Everyday Lies

Everyday Lies

“Whenever things are not going your way you duck into your shell, like a damn turtle!” Ralph Masse shouted.  “I hate that!  I can’t stand the cold shoulder business anymore!”
I could understand his impatience; I know I am not the easiest person to get along with. What I could not abide was his lack of consideration for me. He went on a rant about my inability to consider his needs, about how I didn’t return his calls; wouldn’t connect or communicate, about my not supporting him one hundred percent. His hansom face distorted by the raw emotions, a red flush warming his pecan brown skin. Where was my consideration, where was my support? I retorted silently.
“You can’t even appreciate what you got right in front of you.” He continued. “You never loved me…” He said shocked, as if being struck by an epiphany. He was right. He had been convenient shelter from the storm raging in my life at the time when we met. I let “Us” continue way too long because he felt safe.

There was pain on his strong, masculine face that made him look like a lost child.
“I’m sorry.”  That was all there was left for me to say. He was rightly indignant. I had treated him unfairly, selfishly.  I couldn't stand there just watching him fume and brood. He didn't want me there any more than I wanted to be there. I needed to walk, and walk, and walk.

*   *   *

The sounds around me seem dull and blurred as I wondered through the streets of downtown Denver after work. The colors and faces were lifeless and foreign.  I am lost.  I thought as I wandered further. The high heals and the pinstriped pencil skirt looked good on me but were not made for strolling. I pulled my suit jacket on as the evening air started to turn cool. My feet started to ache. There was music playing from inside a café. Jazz, I think, blended with a little funky soul.  It was cold and the café sounded warm with voices and music and smoke. Its atmosphere penetrated the fog that had overcome me. I turned toward the door and went in.  The street had been dim in the fading light of dusk but the club was dark.  My eyes needed to adjust a moment.  Not seeing the small step just inside the lobby, I stumbled. Faces turned my way and smiled.  Others, no doubt, had experience the same graceful first time entrance into 'Smokey’s' world as if being initiated into a secret society. 

As my eyes gathered in the golden light from candles and the stage I found a seat at a table near the bar. It was a small place, about half full, but it was early yet. From the energy in the place, I got the impression that it would fill up quickly.  It was as if I was slowly waking up from, or maybe just drifting into, a dream; or just floating somewhere in the middle.

A man approached my table. He had ageless face, but I guessed he was in his 60’s, salt-n-pepper well trimmed beard, wiry, with skin as dark as the room I sat in. He wore black pants and a black “T” with a large, red saxophone imprinted on the front. The word Smokey’s in silvery script emblazoned across his chest.
“Welcome to Smokey’s” he said with a smile. His voice was raspy and hinted at some long forsaken island home. “This is your first time here isn’t it?” I nodded; afraid my voice would give away my emotions. “Well, you passed your hazing.” His eyes were laughing, sparkling in the dim light of the candle on my table. “There is a sign that says watch your step but no one sees it until after their first trip.”

“My friends call me Smoke and this is my place.” He said with a slight flourish. “According to my custom, beautiful ladies, on their first visit, get a glass of Champagne on the house.” As if on cue, a woman, in the same uniform as Smoke’s, appeared with a chilled sparkling flute of pale golden liquid. I smiled. I must have looked a little confused or dazed because concern washed over his face. “If you would rather have something else, maybe non alcoholic, I have that as well.”

“No, no.” I reassured him, and allowed my smile to widen and my shoulders to relax a little.  “This is just so unexpectedly nice. You have made me feel so welcome and…” My voice trailed off. “Thank you.” I said finally, “My name is Nia March,” looking up into his friendly eyes, hoping he would simply leave it at that, and at the same time feeling compelled to tell him all my troubles.

“The band playing is ‘The Quorum’,” he continued. “The food here is outa this world, if I may say so myself.” Once again, as if on cue, the waitress reappeared with a menu, setting it quietly at my left. “I hope you enjoy your visit.” Smoke disappeared into the room, backing away with at bow, his charming smile slicing through the darkness.

The freshness and effervescence of the champagne I sipped lifting my mood further.  The music began again and I was caught off guard buy the soulful sound that emanate from the singer throat, effortlessly, growing from a small sigh to an almost heart-wrenching moan. It moved me.  It was as if the pain in my heart was speaking through her voice.

“Her voice did that to me the first time I heard it.” A voice spoke softly over my shoulder. “It’s as if she is crying for you and with you.” He continued. I tore my eyes away from the face of the singer and slowly turned toward the voice. He was slim and tall and had the face Italian prince framed with thick wavy locks of hair.  It took me a moment to register what he had said.  I had no idea that there were tears in my eyes until he touched my cheek with a drink napkin. Embarrassed, I turned away quickly and grabbed for my purse. My intent was to head for the door, back into the streets and anonymity, but I stopped. I felt good here, safe.  I didn’t want to go.

