Down By The River

“Don’t worry, honey,” her maid of honor told her. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon. There’s a lot of traffic in this part of town.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Abbie agreed. “There must have been an accident backing up traffic.”
Almost as soon as she said that, a grim-faced police officer entered the church and requested a meeting with the bride.
“I don’t know of any easy way to tell you this, ma’am,” the cop said. “But your fiance was killed this morning in an automobile accident. Please accept my condolences.”
She blanched briefly but after the initial shock wore off, Abbie thanked the officer, made a short announcement to the guests and quietly left the building.

“Oh, what a terrible shame,” said one teary-eyed bridesmaid to her shocked companion. “I just can’t believe it.”
“It’s a tragedy alright,” the young man replied. “Totally senseless. But what really amazes me is Abbie’s reaction.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, really, it was more a lack of reaction,” he explained. “Except for a brief, weird little smile, she just turned and left...she just showed no emotion.”
“She’s probably in shock,” the bridesmaid said.

At the funeral, several puzzled guests commented on her bizarre behavior.
“I don’t understand,” said one black-clad young lady to her boyfriend. “She hasn’t shed a tear. One would think that she didn’t love him.”
“Abbie always was a bit unusual. Who knows what’s going on in her mind,” he replied.

What was going on in Abbie’s mind at this time, was mild annoyance at the mourners who were openly displaying their grief. “I wish they would stop crying,” she said, half-aloud. “What will tears accomplish? I suppose I can’t say anything though.” Of course, several people sitting nearby overheard her unintentionally audible statement and stared at her with undisguised disgust.
To Abbie, the ceremony only served to illustrate the absolute pointlessness of it all. “What was the purpose of his life?” she wondered. “After a short time, few people will ever even think of him. Eventually, nobody will even know that he’d existed. Life goes on for the rest of us and then we die.”

She took one day off then returned to her job at the advertising agency. Although she was a respected copywriter at the firm, there was nothing urgent that required her presence.
“Ms. Mercer,” said the company president, who rarely ventured into her cubicle, “what are you doing here? Why don’t you go home?”
“Why Mr. Evans? What would that accomplish?”
“Suit yourself,” he said.

The following Friday evening, Mr. Evans summoned her to his office. This was an extremely rare occurrence and caused her to wonder if she’d done anything wrong.
“Ms. Mercer,” he said, “I’d like to begin by offering my sincere condolences for your loss and my appreciation for the dedication you exhibited by returning to work so promptly.”
Before she could thank him, he continued. “I would also like to assure you that what I am about to say has nothing to do with that unfortunate event.”
“Uh-oh,” she thought. “This sounds like I’m about to be fired.”
But she was mistaken, as she discovered when he continued.
“As you surely know, Ms. Mercer, I am not the sort to let emotion influence my business decisions. Actually, I had come to this decision several weeks ago but had to run it by the board. Since you began at this firm, I have been quite satisfied with your work and believe you to be capable of great things. Therefore, I have decided, and the board have agreed, that beginning immediately, you will be promoted to the post of assistant vice president of copywriting, move into your own office and receive a raise in pay commensurate with your new position.”
She somehow was able to disguise her shock and simply say, ”thank you, Mr. Evans. I hope I won’t disappoint you.”
“I’m sure you won’t, dear. Now have a nice weekend.”

She stopped at Marty’s Liquors on East 10th Street and bought a refrigerated fifth of orange-flavored Smirnoff with which to celebrate.

“Enjoy,” said the acne-scarred young Puerto Rican behind the register as he rang her up and flashed a lecherous grin.
“Thanks,” she replied without any enthusiasm and left the store without another word.

“Shit,” she screamed when, as she entered her St. Mark’s place apartment, she tripped over one of the cardboard boxes containing his things. She’d packed his belongings the day after the funeral, placing the box by the door and meaning to bring it to the Salvation Army but, somehow, had not gotten around to it. “How sad,” she mused, “that he’d lived here for more than a year and all his possessions fit into a couple of cardboard boxes.”

