Three good people and a cat

      

"As I fill my book,

Oh, what a waste of wood.

Nothing's really happened like I thought it would"

She unfolded the lapel from her coat, clutching it close to her face. The night had turned colder than she expected, and the streets leading up to her building channelled the wind like a river through narrow stone paths.

She picked up her phone to pass the time as she was walking, but something moving on the other side of the road caught her attention, warranting a second glance.

The silhouette of a man, crossing the street toward her, made her tense, the instinct to flee rising as he drew closer. Every horrible thought raced through her mind before one finally forced its way to the front: “It’s just a man in the dark. Stop freaking out.” She looked at her phone as a safety net, quickly pressed the last number she had dialled and started talking as if someone had called her instead.

“Yes Jill, I’m literally turning onto your street as we speak. No need to worry....Oh Shit! I forgot the wine. Do you still want me to...you sure?” She was eyeing the man as she spoke. Tall, broad shoulders, a few specks of white in his dark beard. He had the hood of his jacket pulled over his head, shadowing his facial features. As they crossed paths, she could feel herself tense up…a slight pitch in her voice as the word “wine” was coming out. The man’s scent, as he walked through, drifted towards her with a wave of nostalgia - a Hugo Boss perfume her father used to wear broke through her uneasiness. She always smelled that aroma when he hugged her.

And in a split second, he was gone. They had crossed paths and the breath she didn’t know she was holding was finally exhaled.

The man's steps behind her grew quieter as the space between them slowly stretched.

“Hello?” That last number she had dialled in a panic finally picked up.

*

Dean was checking Google Maps directions on his phone, when it suddenly rang in his hand. As soon as he heard the heavy breathing on the line, he knew his daughter had made the call. Ever since she started walking, she had developed a fascination for her mother's phone, which had led to more than a few funny situations with impromptu phone calls.

“Lila Dear, are you with mommy?” He asked, anticipating the answer with a smile. “Dada!” And silence. He smiled to himself as he listened - these little serendipitous moments between nap times, feeding schedules and all the chaos, were the ones he had learned to appreciate.  He heard movement in the back and his wife’s voice came on shortly after, exhaling a sigh of relief as she answered.

“Thank god it’s you. I was wondering who would I have to apologise to this time for the call. I swear if I ever lose my phone, all I have to do is follow her around for a few minutes and she’ll find it! Did you find the store?”

“Almost. Judging by the GPS, it should be just around the next block. Did you remember anything else, or is it just what’s on the list?”

“I think I got it all. Check if they have yellow pacifiers, not the red ones. Somehow she refuses to use the red ones.”

“Got it. Oh! Funny thing happened to me just now - I think some girl on the street thought I was a murderer or a robber!”

Dean could almost picture his wife stifling a laugh as he said it.

“They’re on to you Hun! Do we need to get new IDs again? Run away to Zihuatanejo?”

A soft chuckle escaped him before he replied, “I told you this jacket makes me look like a murderer. Poor girl almost started running before we crossed paths.”

“That jacket looks great! I’m sure you read the situation wrong. It’s a vintage Pierre Cardelli. No murderer would risk getting that smeared with blood.”

He could sense by her tone she was really proud of coming up with that one on the spot. His phone beeped in his ear. The store was two buildings away on the other side of the street.

He reached the intersection and even though the light had just turned green for him, he quickly glanced left and right as he stepped onto the road. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a metal blur moving at unnatural speed, straight towards him. The car’s headlights flashed, urging him out of the way, yet he froze for half a second before jumping back towards the sidewalk, screaming in the process  "You fucking idiot!" at the passing car.

No one else was around and Dean stood there for a few seconds, watching the car slow down, his blinkers flashing briefly and speeding up again.

“Honey!!” He heard his wife screaming through the phone before realising he was still holding it. The knuckles on his right hand turned white from the pressure of his grip. He achingly released the tension and brought his phone back to his ear.

“I’m here, honey. Sorry…I was just almost ran over.”

“WHAT? Where are you? Are you okay? Who was it?” he could hear she was sick with worry. Shooting out questions before he interrupted her

“I’m Fiiine….Hey. Hey. I’m fine. It’s all good. Some Asshole was speeding and probably didn’t see me. All good. I have Spider-Man reflexes.” He talked calmly, in a soothing yet playful tone to make sure she knew nothing happened.”

“You…okay. Just an asshole… okay, hun. Hurry back home.”

*

“Jesus! I almost ran over someone! Just… let me make sure… Okay, they’re standing.” The driver slowed down and winced as he saw the man cursing at him. He turned his blinkers on as an apology but kept moving.

“Wait, what?” The voice of a child, no more than 10, came through the car's Bluetooth speaker.

“It’s alright sweetie. No one was hurt, all is good. Just focus on your breathing, I’ll be there in a few minutes.”  The car kept speeding through half-empty streets and yellow lights, honking its horn and signalling frantically at every intersection. He had one hand on the wheel and the other on his daughter’s inhaler. They always packed it just in case, even though she hadn’t had a serious episode for a few years. The one time she had dropped it in the car was the one time she needed it.

“Soooo, tell me, which songs did you choose to play at the recital?”

