Drop Box
It was just a story. Really. A wild fire, spread. She said, I did and then it landed on the internet. Click, click, click...comments took off, a spinning top of opinions, shooting sparks, a half truth. "Jail, I can't believe she ended up in jail." Me either, believe me.
Sitting idle I overhear things. People conversing on their cell phones with shrill voices set on loud. With it difficult to understand the other end, the talker speaks up. Cell towers near, cell towers far, with buildings erected blocking the way. 2G, 4G, gee-oh-gee it's still impossible to hear. Move, stand still, on your toes, crouching...speak up! Tower, tower, a metallic flower of bad reception. Those around exchange glances of disbelief when terrible happens, a bit too much personal information, hush now...bring it down a notch or two, please.
We learned where they hid the drop. In a shoe box marked with an X, tucked near the back of the men's sandals at Fenmore's Department Store. Size 12 1/2, near the bottom. Why are you telling all from your cell phone in the middle of the park with an audience? Is there a hidden camera somewhere? It seems reality television is way out of control. Pan in, zoom out, adjust the audio.
A drop, not dew, or tears either...a drop, most would interpret as money...in exchange for what? Drugs? A hit? A gun? ...or worse. That sort of thing only happens in the movies, I think. This is the real world in an average sized Midwestern town. Tuna-fish, Michigan, pothole street, minion park, high noon. The last interesting thing happened earlier when Lucille dropped her chocolate ice cream on her mother's left shoe as they stepped into their SUV. Small town excitement! I laughed, as did most who noticed Lucy's disappointment and her mom react to her expensive designer shoes sporting a waffled horn. "RUINED," was declared, rolling her R just before the doors slammed and they drove fast and furious. With that said, dropping things must have been in the air, but money, now, that was curious.
When the woman with the eyebrow piercing clicked off her phone, she began to walk at an accelerated pace in the direction of Fenmore's. MYOB, my pops used to say. "Whatever she's into, you stay out of." Great advice, the perfect reasoning for my focus to lock onto the book before me once again. I glanced towards another park dweller, he had an angular face with kind eyes. He shrugged his shoulders at the same time I did as if to say, it takes all kinds.
I adjusted my book, something that I had read years ago, "Lightning." I was hoping to find the place where I left off when honk-honk, tires squealing and a thud sliced through the air. The woman, cell phone-brow-pierced woman, was plowed over as she was crossing the street in front of Fenmore's. The scene was gruesome and just from the sight of it, a stander-by screamed at the top of her lungs. Horror movie screams held nothing to this reality. People ran from the park to the accident, but I sat there, frozen by the idea of how one minute you're talking on your phone, the next "bam."
In no time the landscape was flooded with sirens and flashing lights. Police, ambulance, the fire department...chaos enlisted to control chaos. Order on the streets!
"That poor lady," someone said as they hurried past. The park had cleared with most drawn into the storm of misfortune. I sat for a long while under the maple tree, book in hand, paralyzed. I was more sensitive than most with my imagination clouding my ability to cope. Things came to mind, stupid things, like that moment of pause cell-phone-woman must have faced when she realized she was about to experience impact first hand. Where was her mind in that instant? Did she recall her favorite song? Did she regret the last time she spoke to her mother and it ended in a squabble or did she simply think hell no?
I didn't go in the direction of Fenmore's Department Store, at least not at first. I opted to walk home using the street one block over. My nerves were shot and dealing with the accident site before it was cleared was not for me. As I passed someone buffing their rather sleek classic 50's convertible I thought nice. The stereo was blaring mixing sound into the chrome and baby blue, "Money for Nothing." I remembered that song, Dire Straights.
You know how it is sometimes, when a tune becomes stuck in your mind, well, that is exactly what happened.
"Excuse me miss, do you have change for a ten?" The question was posed by a little old man who stood all hunched over. "I'm sorry, I don't have my wallet on me. Maybe try at the convenience store at the corner." As I glanced in that direction, the retail posters all transformed into dollar signs. What the heck? It didn't just end there, street signs, house numbers, license plates...$$$$$$$$ everywhere.
By the time I reached the landing of my apartment, I felt troubled. Suppose I was meant to buy a pair or men's size 12 1/2 sandals that day...the pair with an X marked on the box. What if by not, I was turning my back on fate?
In a daze, I did what I had to do. Keys, door, "Lightning" tossed onto the side table, purse, door, keys, lock, run...yes, I was running in the direction of Fenmore's. Pushing, shoving, past people, through people, around people. Rotating doors, slippery floors, elevator, escalator, women's apparel, men's apparel, shoes, plastic feet, displays, black, white, neon, green, fancy, cheap.
Finally, I stooped to the bottom shelf and took one box out after the next placing the entire stock of sandals onto the floor. I built an organized tower. At the far back, just as described was the box marked with an X.
I felt a surge of adrenaline as I reached forward. My hand grasped and pulled. Jitters, with Christmas, my birthday and the lottery all rolled into one. Just as I placed the rectangle on the floor before me to embrace my fate, someone slid in and lifted the drop away, lifted me away. "I'll take that and you must come with us now."
I was surrounded by the undercover police and it seemed as if I were in a heap of trouble.
No one said what was inside that box exactly. Does it matter? It was a drop, a fools gold, my drop away from life. Plop-clank into the clink, a box marked jail. Freedom erased.
