Charlie walked up to the apartment complex where his pickup was going to take place. The red brick building had seen better decades. Wrought iron bars covered the windows facing the street and a wire reinforced glass door protected the foyer from solicitors. Charlie swept his finger down the list of call buttons till he found room 311. He brushed off the remaining hoarfrost and buzzed. No answer.
BUZZ. BUZZ. BUZZZZZZ.
“Come on man, I’m on the clock here.”
A static voice came over the intercom.
“Who dis?”
“Courier” Charlie said
“Charlie! Come on up, brother!”
The solenoid latch on the glass door opened with a staccato click and Charlie walked in. He passed a grid of silver mail boxes on his way to the narrow staircase. The walls of the stairwell were stained ochre with cigarette smoke. Marker graffiti broke up the plain walls under orange halogen light. Charlie climbed past the doors marked “1st Floor” and “2nd Floor” on his way to the third.
Black and white checkerboard linoleum squeaked under his sneakers. Odd apartments to the left, even to the right. Charlie went left and knocked on apartment 311. The door opened to the length of a security chain. Spectacled eyes looked around the steeldoor. Unrecognizing for a moment, the face suddenly split into a smile.
“Hey! Come on in, man!”
Charlie didn’t like getting chummy with the johns. They all kinda blurred into a miasma of faces after a while. He just wanted to pick up the package, grab an Uber, and get this bullshit done. But some insisted on familiarity. They wanted customer service and a smile. Wanted to be wined and dined before dropping their load off.
“Yeah, I’m your courier. Lets get this done.”
The door shut a moment then opened wide, inviting the courier in. Charlie ran his hand across the shaved port side of his head. “Where’s the chair?”
The apartment was a clutter of objects. Just past the front door, the kitchenette jutted off to the right and opened to the living room. A folding card table flanked by two mismatched Goodwill chairs was covered in mail and a laptop computer. The house reeked of ammonia from some hidden litter box. Early afternoon light shone in through a closed set of flower print curtains in the back of the apartment.
The john had a scar on the left side of his head where hair wouldn’t grow. His skull was slightly recessed there, a truth the john tried unsuccessfully to hide with a US Army Vet ballcap. Thin hands gestured to a wood laminate ladder back chair cushioned with a ratty blue corduroy pillow. “Right where it always is, Charlie. Lemme get the cable.”
Charlie hoped this wasn’t going to be a large file or his back was gonna give out in that thing. An easy chair, or a swiveling desk chair like Dad had owned would be better. Anything short of a barstool would have been better than that straight backed, wood laminate over plywood monstrosity. Charlie knew that complaining wouldn’t change anything, so he sat down and got as comfortable as circumstances would allow. The john brought in a USB-C cable. Charlie frowned. “You got an adapter?”
He pointed to his port, “I’m native USB-A.”
The john froze for a second, his eyes searching the air for meaning. He licked his lips and let out a string of vowels until his neurons aligned in the right way for conscious thought to recommence, “Yeah… yeah. I got something…” He stood up and walked back down the narrow apartment hallway. There was a rustling of paper and plastic, the sure squeal of drawers being searched, and the occasional swear. The john returned with three small plastic adapters.
“Okay,” john said, “USB-C to Micro USB, Micro to USB-B, and USB-B to USB-A”
The jury rigged adapter stack was almost two inches long. Charlie would have to hold it up or the pressure on his port would give him a migraine. He nodded reluctantly, “Yeah, I guess that’ll do.”
It was a thirty minute download. Charlie’s arm was cramped in position, left elbow against his chest, being held at the elbow by his right hand. Left hand fingers holding frankenplug in place. Whenever his body started to sag, Charlie could feel the edges of a migraine. He sat back up straight and stared on at the blue progress bar that creeped interminably from left to right.
Finally ‘Upload Complete’ appeared beneath the blue progress bar. Charlie pulled the jack stack out and shook the fatigue from his arms. He could feel the files in his chip, angular and heavy.
“This everything?” Charlie said, “Feels light.”
“Yeah Charlie, that it.” The john said, pulling out a burner phone and opening the banking app. “Three hundred, right?”
The customer sent payment over.
Money verified, Charlie stood up and walked towards the door.
“Hey” the john said, “You want a drink for the road?”
Charlie groaned, “Man, don’t make this weird.”
“Come on, Charlie. Us Twenty-Five Bravos gotta stick together.”
“I gotta go.”
Charlie shut the door on his way out.
It was well after midnight when a teenaged Charlie pulled his Dad’s pickup into the driveway. The rain fell like it was attacking the ground. The fire engine red pickup had seen better days. So had Charlie. His lip was swollen, his eye blackened. His hands hurt, knuckles cut and bleeding. Charlie fell out of the driver’s seat and onto the wet ground. Rain water soaked into his jeans and the seams of his leather jacket. The blood congealing on his face and hands ran thin as they mingled with the storm. Rolling over to sitting, Charlie pressed his back against the body of the pickup and climbed the door up to his feet.
He shut the door of the red pickup and trudged through the wet mud to the front door of his parent’s house. His sandy blond hair hung like strings over his eyes. The porch light was on. He turned the doorknob, hoping his parents were asleep. Mom was seated in the easy chair near the front door. The desk lamp next to her illuminated Charlie like a spotlight.
His guardian angel had stayed up for him. She smoothed the fabric of her blue dress against her legs and looked up at him. Her white shawl wings drooped down across her shoulders. “Hey Charlie.”
Charlie attempted to wipe the water and blood off his face, succeeding only in replacing the them with mud. He selfishly hoped that the mud would cover his black eye.
“Dad asleep?”
Mom nodded. They stayed there in silence for too long. Charlie nodded, “Okay. Well, I’m… I’m gonna go to sleep.” Mom stood up and walked to her boy. She glowed in the spotlight of the desk lamp. Her arms enveloped him; blood, muck, and all, and she pulled his head down to her shoulder.
“Oh, my sweet baby boy.”
Charlie’s body tensed.
His breath heaved as he tried to hold in the emotion. His mother’s hand cradled his head and he allowed himself to fall into her arms. She gently stroked his hair, humming a lullaby she had sung to him when he was younger. Charlie’s body shook with sobs.
“Shhhhh…. Mama’s got you.” // ED JACOBS
[Check Back for Part 3 in Next Month’s Prints. Find Part 1 in the June Prints or at kitsapsmokestack.org]
