city shuffle

With fog swirling around his worn out feet, he scraped the pavement along San Francisco's North Beach neighborhood. Traffic lights flickered yellow, cautioning the few cars prowling the streets. He had just finished another shift at The Wine Room, the swanky italian place making noise in teh culinary world of the city.

Twelve straight seventeen hour days was turning his mind to putty, making the Saloon, open later than two, the perfect stool to which he could sit and calm his ragged nerves with violent glasses of irish whiskey. He 'd smoke his camels and talk shop with the other kitchen gargoyles that patrolled the trenches of the city's finest eateries and crawled its seed streets early into the morning. The four of them at The Wine Room, brothers in knives, had bulled their way to the top fo the food chain by hard work, dream like talent, and timing. Blitzing through busy Saturday nights like devils on speed, the plates being created and perfected were pushing the edge of italian cooking in this city steeped in tradition, and it was making waves.

Within the sweltering confines of the kitched they turned out standard polentas, risottos and pastas yet twisted their ordinary makeup into something so explosive that it was beginning to redefine the common definition of each. Using common ingredients to create uncommon dishes in uncommon combinations was the backbone of their genius.

Sitting at the Saloon, listening to Howlin' Wolf growl from the nearby jukebox, all he could think about was the tiredness in his joints and his craving for an ice cream. Smoking haphazardly he recalled table 21 with its return of the ravioli special, and a requisite story from the harlot waitress. He hated when food came back for whatever reason, and this one was classic. She said it wasnt lobster, but crab, and that she should know since she' d been eating crab in this city all her life.

He smiled to himself and asked for another whiskey. People eating in restaurants presume an authority ove rth food they order, and when it is different from expectations, their authority is God's word. Appeased with another glass of wine and an alternate entree, he doubted they would see her again. What he and his posse wanted was a place they could serve a menu-less dining experience, where there was no box to think outside of and customers put their trust in the food. Set price, three sittings a night, communal tables, three course. Perfect, he thought, steppping back into the present and his empty glass.

The wind had picked up , delivering sounds in waves washing b ack and forth over him. The fog muted the night as if pausing to give yesterday's ghosts more time to evade morning's discovery. Columbus avenue was a busy often choked four lane artery through North beach that was lined with cafes, bookstores, pizza places and a different era of characters. Men sat in wire chairs playing cards or dominos, sipping espresso and tilting their hats into the breeze along the sidewalks. Pigeons cooed and flocked to empty peanut shells, to the echoes of conversation and to the bounty of targets walking below their hidden nests. Not only Italian, but French, German and the greasy Americanized version of English was kicked up and down this street.

Leaning on a paperbox, he pushed his boot into a brown paper bag with a capless bottle poking up and felt a weight heavier than just an empty fifth. Pushing harder, the botttle failed to tip over so he leaned down carelessly, wondering to himself why it mattered, and grabbed the neck and stood up. What fell through the fog dampened bag made his head spin back and forth up and down the deserted street, hoping beyond hope that nothing and noone was there. Nothing could have prepared him for what was presently lying next to a box of yesterday's news, clean wrapped and seemingly radioactive on the pavement. Rubbing his bleeding eyes with grubbly food stained hands, he shook the disbelief out and pushed his cap around.

Carefully placing the guilty bottle atop the paper machine and bending quietly down beneath its level, he eyed the front page nervously. Stealing glances over both shoulders and down the street, he began shoving the offending packets in to his pockets, down his jeans and into his coat. Like a trapped rat looking for an exit, he froze in his immediate desire to move, unable to fire the neurons in his brain to make his legs move.

A car suddenly spun around the corner, coming at him from the opposite side of the meridian, dizzying his sense and rattling his bones. Panicking both inside and out, he flew into the empty road and tore off into chinatown seeking refuge in the alien street signs, odd smells and anonymity. Feeling his heart start to migrate up toward his throat, he swallowed what little strength he could and tried to act casual. Running along a sidewalk of shuttered stores , a pair of headlights was catching up to him quickly, reflecting their obnoxious beams off empty windows and back into the filthy street. This wasnt the quaintly ethnic, westernized row of dim sum restaurants and fortune cookie take out dives that characterized the touristy zig zag of streets bordering Market st. on the one side and North Beach on the other. This was the chinatown of spidery one ways, dark alleys and dead ends, where nobody spoke english and nobody looked you in the eye. The smells of fish, rotting fruit, decay and trash rose up through the night while the dampness shoved everything else closer to the ground. He ran while the car slowed behind him, flashing its high beams silently, balatantly into his ignoring back. Ducking down an alley lined with dumpsters and empty parked cars he saw his exit over a chain link and away from the still pursuing car. Running deeper into chinatown meant moving further into an unknown universe, a foreign country fraught with danger. Yet what was in dogged pursuit was also unknown, likely unfriendly, and potentially harmful .

