Luck of the Draw - Ch. 3

[joegoda]

The rainy summer night turned into a rainy summer morning. The singing of water running from the roofs and down drainpipes tinkled and clunkled their way down to the ground. The rain, no longer really rain but just plain old pedestrian water, ran out the little concrete dikes at the bottom of the drain spouts, and merged into streams and rivulets that fed grass and trees, flowers and weeds, and eventually made it to the street to be sucked down through old, rusted and hungry iron grates embedded and nearly hidden in the gutters. From there the flow was guided in its path to the river by underground tunnels made of concrete and rebar, roots and soil.

It was a slow and warm rain, and it made me comfortable. Hard rain, the sort of rain that comes down in sheets of gray so thick that the day seems to pause, waiting for an opening curtain, disturb me. It makes me feel anxious and nervous. I think this is because I wonder what's on the other side of the dark and rainy curtain, and sometimes I wonder if the rain will ever end. Hard rain hides the world and keeps secrets. Slow summer rain refreshes the world and causes that pause where life takes a deep breath and lets out a long sigh at the affirmation that existence will continue. Slow summer rain is a wet quilty blanket that wraps the world in a grandmother hug and kisses the earth's forehead.

Of course, in the winter, rain is very different. I don't mean snow, that fluffy stuff made of slips and slides of hexagonal crystalline mystery. No. I mean rain. Cold rain, soft or hard, is cold rain and hard on a body. The world may find the rain just fine, but it's very hard on a body, draining away life and turning to stone and slush the energy and juices that keep a body running. I don't like cold rain, in any form. Cold rain makes me feel like my body is turning to marble, trapped with a thinking brain but unable to move or express.

I can deal with cold, just fine. Just make it dry cold, thank you. Or, better yet, let it snow or rain, just keep it above seventy degrees. Really.

The trip to the bus station was rather quiet. Traffic was light this time of day, as most normal folks were at work or shopping or minding their children or doing any thousand of other things that didn't require driving in the rain.

The VW moved with its normal hatbox-like like agility, sluggishly taking corners that had been overburdened with the rain. On a dry road, the bug moved without a problem, like a cheetah, like a racing greyhound, like a ladybug on a daisy. On rainy days, it grumped and complained about its arthritic joints and leaky floorboards, soaking my feet to make me pay penance. Aw well... I liked the car regardless, more for it's personality than anything else. I called it the Blue Beetle on good days, and on bad days, I called it other things that were also colored in blue. Or at least turned the air around me blue.

The bus station is in the middle of downtown, where, I suppose, many bus stations are. Bus stations are magnets to humanity's lost, those wanderers of alleys and sleepers in cardboard boxes. It is a place where those unfortunates go when they have to find a place warm and dry and when there, add to the illusion that they are invisible to the rest of us by working very, very hard to not be seen by the cops. Any time a group of humans, or even a single person for that matter, works very, very hard at a thing, that thing will, inevitably, come to pass.

I still see them, though. The bums and the crazies, the pimps and the prostitutes. Occasionally I'll even press a coin or a bill in an open hand, or spend some time just talking with them. Some of the stories they tell, especially the crazier ones, are pretty interesting. I think, because of my active interest in humanities lost, there have been occasions when I think those finely dressed folk waiting for their bus even avoid me, as if I was one of the lost and invisible. It is a curious thing, to be sure.

I don't bother with the prostitutes or the pimps, though. I can't afford their time and their time is valuable to them. I guess everybody's time is valuable in some way or another. The phrase 'Time is money' means a whole lot more than time is equal to money. Time, in truth is all we have to offer, and to have someone steal our time... well, that might just be the only true crime there is. Everything else is replaceable.

Take me, for instance. There are huge chunks, months and years, of my life that I can't find. Not that I don't remember them, that would be easy. To reach back and say, "Oh... such and such must have happened, I just don't remember if it did or not," that would be a comfort. No, I simply can't remember them. Can't. As in can't find a parking place, or can't find a decent place to eat. Can't.

It's not amnesia. I know my name. Samuel. Samuel Wilson. Sam to those who know me, those folks that get close to me at work. I know where I work, and I know where I live. I know I've lived in my same little apartment for a long time, but I'm not sure how long I've lived there and I'm not sure how I ended up there.

