sign a “DNR” form. For the uninitiated “DNR” stands for “Do Not Resuscitate.” It is an alert to medical personnel that the person who signed the form does not want any measures, like CPR, to be taken to keep them alive if their heart stops beating or they stop breathing. Serious business.
Fiction Saturday
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Horton Plaza looked like the love child of Rube Goldberg and M.C. Escher. Seven levels high with a hundred and forty shops, restaurants and touristy boutiques, all connected by stairs, escalators, ramps, and glass elevators. The entire structure was painted in a full palette of pastels, with multicolored banners, flags, and flowers fluttering in the soft ocean breezes.
High up on Level Seven, in a choice corner location, was The Captain’s Table restaurant. It had everything that a family on vacation from Nebraska could ever want—a six page menu offering seafood delicacies named for every exotic locale on the globe, several tons of nautical-looking adornments made in China, and decals on the front door promising the acceptance of all major credit cards.
Fiction Saturday
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Laura gathered up the dishes as Davis toweled himself dry in the bathroom. She had showered first, standing under the steaming water for fifteen minutes, crying there so Davis wouldn’t see her fear manifested yet again.
“Davis, while you’re getting dressed I’m going to take the dishes back to Vivian.”
“Okay,” he called from the bathroom, “and thank her for me too.”
Vivian saw her coming across the parking lot and hit the door buzzer to let Laura into the small office.
Throwback Thursday from February 2016
I WAS WANDERING THROUGH WAL-MART the other day and I was surprised at the number of people in there who looked like Hell warmed over. I’m not talking about the choice of clothing, if you could call it that, but their faces and the look in their eyes.
There is a line from an old Steppenwolf song about a man walking around, “With tombstones in his eyes,” and that’s what I was seeing in the aisles at Wal-Mart.
Maybe it’s a product of the mid-winter blues, or post-holiday letdown, but there were a surprising number of people pushing carts around who looked like they were ten minutes away from either collapsing or going zombie. They looked unfocused and exhausted with a look in their eyes that said, “Why bother.” I found it unsettling.
Not that I’m full of pep and energy, but these folks looked like I should try to recall my CPR training.
ICE? WHAT ICE? I DON’T SEE NO ICE.
I take that back – I see ice in my coffee, but there is no ice on the roads or on my windshield. I’m not complaining mind you. In fact, I am doing my Happy Dance – big time.
For the last week the Weather Bunny on Channel Two has been predicting that Terre Haute (That’s French for “What’s that floating in the Wabash?”) was going to be hit with several days worth of ice storms, Sleet, Freezing Rain and NCAA Athletes. I don’t mind the athletes, but the ice, sleet and freezing rain I can do without.
Fiction Saturday – Continued
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Actually, Davis, using your car is a good idea. We can avoid public transportation and no pesky rental agreements floating around.”
“See, I told you I’d come in handy.” Davis looked out of the passenger side window at the passing California landscape. “I wish you’d let me drive for a while, though.”
“Later tonight maybe. I’m a better driver than you are and it helps me to relax.” Relax was something that Laura had not been able to do for a second, ever since she saw her own face staring out from page four of the San Francisco Chronicle. “Besides, I think better while driving. Maybe I can figure a way out of this mess for us.”
“Well, I’m a very good driver—no accidents ever, and you could use a break.” Davis knew there was no changing her mind once it was made up, even though Laura looked like she hadn’t slept in days and her jaw was clenched tight.
Appreciating his effort to care for her, Laura smiled and gazed at him as he huddled up against the car door. He looked lost, she thought.
“Well, dearest,” she said, “at sixteen I was picking up extra pocket money as a wheel man. Just for kicks really. My father never knew. It was stupid and dangerous, but I was good at it.”
“Don’t tell me any more right now.” He was a stranger in a strange land if ever there was one. “I haven’t digested everything you’ve laid on me so far.”
“Okay, I understand.”
“I do have one question though,” he said. “Why did we stop at a travel agent before we left? A ticket for one from Miami to Detroit?”
“A little deception. Detroit is a border town, a ten-minute walk out of the country across the river. I bought it in my own name, of course. It won’t fool anybody for long, especially Dominic. But the Feds will have to check it out. It’ll tie up a couple of their guys for a few hours and give us a little extra edge. It’ll help our odds, maybe.” She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe not. I don’t know.”
“What are our odds?” He was immediately sorry that he had asked.
“We’re two snowballs and we’re driving south.”
“Oh.”