The girl’s heavy breathing slowed down as she regained the strength to answer, “I’m going with Vivaldi’s Four Seasons and I’m mixing it up with Dua Lipa’s Levitating. I like the contrast.”

Adam smiled at his daughter’s answer. So much determination and bravado in someone so small, barely a baby a few years ago. He had to keep her talking to make sure she remained calm. “Wow…that sounds amazing! Levitating was that song you made me play in the car every time we picked up your friend Susan from School, right? The one you two were always singing?

“Yes, that’s the one! It won the Billboard awards in 2022. That song is so good!”

He crossed a red light at a busier intersection, muting the phone’s microphone and honking repeatedly to warn oncoming traffic he wasn’t stopping. Two of the three cars coming from the right got the message. The third kept moving towards the crossing, oblivious to the commotion for a few seconds before hearing the yells and honks from the other two drivers. The clueless blue Sedan stopped abruptly, confused, but he was already blocking the right-way lanes.

“Shit, shit, shit!!!” Adam repeated to himself as he swerved left into oncoming traffic to avoid the collision. A single car was driving slowly on the opposite lane, confused by all the ruckus. He saw Adam enter his lane and swerved right as quickly as he could but their rearview mirrors still crashed with a loud crunching noise followed by broken glass hitting the asphalt.

“Sorry! Sorry! I'll pay! Emergency!” Adam yelled through his open window and kept driving. He could hear the honks and the yelling of slurs from the driver getting quieter as he drove off, blinkers on to apologise. He was one minute away from the school.

He unmuted his mic and asked his daughter, “Daddy’s just around the corner. Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah…I guess I’m better…” her breathing sounded almost normal. Enough for him to take his foot off the gas and look for a proper parking spot. “I’m sorry Daddy, I just…panicked. I was too nervous and started breathing all wrong and was afraid that…” He cut her off with a calm, self-assured voice “It’s all good baby. I’m just parking the car, I got the inhaler just in case. The important thing is that you’re okay.” Adam saw a parking spot just in front of the school, drove up to it and honked twice. A grey cat was lying down on the asphalt, watching him honk.

“Move, you stupid cat!” he yelled, as he kept honking, frustrated. The cat slowly tilted its head sideways, staring at him condescendingly, like a king to a lunatic. He looked down at his paws and started licking them, slowly, almost mockingly. The honking finally stopped, and Adam got out of the car and ran towards the school, leaving the car on the driving lane with blinkers on. As he ran past the ever-so-calm grey feline, its eyes following him, lazily, paws crossed beneath its chest, he muted his phone and yelled, enraged, “Fucking IDIOT cat!”

He felt a bit ridiculous a second later, took a few deep breaths to calm himself and unmuted the phone mid-jog. “You okay, Honey? Yeah? Oh, I see you! Daddy’s here!”

*

Duchamp, third to his name, looked bemused as the metal giant stopped a few meters ahead of him, its incessant honking barely registering in his mind. He calculated he had ample time to jump away if the metallic beast decided to charge at him. Duchamp found it disrespectful that anyone in the neighbourhood would still threaten him. He had just won a war against the rival cat for his favourite territory - the one where the lady from 3B, at the corner building, usually left tuna and water by the fire escape. He was feeling so good about himself that he thought nothing would be able to touch him.

His rival was a bigger, slightly younger cat. They had crossed paths multiple times around the block and the tension between them meant neither cat could nap or eat a meal without looking over his shoulder. It had to be solved.

Duchamp had spent days looking for the perfect spot to fight for neighbourhood dominance. He discovered that the sprinklers in the garden near the church would spray water when the lights turned on in the evening. Countless hours were spent in that same garden, sharpening his claws on nearby trees, before he noticed the pattern. His plan was simple - to lure the other cat there by sundown, just as the sprinklers turned on - which would steal his attention for a brief second - and pounce on him.  

That fateful day, he had been surprised by his rival while idly looking at windows from the top of a brick wall that separated two courtyards. He barely heard the air move when the other cat landed behind him, hissing and clawing before he had a chance to get up. Swipes, scratches and growls were exchanged before Duchamp noticed the time - the orange hue from the sun setting reflected on the windows behind the courtyard - and he ran away, hoping his rival would give chase.

He heard the growling behind him as the bigger cat almost caught up - a swipe of his leg missing by mere inches - but Duchamp was on a mission. He had to reach the Church’s courtyard.

A few blocks later and a few breaths heavier, Duchamp finally turned around to face his opponent. As soon as the big cat hissed, as if like clockwork, the sprinklers came on. It all happened in a second - Duchamp jumped towards the surprised cat as he closed his eyes for a brief moment to shield himself from the water. The claw was precise. Sharpened nails stretched out, the tip of his rival’s ear cut clean off. He howled as blood started dripping onto the grass. Duchamp jumped on the bigger cat and held him down until he felt the fight leave his rival’s body, untensing his muscles and lowering his nose in submission.

He was reminiscing about his win when he noticed a human yelling at him as he descended from the metal beast. Duchamp looked at him quizzically, fascinated by their willingness to shout and embarrass themselves for no reason.