The heart in his chest long ago became accustomed to artifical stimulants such as caffeine, speed, cocaine and gallons of energy drinks, but this sudden physicality of actually running was doing more to kill him than anything else. Adrenaline junkies like himself were allergic to this sort of expenditure of energy, preferring to walk between places, or better yet, get a ride. Running was for criminals and athletes, not smoking, drug using, greasy, itchy line cooks looking for nothing more than a paycheck and a buzz.

Settling into a comfortable pace, he made mental plans for his coup. The possibilities and avenus he could now stroll down, the doors he could shove open, and the comfort he would gain. He smartly fingered his pockets and felt th eliving breathing answer to many of the day's problems. Walking taller, feeling stronger, acting bigger and now practically strutting into a part of the city he shouldnt be, his self assuredness and confidence was sky high. There were no more tailing headlights and his aloneness surrounded him as he began to cross Market st. heading nowhere in particular. Left was the Embarcadero while to the right was the financial district and the mission, two areas best avoided when one has pockets full of happiness.

Feeling a presence start to materialize behind him, he picked up his pace a bit and heard the distinct echo of following steps. Not wanting to turn around for fear of fear itself, he continued moving blindly, trying to mask his dwindling bravado of minutes before.

Cars were scarce and people scarcer as it was a Sunday morning and the weather was classic stay in bed weather. The requisite cart pushers and the cardboard denizens of the cracks of any city hovered here and there killing time in their insouciant way, but other than that the streets were deserted.

part 3 red....

Broken grey light filtered in through dirty windows over strewn clothes, a tossed about bed and boots that had walked many miles. Red Bilodeaux stood at the enamel sink in his bare feet filling the capless teapot, a cigarette between his lips and sleep still in his eyes. Cigarette before coffee, coffee before breakfast, breakfast before lunch. Routine was a comfortable sameness, a blanket he had wrapped himself in a few years ago when he discovered this little niche in the city. There was a corner market, a few drinking establishments where he had been known to frequent, a laundromat, a bowling alley and a park all within walking distance.
And he liked to walk. Red hadnt owned a car in ten years and found no reason to have a license. The streets were his home, a familiar face walking the blocks, he said hello but not much else. He liked to keep moving, keeping his eyes open and his ears alert to waht the city had to offer. Each day, rain or shine, he walked at least a little, maybe down to the market for a fifth or smokes from the Filipino named Rosy. And then, of course, if there was a game on the radio, he'd pick up a 5-pak of King Edwards and laze his way through nine with Scully.
But today was a different day, he thought, looking at himself in the mirror trying to decide whether to shave or not. Coffee on the sink edge, steam wafting up, Red looked deep into his eyes, searching for any guilt or remorse. Finding none, he picked up the soap and turned the hot water on, preparing to scrape the shadow off his face with a new twin blade.

A fresh blade for a fresh day because a feeling had come over him while brewing coffee that there was something in the air. He had talked with Madjack and some of the other Hideaway regulars as well as the cops over the past few days to no avail. He wasnt suspected of anything yet the reports being heard on the street were that the shells found were from those of a .45. And those who knew Red, knew his .45. They also knew Red to be drunk that night, usually the case at that hour if he was out wandering around. What they didnt know, was that it wasnt his hand on the trigger nor was it his fault that the kid on the oiled street was dead.

