Heel Turn
“THOCK…THOCK…THOCK…THOCK.” The sound of her new high-heeled shoes began to bounce from wall to wall, gaining in resonance as she descended the green-tiled stairwell. It was reminiscent of the clicking of one’s tongue on the roof of their mouth (if one was in a cavern). The sound bellowed through the tunnels the closer she came to the Metro station. The faint, yet pungent aroma increasingly assailed her nostrils. It was an almost palpable olfactory cocktail, composed from a myriad of indescribable, ever changing scents topped off with a hefty garnish of homeless relief and cigarette smoke. At a time, is was rather displeasing, but her tolerance to it had grown significantly to the point of vanishing entirely.
She sat on her usual bench, pulled out her pocket-screen, and began to click away. Her hands worked like miniature shovels. Each stroke adding more and more loads to the excremental pile that had come to define not only her culture, but the vast majority of those of whom it thrived upon. She occasionally glanced up at the time and then down the dark tunnel, eagerly anticipating the lights of her carriage home. The 2:30 was normally a bit late, but never by such a margin.
She returned to her handy-work: Hashtag here, emoji there, an inconsequentially registered soapbox complaint about the less-than-punctual state of her public transportation system. Quarter-of the hour ticked by without so much as a faint metal screech to grant her solace. Up she rose from her perch. Her heels “THOCKED” towards the edge of the platform. Her impatient glares were met with the pitch-black tunnel; unchanged since her arrival. She huffed about, pacing back and forth along the yellow, dimpled edge. She halted. Her long sigh of annoyance echoed throughout the station, dissipating into obscurity. At its wake, another sound emerged. Her ears instantly perked up from instinct, but it was not at all what she had hoped to hear.
It was whistling with accompanying footsteps that sounded like a man’s heavy boots. The tune she couldn’t quite place, yet it seemed slightly familiar and not in a good way. Her ease was rattled as it drew nearer. Her back was turned to the approaching figure and she had no intentions of altering that position; simply burying her head in her screen and acting like she was doing something important. Both sounds stopped approximately 10 feet behind her. The short pause that followed was pregnant, and seemed more likely to bare nefarious fruit than any other kind. The footsteps proceeded, but the whistling did not. She prepared to spy peripherally upon the man, but he didn’t step to her side. She could tell he was directly behind her. He was silent but for his heavy breath, which was noticeably riddled with bourbon. Her eyes grew wide as she fought the urge to tremble; biting her bottom lip while staring down at the screen.
“Oy thar, lass.” He murmured, “Whar ya goin soo late?” He hovered over as he sniffed long and loud: her hair, her shoulders. “You smell like a fresh Tulip, ya doo. Ooooh what I wouldn’t do to...”
“Excuse me! Hey!... Stinky Longstockings!” Shouted another voice nearby. This caught them both by surprise and they turned simultaneously toward the source. It was a young man, maybe late twenties, wearing a brown suit and fedora. Her eyes shifted left to reveal the whistler. He was a short scruffy fellow wearing dirty, torn apparel. The sight of him drove out whatever feelings of intimidation she had left at that point. “I don’t think she’s into you, guy. Now back off. You’re probably creepin’ her out. Is he creepin’ you out? He’s gotta be creepin’ you out? I just saw him smell you for God’s sakes. That creeped me out just watchin it.” Her eyes, still wide, now like a deer in headlights. “Moind yer oon bezzness, Sonny Jim!” said Mr. Longstockings. “How bout I “Moind” my foot into whatever teeth you got left rattling around in that gin trap of yours?” The man answered back as he assertively advanced towards them. The scruffy man stumbled backwards, then scurried off; muttering odd, booze addled claptrap as he fled.
Finally back on track, the woman looked towards her rescuer. “Thank you so much. I was freaking out for a second. Had you not come along, I don’t know what I would’ve done.” ” It’s nothing, really” he replied. “There’s a lot of loons out this time of night, you ought to be more careful.” She tilted her head to the side in compliance, then looked to the time, then to the tunnel. “Damn, the EL is never this late. I’m just glad that perv’s gone.” The man chuckled lightly, “Me to.” He looked back to where the drunkard retreated, then at her once more as he leaned in. “Cause, to tell you the truth...I don’t like sharing.” His hand moved swiftly over her nose and mouth. Her feeble attempts to scream were muffled into the noxious rag. Her eyes, fraught with peril, became ever heavier with each panicked breath until all was as dark as the vacant tunnel.