I have the feeling that I have a family somewhere. A brother, maybe. Possibly even a sister and I can reasonably say with confidence that I had a mom and dad.

For all I can say, my life started about twelve years ago, when I was... well, my drivers license says I'm 52, so I must have been 40. If you can't remember your life, then age stops mattering much. So, let's just say I'm 52 and start from now.

I sluiced the bug up to the parking lot next to the bus station. It was an art deco retro sort of newish kind of building with neon tubes that leaked pastel out to the sky at night. During the day, it was red brick and gray stone and those interesting square glass blocks that don't stop the light, but make anything seen through them look twisted and blurred beyond recognition.

It sat, like a landed flying saucer, on the corner in the rain, the neon more pale than ever, but valiantly trying through the dim day to glow out pastel blue and pink. The standard assortment of homeless had found their way around back to where the bus barns and alleyways gave shelter from the drizzle. The station's staff wouldn't allow them inside during the day, when passenger traffic was at its busiest. There was only one man standing outside, and he was a bus driver, waiting for his next shipment of human cargo to board. He wore gray, just like the day. Gray hat, gray jacket, gray pants, gray day. His shoes were black and shined to a gloss. I could see blue and pink pastel in them, that's how shiny they were.

I splashed from the bug to the magical sliding glass doors, who opened by themselves at my approach. I always feel powerful with doors like that. It's as if I'm the one that controls them, rather than just some sort of hidden electric eye and motors. Whenever I walk up to doors that swing out of my way, I wave my arms and, bingo bango, they open. How cool is that? Pretty darn cool, if you ask me.

The lockers had a wall all to themselves. They lay on the other side of the room, across the cool black and white checkerboard tile floor, past the two long rows of orange and blue plastic seats and the couple of tall monolith vending machines.

I nodded to Bud, the old black man standing guard in his black shirt and slacks, wearing his gold plated badge for all to see. He knew me from the many times I've been here just to watch the busses come in, the people get off, and the people to get on, and the busses to drive off. I have never taken a bus ride. I just like to dream about where they went when off they went, on adventures far, far away. Noisy, smelly land whales, they were, carrying Jonahs from here to there, wherever there may be.

Sally and Jane, the two women behind the ticket counter smiled at me. They knew me too. They were always dressed the same way. Their hair done up tightly against their heads and wearing matching neatly pressed gray suits with floofy white cravats at their throats. The only thing that changed was the color of the flower in their lapel. Sometimes the flower was a little red posy. Maybe that was for the veterans of old wars. Sometimes it was a tiny yellow rose. Maybe that was for the soldiers that hadn't come home yet. They were both old enough to be grandmothers, mothers, daughters, and wives.

Bud had put his son though college working security. His wife had died many years ago, and his son never visited him even though the boy lived only two hundred miles away. I guess his son would be a man, now, maybe with his own wife and children. Maybe his son had passed away. Bud didn't talk much about his son, except to say that he hadn't visited in a very long time. His son studied astrophysics in college, which I thought was very cool. Bud didn't know much about the stars and constellations, but there were nights when we would sit outside on the red plastic benches, looking up at the milky sky and making up stories about what it would be like to visit the night sky, high, high above the earth.

Sally and Jane where mysteries. They took their breaks in the back, where I couldn't go, and while they were at the counter, they were all business and smiles. Bud told me that they lived together. Maybe they were lesbians. Maybe they were just women after that magic age of fifty that found each other's company much less cold than an empty apartment full of memories without anyone to share them. It didn't matter much to me. People's lives were their lives, just as mine was. And where my life, as much as I could remember, was an open book, some people lead lives that are like diaries sealed in lead, buried in concrete and hidden in the Mariana Trench, visited only by strange and exotic sea creatures.

I found locker 13. It was pretty easy. It sat quietly between number 12 and number 14. I fished the locker key out of my pocket and fitted it into the lock. It turned easily and the locker swung open. It wasn't empty. There was a brown manila envelope of a kind of size that could hold a book or a manuscript or... who knows what. It was a lumpy looking kind of envelope.

I picked it out of the locker carefully by one corner. I mean, I'm not a total idiot. Just confused at times.

