Payment

co-written with C L Farrell of Good Manners and Other Lies & Haiku Inversion

Goodkid Russel shuffled slowly into the convenience store. He turned sideways to squeeze past the soft drink display and enter the first aisle. Once in the aisle, he turned to the metal shelf on his right and contemplated the snack cakes. While he considered his options, he shifted his massive weight slowly from one foot to the other. Though the home he shared with his grandmother was less than a block away, the walk had left his feet feeling quite sore.

“What’ll it be today, GK?” the thin, elderly man behind the counter asked.

“Well,” Goodkid said, still trying to catch his breath. “Today feels like a ‘K’ day. So... I think I’ll have some Kremie Kakes.” He reached into the black and white display box and pulled out 3 plastic-wrapped chocolate cakes. He looked down at them - held against his body with both hands - then looked back at the display. There was only one left. “Looks like I’m clearin' you out, Mister Mason,” he said and reached in to grab the last one.

“Oh, that’s perfectly alright, GK,” the old man said, grinning. “There’ll be more. There’s always more.”

Goodkid huffed as he walked toward the drink cooler at the back of the market. “Don’t think there’s any ‘K’ drinks. So, I guess I’ll have an orange creme soda.”

“Sure, GK, that’s a fine choice,” Mason said. “Creme has a ‘K’ sound, after all.”

“Close enough,” Goodkid said.

“Close enough,” Mason said with a wink.

Goodkid grunted as he opened the cooler door. He had to step back to give the door room to pass by him. He grunted harder when he reached for his drink.

“The ones in the back are colder,” the old man called.

“Hhhhuuuhh,” Goodkid groaned as released his hold on the bottle he’d chosen and leaned even further into the cooler. He pushed his large, soft arm over the tops of the bottles near the front and manged to get a finger around a cap in the rear. “Uugghh. Hmmmph. Errr!” He puffed as he twisted and pulled his arm - and the soda - free.

Out the window Mason saw that some of the neighborhood boys were gathering. They were all watching Goodkid. A tall boy said something, and pointed at GK. The other boys started laughing.

With orange creme soda in hand, Goodkid turned and headed up the aisle. Mason asked, “How’s your grandmama doing?”

“Oh,” Goodkid replied, lumbering his way toward Mason. “She’s not too good, I guess. Her little cart’s lost its charge and won’t go more than a little ways before it quits.”

“Well, that’s too bad. Too bad.”

“She’ll probably have me head to the Piggly Wiggly for some more cough syrup too.” Goodkid looked down in dread at the thought. The Pig was nearly half a mile away. “Mister Mason, I wish you had cough syrup around here.”

“Now, GK, you know I ain’t no pharmacy. I ain’t allowed to trade in that stuff. The government won’t let me. They got what they call regulations that say what folks like me can and can’t sell.”

“They won’t let you!” Goodkid said. “Well that’s not fair. Now I gotta walk all that way.” Goodkid exhaled in frustration. “It ain’t fair.”

Goodkid looked at Mason. He was lean and old. His prominent cheekbones rose high on his face, so much so that - from where Goodkid stood - they appeared to cover the lower halves of his eyes. His chin came to a sharp point and had the slightest strip of gray beard at its base His hair was nearly gone save for a thick V-shape in the center of his head that pointed toward his long nose. His eyebrows were thick bushy and - unlike the rest of his visible hair - perfectly black. He sat perched on a stool behind the counter. The counter stood on a raised platform. The extra height gave him a view of the entire store, and meant he spent most of his day looking down on his customers. He looked down on GK now. “No, it ain’t fair. Is it? Ain’t fair at all.”

“Oh, well,” Goodkid said, resigned. “I don’t know Mister Mason, Grandmom tells me to walk more all the time. Says it’ll get some of this weight off me.”

“She does?” Mason said, sounding concerned, then he raised a hand to his chin and smiled mischievously. “Hmm. I’ll tell you a secret, GK, when I was your age, I didn’t always do what I was told. And I’m willing to bet you don’t either, do ya?”

