Scribble and Strum

"So where? Where would you go?" The woman rested her chin on her fingers. How beautiful, Gerry thought. That is a perfect face. He poured some cream into his coffee and gave the question some thought.

"Gee, I don't know. I mean, I never really gave it any thought. There are just so many. Places, I mean. Sometimes, I think 'Why would I ever want to leave New York? This is New York! THE city, you know? Other times, this place gets me so frustrated I think, 'You'd better get me a ticket out of here, pal, or I'm going to burn something down!'" He laughed, gave his coffee a stir, and stared out the diner's window. Beyond his reflection was the familiar street-crew paving on a bright, busy, summer day. They'd been working outside the eatery for two weeks. "You know? You know what I mean?"

The woman nodded and smiled, and Gerry returned his attention. "Well, if you just had to leave," she explained. "Had to. Let's say you were on the lam. For arson! Ha! Where would you escape to?"

"Huh. Well, my family--great-granddad and them--are from England, so I guess I'd go there." Gerry rubbed his neck and looked down into his sandwich, suddenly growing a little uneasy at the admission and attention he was giving this person. They really hadn't known each other for long.

"Ah... So London, then! Big Ben! Buckingham Palace!"

Gerry shook his head and smiled. Sure feels like I've known her for years. "Ha--no, no. Too big, too big. Ha, ha. My family's from one of the littler places like, um... Pickle-shire or something like that."

"Pick--PICKLEshire?!"

The woman laughed loudly and snorted, which drew attention and disapproving
looks from the elderly a few tables away--the diner's only other pair of customers. Damn, that's a gorgeous laugh. Gerry shrugged shyly, chuckled humbly at his gaffe, then lifted his spoon and affected an air of false haughtiness. "Yeah, ha. Pickleshire, England: A most, um, well-preserved village."

"What? Wha--oh! Hahaha..." The woman let out a grand, girlish laugh at this and pounded the table jovially. Silverware jumped and clattered, coffee splashed. The older couple was not amused. The woman excused herself from the table as she dabbed her teary cheeks with a napkin. "Well-preserved...ha, hmm." She smiled, got up and smoothed her dress, then headed toward the restroom, hip-brushing Gerry's shoulder on the way by.

Gerry sipped his coffee and sighed. God-damn, she's attractive. And smart. Seems young. She laughed at that crap joke? I wonder, is there a chance of... No, no. Wait... Do I have a chance here? No... No. NO, Gerry. With a heft of breath he gazed out the window. At the street crew, his sorry job framed oddly in the image of his face--the weathered mask of a single, lonely, fifty-year old man. That's you, Gerry. That's your family. He glanced at his watch: 2:24. "Damn it". Wiped his mouth. Drummed his fingers. Lunch break was nearly over, he realized, and soon he'd have to get back on the jackhammer or help Hutch with the mixer. Mr. Sandler had said he needed all the overtime he could squeeze out of him this week... No time. Never enough time. Gerry looked at the old folks at their corner table, silently chewing their meal and sharing a scowl at some slight he couldn't figure. He measured the man's gnarled, overworked hands as they shakily held down and sliced an omelet, just barely clinging to their purpose. "Damn. Wouldn't want to be that guy."

Wait. Gerry looked at his hands. AM I that guy? Gerry sat rapt for another minute, turning his palms over again slowly. He then quickly brushed their callouses over the legs of his jeans and snapped out of reverie.

Gerry smiled.

"No. There is time."

Soon, there was the comforting click of heels. Gerry erected a grin and looked over his shoulder, expecting to see the young, mysterious woman who'd chosen, out of the blue, to eat her lunch with him. Instead was their soggy waitress Harriet, who smiled, jabbed a slip of paper into his chest, then nudged her head toward the exit.

"Here's your bill, sugar." She chuckled with a forced spunk, habitual and dry. Harriet wasn't fooling anyone and she knew it. Didn't care. Couldn't, not anymore. "Lady had a rush in her, huh? Haha... She ran outta here pretty quick! Hoo, you musta said somethin' to get to her, right?" She nodded. "Mmm-hmm. For sure. Somethin' real baaad. That musta been some dirty joke, Gerry! Hahaha!" Her joints cracked.

"Dirty joke? Wait, what? She's gone?"

"Who's there? Just come out!"

Brenda paced by the parlor window, rubbed her hand on her forehead, stifled a fit of sobs. She had dimmed every light in the house in the hopes of creating the illusion of an empty home, without having to commit to the potential terrors of a more complete darkness. It was one of those terrible nights in which unexplainable fear would lace her every thought. These nights, she could be doing something as innocuous as chopping a pepper or painting her nails, when the thunder of a large truck would scare her out of the potential a full night's sleep.

Her husband was home upstairs in bed. That should have been a comfort, but he scared her as much as anything else. He wasn't a frightening man. Harold McCarthy was calm, often calming, and as caring as the best of people. She listened to a set of his muffled snores through the ceiling--it was terrifying. Everything was terrifying. She almost wished Harold was an evil man; then she could interpret his night's breath as an indication of her safety. Her tiptoeing would then feel useful, and she would have something to protect herself from--a real monster. But the evil wasn't Harold, he was incapable of malice. The evil was everything around her and her caution for an unjustified idea. Fear, she thought, just fear.

That should do it, right?, she thought to herself. You tell yourself that fear is fear is fear is fear, and oh, God--it's supposed to go away! It's nothing, and I know it's nothing! There's nothing here! It's supposed to go away!  Go! Away!

This happened often. What Brenda didn't know was: tonight's fear would save her life.