I’LL BE THE FIRST TO ADMIT IT – I HAVE A BRAIN TO MOUTH DISCONNECT. Something will pop into my head and before I can do anything about it – Boing! It rockets out of my mouth and into play.
It happened again last night, and even though it wasn’t in the best of taste, it was funny.
After dinner, my wife, the lovely and ever tolerant, Dawn, said that we needed to go grocery shopping. I’m all in favor of that because, without it, I’d wither away to a mere shadow of myself. My doctors have suggested that my shadow could use a little whittling down.
A FEW WEEKS AGO I WROTE ABOUT A RETREAT we took in the Holland, Michigan area. It was an intensive week, but it was not all work and no play.
On Thursday afternoon we had some time off to relax and let our brains blow away the sweat. It was listed as free time so we decided to morph into tourists for a few hours. After stops at the local St. Arbucks for coffee and a mini-mart for a Dr. Pepper we headed into downtown Holland.
WAIT! WAIT! LET ME HEAR THAT AGAIN!
This morning as I was sitting on the edge of the bed, barely awake, and still trying to figure out how socks work, I thought I heard something.
I had the TV on and there was an ad running for a local Terre Haute (That’s French for, “We need more wrapping paper.”) store – a place called Boot City. They sell boots and then some.
Doing the commercial was a young lady (obviously a relative of somebody from the store) and she was doing her best “I’m just a little ol’ country girl” accent. In her best Daisy Duke impression she rattled off a list of what they sold at the store.
And that was where either my brain shorted out or Boot City was branching out.
“We have over six million pairs of boots, and thirteen million pairs of denim jeans. We also have tons of Cowboy Jewelry.” (That alone should have gotten my attention.) Then she added something to the inventory that had me dropping my socks.
Fiction Saturday
Chapter 14 – Continued
They sat there looking down at the waiter’s tip, tucked under the edge of a plate, knowing that if they got up from the table now it would be over. The ease and promise of the evening would simply sputter out like a cheap candle.
They sipped at their cooling coffee as the waiter paced, wishing that they would leave so he could get a fresh couple in place.
After a silence, Davis mentally conceded defeat and set down his empty cup. Laura smiled and opened the door to the future.
“You know, Davis,” she began hesitantly, “I’ve had a really nice time tonight. I’ve needed something like this. It’s been a long time.” She smiled at him and meant it, really meant it.
“I’ve enjoyed it too. I don’t want it to end, but I know it has to. Can we do it again?” he asked. “Can we do this again?” He was feeling surprisingly shy.
The ball was in her court. If she said no she would be back where she started, in her apartment and alone. If she said “Yes”…who knows where it might take her. But it would take her someplace. That much was sure.
“Yes, I’d like to do it again, but next time it’s my treat. I insist. Fair is fair.”
Davis nodded in agreement. “If that’s what you want, I’m okay with that. What about lunch tomorrow?
Laura thought for a moment before speaking. “What about breakfast? There is a place down on Chestnut. They make great omelets and…”
Davis interrupted her. “I know the place. They have some tables out on the patio? Yes, very good, super French toast too. Breakfast tomorrow? What time?”
Almost laughing at herself for her forwardness, she asked him, “Is seven-thirty too early? I like the early morning on the street.”
“Seven-thirty it is.” He was hoping for something a little bit later. He was going to be up late tonight, working, but he smiled and agreed to meet her there. She insisted on that condition, yet again. “First one there chooses the table,” he added.
Outside the restaurant the sun had set and the fog was sending the temperature down. Laura shivered as soon as they stepped out onto the sidewalk.
“Brrr. It’s getting cold. Laura, you’re going to freeze to death. Here, take my jacket.”
He started to remove his sports coat in a very traditional gesture, but Laura stopped him.
“Don’t worry, I’m fine,” she said, trying not to shiver. “I live close by. You just go on home now and I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Okay?”
“Are you sure? I can walk you home. Remember, this is a big city with some very nasty people.” He really was concerned. And, he wanted to spend more time with her as well.
“Thank you, but I’ll be fine, really. That’s very sweet of you.”
She leaned into him and kissed him softly on the cheek, gently squeezing his arm. “Good night, and thank you again for the best time I’ve had in quite a while.”
With that, Laura turned and walked around the corner into the shady darkness. The fog swirled behind her and she was gone.
Davis stood there, not really knowing what to do or how to feel. Should I follow her and see 
where she lives? No, that’s stupid and juvenile, and besides she’d kill me if she caught me. I like her. She’s smart, a good talker – once she relaxes, and I think she likes me.
