A plant.
2
I know where the guy is from what she’s said in her prayers. This is the good thing about clients being in proximity to payphones, you can track them and their relations pretty easily. I’m not sure what he looks like, but she’s talked about the bastard so much that I think I’ll know him when I see him.
Of all the seasons I hate winter the most. In winter, a person isn’t a person, but a just single dot on a pretty blank page. The white draws so much attention to you, no one can hide in the middle of a snowy field (though I suppose they could be lost in a snowstorm, whitewashed like a new picket fence). I despise the biting air and the stinging ice that falls like bombs from the sky, targeting the bare skin of people’s faces. The achy feeling that develops in the joints of exposed fingers, the red cheeks and the feeling of utter wetness in winter tears. I think these things to take my mind off the present as I near my destination through the wishy washy ally ways of downtown, the rust covered dust covered surfaces of decaying buildings that have been there since even I was alive.
The betrayed desperation of hundreds of freezing families condenses at the end of the road. I drop a twenty on the ground in front of a particularly skeletal house, knowing that the eight children living there need it a lot more than anyone else does today. The youngest one is sick, and if she doesn’t get any food in her soon she won’t make it to Christmas.
I notice now that my pace has started back into a jog, which I’m sure makes me look guilty of something. I try to slow it down, but I can’t calm my nervousness. I stop at the entrance of a small, dirty little restaurant on a corner and catch my breath, walking in as casually as I can, sitting down in a booth in the back. The only hostess is a beautiful young Indian woman with a smooth chocolate complexion. She watches my every move, and immediately jumps to my aid once I’m seated.
“Good afternoon, sir, what would you like today?” she asks in calm, thickly accented English, handing me a homemade menu of sharpie marker and magazine cutouts.
Of course I can’t answer her question, but I nod, look contemplative for a moment, then point decidedly at a photo of a cup of coffee that I know won’t do a thing to calm me down. She enters the image into her own visual databank, computes it, then nods, returning hastily to the counter where she pours some ready made product into a brown, chipped mug. She smiles a big, gleaming smile as she serves me, showing genuine appreciation for my business. I don’t know what she prays for, because she probably speaks an Indian language and has an Indian plant to listen, but looking around this shit hole I can guess. I smile back, trying to look as appreciative as she does, but I fail horribly cause I am not a smiler. The cup has no handle.
I carefully wrap my fingers around the rim of it, and ease the cup to my lips, sipping sparsely so I won’t get burned. But instead of heat I feel ice water. The coffee is colder than the winter air. A little irked, I continue drinking, just thankful that the flavor suits me. Iced coffee is just as enjoyable as the hot kind anyway. The drink serves to settle me somewhat. I wonder why so many people drink caffeinated things when they’re stressed, or smoke cigarettes, when both of them just stimulate your chaotic mind. I stand quietly as I watch her scurry into the back room, and I slip a hundred dollar bill under the menu for her. I have one foot out the door when I hear it– another pay phone. It’s a small one with a broken cord on the wall at the entrance. I look around for the hostess before answering. It’s her.
“God! I’m so sorry… if I could only undo what I’ve done I would… I would…”
I rest my head against the box, massaging my temple with my free hand.
“I never thought he would go through with it…. Honestly, you know!”
I did know, for she was a pure person underneath all of her flaws.
“But there is no other way we can get the money, you understand?”
‘Why didn’t she just wait for me?’ I wonder, ‘I could have helped her if she had just waited for me!’
“God, please, protect everyone at the bank… I would never want to harm anyone, please!”
‘But people will get hurt in this, it’s inevitable! Why didn’t you think this through before you put him up to it? You’re such a smart girl… I thought you were better than this!’
“God, I know this might be asking much, but God… I don’t want to go to prison for the rest of my life! If there’s any prayer that you could possibly answer to in my life time, may the police never link me to the crime!”
‘God! Why does she make this so fuckin’ hard for me?’
“God… please…. I’ll never ever ask for anything else ever again… please…”
She hangs up abruptly. I set the phone back down on the receiver, turning back to see the hostess returning from the back room, smiling at me as she goes to pick up my pay. I leave before she lifts the menu.
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