The girl's face was seared into his memory, while the mangled body of the kid was an amorphous shape clouding vision of that night. He remembered well enough to know he did nothing wrong but not enough to know what happened. His gun in her hand, a crash and another body, lights, darkness, sirens, hot metal in his pocket and an urgent but steady beat to his feet. The rain had been falling and he was wet and shaky, rousted from a drunken stupor in the exact moment of time hell seemed to be shaking loose.
He recalled her face. A look of shock, despair, fear, pain, dismay and utter sexiness that he felt ashamed for thinking of. But the woman's eyes sparkled in the wetness and as he reached for his gun, her hand raised in the firing position, he paused just to stare at her. The radiant beauty of this woman transcended his moment to a fixed point in his universe. The action slowed as she wilted when ceding the gun, sapping her apparent strength and leaving Red suddenly unable to move. That's what he recalled, not the broken bodies or crashed car, but the face of the girl. And since the cops didnt ask about her, he didnt tell them. Hers was a story he wanted to know, but not at the expense of the law bringing its inept and inane pracitces into the equation. She would be around again and myabe he would talk to her, ask her the story, buy her a drink and share a laugh.

Finished with the morning bathroom rituals, he cracked a couple of eggs into a sizzling pan while waiting for his white bread to transform into brown toast. Over easy is how he like to think of himself, having been worked over by the life the easy was, and as his eggs bubbled to a runny finish he smiled the smile of a man with nothing to lose. Up popped the toast onto the plate side by side they lay as the eggs slid from pan to toast in one fluid motion borne of years of friendship. Salt, pepper, fork, knife, coffee, chair, table, and his four star dining experience was about to begin.

Cracking the yolks, he quickly and absently thought of the little marshmallow Easter peeps popular in the spring. And the, with no aforethought, he decided on going down to the Hideaway for a couple of drinks and some banter with the other flies. He thought there might be a game on the TV, but he really wanted to find out if there had been any developments in the so called 'case'.

Shuffling down the sidewalk in his haphazard way, Red tipped his ballcap up and let the air fill his nostrils as he closed his eyes. It was a nondescript day, neither warm or cold, in a nondescript part of the city where the long streets never changed character or acquired any. The street was buzzing with busses, cabs and horns, people and bicycles, but Red felt like he was walking in a bubble, unaffected by the commerce and actiuvity surrounding him. Lighting a cigarette, he stopped at the corner of 28th and Haley, where shards of glass and splintered remains of head light covers lay spread out before him. The contemplative first drag of his winston brought him back to this corner five nights ago, in the rain and blur of an alcoholic fog.

Crossing the street, dodging traffic he found the unassuming door to the Hideawayy, and, escaping the light of day ducked in with a sordid smile on his face.
Beer, Red?
Please.
What's new on the streets today?
Bird shit, pieces of glass, same old gum and a couple of wrappers.
Same old shit then?
You got it.
Cops are poking around looking for you again. Seems they might think its shells from your .45 that shot out the window into that guy's brain.
Whaddaya mean, MY .45? that guy died?
Somebody pinned the .45 to you, and yeah, he died. The back of his head was pulp.
All of a sudden, Red's light mood had gone south. The last thing anybody wanted was the cops looking for him, especially in regards to a potential murder rap. The TV above the bar provided a respite from his now rapidly processing thoughts, watching with blank eyes a meaningless game between a pair of cellar dwellers in the American League, the Royals and Whitesox. The only sounds came from Jack riffling the paper and idle chatter from the two old timers at the other end of the bar.
Alone with his winston, his High life and the silent ball game, Red knew he had nothing to fear, knew he hadnt done anything wrong, knew cops were crooked and knew they would try to pin this on him if they could. As the smoke traced up past his eyes, over the bill of his cap and into the musty stillness of the idling smokeeater above the bar, the door swung upen and in walked two plain clothes detectives. Just like that, Red saw parts of his life flash by in front of the liquor bottles lined up not six feet away.

As good a feeling as he had walking into this bar was now trumped by the bad feeling he was getting from the two dicks at the door letting their eyes adjust to the light, but still looking straight at him. Cops seem to carry bad mojo with them in the pockets of their cheap jackets and button down Wal-Mart white dress shirts, doling it out as they see fit and to whomever they think looks like their having a good day.

I'm Detective Harrison and this is Detective Alvarez.

Perfect, a fat one and a skinny one, a tall one and a short one. Do they always have to be opposites, thought Red. He wondered if it was some guy's job at the academy to assign partners in this way.

What can i do for you?

Are you Red Bilodeaux?