He started walking home. It was only seven blocks. He’d be there before he got too chilled. He didn’t need to catch a cold or anything. He had too much work to get done.
“Seven-thirty a.m. Why did I agree to that?”
Laura moved quickly through the shadowy side streets back to her apartment. On her way home she stopped several times, just to check and make sure that he wasn’t following her.
Once she was inside, with the deadbolt locked, she took a deep breath as she kicked off her shoes and sat on the end of her bed.
I like him. He’s smart, he doesn’t talk too much, and I think he likes me. She saw her image in the mirror on the dresser. She thought her reflection was giving her a stern glance.
“What are you looking at?” Laura said from the bed. “It’s just breakfast. It doesn’t mean anything. Nothing is going to happen. He’s just a nice guy. I’m not going to hide anymore, so I might as well have some company.”
***
The next morning came very quickly for Davis. He had stayed up working on his client’s accounts until a little after two a.m. Spending the evening with Laura just pushed everything back. It was worth it, he thought. With a few hours of sleep and a shower he’d be fine. Why didn’t I suggest nine a.m.?
The morning was bright and sunny. The fog held just offshore, obscuring all but the tops of the Golden Gate Bridge towers. It left most of the bay clear with whitecaps glistening and the commuter ferry boats bouncing in the choppy water. The large blue and gold ferries came into The City from Marin county and the East Bay communities. A steady stream of southbound cars and buses crossed the bridge, emerging from the fog and spilling onto Lombard Street on their way to downtown. Just another work day in paradise.
Laura was up early. Her hair took little more than a towel dry and a quick fluff. The new look, being more casual, required less.
Anyway, this was just breakfast.
She slipped on the denim jacket, donned the floppy hat, her sunglasses and, with a sense of guilty caution, tucked the small revolver into her bag. She felt that Davis was not a danger, but, as even he said last night, “It’s a big city with some very nasty people.” She had already met one of them.
Taking her time and enjoying the walk, she spotted a flock of the wild parrots again, and heard the deep bellow of the foghorns from out by the Golden Gate Bridge. She felt at ease and was looking forward to the day. She half regretted bringing the gun.
Arriving first at the cafe gave Laura, by prior agreement, the right to pick the table. Contrary to her last visit, she chose one of the tables on the small patio. The edge of the umbrella above the tabletop fluttered in the early morning offshore breeze.
Ordering some orange juice, she sat there, lifting her face into the sunlight rising higher over the East Bay hills. The warmth felt comforting. She closed her eyes and let it wash over her. “Oh, God, this is good,” she said out loud.
“It’s fresh squeezed for every order.”
Her eyes snapped open to see the smiling young waiter standing next to the table holding a ceramic coffee pot, steam rising from the curved spout. “Would you like some coffee?” he asked. “We get all of our coffee from a roastery in Mill Valley.”
When her heartbeat slowed, Laura smiled back at him and lifted her china cup. As he poured, the aroma of the strong Kenyan blend made her mouth water.
“I’ll be having a friend join me shortly. He would love some of this.”
“Then I’ll just leave the pot for you both,” he said, and wandered away to greet some new arrivals.
Sipping the coffee, with just a splash of cream, Laura saw a clock on the cafe wall. It said the time was seven twenty-seven a.m.
By her second cup it was almost ten of eight and Laura was beginning to think that she had been stood up, when she saw a frantic looking man half running down the sidewalk. He hurried up to the short wrought iron fence that bordered the patio.
“I’m sorry…I’m sorry. I overslept and then I couldn’t find a clean pair of socks.” She looked down and saw two bony ankles peeking out from under his chinos. “I’m sorry. I hope you didn’t think I forgot.” He was panting.
“Take it easy, Davis,” she said, laughing at his discomposure. “Come on in and have some coffee.”
Over Eggs Benedict and hot coffee Davis gave Laura a short primer on things to see and do in “The City.” Some of the touristy things were worth seeing, others were not. There were some great little shops, cafes and vistas that must be explored and neighborhoods to experience. He went on and on about the cultural glories of the Mission District and it’s “best food in town.”
She listened, enjoying his enthusiasm for his new hometown, only rarely interrupting him.
“It all sounds like so much fun, so much to see and do,” she said, “but what I wish you could really tell me is where I can buy some decent clothes. I’m getting tired of wearing the same few things all the time.”
“Union Street,” he said, “is just a couple of short blocks from here. Lots of nice shops.” He pointed south toward the steep hills that set the Marina apart from the rest of The City. “When we finish here we can stroll up there and you can check it out. Okay?”
