Jinx, a Novel: Chapter One

The Final Delivery

The man with the odd tattoo on his forehead is lying motionless, passed out in a pool of vomit. His head is twisted unnaturally, his eyes glazed and half-shut. An empty flask clutched protectively against his chest moves in and out keeping time with his breathing.

From where I stand I can see his tattoo clearly. It spells out “G O D” in large block letters. I’ve never seen it this close before and I’m intrigued with the fine detail. The letters float in a halo of gray mist but the center of the middle letter is filled with brilliant white, giving it an eerie three-dimensional appearance. It’s peculiar — not just for the obvious idiotic forehead reason — but because it seems like I could poke my finger right into his head and touch the white light inside.

I like tattoos. They remind me of a time long ago when I took a vacation from my troubles; a time when my only concerns were sand in my swimsuit and spice in my debates. Life is a lot different now. Somehow when I wasn’t paying attention, somebody swapped my ignorant bliss for a dose of reality and a reluctant duty to a righteous cause.

Leaning my bike against the rusted railing, I take a few tentative steps toward the still figure. I’ve seen him several times before and he always appears friendly, but one never knows. I lean a little closer. Maybe I’ll touch it.

He blinks his eyes. “Go to Heaven!” he says in a strong Spanish accent.

Startled, I jump and move back to my bike, pretending to retrieve something I’ve forgotten. To hide my embarrassment I stand with my back to him, fiddling randomly with the saddle for a minute. He doesn’t say anything more — and I sure as heck don’t want to start a conversation. I turn my head slightly to look across the street and I can see him in my periphery. No movement.

“Go to heaven,” he said. What’s that supposed to mean? An insult? A compliment? A prophecy? He probably meant to say ‘Go to hell’ and he’s just too whacked out to know the difference. In another life, I’d probably stop and help this unfortunate soul, but I don’t have time to be a psychologist right now. I’ve got to make one last drop and then find a way to put my own life back in order.

Weaving the cable through the frame and the front wheel, I secure my bike to the railing. It’s an old Specialized that I bought used for $300 about a year ago. Most serious riders would consider it to be just an average hybrid, but it’s the most valuable thing I own. Unfortunately, it appears to be the most valuable object in this neighborhood as well. Still, it’s a good lock that should hold well enough to keep it safe for the short time I’ll be here. No guarantee on the rickety railing, but the chain and lock will hold firm. And besides, I’ve got my Spanish friend to stand guard — or ‘lie’ guard — I chuckle with more than a little guilt as I look at him again.

He’s peaceful now. He always seems that way. Sometimes when I ride deliveries through here I see him across the street in the park sharing a paper sack with some friends. Other times he huddles over here on a cardboard box with a tattered blanket, leaning against the crumbling brick wall. He’s never agitated, never worried, always calm and relaxed. If only I had the strength to be like him. It would be so liberating to escape from reality and responsibility and live hidden among the fringe. I’d have incredible freedom with no commitments and nobody depending on me. No rent, no family, no past … no painful memories. Just an endless quest for another hit of gin. A simple life. A pleasant fantasy. A new world.

Shaking myself out of the funk, I affirm that today is not the day for me to join the ranks of the homeless and destitute. Maybe later. There are more important things to worry about right now, like getting off the street and out of sight. While it’s unlikely that anyone that matters will find me here in this grubby little slice of paradise, it’s not wise to risk it. Recent events have not been kind to my friends, and frankly, this part of town gives me the willies.

Unconsciously holding my breath, I gingerly step over the malodorous man and pause near the top of the concrete steps. I can still hear his labored breathing behind me. It’s in my nature to reach out and help people who hurt but today I need to move on. I can’t afford to let my guard down. “Go to heaven,” I say quietly and begin my descent.

If Gary is working this afternoon I’ll tell him to move the poor guy down the street and hose off the steps. We can’t have the patrons stepping over a drunk guy as they come down here to get drunk. I risk a wry smile at the irony of that thought.

I’ve been in Joey’s Bar and Grill a few times and I find it refreshing to lose myself in the anonymity of the place. Here I can just sit on a barstool and talk to Gary. He always seems to be working, no matter when I come, and his face always lights up when he sees me.

The place is always dank and morose. Today it seems worse than usual, but maybe that’s just my nerves. I’m here earlier than I need to be. Here to meet a guy who’ll give me a special package for a special delivery — the final drop so I’m told.