Yep.

Do you own a Colt .45?

Yep.

Is it registered?

Yep.

He felt an invitation for a ride to the station coming on, and so drafted his beer and pulled on the last of his cigarette, stubbing it out in the glass tray between him and Harrison. He had already ansewered the requisite questions from Saturday night so he knew that wasnt on their minds.

Where's the girl?

Coming from left field, the questions aroused his eyebrows in an accented arch.

What girl?

The girl that was with the dead kid who pinched your gun from your passed out ass.

Dont know.

Dont know what? the girl? the time? tell me something Red, you have anything to do with this business? 'Cause if you do and you're not tlling me something, your days could become a little more trying if you know what I mean.

Listen, I dont know who the girl is, where she is or anything about her. I dont know the dead kid or anything about him either. What I do know is that you're interrupting my very pleasant afternoon of a beer and a ballgame. Now, if that's all, I wouldnt mind returning to both.

Hey Jack, could i have a whiskey water please?

Ok,OK Red. Watch your game, but the noise of this isnt going to die down anytime soon, hear me?

Ya Ya loud and clear.

As they finally began to leave and eventually shuffled out the door into the light, Red began to breathe again, a steady rhythm to slow his heart rate and calm his trembling hands. Cops always made his pulse race and his hands shake, came with the territory of always being just this side of the law, he guessed.

He had a feeling this day would be different and he was right. Nothing like being bullied by cops to put one i a mood, Red thought, looking at his nearly empty whiskey glass and wondering if he should pursue this line of reasoning. Deciding against it, he threw a few dollars on the bar for Jack and asked him to put those on his tab. A nod was all he in return as he straightened his hat, pulled up his pants, and strolled toward the door.

The bright light of early afternoon shocked his eyes and he blinked back the black spots at the edge of his vision, trying to squint away the uncomfortableness. Red knew what they wanted but it wasnt his to give, and so the barking up of his tree wasnt going to get them anywhere.

The longer he walked, past the railyards, and down to the industrial heart of the city, the more he wanted grist to feed his mill of curiosity about the dark haired raven of that night. As much as the cops wanted this same information, there were different reasons behind thier respective searches. Red only wanted to be around her, hear her speak of that night, smell the shampoo of her hair, and see the wrinkles of her mouth as she smiled. Cops, they just wanted to make her life miserable.

The city beat with a palpable pulse, winter was taking a back seat but the heat of summer hadnt arrived yet. Leaves were turning green, grass was beginning to come back, the city wide beautification was underway putting flower boxes on street lamps and corners, and the sky was infinitely lighter. Women wore skirts and running shoes over business district pavement while men shed overcoats for sport jackets and wandering eyes. The 'roach coaches' litttered the corners again, flags flying, inflatable hot dogs wafting in the breeze and the smells of downtown mixed with these epicurious odors to give off a percolating aura.

As the city slowly awakened into summer leaving spring a sweet muddy blossoming memory, bikes appeared, windows were rolled down, the mood elevated and smiles became de rigeur. Winter grips cities, people and objects alike. Showing no regard to anything, the cold weather wraps around like a suffocating sweater, focussing inward and pulling the fringes in together. In small towns, neighbors get re-acquainted over shoveled drives, stops at the post office, lingering in the lines at the grocery store to chat, anywhere social, while cities push people away, away from idle talk and into the hurried lives of not having enough time in the dwindling day.

With the changing seasons came changes in Red's routine. Still walking in winter, albeit shorter, he would find the sharp edges of industry, and see the greyness spread out from here infecting the streets and avenues. The noise of winter was muted, the bars darker, the buildings harder, the sun dimmer. In this way Red found depression an easy companion, but come spring, sadness, for whatever reason anyone has, leaves town by its own freewill and everywhere, everyone breathes a little easier.

With spring springing, and pigeons dessicating the potential cleanliness of sidewalks everywhere, a warmish breeze blowing down Lexington, Red felt conflicted. On one hand, he had the law breathing down his neck making him uneasy for no reason. But on the other, he has a figment of a woman beginning to haunt his days and nights, giving him an ;unbearable lightness of being'.