His favourite human came to mind - the one literally worth fighting for. It was already nighttime and she usually placed the tuna by the window around this time. It was still a ten minute walk, so he stretched his legs and started trotting.

*

10 minutes later, Duchamp climbed the fire escape stairs from the corner building to Apartment 3B. The small bowl of water and half-open can of tuna never looked so delicious. The fight had left him starved and the jog had made him parched - both soon forgotten as he ate and drank while silently purring to himself.  The fire escape was dimly lit by the light spilling from the woman’s kitchen. She was home. He could hear her talking to someone over that black thing humans look at all day.

“You’re not gonna believe the night I had, Dad. I was practically robbed on the street a few minutes ago by a guy in a hoodie.

…

No, no, I’m okay! He didn’t attack me but I could feel he wanted to!”

"Oh, when I lift you up
You feel like a hundred times yourself
I wish everybody knew
What's so great about you..."

There's this man near where I live, I see him sometimes from my window... He's got some sort of disability, he limps, staggers and then accelerates for a step or two, lurching from side to side as he does. His eyes never quite focus... his gaze wondering between idle trees and flickering street lights... He has this large, beautiful dog; a mutt with shaggy grey fur and an energetic undertone to its steps, big enough to pull a regular man off his balance with a single tug on the leash...
Ever since I've moved here I've seen them walking together. I'd catch a glimpse of them while I was having my morning coffee or late night drink and I would stare until they had moved out of sight, wondering if it would be that day, the day the mutt would walk a step too fast, the man would stall a step behind and the leash would stretch out in tension, bringing the poor man tumbling towards the pavement.
Yet I've been waiting for years now... Sinful hope for disaster now turned into heartfelt endearment...and if you could see them, as I do, you'd understand...
The dog never strays from the short leash 's range, his watchful eyes always on his owner, his purpose of not leaving the wavering man's side never faltering... And the leash never strains, swaying ever so gently from side to side as the dog shortens their distance with determined half steps or rapid jumps, compensating for his friend's inconsistent walk. If you'd see it as I do, almost every day, you'd be compelled one day to write about it...and with a few drinks in you, one day you might...

"As my world it hides behind, 
The worlds only your wars define
They read a lot like news
But I fear it more than you..."

People come and go. We're not that important as we tell ourselves we are. And we're not that trivial either. There's a balance I have yet to understand between being a fucking burden and a goddamn hero. 
Some say we can't find it.
Some claim it will come to us, if we keep working.
Some find it on the back of a brochure some fancy dressed lady leaves at your door, explaining why the good book is the way out of this god-forsaken place (pun intended).
Right now I find contempt in being a lost soul, trying to find the way between cigarette smoke and a blurred, alcohol-induced sense of well-being.
All I know is there's serendipity in writing these short-lived, scarcely read declarations of independence from a rented room out of somebody else's home.
Ain't life grand some say...
Fuck them.
Life is grand on those that don't need it. 

"It's in the eyes,
I can tell you will always be danger...
We had it tonight,
Why do we always seek absolution"


It's 3 a.m and I have to work tomorrow.

There's no child left in me,
willing me to go to bed at 10 p.m.,
anxiously waiting for the next dawn to watch morning cartoons.
No remnants of teenager either,
to curse at the alarm in the morning
tuck the thermometer against the bedside lamp and pretend I was sick.
My college days are gone too.
Back then, 3 a.m. was a pretty normal time to start watching a couple of movies...
Wait for my friends to get back from their night out and tell me how I can't miss it tomorrow.
They'll say that the same girl from last night was there and was asking for me.
Even if she wasn't.


3 a.m. and I can't leave the bar.

Her voice still echoes around the oak wood walls as she sings on the small stage in the corner. Her time should have been up a long time ago yet she keeps singing like it's her last night; a guitar in her hands and a constrained smile on her lips, trying to subtly hide the fact she's enjoying what she's doing way too much. She sings as if she's been places and seen things I know she hasn't. She's way too young to have seen them. But there's a wistful nostalgia in her words that lingers in the air, way after they have been sung. The kind that makes us think of our "way back whens".
5 cigarettes ago I told myself I'd only listen to one more.

Tomorrow, I won't get up at the break of dawn...do they still have cartoons that early?
I won't pretend I am sick...no one to pretend it to anyway.
I won't go to any of the clubs I used to go to every other night or binge-watch a whole season of Mad Men.
I'll get up when the alarm rings, head to the studio and start working like the half-responsible adult I am.
But tonight I felt a little bit of every me while listening to her music. And I felt like writing about it.

                                                                              ________

And so I did.

Pai

"'Cause I am...
 A choir of fury in your head, 
 A choir of fury in your bed, 
 I'm the ghost in the back of your head."


Acendes mais um cigarro, sentada no terraço do prédio onde sempre morámos, e olhas para as nuvens que escondem a lua.  

A minha voz ecoa na tua cabeça, o tom calmo e pachorrento como sempre o foi. Como quem tem todo o tempo do mundo.

"Não tinhas que ter ido. Eu só me queria despedir. Não pensei que percebesses" 

"Quando se trata de ti...perco um bocado o meu norte. Sou teimosa e precisava de saber." respondes.