She removed her coat, kicked off her shoes and headed for the kitchen, grabbing a 5 ounce water glass and filling it nearly to the top with vodka.
“Mmm,” she said, after taking a healthy swig. “Pure perfection.” She carried the glass to the bathroom, sipping frequently as she undressed and ran a bath. By the time she stepped into the tub, she had emptied the glass and was feeling pretty good.
An hour or so later, dressed in a tee shirt and shorts and slowly working on her second glass, she finalized a decision that she’d been thinking about since she’d left work.
“Hello Mr. Evans,” she said to the answering machine in his office. “This is Abigail Mercer. It’s 8:00 on Friday evening and I’m calling to let you know that I won’t be in on Monday. Thank you so much for the promotion but... I quit.

“Now I really have something to celebrate,” she told herself. “It’s too bad I have no one with whom to do so.” She drained her glass and said out loud, “oh well, it’s easy for a pretty woman to find a party friend in this town.” She changed into a pair of tight jeans and a silk blouse, making sure to leave enough buttons unfastened so as to arouse curiosity, and headed for the bar at the corner of her street. One perk of living in the East Village is that there is a great bar on every corner.

She’d been there many times before but rarely unaccompanied. She had a nodding acquaintance with some of the regulars and knew that the live music was often good and the bartenders were generous. The prospects for a festive evening were excellent.

“I’ll have a vodka and orange juice, Jack,” she told the bartender.
“Coming right up, doll,” he replied. “Oh, Abbie, it’s you. I’m so sorry for your loss, honey.”
“Thanks, Jack, but it’s okay; shit happens.”
He let her remark go by without making a comment, while thinking that it was a rather strange thing for her to say. “Well, anyway, this drink’s on the house.”

She had a great time, as she had expected. The bartender treated her munificently, charging more than half of her drinks to the house, sort of as a way of offering his condolences. It was a happy crowd with lots of people that she knew. The band was great, blowing her away with their blues-tinged cover of Neil Young’s “Down By The River,” one of her favorite songs.

Shortly before closing time, a young man sat next to her at the bar. “How ya’ doin”,” he asked, flashing a somehow familiar-looking grin.
“I’m good,” she replied, while trying to figure out how she knew him. It eventually dawned upon her that he was the clerk from the liquor store earlier this evening; somehow, however, he had become much more attractive.

“You lookin’ good, mami,” the clerk told her as he craned his neck to peek at her breasts. She received his attentions with a queer mix of revulsion and titillation and only offered him an ambiguous smile.
“Yo,” he said, placing his hand on her leg and leaning close. “I got some awesome weed up in my crib not far from here. Wanna come?”
She shrugged her shoulders and stood, rather unsteadily. “Sure,” she said. “Why not?”

He hailed a cab and they rode a few blocks to a run-down apartment near the East River. He chuckled at her facetious remark about his “riverside castle.” He turned on the lights and she was so startled by the sight of scores of cockroaches running for cover that she stumbled into his arms. He laughed good-naturedly at her fright.

They didn’t even smoke the dope...just somehow ended up unclothed in his bed, caressing and clutching and climaxing quickly. He seemed to derive much more enjoyment from it than she. He fell asleep pretty quickly and she quietly disentangled herself from the web of his gangly limbs. She showered and dressed but just before leaving, she heard him snoring and glanced at his naked form. Suddenly, she was submerged beneath a wave of disgust. Unable to contain herself, she reached into her purse and removed the .22 caliber derringer which, since the day that she had moved to New York City, she’d carried for protection. Without uttering a word, she strode to the bed and calmly put it to the head of the sleeping man. The weapon emitted a little “pop” as she squeezed the trigger; a fair amount of blood and a bit of his brain sullied her silk blouse and his body twitched before he died.
Splattered with his blood, she stared, for a few seconds, at her handiwork then shrugged her shoulders. “He was an insignificant little bug,” she proclaimed to the heavens. “He will not be missed.”
She was answered by a booming bass voice that seemed to emanate from above and reverberate throughout her head. “But how are you any different,” the divine speaker demanded accusingly. Unable to think of an appropriate refutation, she merely nodded her head, fell to her knees beside the dead man’s bed and let loose a piercing scream that originated deep in her belly and rose up through her body, finally entering her tortured head to drive out and replace the authoritarian bass that had questioned her. It was at the bedside that she was discovered hours later, still on her knees, hands securely covering her ears as that scream which had diminished to a pathetic whimper escaped from behind tightly clenched teeth.