She sat on her usual bench, pulled out her pocket-screen, and began to click away. Her hands worked like miniature shovels. Each stroke adding more and more loads to the excremental pile that had come to define not only her culture, but the vast majority of those of whom it thrived upon. She occasionally glanced up at the time and then down the dark tunnel, eagerly anticipating the lights of her carriage home. The 2:30 was normally a bit late, but never by such a margin.
She returned to her handy-work: Hashtag here, emoji there, an inconsequentially registered soapbox complaint about the less-than-punctual state of her public transportation system. Quarter-of the hour ticked by without so much as a faint metal screech to grant her solace. Up she rose from her perch. Her heels “THOCKED” towards the edge of the platform. Her impatient glares were met with the pitch-black tunnel; unchanged since her arrival. She huffed about, pacing back and forth along the yellow, dimpled edge. She halted. Her long sigh of annoyance echoed throughout the station, dissipating into obscurity. At its wake, another sound emerged. Her ears instantly perked up from instinct, but it was not at all what she had hoped to hear.
It was whistling with accompanying footsteps that sounded like a man’s heavy boots. The tune she couldn’t quite place, yet it seemed slightly familiar and not in a good way. Her ease was rattled as it drew nearer. Her back was turned to the approaching figure and she had no intentions of altering that position; simply burying her head in her screen and acting like she was doing something important. Both sounds stopped approximately 10 feet behind her. The short pause that followed was pregnant, and seemed more likely to bare nefarious fruit than any other kind. The footsteps proceeded, but the whistling did not. She prepared to spy peripherally upon the man, but he didn’t step to her side. She could tell he was directly behind her. He was silent but for his heavy breath, which was noticeably riddled with bourbon. Her eyes grew wide as she fought the urge to tremble; biting her bottom lip while staring down at the screen.
“Oy thar, lass.” He murmured, “Whar ya goin soo late?” He hovered over as he sniffed long and loud: her hair, her shoulders. “You smell like a fresh Tulip, ya doo. Ooooh what I wouldn’t do to...”
“Excuse me! Hey!... Stinky Longstockings!” Shouted another voice nearby. This caught them both by surprise and they turned simultaneously toward the source. It was a young man, maybe late twenties, wearing a brown suit and fedora. Her eyes shifted left to reveal the whistler. He was a short scruffy fellow wearing dirty, torn apparel. The sight of him drove out whatever feelings of intimidation she had left at that point. “I don’t think she’s into you, guy. Now back off. You’re probably creepin’ her out. Is he creepin’ you out? He’s gotta be creepin’ you out? I just saw him smell you for God’s sakes. That creeped me out just watchin it.” Her eyes, still wide, now like a deer in headlights. “Moind yer oon bezzness, Sonny Jim!” said Mr. Longstockings. “How bout I “Moind” my foot into whatever teeth you got left rattling around in that gin trap of yours?” The man answered back as he assertively advanced towards them. The scruffy man stumbled backwards, then scurried off; muttering odd, booze addled claptrap as he fled.
Finally back on track, the woman looked towards her rescuer. “Thank you so much. I was freaking out for a second. Had you not come along, I don’t know what I would’ve done.” ” It’s nothing, really” he replied. “There’s a lot of loons out this time of night, you ought to be more careful.” She tilted her head to the side in compliance, then looked to the time, then to the tunnel. “Damn, the EL is never this late. I’m just glad that perv’s gone.” The man chuckled lightly, “Me to.” He looked back to where the drunkard retreated, then at her once more as he leaned in. “Cause, to tell you the truth...I don’t like sharing.” His hand moved swiftly over her nose and mouth. Her feeble attempts to scream were muffled into the noxious rag. Her eyes, fraught with peril, became ever heavier with each panicked breath until all was as dark as the vacant tunnel.