Enquanto a luz abafada ilumina de leve os prédios adormecidos, pensas naquela noite em que o teu mundo parou.

No terceiro Martini, ouvias uma música que não conhecias mas que a tua amiga gritava ao teu ouvido que "vais adorar!", encontraste os meus olhos por um segundo. Só um segundo. Eu de camisa vermelha, a procurar uma cara familiar no meio de um labirinto de fumo e corpos embriagados e tu, de camisa descaída sobre o ombro e t-shirt branca, fixada nos meus olhos, sem saber porquê. 
Encontrámo-nos nesse instante e um momento tornou-se uma pequena eternidade. A música continuava a tocar, a tua amiga continuava a falar mas, naquele instante, éramos só nós. Sorri para ti e tu sorriste de volta. Era tudo o que eu queria. Só mais um sorriso teu. 
"Sofia?! Sofia!!!" o abanão da sua amiga puxou-te de volta para a discoteca. Olhaste para ela, ainda atordoada com o subdito regressar à realidade. 
"Parece que viste um fantasma..." afirmou, olhando para onde tu olhavas, sem ver ninguém. Já lá não estava. Desapareci tal como o momento, afogado pela realidade.
"Não....não, não...espera..." deslocaste-te pela multidão para o sítio onde me tinhas visto mas não me encontraste. Procuraste, em vão, o homem de camisa vermelha que conhecias tão bem, mas ninguém assim vestido se destacou num mar de silhuetas coloridas. "Estavas aqui...." murmuraste para ti mesma...e tinha estado.
"Tenho que ir!" gritaste ao ouvido da tua amiga.  E desapareceste, saindo da discoteca a correr e entrando no primeiro táxi que parou ao esticares o braço. 

"Para o Hospital Militar, por favor."

Às quatro da manhã, o trânsito não dificultou a viagem. As faixas desimpedidas estenderam-se em frente do Mercedes Amarelo com um senhor de meia idade ao volante que gostava de acelerar sempre que podia. Mesmo assim a viagem demorou. Na tua cabeça, horas passaram naquele banco de trás, por entre lágrimas de incredulidade e a esperança de estares errada. O táxi parecia mover-se a passo de caracol, em câmara lenta. Uma viagem de 20 minutos pareceu-te, naquela noite, um voo intercontinental. 
"Chegámos." disse, finalmente, a voz rouca do taxista interrompendo a tua divagação. Reencontras-te no táxi, de dinheiro já na mão, respondendo "Guarde o troco" a um homem incrédulo pela gorjeta muito maior que o preço da viagem, motivada pela pressa de não perderes nem mais um minuto. "Mas...Obrigado menina!!!" gritou, sentindo necessidade de que ouvisses a sua apreciação.

Subiste a escada a correr e dirigiste-te à recepção. Limpaste as lágrimas dos olhos e sorriste quando não viste movimento a mais no hospital. Talvez tenha tudo sido uma estúpida alucinação ou bebida a mais. 
"Muito boa noite, eu sei que é tarde mas eu preciso de ver um paciente dos Cuidados Intensivos."
"Não pode ser menina" responde prontamente a recepcionista, "impossível a estas horas.". Num rasgo de compaixão, incentivado pela ansiedade agravante da tua expressão e os teus olhos húmidos acrescentou, "Se a deixar mais calma, eu posso tentar saber como está o paciente em questão. Como é que se chama?"
"Pedro Astor." respondeste, prontamente.
A funcionária pegou no telefone e a sua calma irritou-te. Tudo parece desacelerar quando estamos com pressa. O telefone demora minutos a chegar ao seu ouvido, a chamada nunca mais é atendida. A conversa, imperceptível por entre murmúrios, faz-te esvair em incertezas. O relógio pára e engoles em seco. Fechas os olhos e suspiras. 
"Como se chama a menina?"
"Sofia Astor. É o meu pai." respondeste, de olhos fechados, rezando a um Deus em que nunca acreditaste. 
"Sofia....eu...lamento informá-la mas....o seu pai faleceu há vinte e oito minutos atrás..."

Tudo o resto são flashes da tua memória enevoada. Lembras-te de caíres de joelhos no chão e gritares. De te levarem até uma cama, onde dormiste, semi-anestesiada, e de a tua amiga te ir buscar e pôr em casa, onde te fechaste uma semana de luto, chorando por um desfecho que sabias ser inevitável mas esperavas que não te confrontasse tão cedo. 

(...)