“Oh, that sounds good. I really do need some new things and maybe I’ll buy you some new socks, you poor soul.” She smiled and patted his hand as it held his coffee cup.
The waiter brought over their check and Laura handed him a crisp $100 bill. She left him a good tip, thanking him for his attentive service.
“Now,” she said, “which way is Union Street again?” She took his arm as they crossed Chestnut and headed south.
The shops on Union Street, a neighborhood called “Cow Hollow” from its rural origins, let Laura find the clothing and accessories that she needed to refill her closet. It also lifted her spirits. She didn’t feel so temporary any more. Maybe things could work out for her here.
As they moved up the street, Davis found himself carrying shopping bags from several different stores, and loving it. He didn’t know why, but he just did.
They stopped for a light lunch and then worked their way down the other side of the busy street, this time browsing in the overpriced art galleries and bookstores.
In the window of a real estate office, they ogled the pictures of the narrow Victorian row houses known as “Painted Ladies,” being offered for $1.7 million and a “fixer-upper” for a mere million.
“They have got to be kidding!” Laura exclaimed.
“Nope, and at that price, there’ll be a bidding war,” said Davis. “Real estate here is insane.”
They were sitting in an ice cream parlor, enjoying a scoop of mango gelato when Laura noticed the time. It was a little after three p.m. They had spent the day – just spending the day together.
“Oh, Davis, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to monopolize your whole day.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’ve enjoyed every minute of it. Even if these bags are getting a bit heavy,” he teased.
“Oh, again, I’m sorry. I’ve used you like a slave.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Davis answered. “I got breakfast, and a very nice new pair of Irish woolen socks out of it. I feel fully compensated.”
As they left the ice cream parlor Laura looked at Davis struggling with the bags and said, “This has been a wonderful day and I have you to thank for that, but let’s catch a cab from here.” With that, she stepped to the curb and let loose with an ear-splitting whistle. Two taxis came close to colliding trying to get to the curb first.
They got into the red and white “Veteran’s Cab,” the bags piled on their laps.
“Where to, folks?” asked the cabbie.
Laura spoke first. “Where to? I’ll drop you.”
She was not ready to let him know where she was living. Realizing her strategy he leaned forward and told the driver, “You can drop me on Fillmore, down by the middle school.” He was going to stop for a drink. The cab pulled away from the curb, into traffic.
“Laura, thank you for today. Dinner again tonight?”
She thought for a second and then countered with, “How about breakfast again tomorrow? I’m exhausted. Same place, same time tomorrow morning?”
Knowing that he couldn’t push her too hard, he agreed.
“Sure, only could we make a bit later, say, nine a.m.?” He was going to be up most of the night making up for not getting anything done today.
“All right, 9 a.m., Sleepyhead.” The taxi pulled over at the corner of Fillmore and Chestnut.
“Thanks again for a great day.” He leaned toward her. She met him halfway and they kissed. This time her fingers rested on his cheek as she found his lips.
He got out of the cab and waved as it pulled away, executing an illegal u-turn and joined the flow of traffic on Chestnut Street.
He was not much of a drinker, never was, but he stopped at the little tavern a block up Fillmore.
Sitting on the stool, nursing a light beer, he went over the day, playing back the moments. It was a good day with her, even though there were several things that struck him as–not odd, so much as mysterious. When Laura paid for breakfast and for her purchases on Union Street, she paid in cash. What woman doesn’t use credit cards? And she paid for everything with hundred-dollar bills. He saw the dress store clerks check them with their fraud pens, so he knew they weren’t counterfeit. But who carries that many hundred-dollar bills with them to go out to breakfast, and why did she not want him to know where she lived? She didn’t have a wedding ring on. He had reflexively checked for that while they were both holding onto the ice cream in the Safeway.
If he was forced to list everything he knew about her, it would be a very short list, indeed. He took out his pen and jotted on a bar napkin.
After that…nothing you could say for sure.
Oh, yes, he thought, and added another item to the list.
TODAY IS THE LAST WORKING DAY IN OCTOBER. November starts tomorrow and that means it is Unofficially the Official start of the Holiday Season.
It always seemed to me that Thanksgiving used to be the kickoff for all of the holiday madness, but over time, and with aggressive retail marketing, everything has pushed up so far that ads for Christmas toys and such are now rubbing shoulders with the Fourth of July.