As my eyes equalize, the reflected light from the setting sun gives the room an eerie 2-dimensional feel. It’s as if the scene has been painted by an impressionist, imprisoned with a two-color palette: dark gray and dirty metallic yellow.

I enter and stand in my dark shoes in the middle of the yellow trapezoid cast on the worn linoleum floor. Grub and glitter reflect from the worn curves of the faux leather booths and chair backs. Above the low railing separating the sections, the bar area is dustily lit by two overhead fluorescent tubes under which two middle-aged Raggedy Andys with pallid cheeks stare in silence clutching tumblers of amber liquid. There are two neon signs astride the big carved oak bar back, advertising beers I’ve never heard of. One of the signs sporadically sparks and flickers with a buzz like the zapper my mom hung out on our deck.

My nose is assaulted by a pungent mix of whisky and beer tempered with a touch of pine cleanser. It smells better than the guy dozing outside, but still needs a lot of work. Cigarette smoke still lingers years after they banned indoor smoking. It was one of those laws embraced by the hoity-toits on Broadway, but nobody in this neighborhood pays much attention to laws, particularly that one.

The back of the dining area is my ultimate destination — literally the last booth on the left — the one by the unisex bathroom. It’s dark, but I can tell nobody’s there waiting for me. If this deal goes down like the others, I’ll be out of here in no time. Just a quick pickup, a quick ride, and a final handoff to some contact I’ll learn about soon.

I’m wearing black skin-tight bike shorts, bare legs, and a flimsy yellow biker’s jersey. I’m a bike messenger — which doesn’t leave me a lot of fashion options when I’m on the clock.

Uncomfortable standing in the entryway, I move toward the bar area. As I get in range, the mirror throws me a dusty self-portrait. My hair is a total mess. I wash it every night after work, but it always gets matted from the bike helmet and the sweat during the day. I give it a vigorous rub with my fingertips and it seems to help a little. Not that it matters.

I can picture in my mind how nice it looks when I spend a little time with it. It’s shiny, black and full. I used to keep it nicely coiffed, but that was another life — more like a dream actually. The way things are right now I don’t have many good reasons to do that anymore. My hair is short — but not boyish — with long thick bangs that reach to the tip of my nose.

Summoning confidence again I shake my bangs aside and look back at my reflection. I have no makeup on, yet in this light my dark brown eyes contrast nicely against my light complexion. I reach up with both hands and gently press on my cheeks. My teeth are straight, but my upper front ones have that little gap between them. They call it a diastema but I just call it ugly. My nose is short and straight and I have a wide jawline that curves out just a little too far beneath my ears. It gives my face a sharp triangular look. I think it’s a good look though. Some people say I’m pretty. I really don’t know; really don’t care. The man I loved not long ago used to call me the most beautiful girl in the world. Now it doesn’t matter anymore.

“Hey Jinks!” says Gary. Surprised, I jump out of my skin and look over, shocked and embarrassed to be caught in such overt self-evaluation. “Good to see you again. You’re looking fine as usual. Are you planning on staying a while or are you going to rush out of here and go save the world again?”

“Huh?” I ask, still reeling from the shock. I smooth over my jersey with both hands as if I was adjusting it for comfort. “Oh… Uh, I can’t stay for long, I’m still working. I just came in to talk to a friend for a few minutes. You know. Thanks though.” He nodded, knowingly.

Gathering my wits, I walk up closer to the counter and quietly add: “Oh and I gotta tell you — there’s a guy sleeping in a cozy bed of puke at the top of your stairs. Probably better do something before the big dinner rush,” I said, shifting into my sarcasm mode.

I noticed a movement to the side and one of the two statues sitting at the bar had turned his head in our direction. He quickly turned away when I looked at him.

“Shit! Thanks. Yeah, I better clean it up. We got a big group of Wall Street executives coming by for French wine and cheese this afternoon.” He grinned.

Gary gives me that knowing glance, looks around to make sure nobody’s too close, and leans over the bar. “So who are you meeting today? The usual?” We rarely use names.

“Excuse me!” I said with acid in my voice. Gary knows that I come in here to meet with a guy who needs special deliveries once in a while. He knows that this is something that we shouldn’t talk about. “I’m meeting a friend of Aggie’s today. A new guy. We’re going to talk about some investments.” I lie. You got any money you want to invest?” I asked, deflecting the subject.