For a moment, Goodkid looked away shyly, but then he turned back to Mason with a mischievous smile of his own. “No, sir, I guess I don’t always.”

“Ha, I thought so,” Mason said. “Shoot, you know what? I bet your uncle will be by later, won’t he? I bet he’d run down to the store and pick up that cough medicine.”

A broad smile spread across Goodkid’s face. “Yeah, you’re right! He’d do that! Yeah. He’ll be here tonight.”

“Your grandmama can wait a little while longer, can’t she?”

“‘Course she can.” Goodkid said, happily. “And I won’t have to walk nowhere.”

While they talked, Mason kept an eye on the boys outside. They were pointing now and jabbing one another in the ribs. Urging each other on.

“Goodkid?” Mason changed the subject. “You know folks aren’t always nice, don’t you?”

Goodkid’s smile faded. “Oh, I know it, Mister Mason,” he said shaking his head. “Don't I ever know it!”.

“So, you probably know how sometimes one person or maybe a group of people will find somebody who’s different. And when they find him, they pick on him.”

“Yes, sir, I know it.”

Mason’s voice took on a grave, authoritative quality, like that of a teacher or a preacher. “Well, son, let me ask you another question. Have you ever heard of this so-called ‘natural selection’?”

“I think I heard something about that on TV, Mister Mason, but I can't remember exactly. Is that like what they used to do in that war?” Goodkid said. He half-consciously took a step backward. “World War II?”

Mason looked thoughtful for a moment and replied, “You mean the Nazis? I guess maybe the Nazis thought that's what they were doing, but not really. I knew a Jew once when I was a kid, and he was OK.” Then Mason leaned over the counter until he was on eye level with Goodkid and said, “‘Course some people are better than others, you know.” Mason paused and appeared to think for a moment. “You see, GK, I've been reading this book about natural selection and it’s got me to thinking. For one thing it got me to thinking about some of the folks around here. Natural selecting, you see, is nature’s way of keeping things nice and orderly. Not too little of any one thing. And not too much.”

Goodkid stared back at the man blankly. He pressed the cakes and soda to his body, gripping tightly.

“What happens, Goodkid, is that sometimes this world of ours gets full of.. What shall we call it? So much dead weight.” Goodkid took another step back and Mason leaned even closer, a cold smile appeared on his lips. Then, quickly he straightened. His smile immediately replaced by a stern blankness.

Mason shot a quick glance toward the window. The boys where still our there, but none of them were laughing now. They continued to stare at Goodkid. Turning back, Mason continued “What I mean to say is natural selection is the process of nature cutting the fat.”

Goodkid remained silent. Mason heard the faint sound of coins clinking in his pocket.

“Like I said that book got me to thinking. And I started to think that sometimes...not every single time, maybe, but sometimes... the pickin-on and meanness of one person to another...well maybe that’s just part of the way things are. Maybe that’s just nature doing it’s thing. Do you know what I mean, Goodkid?”

Goodkid swallowed. “Mister Mason, this is all I need. I better be getting back to my Grandmom now,” Goodkid said dropping the cakes and soda on the counter.

Mason took a quick glance out the window and smiled brightly. “Oh, sure, GK. I guess it is about time you were going. I got to talking and kept you past your time, didn’t I? Let’s see. Is this all you need? It’s a light day today, isn’t it?” Mason said. “What did you say before? It’s a ‘K’ day. That tickles me, GK.” Mason laughed. “You got a marker for every day.”

Goodkid nodded with a slight, tentative smile.

“Let’s see that’ll be four dollars and twenty-two cents,” Mason said.

Goodkid stuffed his hand into the font pocket of his jeans and came up with paper and coins. He laid it all on the counter and began counting. He counted out two paper dollars then moved on to coins. Little by little he pushed one coin at a time from the pile where he’d dropped it into a second pile closer to Mason. Mason offered no help. Instead he returned his attention to the boys outside his store. The tall boy now had a board. He was swinging it in a wide arch above his head. Some of the others were searching behind the dumpster at the corner of the parking lot.

“Mister Mason.” Goodkid drew the old man’s attention. “I don’t think I have enough. I only got three dollars and ninety-three cents.” Goodkid dropped his gaze, and said, “I’m sorry. I’ll put something back.”