And so a smile eased across his wrinkled face on this day, ignoring the weight the law was trying to strap to his ankles and imagining the pursuit of "raven" in the coming weeks. Not being a man of impulse, Red surprised himself by his desire to follow through on a flying chance. Granted, nothing as yet had come of it, but he felt the layers of ennui peeling off his psyche the longer he walked and thought. She was out there and he would find her, sometime, somewhere so Red put this in his backpocket and slid into another bar called the 'LooseNut" wearing a kind of smile he hadnt worn in years.

The LooseNut was a renaissance bar on the edge of the trendy part of town, that had been re-energized by the makeover of its surrounding neighborhood. With the newly realized in flow of money, people , and construction, the Nut also took a step up. Knocking walls down, carving out more windows, removing twenty years of tobacco stains, tiling the floor, installing new lighting, the owners of the Nut wanted a comfortable bar with a neighborly feel that would attract the divers crowd that was populating the area. And to a degree, they had accomplished this but to Red, any bar that didnt open before noon didnt deserve to be called a bar.

The Nut opened at two most days, ten on sunday mornings during footballl season, and closed at two every night. It wasnt a busy bar but it held its own and with the upscale stools, the few island tables and a worn cedar plank to lean your elbows on and a foot rest running its length, it fit the bill for an afternoon visit by a smiling, walking thirsty man.

Two women sat at one of the islands, an ashtray between them with a smoking butt hanging off the edge, talking quietly but animatedly about a girlfriend of theirs. A bowl of unshellled peanuts sat next to a Budlite table tent advertising drink specials at happy hour. Peanut shells were'nt littering the floor yet, but at the end of a busy night it was wise not to walk around barefoot. Van Morrison sang something melodic in the background, his music blending into any surrounding it was played.

Red swung the door open and dropped his hand into his pocket, noticing the women turning to look him up one side and down the other, then returning to their bloody marys and their chatter. He looked around at the football pennants, the game day posters, the pool table under a beat up Coors light, the sombrers hanging in the corner and a street lamp at the end of the rail with a green light on, and decided to spend some of his handed out money. Slipping onto a stool, he spun a little on its axis, turning to the woman walking toward him with a smile and a bevnap in her hand.

What'll it be boss?

Whiskey water please.

Conversation from the table drifted over him like cigarette smoke, mingling with the other two guys down a few stools sipping Buds and watching the same game Red had been eyeing two hours ago at the Hideaway. Kansas City was up 5-2 at the end of eight.

Unintentionally eavesdropping on the bloody marys, he picked up a fragmented account of some kid being shot or run over or mugged that was Sadie's newest boyfriend. He heard the name Sadie again, and with his ears now effectively tuned to the right station, he surmised that Sadie was his night raven and that she had left town yesterday, heading west, etither Portland or Seattle.

Buoyed by a random dash of hope he tried to sort fact from fiction, hearing in strange voices a clue as to what his next step toward finding Sadie the raven would be. He had no business anywhere, and only assorted friends to keep track of so as long as his checks could findhim he'd be OK. Lighting up and inhaling deeply, the smoke filled his lungs, puffing out his chest in a bravado that didnt really exist. Red was not a spur of the moment guy, a man addicted to patience and routine. It's why baseball so appealed to him, the slow methodical rhythms of the game, the starting point and end goal all within the lines of the playing field that could seemingly stretch out infinitely. Baseball was a game of inches, of strategy, of mind, of grace and beauty, and of childhood never abandoned.

Planning his return to the ethos of baseball, Red began to use a manager's mind to get inside her head, trying to figure out what she would do next, where she would go, how she would get there, and by what means could he accomplish these tasks. In a sense he was beginning a treasure hunt with only a few very indefinite clues, that only provided a teaser of the many more miles he would traverse in those lonesome boots .