Voltas a ti e continuas a fumar...eu estou ao teu lado, de camisa vermelha, a olhar para ti em silêncio. 
"Sempre odiei essa tua camisa." afirmas, por entre lágrimas. 
"Eu sei...eu só a vestia para te irritar. Também nunca gostei muito dela..." e rimo-nos os dois.
"E agora?" perguntas-me, limpando os olhos, olhando para mim com o teu ar de criança perdida que sabias que me desarmava. 
"Agora..." suspiro enquanto olho para as nuvens que escondem a lua "parece que vai chover. Eu vou-me embora e tu vais continuar a ser a míuda mais forte que eu alguma vez conheci."
"E se eu não quiser continuar?"
"Queres. És minha filha. Eu conheço-te. Nunca te consegui fazer desistir de nada, mesmo que quisesse." Sorrio e olho mais uma vez para ti. Com os teus vinte e sete anos, eras a mulher mais bonita que alguma vez conheci. Tinhas os olhos esverdeados e o cabelo preto como a tua mãe. E uma força no olhar que faria um Deus duvidar de si, se o fitasses.
"Vai para dentro...que te molhas" digo eu. E a noite chora, enchendo de lágrimas a cidade. O teu cigarro apaga-se e eu desapareço no meio do aguaceiro quente, enquanto te vejo sorrir por entre o choro.

"Meet me in outer space...
 We could spend the night...watch the earth come up." 


I pour myself another Martini and slowly doze on and off into a restless night. The flickering lights from my DVD player and my cellphone, meaningless little dots in a sea of blackness before, now haunt me and keep me awake as if they were radiant beams from a lighthouse...
Why the fuck can't I sleep when you're not here...
The room suddenly lits up as your picture comes up on my Blackberry's screen and the vibrating noise echoes in the room, quickly waking me from my light slumber.
"Hey you..." I say, in a half dead voice, moving the phone away from my ear long enough to see what time it is on the lit screen. "It's 3 a.m...is everything okay?"
"Hey handsome" you answer, your cute tone letting me know I need not to worry. "Everything's fine I just...missed you."
"I know the feeling" I say, laughing lightly. "when will you be home?"
"Two more days...I think in two more sessions I can cure this kid and go back." 
"Oh good...only two more days feeling like crap." I reply, meaning no harm yet stating something you already knew: sleeping without you became almost impossible. I've gotten used to it. Your deep breathing calms me down and sends me off into dreamland faster than any ammount of Valiums I can take without drugging myself into a coma.
"Care for a drink?" I ask, putting you on speaker and reaching for the bottle. 
"Nah...you know I don't like Martini" you reply, showing off how well you know me. I can almost hear you smiling over the phone... "But I'll join you with a smoke". The noise from the lighter's stone comes up on my side and I can picture you burning up those long, menthol flavoured cigaretes I hate. 
"So..." you say, pausing for a drag, "how's the article coming along...almost done?"
"So far so good...this one you're gonna love to read. It's about a guy whose girlfriend leaves for a week and a half to go help some kids abroad and he gets drunk and brings a different girl home every night." I say, as I smile looking at my half filled glass before drinking from it. 
"You know, you're not so funny over the phone..." you say, playfully. 
"I know...it's one of those jokes you have to be here to get..."
We both laugh and share a silent momment as you take in another drag and I sip in another sip.
"I miss you..." you say, making me happily smile with those three simple words...
"I miss you too, beautiful" I reply.
"I just...needed to hear your voice. Sorry if I woke you."
"You didn't...maybe you'll even help me get a good night's rest."
"I'll see you in two days, handsome..."
"Can't wait..."
The light in my cellphone lits up on the nightstand, letting me know the call ended and I slowly put down the glass and head to bed. The half open window lets in a gentle summer breeze and my eyes get the best of me for a split second, finally knocking me out into a deep slumber...




Good night beautiful

"I was lost in the pages, 
 of a book, full of death
 reading I will die alone"


"What if there was no tomorrow?" she asked. Mumbling the words, seeping through her lips in a soft whisper. "Would you still be here with me?"
"I don't know...if there was no tomorrow, I'd like to take a shot at getting Susan Sarandon"... she hits me on the shoulder and rolls over on the bed, faking a pout while I laugh.
The rain pouring down outside, hits her window-sill garden and lets in that sweet smell of wet earth. 
"I love this smell" she says, her back to me, not turning around. "Everytime I smell it, I think of us...here..."


...


I wake up from my day-dream, Ray is sitting right in front of me, smiling...
"Were you dreaming of her?" he asks, noticing a faint peaceful expression on me...
"Yeah...she's been coming to me a lot lately..." I say, painlfully getting up from the couch and dragging myself to the kitchen,. "Would you like a beer?"
"Nah, I can't have any more of those Dean, you know that...don't tease me..." 
"Fine, fine, more for me then..." I say, brining two bottles with me to the table, opening the first one as I sit down and chugging half of it in one sip. 
"You know...drinking like that is gonna get you killed" Ray says. We both look at each other for a second and start laughing.
"Can't a man enjoy a final drink?" I ask.
Ray looks ate me, saddened and finally asks: "Why did you do it?"
I look down at the table, sliding my finger through the water ring left by the bottle standing on the hardenned wood top. Then back at Ray...
"I had to...they were gonna hurt her. Even you know I couldn't let that happen." 
He smiles, disappointed...his anger gets the best of him as he gets up, screaming at me.
"You KNEW this wasn't going to end well..you had your gun here at home, you should have asked for help, you should have waited for backup...Why the FUCK did you go in alone?" His fist hits the table, as he starts crying... "You dumb old fuck..."
I don't stop him, I know he's right. I retrace my steps that day, wondering what else could I have done to save the girl and leave, unscratched...there's a silent, morbid relief in me when I can't think of a way to do so...