“Oh, Goodkid. You know I wouldn’t let you do without,” Mason said. “What say I take everything you got, and we’ll call it even? How’s that?”

“Well...” Goodkid said, uncertainly. “I guess. I mean, thank you, Mister Mason.”

“Of course, GK. You’re one of my best customers,” Mason said.

“Thanks, again.” And with that Goodkid grabbed up his purchases and turned toward the door. Mason did not offer him a bag.

“See you next time, Goodkid.” Mason called.

“Okay,” Goodkid replied. He’d already begun breathing heavily by the time he reached the door. Mason watched as he pushed the door open with his shoulder and began to walk toward the sidewalk. He watched as the boys began to encircle him. He saw the boy with the board take the first swing. He watched the other boys jump onto Goodkid’s back and sides and drive him down onto his knees. He saw the four individually wrapped cakes fly in different directions, and the bottle of orange creme soda fall to the asphalt and bounce away. He watched one of the boys leave the mob and run around collecting these treats, then set them to the side and return to the beating. He watched until he had his fill, then he sprang open his register and added Goodkid’s payment.

Jessup, His Dog and the Back Bedroom

“That damn dog just wouldn’t stop barking.” That’s almost all he’d say there toward the end. All he thought about was that dog and how it had been in a near-constant state of panic from the time they’d moved into the house. The dog wet the floor. The dog growled at an empty corner. The dog barked. The dog barked and barked and barked.

Uncle Jessup was never the brightest bulb in the chandelier, nor was he the easiest person to get along with, nor was he likely to be the most sober person in any given group. But, he was family and we put up with him. We wouldn’t have under any other circumstances. His wife surely hadn’t and she’d taken their daughter with her. Jessup would see the girl twice a year when he and his ex would each drive three hours to meet in the middle at the Casey Jones Museum in Jackson. His ex would go off someplace and Jessup and his girl would have lunch there in the restaurant. Frankly it all seemed kinda sad to us. We figured that after a few years that girl didn’t want to be there any more than her momma likely did, but it did make Jessup happy and God bless em for being willing to keep up the tradition.

Anyway, I tell you all that just in the way of background. So you’ll understand that when Jessup started telling stories about the noises and other oddities that began happening in his new house, we simply didn’t think much of it.

“Bottle’s finally gotten to him,” Granny said. “Devil’s in that bottle and I knew it would get him one day.”

“I think he’s lonely,” Aunt Allie said. “Him and that dog up there alone. He’s just trying to get some attention.”

I thought he should just move. He was only renting after all.

But he stayed and two or three - sometimes four - times a week, he’d come by one of our houses and tell us about the banging from the attic or how the dog wouldn’t go into the back bedroom or how his keys went missing for two hours only to wind up back on the peg where he always kept them. He’d usually time these visits to coincide with supper, and, of course, we’d invite him. “See,” Aunt Allie said, “He’s just lonely. He’s looking for a little company. He don’t mean no harm.” And we all had to admit it looked like she was right.

I don’t think any of us truly paid any mind to his stories until that late winter night he came banging on the door. It was well after midnight and everyone had been in bed for hours. None of us were too happy to see him standing there on the stoop, soaking wet - for, of course, it was a stormy night - jabbering on about his dog being sucked into some kind of vortex.

That’s right, vortex.

Well we brought him into the kitchen and got some towels to dry him off and somebody made coffee. We left him there to dry off and get warm, while we went into the front room to talk things through. When our cousin, Seth, came over from next door - he’d seen the lights and then Jessup’s truck in the yard - we sent him in to see how drunk Jessup was. We really started to worry when Seth cam back swearing that Jessup was stone sober. So with nothing else left to do, we all went in and sat around the kitchen table to hear about what had happened.

Earlier that day - or really the day before - Jessup had been moving some furniture and boxes into the back bedroom of his house. Seems he’d convinced one of his drinking buddies - Travis, I believe it was - to move in with him. Well, on moving day, Travis had been called into court on a child custody matter and told Jessup that he’d have to put it off. But Jessup was so excited to have someone come live with him that he’d offered to move Travis all by himself.