Dire Straights had it right, Money for nothin.'
Until next time,
~Trixie Archer
Sitting idle I overhear things. People conversing on their cell phones with shrill voices set on loud. With it difficult to understand the other end, the talker speaks up. Cell towers near, cell towers far, with buildings erected blocking the way. 2G, 4G, gee-oh-gee it's still impossible to hear. Move, stand still, on your toes, crouching...speak up! Tower, tower, a metallic flower of bad reception. Those around exchange glances of disbelief when terrible happens, a bit too much personal information, hush now...bring it down a notch or two, please.
We learned where they hid the drop. In a shoe box marked with an X, tucked near the back of the men's sandals at Fenmore's Department Store. Size 12 1/2, near the bottom. Why are you telling all from your cell phone in the middle of the park with an audience? Is there a hidden camera somewhere? It seems reality television is way out of control. Pan in, zoom out, adjust the audio.
A drop, not dew, or tears either...a drop, most would interpret as money...in exchange for what? Drugs? A hit? A gun? ...or worse. That sort of thing only happens in the movies, I think. This is the real world in an average sized Midwestern town. Tuna-fish, Michigan, pothole street, minion park, high noon. The last interesting thing happened earlier when Lucille dropped her chocolate ice cream on her mother's left shoe as they stepped into their SUV. Small town excitement! I laughed, as did most who noticed Lucy's disappointment and her mom react to her expensive designer shoes sporting a waffled horn. "RUINED," was declared, rolling her R just before the doors slammed and they drove fast and furious. With that said, dropping things must have been in the air, but money, now, that was curious.
When the woman with the eyebrow piercing clicked off her phone, she began to walk at an accelerated pace in the direction of Fenmore's. MYOB, my pops used to say. "Whatever she's into, you stay out of." Great advice, the perfect reasoning for my focus to lock onto the book before me once again. I glanced towards another park dweller, he had an angular face with kind eyes. He shrugged his shoulders at the same time I did as if to say, it takes all kinds.
I adjusted my book, something that I had read years ago, "Lightning." I was hoping to find the place where I left off when honk-honk, tires squealing and a thud sliced through the air. The woman, cell phone-brow-pierced woman, was plowed over as she was crossing the street in front of Fenmore's. The scene was gruesome and just from the sight of it, a stander-by screamed at the top of her lungs. Horror movie screams held nothing to this reality. People ran from the park to the accident, but I sat there, frozen by the idea of how one minute you're talking on your phone, the next "bam."
In no time the landscape was flooded with sirens and flashing lights. Police, ambulance, the fire department...chaos enlisted to control chaos. Order on the streets!
"That poor lady," someone said as they hurried past. The park had cleared with most drawn into the storm of misfortune. I sat for a long while under the maple tree, book in hand, paralyzed. I was more sensitive than most with my imagination clouding my ability to cope. Things came to mind, stupid things, like that moment of pause cell-phone-woman must have faced when she realized she was about to experience impact first hand. Where was her mind in that instant? Did she recall her favorite song? Did she regret the last time she spoke to her mother and it ended in a squabble or did she simply think hell no?
I didn't go in the direction of Fenmore's Department Store, at least not at first. I opted to walk home using the street one block over. My nerves were shot and dealing with the accident site before it was cleared was not for me. As I passed someone buffing their rather sleek classic 50's convertible I thought nice. The stereo was blaring mixing sound into the chrome and baby blue, "Money for Nothing." I remembered that song, Dire Straights.
You know how it is sometimes, when a tune becomes stuck in your mind, well, that is exactly what happened.
"Excuse me miss, do you have change for a ten?" The question was posed by a little old man who stood all hunched over. "I'm sorry, I don't have my wallet on me. Maybe try at the convenience store at the corner." As I glanced in that direction, the retail posters all transformed into dollar signs. What the heck? It didn't just end there, street signs, house numbers, license plates...$$$$$$$$ everywhere.
By the time I reached the landing of my apartment, I felt troubled. Suppose I was meant to buy a pair or men's size 12 1/2 sandals that day...the pair with an X marked on the box. What if by not, I was turning my back on fate?
In a daze, I did what I had to do. Keys, door, "Lightning" tossed onto the side table, purse, door, keys, lock, run...yes, I was running in the direction of Fenmore's. Pushing, shoving, past people, through people, around people. Rotating doors, slippery floors, elevator, escalator, women's apparel, men's apparel, shoes, plastic feet, displays, black, white, neon, green, fancy, cheap.
Finally, I stooped to the bottom shelf and took one box out after the next placing the entire stock of sandals onto the floor. I built an organized tower. At the far back, just as described was the box marked with an X.
I felt a surge of adrenaline as I reached forward. My hand grasped and pulled. Jitters, with Christmas, my birthday and the lottery all rolled into one. Just as I placed the rectangle on the floor before me to embrace my fate, someone slid in and lifted the drop away, lifted me away. "I'll take that and you must come with us now."
I was surrounded by the undercover police and it seemed as if I were in a heap of trouble.
No one said what was inside that box exactly. Does it matter? It was a drop, a fools gold, my drop away from life. Plop-clank into the clink, a box marked jail. Freedom erased.
Dire Straights had it right, Money for nothin.'
Until next time,
~Trixie Archer
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