“I’m sorry.” The stranger was saying. “I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t mean to scare you or chase you away. It was just the look on your face. I could feel you feelin the music like I do and I just wanted to share it with you for a moment.” He continued in an apologetic rush. “I’m Winsome Turner,” and extended his hand as a peace offering."I'm kinda a regular around here."

“I’m Nia,” I replied and accepted hand. I couldn’t help but notice its strength and the way it fit into mine “but I would really rather be alone right now, if you don’t mind.” I turned back toward the singer without a smile, signaling the end of our brief interlude. The last thing I needed was some bar crawler sniffing around. Even if he was one of the most hansom men I had ever seen in my life. I had had enough of men for the rest of the year; thank you very much! I reached impatiently for my champagne and tossed back what remained in the glass. Selfish bastards!

“I’m sorry for bothering you. Enjoy the show.” Irritation flavored his tone as he eased away back toward the bar. My purse was on my lap. Reaching in, I found some tissue and dried my tears and smoothed out my makeup. I reached for my lipstick out of habit.  I needed to compose my mask, and hopefully, hide my self-consciousness.
Instead I pulled out small shiny black flash-drive from the bottom of my makeup bag.  Probably belongs to Ralph, I thought and my mind drifted to the future prospect of separating our possessions, furniture, photographs. I shook my head to dislodge this unwanted shadow on my evening.

The bar crawler had said that I should enjoy the show, so I did, enjoy the show that is. I ordered more champagne, clapped my hands, swayed to the music and quietly sang along. The singer introduced herself as Ifayomi and spotlighted all the members of  'The Quorum', each doing a brief solo. The crowd rewarded them with whistles and applause. She sang some Billie Holiday, a little Anita Baker, some Alysha and Jill Scott and some old jazz standards. All with her own flare and flavor. She cried with me and raged with me, laughed with me and rejoiced with me and sang me a lullaby as well.

 *   *   *

I caught a glimpse of Smoke just as Ifayomi finished her set. I waved at him, and he came over.
“I just wanted to say thank you for making me feel so at home and for what you have created here. I will be back.” I said feeling as if the weight of the world had lifted off my shoulders.

“If you bring that smile back with you, you are welcome anytime.” He reached for my hand and kissed the back of it gently. Smooooth! “May I call you a cab?”

“Yes, please.”
He made a gesture into the air with one hand and offered me his elbow. We walked slowly toward the door.
“Watch you step. Remember?” He said, as he pointed down to the ambush that had caught me earlier. I was more unsteady than I realized and was glad to have his arm. How many glasses of champagne did I have?

A cab glided to a stop just as we stepped into the cool night air. I had no concept of time.

“Thank you.”

“Be safe and come back soon.” He said as he guided me to my seat.

The driver waved at Smoke. The cab pulled away, smoothly, into the diminished traffic of post midnight downtown. I snuggled down against the seat and pulled my jacket over my chest and up under my chin.
“6330 Linton Dr. Please.” I said to the driver and relaxed into the seat. Contented. The music had worked its magic. 

“Smokey’s is a great place, isn’t?” Cabbies and conversation go hand in hand.

“Mmhm,” I hummed sleepily in agreement.

“Was that Shara singing tonight?”

“No, a group called The Quorum the singers name is Ifayomi.”

“Yea, they are really good, too. You should come on a Thursday when Shara’s there. She’s my niece and she sounds just like Lauren Hill…” He was a talker. His name was Bill; Bill was a big fella, almost too big for his cab, about 6’5” and 300 pounds. As we drove he told me the history of Smokey’s: When it’s first opened in 1992, how he proposed to his wife there, all about his nieces singing career, and how Smokey calls him to work as a bouncer from time to time when there is a big event or some big name singer. 

The fifteen minute ride was filled with his happy reflections and melodious deep voice.  Any other time I would have been annoyed by the incessant conversation and would have feigned a phone call to avoid it, but tonight it fit.  I just listened and smiled quietly as I watched the lights of the city blur past the window. He eased to a stop in front of my little shaker style bungalow and jumped out of the cab to open my door as I pulled on my jacket. I handed him a twenty and waved him off as he reached for my change.

“Thanks Bill.” I said over my shoulder and started up the walk. Before taking two steps, however, I froze in my tracks. My eyes seemed to focus in the dark, all of a sudden, like a cat and I could see the details of the front of my home as clear as day.  Something was off. Something just did not feel right. My breath hung up in my chest and I instinctively eased backward ever so slightly.

Bill was back in his car but had not pulled away.  He stepped out again. “Is everything O.K.?” He asked, his words breaking my trance.