...


They were three. Two of them were holding her already beaten body down, the third one was unzipping his pants. There was a desperate contempt in her face, no fight left in her. She was laying there, peacefully, like a hanged man who has accepted his fate seconds before the fall. Noone in their right mind would have stopped at the sight of three hooded men holding down a bloody woman...most people would have just kept going, as I'm sure some of them did...sadly, not me.
"I'm gonna give you five seconds to drop her off and start running." I said, boldly, while wishing they'd just leave, even though I knew they wouldn't. One of them looks at the other two and starts laughing, coming at me with a coy smile in his face.
"Are you talking to us grandpa?" He asked, opening his arms as if he's challenging me, lifting up his shirt afterwards to let me see the Glock 17 he was keeping  near his crotch. "I think you were just leaving..:"
"You're right...I was. I'm sorry to have bothered you." I saw the dim light of hope in the girls eyes, that lit up once she saw me, fade away as I fake my leave. I couldn't let these pricks win...as I turn around, my hand in my pocket searches for the loose change I knew I had from the grocery store. "Just an advice son..." I say to the one near me who was already turning away mindless words to get his attention. He turns back, allowing me an easier access to his gun as I throw the coins in his face.
It happens in the split of a second. The grab. A skill we trained over and over in the academy, studying every possible movement outcome the enemy could do, and the steps we might have to take to reach a holstered gun in a belt. He jumps back, I jump forward, reaching the gun with my right hand and his nose with my left fist. As I pick up the weapon, a quick shot to his left leg lets the others know I couldnt be more serious and makes the kid fall to his knees, allowing me to rotate him to his friends with the gun pointed to his head. 
Surpsrisingly, the two scared kids reach out for their coats, even though their friend's life was in jeopardy. These weren't runners, they were fighters. This wasn't my lucky day...I was fast...but even I couldn't be that fast. Two shots in the first kid's chest leave him out of the fight and then time slows down as I see the other one had a .357 Magnum in his hand...and not even his friend's body can protect me from those... I turn my gun to him and we both fire two shots each...mine, fatal, to his head...his, piercing his friend's body, hit me in the stomach...


There was a smile in that crying girl's face I haven't seen in a long time. As if someone had pull her from the darkness of a traumatized life, back into her mundane and now beautiful existence.
"Thank you sir, thank you so much!" I noticed she didn't see the wounds on me, as I covered them promptly with my coat...she hugged me and it felt like a thousand knives being staked into me at once. I didn't want to alarm her and I had seen too much to know why they called these wounds the "slow death". There's nothing to be done...I had at most...an hour...if I didn't move much...
"That's okay...I'm glad you're okay...I have to go now, but I'm glad you're okay."
"Thank you so much...if it weren't for you I'd be...wait...I need to know your name, you saved my life..." I wish I could stay and chat, but if I wanted this to be a good memory for both of us, I couldn't show any weakness....and I needed to leave that place soon...
"Dean...my name's Dean...I'm just happy I could help...but I really have to go now..."
"Thank you Dean..." she mumbled again, at a loss for words. Her eyes, watering up once more told me all I needed to know...she was going to be okay...
The walk home was the most painful five mnutes of my life...hanging on to my coat to cover the blood soaked shirt, moving at a steady pace, trying to keep my body as still as possible...
As soon as I sit on my couch, I drift in and out of conscience, dreaming of her...
Looking back at it, a shameless smile pops into my lips. I was happy I saved her...I guess I couldn't have asked for a better ending...


...


"You and I both know Ray, there's not much left for me to live for..." I finally say. He looks at me, calms down and smiles, saddened by the cold harsh truth...
"You can live for yourself...."
"I've never been good at taking care of myself....and you know it. I've got two bullets in me to prove it..." I say, laughing lightly as I cough. The cough gets worst and the taste of blood feels up my mouth....it's getting close...
"I'm coming Ray.." I say, Ray looks at me and forces a smile.
"I know Dean...I'll be waiting..." he says, before vanishing up in before my eyes...my imagination had played its last card on me...Ray has been dead for 5 years now, yet I'm glad my almost completely wasted mind found a way to keep me entertained in my last hour...
 I look at the table and there's this old photo looking back at me...me and Veronica, back in '88...we are staring into each other's eyes and smiling like two dumb kids in love...I pick up the frame and smile...
"Guess we'll all be together soon...." 
My vision blurs, my mind numbs down and  the pain gets worse, as I feel myself getting colder and more and more tired...I don't fight it. I rest my head in my crossed up arms on the table and close my eyes...


It starts to rain outside...the soft, light drops will hit my window sill garden soon, leaving that sweet wet earth smell on my flat...today is a good day to die...