part 2...Sadie

With the shaking hands of a sleepless junkie, Sadie fumbled witht he clasp on her wallet. Pulling out a paid off creditcard, she handed it through the window of the train station asking for a one way to Seattle. With her packed bags, empty eyes and forlorn shoulders, Sadie possessed all of the elements of a runaway taking flight from her known world. It was only a matter of time before she landed on her decision to move on. Without any immediate family holding her close, friends as mere acquaintances and a job that was going nowhere fast, a fresh start in a fresh city seemed to be the best move.
Seattle (or portland, who knew) fir the bill as a young urban rtrendy metropolis where blending would be as easy as arriving. Walking the streets in a daze the past few days, Sadie had barely eaten, hardly slept and only went to her apartment to assure herself that she exisited. With each successive sunrise after the accident she became more and more attached to the idea of leaving it behind and starting over. She had talent, looks, a little bit of money, no debt, no boyfriend (anymore), no bills and nothing substantial to keep her in lock step with this miserable city quickly sinking to the bottom of her favorites list.
On the fourth day after, she arrived at Amtrak ready to be lulled by the rails inot unconsciousness. From here it was the California Zephyr to Denver, then Oakland, change trains to the Coast Starlight and up the coast to seattle (or portland). A place of wet hope, damp enthusiasm,and a foggy sense of individuality. With Starbucks, the Mariners and fishing the rule, she was sure she could sit down and make herself comfortable.
The windows of the half empty train were streaked with the grime of this worn out city and its seeping tunnels of darkness it pulled through on its retreat from the reaches of poverty, filth and despair. Sadie eased her chair back to half-recline, putting here shoeless feet up on the chair in front of her so that she could feel like she was escaping the ties flying by below. R eachinginto her bag, the familiar smoothness of a lonely pint of Beam caressed her searching hands and she grabbed it by the throat thereby freeing it from its dark confines. Twisting its neck the cap cracked with a friendly"how do you do?", immediately wafting a smell of of Kentucky into her inhaling nostrils. The first pulll of a new bottle is always the best, akin to the first drag of the first cigarette in the morning, it luxuriates and placates, reaching those places in the brain that need soothing.
Tipping the bottle to her lips, the amber slid down her throat, dragging a bit of tension, stress, and fear with it. Spreading outward to her extremities with each successive pull, Sadie felt the warm glow start to envelop her like her favorite blanket, as she leaned her head back, closed her eyes and felt the rhythm of the tracks start to lull her into an empty space.
Space was what she needed and craved, in her mind, in the train car, in the soon to be wide open country ahead of her, and most importantly, as much of it as possible between her and 28th street. Taking refuge in the lee of the bottle, it was easy to see the whys, the who's, the what's and the how's. The pace of 20/20 hindsightis a trot, allowing one to fixate on specific points of interest and examine the impending reslults of spur of the moment decisions. Why did she fire that gun? Who was that man walking away? What did he do withthe gun with her fingerprints on them? Ho many people wer dead? and why was she scared of staying and facing the music?

Her imagination ran wild in those moments of near disbelief following the accident. THe police had found nothing but the dirty residue of two dead bodies, a wrecked car, a bar full of empty leads and an interest level below the curb. Memories of Jimmy at the pool tables were vague as the cops showed pictures around the neighborhood to try and indentify the girl who was with the shy man who died. Jack could place her at the bar, recalling what she drank, that she paid with cash and that she was hot. Other than that, it was blank. Bartenders have memories for certain things; a too loud order, a bizarre drink, a sexy dress, a haughty laugh, a big tip (or no), distinguishable characteristics that makes one stand out in a disorderly room full of loud people. They make caricatures of thier patrons, preying on their insecurities by referring to them by their most attractive, dominant, or ugliest feature. It becomes a game to guys like Madjack, keeping tabs open on a sheet of paper next to the register with names like 'moleface', 'three earring man', 'leather asshole', that nobody but him will see or know about.
And so he fills them in on 'CC and water' and 'Beam and coke' as best he can, finally recalling the 'CC' didnt pay for his second drink.
call it on the house, jack chuckled, as the poor fuck is dead.

Through heavily lidded eyes and the enveloping warmth of whiskey, Sadie Tordello felt the weighty pull of sleep. Leaving the city, as well as the day's sun, she can feel, albeit only slightly, the past receding behind her on those tracks. She wants to leave it among the spikes, the hobos, the grease and tar, abandon it on the rails and yards of industry, the comfort of steel parallels stretching forward and backward. Leaving behind her pieces of a life willingly left to be scavenged by authorities, landlords, employers, random acquaintances with a curiosity, and a society with a penchant for not letting mysteries die.

