Wednesday.

“Who are you if you’re not angry? When are you going to realize you are beyond your rage”

The preacher’s voice bounced down the marble stairs, surrounding anyone who climbed to the open air. Not bad, for a busker, I thought as I rushed out of the subway to yet another dead end job. Their message echoed between my ears as the sounds of the outer world compete.

Anger.

Contemplation of my complicated relationship with rage cuts off as I tumble into to the
bar. Door unlocked, bag slammed down and hairs captured in a bun, I’m ready to open. As usual, I’m late. A creak lifts my head “Hi, Ember” Mark chimes. The man has opened the bar with every tender since its inception in 76, easily since his unit is the one below. A caretaker for the building, Mark is the neighborhood. The mornings are my favorite time with him as it’s the only time in the day you may actually see him dry. Mark is fabulous in his small doses but you can tell the drink takes him at times. It’s not that he becomes bad, per se. Really, it just illuminates his edges.
“I’ve got to run this deposit to the bank. Can you watch the spot?” I always asked Mark
knowing full well the bar wouldn’t fill up for another 45 minutes. He barely gets out the
confirmation before I fly out the door. Down the block, 3 and to the left, is my typical route so I can pass Beatty the florist and Alamar at the bodega. Beatty has the most gorgeous hydrangeas and attitude. She’s a crisp breath of fresh air in the smog that is life and pulled me out of many a funk. I can’t help but wonder how that burden weighs if at all. After a short chat with Beatty, I hustle over to the bodega to grab that ginger shot I know is fruitless and the world’s best sausage, egg and cheddar on a croissant.
“Ember!” His voice booms corner to corner in the 20×20 convenience store, enveloping like a warm hug.
“Alamar, the great! The pleasure is mine”
“Usual kid?”
“What day could I possible have without fuel? I’m gonna drop this at the bank round the corner but Yeah, usual all day. Oh, you know Mark’s normal? I owe one”
“Got you” I hear as I slip out the door, round the corner and do my job.
The familiar chime of the bodega door settles any discomfort provided by the sterilized windows nearly as soulless as the under paid associate’s eyes, dulling through the frosted glass. Something stokes inside while in that mechanism of oppression. I reach for the sandwiches cash in hand.
“You heard about Agatha?” He peers down his lenses, eyes gentle and glistening. I paused, it all flooding back to me. My girlhood encompasses two main pillars of strength, my mom and Miss Agatha. The most slavic person I’d ever met, she was armed with comforting food, loving persistence and a resilience to inspire awe presented. She was joyful but not boisterous, wise but not inflexible, kind but not that nice, a real conundrum.
“We were there” my eyes lowered. Immediately abandoning the grill, Alamar rushes around the corner of the counter, arms open. Carrying the weight of last week’s events with the reality of continuing to exist burst out of me, I started bawling. It was the kind of cry better spared from the eyes of others. Snot dribbles and my lip won’t stop quivering, I burry myself further into the embrace.
“That’s so fucked” he whispers, tears flowing choking any future of another sentence.
That lasted a while. A whole burnt cheesesteak and half a roll of paper towels later, my face looked like a bruised tomato. I debated my sunburn story as I went to pay.
“Let’s not fight” he says handing the sandwiches over napkins in tow. My lip quivers and he briskly interrupts “Love you too” The cool air balancing the heat from my face, I take the street in before slowly walking back to the bar, a different route to skip familiarity and small talk.

1111 Bryarwilt, Concrete Window, Withered Trim
I’ve worked here on and off for the last 8 years in between gigs, the longest relationship I’ve ever had by miles. A deep breath as I swing the overweight door it slamming shut behind me.“You held it down as usual. Thanks, Mark” I swiftly place the sandwich and a few napkins in front of his Miller High Life. Delighted, Mark simply lifted his chin and straight back down. I would receive about 22 minutes of peace from this simple act.
For What It’s Worth sweetly dances in the silence between us, the first moment of calm I’ve felt in so long.
SLAM, the front door pushes out the sliver of sunlight. The chatter of many fulfills the room and I am immediately thrust back into life.

“Table for 6”

Minimal proofing. Just a fast short story.