Chapter Three...Engage
from the chipped, sky blue doorway into the streets squinting into the late morning sun. It's thursday. Tokyo Rose day. A pleasant bite of the breeze beckons me away from my car, and I hoof it along the cracked sidewalk. The cement path wraps around the apartment complex, passing the six identical complexes, built with brick and shingles to pull memories of more trusting eras from pocketbooks. Outside the black bar gates, the quaint feel abruptly mutates. The concrete is the very earth, the oceans of black tar and the cityscape springs from it., rising on all sides, a canyon of steel and glass.
It's an easy enough stroll, with crowds at a low, everyone either at work or sleeping through it. As the buildings begin to choke the eye, the trees, once lining the walkway, thin out, eventually disappearing completely. I light a smoke and can feel the eyes of the few passersby. Even without a fedora, I can only imagine what they'll say at the dinner table.
"Honey, guess what I saw downtown today! A time traveler, from the 40's!"
"Amazing," she'll say, scooping more mashed potatoes onto the good china.
Echoing across the street-level restaurants surrounding the source, laughter erupts from my chest, probably making the scene of the time traveler crazier.
Yes, people of the future, your ways have driven my primitive senses from me.
With images of the wry past amusing themselves with modern stiffness, I nearly pass the wooden stand. The small things is an image from any gangster movie, made of lumber and hoisted on a single axle, complete with giant, spoked wheels. Painted a quaint pastel blue and yellow, vines crawl up the stands keeping a sign solid. Homey, delicate red paint is practically English caligraphy, spelling out "Thuy's Flowers." It's the simplicity that probably caught my eyes first, if not the petite woman behind the flora. With her cropped hair pulled back, sheen fading under sun and dirt, she throws a clump of dirt and root a direct hit against my cheek.
Her accent's gotten better since we met. I'd loev to take credit for it all, but I know it's a byproduct of haggling and swearing with customers looking for an easy deal. Instead, they got the Gorgon of Saigon. They got Tokyo Rose. If only I could count the horrified scoffs and raised eyebrows that well up from nickname. I called her that the third time I came by. She didn't know what I meant, was more shocked that I thought she was Japanese. Yes, I knew she was Viet. Now, though, I'm not sure if she's still so oblivious to the title's meaning. There's more behind her eyes than a simple peasant girl.
"Who even said I was coming to see you!" I pull vegetation from my hair.
"You are so full of it."
Wait...did she just say 'shit?'...Nooo...
"We both know you come down to see me. Now come here."
Buster. I obey. "So, Tokyo Rose." I get her reactionary giggle. "How close are we?"
Her families' still in Vietnam; and, for the last year, she's been working on getting them over.
"Close. Maybe, I am two-thirds."
As I survey the flowers, I nod. It's a shame, people with money try to talk her down while she scraps together money for a family. I point at a bunch of orange. "We'll have those today." She spouts out something in Ratin, histories, facts, other words that bounce off my skull. I just keep nodding, working to prevent my eyes from glazing over by counting petals in the face of her encyclopedic knowledge. I pry cash from my wallet, pay, and enjoy the ding of her aged register just as much as the first time. Behind my back, I switch the bouquet between my hands and offer them back to her.
"I bought these for you. From a crazy old lady who calls herself Tokyo Rose. I think she's Chinese or something."
"I am not old!" Her grin contradicts her glare.
I have no idea how old she is, now that I think about it. That's the problem with Asian girls, though.
As I turn over the dilema of asking, she lunges. The large needle damn near peirces my chest cavity. "Here. For luck." The sunset blossom pinned to my coat just leaves me confused. Since we met, I've done this. Well, the first time I threw them away a block down, but the verbal lashes quickly ended that. But this? This is new.
"Yeah, um...thanks...?" I'm not one for luck, but I accept it. "Well, T.R., I have important things to do."
"Like what? You work from your home."
"Shut up." I mutter
"Well, have fun with your important things."
I wave from behind, "Always do." The walk of shame is enough to get me swearing at myself, wishing I brought the car.
----
The coffee shop is dying, bleeding out the morning rush. I seat myself at an unbused booth, fishing smokes and matches from coat pockets. A few moments, alone, awake without something to push me. Tokyo Rose has a way of runing my center. She also has a way of being right. I roll a finger and thumb over a petal. Roll it around in my head. Sometimes she does strange things to keep me on my toes. Or to mess with me. Either one. But, everyone once in a while...Once, about seven months back, she had me hand a bundle to the girl behind me, this cute little kid. Maybe twelve, with red pigtails, shouldn't have been out alone like that. She practically breaks down in tears, crushing to flowers between us in a hug worthy of any vice. Turns out, her mom's sick in the hospital a few blocks down. I walk her back and get clamped in another hug by her aunt. The girl says she wanders off looking for some flowers that weren't the dying giftshop roses. The kicker? Later that day, the catch this flasher around the corner.
Could this be the same thing? C'est posible. A dab of sugar and a metal spoon go into the coffee.
When the hell did they clean the dable?
And I didn't even say thanks!
Damn
Anyways, could she be right this time? ...Maybe.
I switch my attention to a strike-anywhere. A few days ago I stumble into this army surplus place, out west. Manage to find this rare catch and buy 500 of them. I try twice to ignite it against my thumbnail before running it against the jagged glass of an ashtray and watching the flame eat the wood.
Then she walks in. Twice in a row, two days. Now I just have to wonder about her mental health. Noted, I've been coming here every day for a few years, but I'm not sure about me, either. She seems almost disappointed that her table's taken. Already marking her territory. I can relate. There is a certain joy of having your spot open. She looks around for seconds before striding towards me. I move my things closer, making room.