Opening up in her polluted dreams were scenes of domesticity, normalcy, and a sunny day at the park with her husband, two kids and the dog abby. The kids, a boy and a girl, being pushed on teh swing by a figure she didnt recognize, a cross possibly between her last few boyfriends with his face obscured by the cloudy sun filtering over the soap opera sappy scene. Off to one side, Sadie could see herself as a stranger, taller and heavier with a spray of moles across her jawline. Placidly smiling this woman who was her but not, stood detached from the scene as if observing the beauty of a regular family in all its quaint Rockwellian poses.
The kids were nearing three and five, bubbly giggly packages of life oblivious to guns, accidents,dreams, trains, and tomorrow. The man pushed the swings with a determined yet carefree effort, his boots shuffling in the cedar bark of the enclosure as his eyes wandered over the park and into the far off street. A siren sang distantly but all Sadie heard was the muffled cries of the kids and the singsong of fluttering birds. It woke her up and the blurring line between dream and reality took seconds to erase.

Darkness had fallen outside the train and city lights receded into the background. Wiping her bloody eyes with dirty hands , Sadie realized she needed a shower. And a long uninterrupted sleep in an empty bed stuffed with pillows and blankets. Dreams would attempt to be her friend as she tried to shake off the drowsiness caused by mr. Beam and too many sleepless nights to no avail.
Falling over the cliff, muscles twitching, she was unable to stop the surging power of fatigue and exhaustion, and sank more heavily into the uncomfortably hard seat of a lonely Amtrak train heading south by southwest. This time, blackness filled the space of dreams, as her consciousness plummeted right through the levels of coherent REM and into that dark place of anaesthesia. Turning inward on herself, her conscious mind dove deep down into her soul, swimming among the discarded values, lost morals, and the handicapped ideals of youth. A mosaic of abstract emotional art suffuse in the dreary glow of a crescent moon. Wandering the corridors of Sadie's unconscious, guilt,pain,sadness, and remorse try to duck behind closed doors hoping to avoid the light of truth threatening to expose them. Running from yourself, it is impossible to hide among your own self erected barriers. Sadie's interior defense was made of 12th century Italian marble , but was beginning to crumble under the persistent water torture of her own mind.

Hours passed in the blink of an eye and they were pulling into Cheyenne. The wind swept morning spread far and wide over the emptiness of central Wyoming. Bands of clouds raced over the early light chasing the receding dawn into morning. Sadie woke to find aches in muscles she forgot she had, cursing her cheapness for not getting a sleeper car. Looking around the nearly empty car, a couple she saw last night was getting ready to debark, the woman worn hard while her husband was straight Ivy league. What were they doing in Wyoming? The man had some garish class ring on his right hand and signs of pre mature balding, while his wife fortified her paid for boobs with expensive lingerie and enough makeup for the entire state of Texas. What would it be like to live in Cheyenne, Sadie wondered. Cowboys, tumbleweeds, hoedowns, cattle, rodeo and emptiness. Itwas certainly a place you could lose yourself, including your sanity.

She stayed on the train and went to look for a cup of coffee. Maybe the bar is open, she thought, and I could back that caffeine with a bloody mary. Stumbling like a teetering drunk, she made her way to the exit and opened the partition door searching for an employee or the peace of mind of the bar. Finding neither in that car, she continued her pursuit down the line as the train slowed noticeably the closer it got to the station. Beyond the flickering windows she saw a city like any other, with cars, traffic, stop lights, but with one little difference. Cheyenne had an over abundance of cowboy hats.

As the train neared its morning terminus, so too did Sadie eventually find what whe was looking for. Another empty car save for a man wiping down a linoleum bar with six stools in front of it and a shelf of peace of mind behind it. His name was Arnold and his blad black head shined like a fresh eight ball, contrasted with his cue ball white smile, he was instantly Sadie's new friend.
Are you open? are the three most hopeful words to a thirsty woman looking to salve her
wounded being.

Arnold grinned slightly and said, not til ten my dear.
Sadie's internal clock realized it was close, but apparently not close enough for Arnold.
coffe, she asked.
of course, milk or sugar?
sweet and creamy. so, yes on both counts.
Having never taken to the bitterness of black coffee, like her father had, she preferred the doctored method of additives. Bailey's was the top choice but as a last resort she would accept cream and sugar.
Settling onto the stool, she wanted to make conversation with this stranger, if for no other reason than to hear her own voice. Loneliness had taken ahold of her overnight and the weight of what she was doing was slowly sinking in. It wasnt the loneliness of being alone that was creeping up her spine, but the newly discovered and realized abandonment of Sadie Tordello.
And the slow transformation she would undergo in the upcoming months, years to another woman with a new story trying to make her way in a new town. Pushing aside those fears of survival, she let herself get excited over the prospect of starting over. New friends, new life, new job, new state, new attitud, and a brand new pair of eyes to which the world would color.