This sort of thing is the sort of thing that can get a person dead really fast. Still, I didn't feel anything evil about the envelope. I can sort of do that. Feel the amount of evil or danger in a thing. I think everyone can. I call it the moment of red light. It's like the moment of Eureka, but for something not good. Like starting to walk down an alley and getting that feeling in your stomach that tells you "not this time, okay?" and so you turn and go the long way around.

I think a lot of people aren't alive anymore because they didn't pay attention to that red light moment. There is also yellow light moments and green light moments, and they mean exactly what they seem to mean. When they pop up, I listen to 'em, let me tell you.

I didn't get a red light or even a yellow light moment from the envelope. I just got the "What the heck is this about?" moment from it. I turned it over in my hands, looking to see if there was any thing written on it.

There wasn't. There wasn't any writing on the envelope at all, nothing to say, "Hey, I sent this to you," with a name and return address. It was just a plain old, blank manila envelope. The flap was held shut by those little silverish butterfly closures, so I closed the butterfly wings and gently opened the envelope. I peered into the envelope with one eye. I wear glasses, and they're pretty strong lenses. They've saved my eyes from splashes a bunch of times.

The envelope was full of money. It was an envelope filled with lumps of money, neatly bound together with those little bands that go around lumps of money. There were twelve lumps of one hundred dollar bills. As I pulled the lumps of bills out of the envelope, one by one and I stacked them neatly into the locker, out of sight.

I pulled a few bills from one bundle and stuffed them into my pants pocket. Looking deeper into the manila envelope, I saw there was another of those little blue envelopes, like the one that held the locker key, stuffed in the bottom of it.

I dug into the bigger envelope and pulled out the familiar looking blue envelope. There was the little rainbow on the flap, just like on the other one, but this time the envelope wasn't sealed. Inside the envelope was another orange card. The card read "Community Chest". Another mystery. Two mysteries. More mysteries.

I flipped the card over and in a neat handwriting in grass green ink were the words "Save Find Yourself". The word 'Save' had been scratched out by a single straight line of green ink. I guess the writer, whoever he or she was, had changed their mind about the level of their obscurity. Maybe they figured it would be easier or harder to 'Find' myself rather than 'Save' myself. I don't know. People are strange.

Below those words were smaller letters, typeset, precise and black. Those words spelled out "3:16 Mission". That was an easy connection. The 3:16 Mission is the John 3:16 Mission, just a few wet blocks from where I stood. They did good work there for the homeless and poverty stricken, hosting a big dinner every year at Thanksgiving and another at Christmas.

I let out another quiet "Huh" and put the card in my shirt pocket. There was a whole bunch of bound cash sitting in a locker that was simply begging for my attention.

I looked around and nobody seemed to be paying any attention to me. I think that it's a rule in a bus station. Like being on an elevator, nobody seems to pay attention to anybody else. The key word here is 'seems'. They might be paying attention to something, but like the attention that they pay the bums and homeless folk, the other people in the bus station work very hard to pay no attention when they pay attention.

I waved Bud over. "Look at this, Bud." I showed him the envelope and its contents.

"What you got there, Sam?" Bud glanced at the pile of money stacked in the locker. "Play money? Where'd it come from?"

"Heck if I know and heck if I know." I folded the manila envelope and put it back into the locker, hiding the stack of bills behind it. "If it's real, then it's a whole lot of cash, I think."

"If it's real," Bud chuckled, "then you're buying dinner tonight." He was still chuckling when he walked away to stand his post, watching for evildoings and evildoers. I made the decision that if the money were indeed real, then Bud would get that free meal. He may have been joking with me, but I tend to think that behind jokes like a kernel of truth sprouts, like a pretty rose under manure.

I relocked the locker and scratched my head, thinking hard. There was someone out there, obviously trying to tell me something. Get out of Jail and Find myself. A key to a locker and 3:16 Mission. Maybe it was a joke on me. Maybe someone was having fun at my expense. Somehow, I didn't think so.

I felt the world turn and twist around me, in a confusing mishmash of color and sound. You know the feeling. Sounds are too loud, colors are too bright and that cold hard knot forms in your stomach indicating that you better sit down or you were going to fall down.

I made my way to a red plastic chair near me and sat heavily into it. The person next to me, a young woman about twenty years old, with a pierced eyebrow and black hair, looked at me concerned.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Yeah," I mumbled, holding my head in my hands. "I just feel a bit dizzy. I'll be okay."