Anyway, Jessup said his dog hated this back room. Had from the beginning. We all remembered hearing Jessup telling us how the dog would spend hours standing outside the door growling and baring his teeth. Now, seeing Jessup going in and out of that room really got the dog riled. Every time Jessup picked up something and went toward the room, that dog would bark his head off. Jessup said he tried yelling and even kicked it once or twice but the dog wouldn’t give in. He wouldn’t go in the room, but he stood right outside and barked into it and as Jessup went by he’d try to jump on him.

“He was tryin’ to keep me outta there,” Jessup said. “He knowed how evil that place was.”

Well Jessup didn’t let the dog stop him. He kept moving things in. After a while, he began to notice that the room had grown cold. But this was early March and what with the door open due to the move, Jessup brushed it off as a draft. He’d just managed to lug the in mattress and setup the bed when he heard the voice.

“I don’t know what it said, but it said somethin’,” he told us. “And that dog heard it too. I know that. He started barking and carrying on even more...like I’ve never seen.”

Jessup said he tried to blow it off, but he couldn’t. He became overwhelmed with a feeling of sadness and remorse, and he sat right down on the bed he’d just made. He said he thought about all the trouble he’d caused in his life. The fights and the petty crimes. He thought of his wife and his daughter and how he’d done them wrong. He thought about how even right then he was trying to fool his friend into moving into a room his dog wouldn’t even set foot in. He said he must’ve lost track of time for a while, because before he knew it, it was dark out. And, not only that, but must’ve lost track of himself for a while too for he found himself stepping into the hallway from his own bedroom - walking toward the back room. He looked down into his hand and saw his gun there. The dog hadn’t stopped barking the whole time, but he realized he hadn’t been listening.

He walked into the room and sat down on the bed again. He said he felt a kind of emptiness like he’d never felt before. A nothingness. He sat there looking at nothing, hearing nothing and feeling only the weight of the gun in his hand. And he did what seemed like the most natural thing in the world to do. He put that gun to his head.

He must’ve been only a split second from pulling the trigger when his dog ran in. Jessup saw him come from halfway down the hall. The second that dog crossed through the doorway, he heard a scream like he’d never heard coming from all around him. The room filled with a kind of electric charge. It shook him badly and woke him to what he was about to do. The dog ran past him and leaped a foot from the far wall. Jessup said he more felt than heard a screech of pain and anger and then he saw a bright light form inside the wall right before the dog. It was a vortex of swirling light. He felt the tug of it as it reached into our world. Hungry, was the word Jessup used. It was hungry.

Then, suddenly, the room was still and silent, the vortex had vanished and he could feel the chill lifting.

And the dog was gone.

Things went downhill for Jessup pretty quickly after that. The owners of the house were kind enough tear up the lease and Jessup moved into a old flop motel. He wasn’t there long before he got sick. The doctor told us that - though his liver was in pretty bad shape - the real trouble was in his mind. Somehow, the doctor - God bless him - found a room in a hospital in Nashville. His ex and his daughter came to visit and we did too. It was sad to see Jessup there in that place staring at the wall. We decided he was waiting. Waiting for his dog to come back.

“That dog ain’t coming back,” Granny said. “If he’s lucky he’s with Jesus, but I believe the devil’s done got him. Either way, he won’t walk this world no more.” We had to agree. That dog wasn’t coming back. Best we could tell neither was Jessup.

And we were right. It was a blessing when Jessup went to the Lord. We laid him out as best we could. We said our good-byes. Then, afterwards, we went to Aunt Allie’s. We told stories. We laughed. We ate. We spoke well of the dead. No one mentioned the dog.

Oscillation

When the lights went out he knew the time was near. He could see the others moving around in the dimness with no trouble - as if the room was perfectly well lit. He noted at about the same time how the sounds around him had taken on a muffled quality. There was a cough, a sigh, perhaps the sound of Sarah crying, but it all sounded to his ears to be happening in another room.