"So take it easy on me, 
 I'm afraid you're never satisfied"


"Prince charming doesn't exist..." I tell her, as she's leaving...she stops, frozen, without looking back...attentively listening yet letting me know she has no intention in staying... "prince charming doesn't exist..." I continue "remember that fourth date? You told me you were looking for your prince...I told you I knew I didn't look a thing like jesus but I talked like a gentleman..." I smile as I remmeber it, for a second or two... "I now know I will never match up to those fairy tale ideals of yours. I will fall short. But I will keep getting up...and I know you don't wanna hear this but...you're normal, too. You have flaws. I can't cite them because everytime I look at you, I see that gorgeous, perfect girl I fell for, not the flawed regular version I will remember if you leave...to make me feel better in losing you. I don't want to see her..."
I walk up to her and place my hand on her shoulder.
"And I really don't want you to see me as the "guy who you once thought was great..."
There's this momment of silence between us. It feels like years passing by, those split seconds.
"You know that's not something very...."principy" to say, right?" she finally answers.
"I know. But it's working isn't it?" she turns her head slightly back and smiles "Disney's got nothing on me when it comes to talking..." I playfully brag.
"You did okay...if you wrote half as good as you talk, you might actually be a decent writer..." she mocks...
She places her hand on mine, still not turning her body back and walks away slowly...
"I'll see you tomorrow Aladdin..."
"Technically, Aladdin was a sultan...." I mock back.
"Don't push it..."

"Without her, it's not the same
 The same, the same, but it's alright" 

"You've been sitting here for four hours now...staring at the door with a drink in your hand...what troubles you, son?" asked Joe, the bartender. He looked like a typical 50's movie bartender: fat, jolly, always with a wise word at the tip of his tongue.

"Well Joe...my life just crumbled tonight and your bar was the demolition site..." I replied, reminded once more why I sat alone.

"Well, apologies for it. Had I known my bar would be such a dramatic place, I would have cleaned it up better today." he said, with a mocking yet gentle smile... "People sitting at that side of the counter, tend to dramatize their lives to a point of meaningless despair...so tell me...what troubles you?"

"Well Joe, here it is..."

..................

I was 26 back then, finding my own path while I wrote as a columnist for two of the town's newspapers when I met her.

A black-haired waitress, working at "Little Henry's", a small Italian restaurant at the corner of 37th Ave and Balboa Street...I have always been one to aim high, no waitresses, or people with meaningless jobs. You could say I was a prick, in that department. Little did I know by then, this was the highest I had ever aimed...

"What...no tip?" she asked once, after my first meal in the diner. Not offended, but pouting, in a childish manner, as I offered the exact change.

"I don't believe in tips. Food is already overpriced." I answered, my words sour, I was having a bad week. 

"Well, I'll give you one then: Speckels Park. By John F. Kennedy Street, there's a spot near the Lake where no one bothers you, the sounds get muffled by the trees around. I do most of my thinking there. You seem to be needing some..." 

"Never tried it...maybe I'll give it a go, seeing as I'm running out of options." I blankly say, just as I'm about to leave.

I've had no good stories in the past two months. The editors were angry, with good reason. They said I "lacked commitment"...I judged otherwise...I lacked inspiration. 

That place revived me. 

The soothing water sounds, the city-noise free area, it was a secluded forest amidst a crowded town, my very own Shangri-La where I could hear myself think, see myself write, and nothing else mattered. My stories soared through my imagination, picking up the best of me before landing themselves on paper.

Then one lonely afternoon I heard her voice echoing through the muffled silence "I see you found it!" It was her. Weeks after my visit to her restaurant. I must admit I felt bad for never returning. I was lost in my work and she was the reason why...

"I told you it was a good place."

I looked back and smiled, embarrassed. "Yes...it has really helped me. My work is flowing again, thanks to you..." 

She smiled and sat down next to me, nudging her shoulder against mine as if we were old friends. "You're welcome. So...what do you do?"

That's all it took. A nudge and a question to make us spend hours talking. She was a  part-time waitress,  finishing up her law degree. Her parents were back in Ohio, where she was born and raised. Moved here for some ex-boyfriend and fell in love with the city. Her passions were reading and drawing. She was quite the sketch artist and she loved what I had written...two points in her favor. Then there was her hair. Black as the night, curly tips, flowing back and forth as she talked, hypnotizing me to the point of no return. Her pet peeves were dogs. Bad experience as a child left her with an uncontrollable fear of them, which to me meant calling every single one I saw when I was with her, just to playfully piss her off.

"You know this one could fit in your key chain, right?" I'd say, to a half-hidden girl, peeking from behind a tree at a leashless chihuahua that was standing there, looking at me, confused.

"Make him go away!" she replied, no harm intended as her intonation made clear. 

Weeks go by, first dates long gone, first kisses exchanged in that same faded place we met. San Francisco was mostly sunny so I made most of my writing underneath that oak tree by the lake where I first sat down and waited for inspiration to strike me. She would meet me there in between shifts, after classes, we barely needed a phonecall as she usually knew where to find me.

Days were too short for all our talking. Months went by and she and I were too good to be true. And like every perfect story in every shitty romance movie, a misfortune was needed, to spice things up. 

One day, she sat restlessly by the oak tree at my side and exhaled loudly, as if burdened by the thought of words to come. 

"What is it?" I asked, as I put down my laptop and looked at her.

"It's him...he wants me back." ...

She was always a "straight sayer" as I called her, no need for futile conversations, straight to the point in important matters. The words echoed in my head with a bang...shattering the perfect dream I had unconsciously created of a future spent together.