“No, it’s not.” I said.  A cat, my cat, burst from the front door just as I was turning back toward Big Bill and his cab. I jumped and spun to face the door again. “How did you get out Jinx?” The words spilling out in a surprised rush of air.

“Ralph? Is that you?” Just as the words left my lips the shape of a man sprang from the shadows of my porch toward me.  
 “Your purse!” a voice barked from the shadow.
I planted my left foot to run, the stiletto heal of my shoe snapped off in a crack in the walk.  I tumbled to the ground. Suddenly a shadow from behind me lunged at the shadow emerging from my door. The two silhouettes collided and became one immense writhing mass on my front lawn. My cat hissed from under a hydrangea bush, a punch connected, grunts, some fabric ripped, a deep voiced cursed and swore. I kicked the remaining shoe from my right foot, scrambled to my feet and ran toward the cab. A gunshot exploded, then another, the report echoed and rang in the air. One of the men on the ground moved.  I couldn’t tell who.  
Now in the cab, I turned the key and hit the accelerator while reaching for my purse, my phone. Neither was there. Lost in the panic. There was an all night gas station three blocks up I needed to get help for Bill. He had looked out for me, a stranger, and now he might be hurt or dead.  My hands started trembling and tears blinded me as the cab hit the driveway of the well lit station.  Before it stopped moving I threw the car into park and leaped from behind the wheel, barefoot, running wild toward the door. The attendant looked up from her reading in the empty store. Braided red hair pulled back away from her freckled latte colored face. She must have seen the raw terror in my eyes because she got up quickly and ran to meet me at the door, her eyes scanning the street behind me. There was something in her hand, a bat maybe.

“Someone’s been shot! Someone’s been shot!” I cried out breathlessly. My legs were unsteady, my head was spinning. I fell hard against her. Her eyes, the color of green tea, grew big and fearful as she looked down at me.

“You da one dats shot! Damn! Oh God!” She exclaimed as she guided my exhausted frame to the floor. I could hear the south in her voice. Her words, though, were confusing... didn’t make sense.  Me? Shot? No, its Big Bill, he’s the one in trouble! Breathing hurt and the lights were too bright, they were making my head hurt. Why did my back hurt? I tried to talk but the words wouldn’t come out. Thank God someone was dimming the lights; my head hurt…Then darkness. Then quiet.

a shor story: Die! vermine.

As she watched him carefully sprinkled the white powder around the foundation of the house she felt a chill run through her like a November wind in Chicago. She saw the scull and cross bones on the label, she saw the rubber gloves he wore to avoid getting the toxic substance on his skin, she saw the particle mask he wore over his nose and mouth to prevent inhaling it and she saw the method of his death, all in a fraction of a second before she asked sweetly; “What are you doing honey?”.

“You remember I told you I saw some mice, so I got some rat poison to spread around. I’m gonna mix some in some peanut butter and spread that around too.” He was so proud of his efficient little plan to protect their sweet little home of the nasty vermin coming in from the woods to the east of house.

“You’d better be careful with that stuff!” was her saccharin response. She had decided to kill him weeks ago. The decision being made with a genuine since of sadness that such a nice guy had to die.  But the decision had been made and now the method of Harold’s demise had presented itself quite serendipitously. Cyanide. Quick, clean and deadly.

Helen would hold on to this next progression in her preparation. She would hold it secretly, not making any note in a journal or sharing her emergent scheme with anyone. She would not foolishly checking out a book on poisons from the local library or make a dead husband joke. Helen would not event touch the box of poison so that her prints or DNA would not event be found on it. Helen was much too smart for that, actually Helen was brilliant. This would be perfect as each of her previous plans had been. Not rushed, because there was not reason to hurry, no plane to catch or deadline to meet. Not in anger because Helen did not hate her husband and anger would only make her sloppy and impulsive. No. his death would be elegant and poetic, even tragic. Perfect. How all this would take place was still yet to be determined and that was OK. Helen was the epitome of patience. She smiled at the thought of just how brilliant she was.

Her bare feet made no sound on the grass as she moved to re-enter the house. Harold watcher her go. He loved to watch her go. “I hate to see you leave, but I love to watch you go!” He called after her with a wolf whistle and a grin. It was something his Dad always said to his mother when he was a kid. He didn’t know what it meant then but he definitely did now. The moment he met Helen his father’s words sprang in to his head. She had a nice ass. Hell, she had a nice everything. She was not drop dead gorgeous nor was her beauty or stature intimidating; she was fine and had a pretty face as the many stares and smiles from passers by would attest. Her eyes were intelligent and always seemed to be smiling, inviting everyone she met share a moment within her world. Her skin was like a caramel apple inviting ones to taste and see if she was as sweet as she looked. Harold loved her but as Helen disappeared through the door of the house they shared as husband and wife; the smile fell from his lips like the leaves falling from the sycamore tree he stood under. Sadness washed over him at the thought of the shock and disappointment he would cause his lovely wife if she knew the truth.