He felt the weight of the blankets, and the coolness of his uncovered arms. He felt the pillow running along his ears and the top of his head. It seemed he was sinking more deeply into it. He appreciated these sensations. They reminded him of this place. Home. They reminded him of summer days and smiles and kisses on the porch swing. They reminded him of children playing in the yard. He thought back to his own childhood. The time his brother had nearly drowned in the creek. He’d sunk into the mud at the creek’s edge and it took a lot of pulling and praying to yank him free. He thought of his dog, Sleepy, who’d always been happiest lying the beneath the rocking chair.

And Sarah. He bought her an ice cream. When he handed it to her, her eyes opened wide. She was so proud of the treat he thought for a moment she wasn’t going to eat it, but instead try to tuck it away to take home. Then, when she did finally take a bite, he lost his heart to her happy smile. And when she offered, it wasn’t the ice cream but the intimacy of sharing a spoon that set his heart spinning.

At church he put his arm around her just as the song leader told everyone to rise. Of course, he thought, that’s always the way. He stood with the congregation and opened to the page in the hymnal. The text was hard to see clearly - but no matter, he knew the words to this one. We shall meet on that beautiful shore. By and by. By and by.

Words coming from the darkness. A hand on his. The touch of lips on the corner of his mouth.

When his brother came home from the war, they’d gone fishing. To their usual spot. He’d tried not to ask about how it had been over there, but he was young and curious. His brother spoke of one or two of his fellow soldiers. He told a story about going into a village on leave and his buddy Franklin’s misadventures with a prostitute. They caught a lot of fish that day. They’d flopped and twisted up the string.

The light around the figure in the corner was too bright to allow him to make out a face. He asked, who’s there, but got no response.

His feet were cold now. Some thought within him seemed to say they were no longer of any matter. An odd thought, but one that filled him with some reassurance. For the most part his body seemed distant. He most clearly felt his feet and the dryness of his lips and tongue. That dry feeling certainly wasn’t pleasant, but also not as uncomfortable as he might have expected. A sip of water might be nice though. Then, as if he’d asked out loud, he felt the sponge. It was moist and cool, but little water made it into his mouth. Most ran down his chin and on to - into nothingness.

There was a boy on the swing next to his. The boy had red hair and long-sleeved cotton shirt striped horizontally in yellow, red and black. His pants were brown and belled out at his feet. The boy was a good swinger. He swung higher and higher, at either end of his every lengthening arch - in a moment suspended in space - he’d giggle to himself.

After a time slowed his swinging, then dropped his feet to stop himself. He turned and asked, “What’s your name?”

My name?

“Yes, kid, your name. What’s your name? Don’tcha got one?”

My name is- My name is Henry. Can you- Can you see me?

The boy laughed. “Of course, I can see you, silly. That’s funny. Can i see you?” He laughed again.

Is that funny? I didn’t mean to be funny. Do you know where my parents are? I don’t know how to find them.

“Oh, I’m sure they’re around here someplace,” the boy said. “You’ll run into them eventually.”

I wish I could find them now. I’d like to go home.

“Yeah, that’s pretty common.”

But I don’t know where my home is.

“Listen. Henry? Is that right? Listen, Henry, it’s not quite time for all that yet. Why don’t ya just swing for a while. It’s fun. Here, watch me.” With that the boy pushed off and began kicking his legs. Swinging higher and higher.

He wondered if it were night, but supposed it didn’t matter very much. Time was different now. It had taken on a new texture - somehow thinner, nearly transparent.

Dimly he heard a coarse sort of clicking sound - like a fan who’s motor was on it’s last legs. It had an in and an out quality to it. Winding down. Things were winding down. He felt Sarah near him and knew she was holding his hand. He felt others around him too, but wasn’t quite sure who. If he could look more clearly - but the effort was too great. Then from the darkness above him came a light. Soft, but bright, it grew larger and larger around him. Sleepy was there with him - in the bed with him - or maybe he wasn’t in the bed any longer.

The dog licked his face, and the light surrounded the both of them.

Grandfather's Story of the Two-Headed Cat

“Once I knew of a cat with two heads,” our grandfather told us. “One on each end.”