Gary and I met a few months ago when I started coming here for some meetings. It seemed like the perfect place — off the main streets, hidden below street level, a definite dive, with nobody that cared a whit about anybody else. It was a place where we could be temporarily invisible — a good place for young idealists and old strategists to meet.

On those days I’d usually cut out of work early and come here in my riding gear and sit on the stool at the end of the bar furthest from the door. Sometimes I got here earlier than I needed to — I’m not really sure why. At first I was aloof, but Gary was relaxed and friendly and not pushy at all. We talked about bikes and bartending, movies and dream vacations — searching for common ground. I like him, but not in the way he wants.

The problem is me. I’ve had a challenging life and to make it worse, I just lost my one and only true love, my soul mate. And the worst part is that he didn’t just dump me — that I could deal with. He’s dead. I can’t deal with that.

“Sure, I got a couple million stuffed in my mattress. Why don’t you see if he’s got any hot stock tips for me?”

“If you did you wouldn’t be here.” I moved down toward the end of the bar.

“True. So you want a drink? Maybe a Fruit Bat?”

Gary makes an incredibly good drink he calls a ‘Bombay Fruit Bat’. It’s his specialty. I had one once, but it’s pretty strong and I’m not a big drinker. If anything you could call me a lite beer girl. But technically I’m not supposed to drink at all — I’m only 19. “No thanks. How ‘bout a Coke?”

I toss a couple of bills on the bar as Gary squirts his gun into a glass. “We could hook up later,” he says casually, still looking away. “I get off at 10:00.”

“Another time maybe” I lied, and he hands me the drink. “I need to see my mother tonight.” A common excuse, but more or less true. My mother has terminal cancer and is starting to degrade to the point where she needs my help more and more. The doctors tell me her life span can be measured in months now unless some sort of miracle happens. She won’t be saved by any miracle from God — I’m sure of that — but if I can scratch together a few more dollars, we may be able to get some treatment that can turn things around. That’s why I’m here.

I glance to my right and one of the two men sitting at the bar turns away. He was the same one who glanced at us before. I suppose one should expect that in a bar, particularly someone like me who’s dressed in a strange costume and suspiciously young. Still, I have to keep my antennae up for safety so I grab my usual stool where I can see them and survey the rest of the room without being too obvious.

The guy who’s been sneaking peeks is the bigger of the two and must have had some serious acne problems when he was younger. I’d guess he’s in his late 40’s but in this light, it’s hard to tell. His friend seems to keep his head slightly to the right so only his left ear is pointing in my direction. He’s wearing a big diamond stud — probably fake.

I glance back toward the booth where I’ll be meeting this new guy — Terry is his name so I’m told. Of course, nobody ever uses their real name. Nobody is back there in the booth just yet. Gary’s off helping two ladies split their tab fairly with small bills and a large pile of coins. I’m guessing that he won’t be getting rich off this tip. The rest of the place is fairly quiet. The iced Coke tastes good, but my anxiety continues to build and I’m wondering if a beer might have been a better choice.

The front door opens and I turn to look. It’s a small greasy-haired man with a worn plaid satchel. ‘That’s got to be him’ I say to myself quietly. I surreptitiously follow his movements until he settles at the table closest to the front door. It’s a small table, with room only for two people, but it’s the wrong place. Not knowing what to do I wait and think. The deal is supposed to go down in the booth in the back. It’s always been the booth in the back. Now is not the time to be changing things. Looking around I see the two men at the bar huddled together whispering. Gary is ringing in the old ladies’ purchase, and he furtively slips a couple of bills into his pocket.

Satisfied that the greasy man isn’t my contact I resume my surveillance, fully expecting to see an empty booth in the back. Instead, sitting there casually is a striking woman with long blonde hair. Her eyes, accented with heavy black shadow, are trained directly on me. They convey a look of confidence and friendship. She smiles. Terry is a girl’s name — Terri. Duh.

I look over at Gary with mild confusion and a little suspicion written on my face and he returns my look with a mischievous grin and gently nods his head in her direction. I look at her again, check the rest of the bar — everything seems to be in order.

The odyssey begins. One foot in front of the other I tell myself as I make my way to the back.

This is chapter one of an as-yet-unfinished novel. The copyright owner is Brian Feutz. All rights are reserved.