IN THE MIDST OF ALL THE OTHER THINGS IN THE NEWS there has been word of the Samsung Galaxy Note 7 cell phones. It seems that they have developed a nasty habit of exploding and bursting into flames. I always thought that dropping a call was as upsetting as a phone could get. I didn’t think that my phone could ever go Super Nova on me.
Fiction Saturday
Chapter Eleven
Feeling more secure and more self-confident, the woman newly reborn as Laura Smith planned another late-night foray out to the supermarket. Her tiny refrigerator was empty and her cravings for some fresh foods were strong.
She avoided Chestnut after leaving her apartment, staying on the dark and quiet residential side streets as she made her way to the Marina Safeway.
The brightly-lit market was busy, like before, and she was getting used to the come-ons made by perfect strangers, both male and female. It was no longer terrifying, just annoying.
Her new look worked well to help her blend into California’s cultural mindset. She was now just one more blonde adrift in a state of thirty million blondes. Her looks no longer screamed “New York Italian.”
She took her time, dawdling in the deli section and tasting the tiny samples of cheese and salami that were set out on the counter.
At a little before 3 a.m., she headed back to her apartment with two plastic shopping bags filled with some necessities and a few small luxuries. Among these was a pint carton of Ben & Jerry’s “Cherry Garcia” ice cream. She decided to take Chestnut Street back. It was a shorter, quicker route and the plastic bags were already cutting into her fingers.
The street was still busy with the remnants of the late night partiers reluctantly working their way back home. The hum of activity never really stopped on Chestnut Street.
She walked slowly. The bags were heavy and the lack of exercise in the last few weeks had stolen her muscle tone.
She missed going to the gym. She was used to a three times a week regimen of Tae-Bo, Pilates and Zumba. Being in your early thirties meant that regular workouts were needed to keep fit. Of course, the near addiction to Cherry Garcia didn’t help.
As she crossed Fillmore Street, her mind on the melting ice cream, two men stepped through two different doorways on the other side of Chestnut. She didn’t see either of them.
Carl “Tucky” Santi was seventy-one years old. He had grown up in New York City and had earned his bones as a soldier for the Roncalli Family. After his wife died, he retired to California to be near his daughter and the grandkids. He spent too much time in restaurants and bars for a man his age. So said both his daughter and his cardiologist.
Tonight was typical. He was closing the bar at Pasquale’s, half drunk, sleepy and missing the 
“Back in the day” of his youth.
Santi stood on the corner waiting for the light to change. His car was parked illegally up on the sidewalk of a nearby side street. He adjusted his belt to give his belly a little more breathing space and looked around at the other people still out at this hour. Across the street, he noticed a good-looking blonde who seemed vaguely familiar. Tucky Santi may have been retired, but he still kept up to date with the news from back home in New York. He had to check out this blonde.
He hitched up his trousers and crossed the street against the light. A taxi had to swerve to miss him. Not even noticing the cab, he fell in behind the blonde and slowly closed the gap between the two of them. He wanted to be sure. It looked like her, but the hair was much shorter and the color was wrong.
The second man stepping onto Chestnut Street was Davis Lovejoy, an accountant. He was unmarried, a transplant from Cleveland. He lived in the Marina District and his life was as dull as dirt.
Lovejoy was leaving the donut shop just down the block from Pasquale’s. He was working late at home and had taken a break to stretch his legs and to get a little something sweet. His pale blue eyes, streaked with red from too many hours staring at a computer screen, needed the break as well.
He was a self-employed accountant. He did the books for several of the small businesses in the neighborhood, including the donut shop.
Holding his coffee in one hand and the small paper bag with an apple fritter in the other, he yawned and headed home. Quarterly tax filings were due soon. It was crunch time for all accountants.
Laura realized that she was still more than a half-pound paranoid. She felt that everybody on the street was looking at her. It may have been a lot of paranoia, but that was better than a lot of dead.
She stopped at the corner of Mallorca Street to let a minivan turn the corner in front of her. She looked at the driver–always checking.
“Hello, Beverly.”
Tucky Santi was right behind her.
In one fluid motion she stepped to the side, dropped one of the plastic bags, and threw an elbow at the voice behind her. Too old a cat to be fooled by the kittens, Santi had already stepped back out of range.
“Now, Beverly, stop that,” he said, gently scolding her. His speech was slurred from too much wine.
She turned to look at whoever this was.
“Who are you? Leave me alone.” She didn’t recognize him. It had been too many years.
“Beverly, it’s me, Carl Santi, Tucky. I was at your wedding, remember? My Rosa and me, we gave you the pasta machine. Remember?”