This was after our mother had sent us to bed. Our grandfather had come in for goodnights and - as was our custom at the time - we asked him to stay. We wanted a story.

“Of course,” he went on, “the one at the back end wasn’t suited for any sort of serious thinking, you know. It only thought on the very simplest of things. Mostly it was a sort of look-out head. It would tell the other head - the front head - if something was trying to sneak up on it.

“Whenever anything would come toward that cat from the rear that back head would meow and meow and meow. It would go on until the front head realized something was amiss and then the whole cat would leap around in a circle trying to run away. This usually took a few tries because each head would think it was pointed in the best direction for running.”

Only the youngest of us believed any of this, of course, but our grandfather swore it was all true.

“Yep that was some cat. He used to sit at my feet and lick my toes. One head for each foot. He’d sit there licking and purring until he’d given each toe a good going over, then he’d flip around the opposite way so each head could try out the foot the other had just finished. It was a real lesson in taking turns and sharing.”

Our grandfather smiled, remembering. He slapped a knotted, calloused hand on his knee and continued.

“They say two heads are better than one, and, though I’m not sure I’d say they’re always better, I can tell you that when it comes to cats two heads are certainly very interesting.”

We agreed that it did sound very interesting.

“Did you ever see a cat chase a butterfly?” he asked us, and we said no.

“Well you’ve missed something. A cat will leap around after that butterfly and turn and twist and end up in a knot, and all the while the butterfly will just be minding his own merry way. He won’t even know anything special is happening.”

We asked if it was like a cat chasing a laser pointer.

“Oh, well, I can’t say. I don’t know about that,” he said. “But I can tell you how the two-headed cat chased butterflies if you’d like to hear about it.” And we said we would like to hear about it.

“Well, first thing you should know is that it was only the front head that seemed to have any interest in chasing butterflies, and in the event that he saw one, things didn’t start out too different from one of your standard one-headed cats. That butterfly would be perched someplace - on a log, maybe - and when that front head got sight of it the whole cat would crouch down and then he’d LEAP into the air and try to catch it. The only difference was the back head didn’t know what was going on and was apt to get a right-hard bump from the log - or whatever it was the butterfly had been resting on when the front-head gave the order to leap. That bump would cause the back head to bite his tongue or at least give him a good jarring and he’d meow so loud and make an awful fuss. Well, the front head would hear that and think something was sneaking up on it and the whole cat would start its spinning trying to figure out which direction to run, and forget all about the butterfly. It was a sight, to be sure.”

We laughed at that and our grandfather laughed along with us. He had a small laugh. A coarse, quiet laugh. A laugh that sounded as though it hadn’t been used very much and had gone somewhat stale on a shelf. But it was a good laugh and we still talk about it to this day.

All the noise roused our mother and she yelled from down the hall. We needed to get to sleep, she yelled. She followed that by yelling that if our grandfather was in there he should leave.

Our grandfather put his finger to his lips and we all became very quiet. Then he asked, “Did I ever tell you about the dog that ate my father’s old truck?”

“It did? For real?” we asked softly.

“No, you didn’t tell us,” we whispered.

“Will you tell us?” We all wanted to know.

“Yes, it really did. Ate it clean up in one sitting. From grill to gate.” our grandfather said. “And, yes, I’ll tell you all about it sometime.”

With that he stood and walked to the door. “Maybe I’ll come by tomorrow night and tell you all about it then. How’s that sound?”

We said it sounded fine.

Enter the Garden

The chain-linked fence had two openings. Three if you counted the front gate, but that was for official entry only. Boo was no official. The two options open to her were a wide easy-access gap that anyone could stroll right through or a narrow hole behind a thorn-bush over to the side of the building. Boo chose the narrow hole because the wide path was just off a main street. During the day, anyone passing by would easily spot her and even at night when much of the downtown area was deserted - at least cleared of anyone who’d give a damn - one could never be too careful.