She put a hand on my shoulder. Her nails were black and her fingers were slim and pointed. She was a thinker. Pointed fingers indicate thinking people; rounded fingers indicate working people. I wondered what she did. She should be in college, studying Art or Science or Astrophysics.

"You're awful pale and sweaty," she observed. A look of fear crossed her face. "You're not having a heart attack, are you? I mean, you are kinda old."

That brought a weak smile from me. Old people are always younger to the young people. The older a person gets, the older old gets. Still, she may have had a point. My dad had three heart attacks.

Wait. What? My DAD had three heart attacks? My DAD? I reached for that memory where it shimmered in my mind and as quickly as I reached for it, the memory faded and receded, lost into the darkness behind the veil of my brain, out of sight, out of mind.

It's happened before. I thought I would be getting a snatch, a smidge, a tiny bit of memory from back then, and sure enough, it would fade and go to that place where memories go when they hide from you. I sighed.

Maybe this person who was sending me cards and keys and money knew more about me than I did. If so, then why didn't they just come out and tell me themselves? Why send me mysteries?

"Sir?" The young girl's face was growing pale, too.

"No, really," I assured her. "I'm okay. I'll be fine in a moment." And it was true. As I sat there breathing, the world slowly righted, the roaring in my ears faded, and the cold flop sweat evaporated. "See?" I told her, "right as rain. It was just a moment."

"You're sure?" Her face was still far too concerned, too watchful. "I could get you a cool towel from the bathroom. Maybe something to drink?"

"Thank you, sweetie," I said, "but really I'm okay now. These spells come and go, and this one came and went." I looked at her pretty brown eyes and furrowed brow. Her black hair was parted in the middle over a narrow face. Her bottom lip was full, but her top lip was a bit thin, and her teeth were crooked. She had a very pointed chin. To me, she was the pure object of beauty in her worry for me, a total stranger. I held out my hand.

"I'm Sam. Thanks for looking out for me."

"I'm Jules," she offered as she shook my hand.

"Where are you headed?"

"Saint Louis," she told me. "There's a Counting Crows concert this weekend."

"Ah." I had heard of Counting Crows, and I may have even heard some of their music somewhere, but other than that, I hadn't a clue. "You traveling with yourself?"

She stared at me for a few seconds before answering. Wanting to make sure I wasn't some creep hitting on her, I imagined. I worked really hard to exude nothing but parental concern from every pore of my body.

"I'm meeting friends there," she said without answering my question. Fair enough. It didn't pay well to give out too much information.

I stood and tested my landlegs. I was still a bit weak from the episode, but I was travel worthy. I smiled my best kindly old man smile at Jules and said, "Thanks again, Jules. I hope you have a wonderful time in Saint Louis and enjoy the concert."

She returned my smile with a crooked teeth one of her own. Yep, pure beauty. "Thanks, Sam."

Before I turned to leave, I told her to be safe and smart, and she promised me she would. Then I walked out of the Bus Station, waving at Bud as I went.

Comments

[capi.livejournal.com]

*heh* Took me forever to get back to reading this but i'm VERY glad i did. I love your stuff, Chet-meister. Your words are beautiful. I love your image-building. I'm too fatigued to go back and pick out each one i loved here, but... i DID. Thank you. How you can make me enjoy a bus station?? *LOL* YOu are sooo talented.

I must confess... i break the rules when it comes to fingers, tho.... *L* but that's my job, i guess. I did the same thing when my dear friend Rick (Quack) used his rule for judging people by their hands. *LOL* I got ugly hands. Oh well! They get the job done, and that's gotta just do it.

((( hug ))) Keep the writing flowing, dear heart. You are soooo good!

[joegoda.livejournal.com]

Your fingers are more rounded AND pointed. Actually, my character is not quite right. Pointed fingers show intelligent, tho impulsive folks who like to work things out in their head. square fingers are the workerbees, those who enjoy working in the dirt and the wood and the metals of the world and don't like change. Rounded fingers are those that tend to be fairly stable with their feet on the ground, able to be the interpreters for the pointy fingers and the square fingers. Most people tend to have a mixture of both, in reality. And I don't think you have ugly hands. You have hands that reflect your life, and how can that possibly be ugly?