Pursuit and capture
11 April 2010 06:57 AM Categories: Fiction
Herbert’s eyes are bloodshot. They move from side to side, eluding mine. His lids are creased with age and a lifelong propensity for quick anger and I resist taking my towel and wiping away the dark line of spit caught in the island of stubble on his chin. He doesn’t smell like alcohol this morning but gives off the odor of rancid cinnamon buns, of too many days spent on the slats of a park bench.
“It’s ok, buddy,” I reassure, nudging him back to his cardboard perch outside The Caffeine Bean. “Just ignore the guy. Has he ever been here before? No. Will he be back? I don’t think so. Do you want a cup of coffee or not?”
The man who tipped Herbert over the edge is crossing Ninth Street. I knew from the moment that guy came into the Bean that he wasn’t from around here. His hair was too long, for one, and it was kind of greasy, flipped back behind his ears. It was very continental, although his accent was hard to place, as if he had been here long enough to sound almost native. He fumbled around in a large billfold like he didn’t know what a dollar was. Maybe he is unfamiliar with our coins. Maybe he’s just cheap. Wherever he comes from, they apparently don’t believe in cleaning up their newspapers or even folding them when they are finished. They don’t believe in tipping the help.
Herbert shuffles after Mr. Continental, waving his cup around, still ranting about five and dimes. Quarters from the cup flash onto the sidewalk and a little boy walking by lets go of his mother’s hand to catch a dollar bill as it floats to the ground. The man, halfway across the street now, pivots, smiles at Herbert with thin lips, then returns to the foot traffic, slamming into Amanda, one of our regulars, knocking her to the asphalt. Amanda’s lunch bag breaks free. The zombies that work in this neighborhood flow around her, flatten her sandwich, smash her bag of pretzels into salty dust. One of them punts her apple into the intersection. Mr. Continental picks up his pace.
“I am not surprised. I am not surprised at all!” Herbert shouts from the corner as Amanda, slightly dazed, props herself up. The light changes. Herbert jumps out in front of the one-way traffic and holds up his hand in the universal sign for stop, scampering sideways towards Amanda as cars start to honk.
The next thing I know, I’m tossing off my apron and rolling up my sleeves, dodging a clutch of suits on my way to stop Mr. Continental. Herbert is tugging on Amanda’s arm, pulling her up. He gives me a high five as I run past. “Get him, Jesse!” he barks. Mr. Continental is about thirty feet ahead of me, but I am gaining on him. I am sly and quick, with the soft step of a panther. By the time my breathing tips him off, I’m close enough to tackle him to the sidewalk.
And he’s light, too light, with hollow bird bones, no meat on them. His shirt is stained. His tie is a clip-on, decades out of date. The impact has jostled his false teeth loose and they shatter and scatter like pearls. The zombies pause, grumble at the conclusion to our sad dance.
I ask a woman in Earth shoes to call an ambulance.
Image by Rob Hill. The image was the prompt.
Today is the last day to submit a story for NPR's Three-Minute Fiction short story contest for short stories that have 600 words or less. This was my submission for the last round (which, obviously, wasn't selected or recognized as brilliant in any way). So far, my favorite story from this round is Mars: In the Beginning, by Angela Muhammad-Ali.
blog comments powered by Disqus