It was now dusk and the street outside the building was packed with commuters. People leaving downtown as quickly as possible - which wasn’t all that quickly. One of Boo’s guilty pleasures was to spot a car - preferably one of those giant SUVs with a particularly agitated driver - trapped in rush hour traffic and walk alongside it whistling a tune. Often she had to slow down to keep pace.

Too cold for games now though. She bundled her too-light jacket around her and stepped off the street a few yards beyond the corner of the fence. She passed a dumpster and then doubled back making sure to keep herself hidden as best as she could. The desire to run toward the fence and the building it protected was a strong one, but she managed to control it. The building was an abandoned warehouse that sat alongside a line of railroad tracks just outside the city’s center. The tracks were still occasionally used, but she’d never known a time when the warehouse was in operation. Ruth had seen it in her younger days, though, and said it had done a bustling business as a hub for deliveries into downtown. Now it had another propose. One, Boo believed, that was much more important.

As well as being covered by thorny bushes, the entry point was partially hidden by concrete columns that supported one of the bridges into downtown. Passing a column Boo saw the word “niche” spray-painted on it. There was more broken glass and other debris littering this side of the fence that she’d remembered seeing the last time she’d come. She noted, though, that on the other side - where she was going - the ground was clear and the process of busting up the asphalt had begun. Full patches of grass were beginning to grow. Boo smiled and thought, by Spring this place would really be something to see.

She crossed the glass carefully, remembering her thin-soled shoes, and - upon reaching the opening - she turned her back toward the thorns, pushed the chain links of the fence to the side with her arm and bent down to step through.

She stood for a moment, smiling softly. The building cut the wind which made it noticeably warmer, and dulled both the sounds and the odors of the city. It was a peaceful spot.

Her smile broadened when she heard singing coming from within the building. She turned toward the sound and walked up the stairs onto what once was the loading dock. There were massive steel doors running along the length of the dock, but she headed for a smaller, human-sized door at the far end. She could see the flicker of candlelight through the crack in the door’s old wooden frame. She could smell something savory cooking.

She knocked on the door. Three times, then pause, then three times again. She heard a rustling sound behind the door and then it opened. “Boo!”, said the gray-bearded man who met her. “Come in. Come in.”

She stepped in, took off her jacket and began to sing.

Of the Third Eye

He could feel her third eye staring at him. Her other, lower, eyes guided her hands in rolling silverware into paper napkins, but her third eye watched him. He had to remind himself that the eye didn’t know him. It only suspected him. While it’s true that a third eye sees more clearly, truly knowing someone was a tough business and he felt secure that there had not been time enough or effort enough for that.

Still it made him uncomfortable.

She stood there looking to all the world like a waitress - rolling and rolling and rolling silverware - but it was plain to him as it would be to anyone else who bothered to look that she was more than she appeared to be. She was more powerful than that.

He adjusted himself in the booth. He took a sip of coffee. He felt that eye staring.

He had to admit to himself that he was no expert on third eyes. His had only opened once, briefly, at a friend’s apartment. He’d tried mushrooms for the first and only time and had spent the night on the apartment’s balcony overlooking the city. It was quite an experience, but one made cloudy by the use of drugs. She, this waitress, didn’t seem to need drugs How clearly she must see! He had to admit a certain jealousy.

This was surely something he would have to tell Alice. He didn’t know when he’d see her, of course, but he’d remember and he’d tell her. The girl with the black hair and the third eye. Alice would get a kick out of that.

Alice might not believe him, of course, but she’d get a kick out of it. Of that he was sure.

He wondered why it was he out of all the people in the restaurant that drew her attention. He thought it was perhaps because he was alone and everyone else was in pairs or in small groups. He wondered if she was trying, in her way, to be with him. To keep him company. But then another thought struck him. Maybe her third eye could see not only him, but everyone else too. Maybe what seemed to be special attention was not. Maybe she could see...wow...in that case her power was even greater than he’d imagined.

His coffee was cold and for a moment he thought of waving to her for more, but immediately realized she must already know. She knew yet she kept rolling. Oh well, he didn’t take it as a slight. She had things to do. Responsibilities. Plus he’d had enough coffee. She must know that too.

Yes, plenty of coffee. He looked at his hands and saw they were shaking.