"Well...I want you still, so we're in a bit of a jam here." I replied, faking a smile and a joyful tone.

She had never talked about him to me until that day: their seven year relationship, being childhood friends, the shit perfect love tales are made of. Every sentence made me more and more realize I was the villain in that story...

After talk settled and stories shared, I posed the million-dollar question: "What are you going to do about this?"

......................

"And that's what brings me to this bar, where we once shared our first drink, at 4 a.m, talking to you Joe. She was to make her choice by midnight today...either leave with him, or meet me here. Guess her choice was clear."

"Well, you win some and lose some Dean..." he replied, words shared, I bet, with a thousand customers. 

"That's your advice after all this? Is that supposed to ease my pain?" I ask, offended by the little thought he put into his reply.

"No. Pain is numbed by what you've been drinking. I've worked here forty years now, kid. Countless books could be written on stories similar to yours, customers have told and retold of their own lives. We all got our crosses to bear. I know to you, yours seems the heaviest, yet one day you'll see this story is but a water drop, staining very few strokes on your life's canvas."

A second of silence fell upon us, as I wrestled inside between the idea of such an important year of my life, meaning so little...not only when compared to others, but also when compared to what I still had to live. I remembered my mother saying "One day, you'll look back at this moment and laugh". 

"Maybe one day I'll share a drink with my future wife here Joe, and our story will blow your mind..." I said as I raised my glass, finishing up my drink.

He raised his glass, scotch, neat, and drank it whole, as he smiled. "I'll be here, waiting for that moment."

As I was about to leave, Joe shouted at the door, calling me by my name "Dean...this is a twenty-dollar tip...I thought you didn't believe in overpaying..."

"I don't. And I didn't. Your company makes your drinks underpriced." 

He laughed at the unusual compliment. Sharing one last cliché'd "Come back soon, kid" as the door shut and the lights went off. 
5 a.m had come and gone and the sun was starting to paint the town red. I moved up to Fort Baker's pier and lit up my very first cigarette. The pack was nearly empty but the moment felt incipient enough to call it that. One hour and 5 smokes later, I mustered up a faint smile to myself. It wasn't yet a laugh but I was on my way. 

"Tocas-me no rosto enquanto o ar não sai

 Inspiro sem medo do acto que vem"

As horas vão passando, a cidade adormece, devagar, numa pachorrenta tarde de domingo. As luzes lá fora acendem-se, os carros vão deixando de passar e as vozes nítidas de conversas soltas que ecoam até à minha janela já não me visitam. O véu negro cai sobre a agitação de uma tarde primaveril, perfurado apenas pela luz das estrelas que teimam em brilhar por entre nuvens passageiras.

O filme acaba e nós não nos apercebemos, perdidos em histórias de infância, sonhos e aspirações pessoais, deixamo-nos levar pelo prazer de conversar. Trocam-se risos, segredos e olhares não tão inocentes, que me levam a uma pergunta  para a qual já sei a resposta: queres vir fumar um cigarro ao terraço?

Abro a porta e deixo-te passar, olhando de relance para o teu corpo, elegante. Move-se numa ligeireza sensual enquanto o teu perfume se arrasta, um pouco atrás, intenso e cativante.

Subimos e deixas escapar um ar surpreso ao veres a vista sobre a cidade, comentando na sorte que tenho em poder aqui vir todos os dias. Na verdade, podíamos ter fumado em casa, mas conheço o efeito inebriante que uma vista como esta pode ter.

Uma brisa mais fresca sopra na altura certa. Já de cigarro aceso, puxas contra ti o casaco bege de malha que tens vestido, abraçando-te com força numa expressão friorenta. Aproximo-te por trás, encostando o meu peito às tuas costas e cubro os teus braços com os meus.

Perdemo-nos por minutos, a contar janelas e a identificar edifícios icónicos da cidade, iluminados pelas luzes citadinas que tremeluzem à distância. A noite consegue dar um ar misterioso e sedutor ao mais banal dos edifícios. A pintura grená, suja de um paralelipípedo gigante e inestético ganha nuances alaranjadas e vermelhas que se pintam com o reflexo de uma luz.

Passam-se mais uns minutos, acende-se mais um cigarro e fala-se dos sítios que nos marcaram na cidade: onde brincávamos em pequenos, onde adormeci, bêbado, na estação de comboio, onde roubaste uma vez uma laranja, no mercado junto às docas. Viro-te para mim, desembaraço o teu cabelo louro, solto, para trás da orelha e digo em tom sussurrado "...e neste terraço, foi onde te beijei pela primeira vez..." puxando-te para mim, sorris e beijamo-nos.

Afastas-te, sorriso nos lábios, olhas para o céu e de volta para mim, mordes o lábio inferior e sussurras "é isto a que tu chamas ver um filmezinho em tua casa?".

Puxo-te para mim e perdemo-nos um no outro no terraço. Enquanto a cidade adormece, os carros deixam de passar e as pessoas já não falam, o silêncio ensurdecedor da noite é superado pela música de mais um beijo, um gemido, um suspiro...seguido da melodia muda de uma noite bem passada.