Her eyes, once an innocent mottled brown, had now become hardened, darker, yet still retained their magnetism. Off to the corners of both irises, lay five black dots, freckles she called them, that truly showed in indirect sunlight. They were a point of pride as she had never seen anyone else with anything similar and it was one facet of individuality nobody would ever be able to take away.
Sipping her coffee, she didnt notice the moving hands of the clock walk right by ten and into 10;15.
Can i have a bloody mary please?
and with artful precision, Arnold hand crafted one of the finest stoli bloodys she had ever had, complete with celery, pickled asparagus and two tear drop tomatos bookending a skewered pimiento olive.

Outsid, the train had pulled to a stop and passengers were waddling along the platform, including the irrascible couple from earlier. She tried to imagine their conversation in the rental car heading into the morning for breakfast at Polly's Diner, Hungry Joe's or even the locao IHOP. Putting words in peoples mouths, giving them a story and playing on stereotypes wa something that amused and entertained her. Whether at bus stops, bars, elevators, laundromats or any other public convenience where people meet by chance and circumstance is fair game to her imagination.

Alone in the barcar, her her head and in her life, Sadie knew what it meant to face an unknown future. Her hard charging father had never slowed down from his twenties, providing enough fodder for ridicule and humor long into his forties. Paul had died five years ago come May in a blindly random car accident that ended his days painlessly. Her mother passed away from cancer when she was a little girl, almost nine, and Sadie remembered vaguely the far away look in her eyes as she lay pale and decomposed on the hospital bed. With no sisters or brothers, Paul was left shouldering the nine year old by himself. Paul went about his business, running the bar called Logan's in little Italy. She was his sidekick, confidant, co-worker, best friend and, among other things, his chick magnet. Sadie was bred from attractive stock and Paul was ever the player in the ladie's game. And what's more attractive than a good looking man who owned his own business, raising a daughter single handedly and had a personality to boot? During that day and age, Paul had the city in his hand, economic times were up and he was a having his slice of pie.

But all good things do come to an end and thoughLogan's remains a beacon for the displaced and unpossessed, Paul was forced to sell to fend off the collection agencies that eventually started coming for his dead wife's hospital bills. He called it 'morbid money', collecting from the grave like that. A curiously obscene practice which he believed cultivates the dog eat dog world of today's politics, businesses, and even friendships. To pay off a dead man's debt with a living man's life made about as much sense as frosty the snowman standing post at the gates of Hell. Sadie had inherited her father's penchant for good times, good tliquor, and sense of humor while gleaning from her mother a sense of responsibility, honesty and a flair for the dramatic. She was the perfect combination of grace and grit, grunge and style, equally comfortable in a four star restaurant or hotel as in a two bit hostel or low cieling dive bar.

With the clock pushing eleven, and departure still thirty minutes away, she paid Arnold, slipped him a smile and a few ones, and said she'd see him later.

At Denver she would upgrade to a sleeper car, but for now, her corner of the train with her possessions spread upon the four seats, would do. She thought about the possibilities, the promise and the anticipation of her not yet adopted home. Bartending, waitressing, bike courier, teaching, computer teching were all options, all ways to a means. But the most lucrative and most quickly attainable was tending bar. Her back stash of money was cushion enough to float on for a month or two, but the need for a bed and a tidy place to prop her feet up would take a fair bite out of her pocket. Finding solace in her thoughts for the first time in a week relaxed her to the point of heaving a sigh of unguarded relief.
In the rear view of her memory's eye she recalled the phone booth that was home to her tears and where the seeds for her fateful decision to leave were sown. That enclosed glass box, protected from the wind, rain, sun and dark, proved to be the beginnning of her journey to today. Walkiing along the platform, the whistle for embarkation blew, and with that she took one more step in walking away from her past.