This wasn’t paranoia anymore. She slowly set the other bag on the sidewalk, not taking her eyes off of the fat old man.
“So, Beverly, how are you? How’s your father?”
“Leave me alone,” she pleaded. “You have me mixed up with somebody else.”
She ran through her short list of options: He was old. He was obviously drunk. She thought that, maybe, she could just “BS” her way out of this.
“Maybe he doesn’t know I left Dominic,” she prayed.
“Dominic wants you and his money back in New York,” Tucky slurred.
He knew. She looked at him. He was weaving slowly, but he had his eyes locked on hers. The blood ran from her face. She never thought that it would be a drunken old man who would catch her.
“C’mon, Beverly. You can stay with me and my daughter tonight.” He reached out and grabbed her tightly by the arm.
It was time for her to save herself, again.
“Help! Rape! Rape! Help!”
Her cries caught the attention of everyone on the street. They all looked toward the corner and saw a woman struggling with a larger, older man. He was grabbing at her as she screamed and fought to get away.
On the opposite corner, the overworked accountant saw the scuffle. His parents had raised him to be a responsible citizen and to help people in need, especially women.
He dropped his coffee and pastry and ran into the intersection, dodging traffic. No second thoughts were necessary.
Santi moved in close and took her by both wrists and was trying to drag her down the street toward his car. She managed to get one arm free and was about to deliver a punch to his solar plexus when Davis Lovejoy, accountant and would-be hero, arrived on the scene.
“Let her go, Mister,” he yelled.
“Stay out of this kid,” Santi bellowed. Lovejoy could smell the wine on his breath.
Santi was losing his grip on the much younger and sober woman as she twisted and began to go on the offensive. She glanced at the man who had come to her aid. The situation was getting more complicated by the moment.
Lovejoy moved to flank the attacker. He reached out. He wanted to get the old man down on the ground. The retired mob soldier lashed out and delivered a beefy backhand across the younger man’s face. The accountant reeled and fell to the sidewalk, stunned by the power of the blow.
Tucky Santi’s alcohol-fueled adrenaline was kicking in. He threw a wild punch. It missed her by a foot. They all stopped and stared at each other. This was not working for anybody.
Santi realized, through his wine induced haze, that he wasn’t capable of dragging the younger woman away. He had to get help. He reached into his coat pocket for the cell phone that his daughter had insisted he carry “just for emergencies, Papa.” If he could call someone to come help him he would score some big points with the people in New York. He could be involved again, a Player.
Laura realized that if this old New York soldier called for reinforcements that she would have, maybe, ten minutes before the streets would be permanently unavailable to her.
Davis Lovejoy, still down on the sidewalk, could see that the old man was fumbling with his phone and walking away. The woman seemed to be in no immediate danger. But he wanted to hold the drunk for the police.
Trying to push the tiny buttons on his phone, Santi moved toward the street for better lighting. He pointed a shaking finger at Laura and hissed, “You don’t belong here.”
Stumbling on the uneven curb, he lurched out into the street and into traffic, just in time to get up close and personal with a large orange San Francisco Municipal Railway trolley bus, its power poles sparking on the overhead wires as it crossed the intersection.
The bus driver never saw the man until he reeled out in front of the accelerating coach. From the way that the old man hit the pavement, the twenty-three-year veteran driver knew that the poor guy was dead. So did everyone else who witnessed the accident. Carl Santi’s body had crumbled like a stale Saltine when it slammed onto the concrete pavement.
He looked much smaller dead.
People from both sides of the street ran over to get a closer look. Traffic came to a complete halt. It was just shy of 3:30 a.m.
Davis Lovejoy stared at the old man’s dead body. He wondered out loud about what had just happened here. Who was this guy…and the woman? The woman…?
He turned back to the sidewalk. She was gone. In all the hubbub, she had just walked away into the late night fog. Her groceries were scattered all over the sidewalk.
The Police and paramedics arrived on the scene in minutes. Witnesses gave fifteen versions of what had gone down. The majority said that the old man was drunk, violent, and that he had stumbled out in front of the bus on his own. It was nobody’s fault but his. The accountant was questioned and released to go back to his tax forms. He wouldn’t need any coffee or sugary treats to stay awake now.
Laura hurried back to her apartment and cried for the first time since she had arrived in San Francisco. It was partly from relief and partly from the fear of realizing her vulnerability. She was safe for the moment, but until she felt up to another shopping trip, it was back to cheese crackers and Diet Pepsi.
Down the Hall on Your Left 