I am a douche and she sits a booth away. In the booth next to that, there is a kid eating a pickle like Smeagol would a fish. "I almost burnt my head off!"
Kids. Precious.
She's about a third into her book. Good progress. I focus my head down to avoid staring. Coffee, ashtray, sugar, veil of smoke, coffee, ashtray, sugar...
"Excuse me, sir?"
Ho-ly Shit. She's talking to me, right. Yes... Wait, sir?
"I'm only 27." And already losing it.
...at her unlit cigarette with the innocence of a nicotine-addicted child. Flustered, I dig into my coat, pulling out a fistful of matches. First try, I spark the white tip. The black wisps tangle from the flame before I offer it up. This time, I'm sure I can smell it. An herbal smell, something foreign. That or it's the scent of a match-stick victory. Then I catch her staring at my....chest. I know I'm a bit out of shape...
"Oooh, nice choice in foliage."
...Ooooh..."Yeah, it's my favorite?"
"Really? Mine too. I've been looking all over for some."
Quick! Opening! Tell her that...it's a coincidence because she's reading one of your, mine? Anyways, your-mine favorite books. Tell her that, with so much in common, you should get married and have kids and have the white picket fence and live long, happy lives. Tell her you lied, that you like orange and that prompted the purchase.
"So, yeah, thanks for the light."
Shit. I let my mind wander much too far...
"Oh! Hornby? Liking him so far?" Eh, better than the marriage thing.
Cigarette perched between her lips, she deliberates, weighing the literary qualities like smoke on her tongue. She French inhales, takes a sip of coffee and responds in a slow, thoughtful tone. "Yeah...I'm not sure I completely get it. Definitely a guy book."
"I think every guy should read it at least once. Little Red Book style." Maoist references get all the ladies.
Surprisingly, she does get it. Or, at least, is kind enough to humor me with a grin.
"Oh yeah, I'm Will." Will? I haven't introduced myself as Will since the fourth grade.
"Ah, William, if I can call you that? You don't strike me as a Will."
She's either a mind reader or British. I nod dumbly.
"Well, if you aren't gonna ask, I'm Kay." She offers her small hand, unafraid.
I take it, horribly afraid. "I'm not a sir yet."
She tilts her head at this. I tilt mine. What did I say and why?
"You called me sir, earlier. I'm not a sir, yet."
"Well, again, if you aren't going to ask, I'm 25. But, aside from that, you should be happy with what you're given."
I must say, I'm impressed. Despite the aura of niceties, she's got an edge. Self-satisfied, she grins, enjoying the fact that I'm off-balanced. I raise my mug, toasting her wit.
"A lesson in gratitude?"
"As well as humility." I could swear she winked as she lifted her mug in toast. "So, Sir William, what is it you do?"
Now, I could tell her how I make money, but writing manuals is just plain lame. "Oh, I'm a writer."
"Poetry?" She looks hopeful. Now-a-days, everyone is a poet, but it doesn't affect the stigma of a good poet being worldly and sensitive. I couldn't rhyme myself through a door.
I suppose my abilities are just poor.
I groan aloud. "No...prose." I can feel the disappointment in her "Oh."
"Yeah, I was published a while back." Met with mixed reviews from the few critics who read it and piss-poor sales, but published.
She perks up slightly. That got her attention.
"So, yeah, what do you do?" I smile a bit, finally having some sort of foothold.
"Me? Oh, I work with a bank. Loans and things."
Wow...okay, unexpected. My turn to be disappointed. I wasn't thinking of anything in particular, but I was certainly not thinking that. Maybe, bookstore or...hot-girl club or something.
"I'm working on a degree in Poli-Sy so, if I'm lucky, it's just a thing to get me through."
That's more like it.
Then all thought evaporates. What now? Maybe telling her I dreamed of her would fulfill some sort of romantic fantasy, as misguided as that may be. Or I could exit dramatically, giving her my number as smooth as you could ask and go tell Jon like a school girl yammering about her first manicure.
"Welps, I should head out. Here..." I scribble my number down on a napkin scarred with coffee and hand it over. Leaving three bucks on the table, I turn towards the door. "Call me, if you ever need, ya know, a coffee mate." Yes, if you ever need a creamer, call me.
Wait, metaphor. Hilarity.
She stares at the paper, deciphering meaning, motive, her own plan of action. Neat and business-like, she folds it, placing it into her little pockets.
"Just a second." Knowing glimmers in her eyes. "Was there something you wanted to say to me yesterday?"
Busted.
"Yeah, just that the book was good."
Smirking, she smothers smoldering embers like she did it for a living.
"Oh, and then nature called, eh?"
Blunt. Amazingly so.
"It happens. Weak bladder. Old war wound. Call me and I'll tell you about it." Yes. Mystic. Perfect.
"You know, Sir William, you are an absolute liar."
"Yeaaaah."
"I'll call you later." Again, with the wink. I think.
There we go. I have created rhyme.
Concentrating on the singular task of not looking back, I make a brisk pace towards the exit. I can feel my feet slow. There is a disturbance in the force...
Smokes.
Head lowered, I return to the table. I can feel her chuckling a bit, watching and dissecting the white-knuckle grip I have on the flimsy pack.
"Yeah, so, later."
She nods, amused.
The Winds have changed. Literally. Instead of the nice, moist bite of fall, the cold refresh of spring whips around the dead branches. It's a rare feel in the end of autumn and I take a moment to soak it in before taking a seat behind the wheel. A few pumps of the gas and the car rattles right up.
Chapter 3! END!