His admirations halted her steps for a moment. As she turned to flirt with her husband Lloyds face came into focus across the street. He had witnessed their exchanged and was grinning at her ass as well.

“Harold’s putting poison down for the mice so you’d better keep “Pepper on a leash for a few days, Lloyd.” Lloyd Harper’s mutt was a neighborhood nuisance, no one would miss it if it did poison itself sniffing around the fence but it was opportune to share with someone that Harold was handling poison. Convenient the way these flashes of brilliance kept popping into Helens head.

…   …  …

Harold waved at Lloyd, turned back to his work and walked toward the fence at the edge of the yard beyond which was the 10 or 12 acre stand of trees they called the woods. “This is where I need to bait those wood mice.” He thought to himself as he walked along and sprinkled more poison. He pulled the vibrating cell phone out of his pocket. There were specks of white on his gloved hand but he didn’t notice. He had hardly been able to breath in expectation of this call and hearing the voice on the other end.

“Hey man” was his typical, casual greeting when he saw Ryan’s number flash up on his I-Phone. Harold worked hard to keep the excitement out of his voice.

“How are you, man?” Ryan asked, he was genuinely concerned about his friend. Harold had not been himself for weeks. Sometimes he was distracted and agitated and other times he was almost euphoric and giddy. It had been at least 3 months since they had had a real argument over the Lakers vs the Pistons or even played a round of Golf. They had been best friends since college. Over 16 years. Ryan knew Harold better than Harold’s own wife knew him. Harold’s wife didn’t know about his experimentations designer drugs or with gay lovers in the old days.  But Ryan knew, since he had been his first. His wife didn’t know the truth about how his father died. But Ryan did since he had been the one that had held him while he cried after reading the suicide note. His wife didn’t know about his creepin either, but Ryan knew it all and more. Harold told Ryan everything as if he were his therapist or priest and to tell Ryan Ebu, Accountant, Little League Coach, Best friend, somehow meant absolution. But now something was happening in Harold’s life that he had not shared with him. Not that Ryan felt he had a right to know or anything like that. It was, however, odd.

“Look” Ryan continued. “Why don’t we get together for a beer or something? It’s been almost six months since we did any hangin out and you’ve been brushing me off when I called. Whaz up? Did I kill your dog or something?” Ryan tried to keep thing light but he truly did want to know what was up with his friend.

“Hey, man, you know that we’re cool. I’ve just had some things on my mind that I just kinda needed to think through. But yeah, what are you doing around seven or eight?”

“I’m open. How about I meet you at Sonny’s” Ryan chose Sonny’s because he knew it was one of Harold’s favorites places. They had his favorite beer on tap and always had some sort of game on the flat screens around the bar. It was a guy place where guys hung out and talked loud about games and women and work and blood and conquest and cars and money and bull shit. Ryan though he chose well. Harold however made another suggestion.

“I feel more like going to Black Mojo’s, and getting a table outside. I’ve got some stuff to finish around here so I’ll see you at about eight.” And then came the puzzle…”I love you man.” And the call ended.

“Black Mojo’s” “I love you?” Ryan mused over the statements. Harold only said stuff like that when he was drunk or if something traumatic has occurred. Ryan knew there was much love between the two of them. They had been so close for so long and been through so much together. And although Black Mojo’s was his favorite Cajun restaurant Ryan could not remember Harold ever wanting to go there. Now rather than feeling better after speaking to his AWL friend he was more alarmed than ever.

Harold passed his gloved had across his face to wipe a bead of sweat from his face leaving a faint trace of white powder. He didn’t notice. He touched the phone to his lips, pensively, as he contemplated his plans for tonight.  Then turning his attention back to the duty at had, killing vermin, Harold shifted his jaw and adjusted his posture transforming Bill Murray’s character from Caddyshack. The scenes from the movie rolled through his memory at the though of the word ‘vermin’. “Die vermin”, He laughed. He felt good.

…   …  …

Helen had been watching Harold from the window. “You’re not being very careful with that stuff Harold.” She chastised in a whispered song. The left side of her mouth curling upward. Her predatory gaze taking in his every movement.  The phone call made her curious. She made a mental note to look into that later as she made her way to the shower. Saturdays were already so busy and now that she was planning Harold’s demise she was going to be even more pressed for time. “I’d better schedule more time around the house; that will help,” she thought to herself. “I’ll invite the book club to meet here for the next few weeks and I’ll skip the HOA meeting on the first.” Sacrifices had to be made if she was going to do this right.

…   …  …

“Helen”