Fiction: A Tale of Two by R.M. Linning

Photo Source: Unsplash

Thunderbird, “The American Classic”

Cheap, high alcohol content (17.5% ABV), a thick syrupy flavor and caramel color.

***

            He rounded the corner, having just hidden his stash of bottles, when a BMW racing into the restaurant’s parking lot almost clipped him. Once the car was parked a woman opened the passenger door, stepped out, all the while her attention focused with concern on the homeless man they had almost hit. The driver snorted his derision and brusquely steered the woman toward the restaurant’s entrance.

            The owner of the restaurant had just stepped outside for a smoke and taken it all in.

            “Asshole,” he scowled. The homeless man made his way toward him and the two of them sat down on overturned milk cases. The owner gave the other man a cigarette and lit it for him.

            “How are things tonight, Sam?” he asked. The homeless man nodded his thanks and took a deep, luxuriant drag before answering.

            “Good, good,” he replied, his speech clipped and tense. “You?”

            “Can’t complain. Gino’s got a care package for you.”

            “You don’t have to do that …” the homeless man spluttered embarrassedly.

            “Don’t worry about it,” the owner countered quickly. “You help me, I help you.”

            An array of emotions played over the homeless man’s face. In the past he had given the restaurant owner the heads-up concerning untoward activities on the grounds of his establishment. The two men finished their cigarettes in silence. With a deep sigh the restaurant owner rose to his feet.

            “Come back in an hour or two. Your food will be ready.”

***

            In the restaurant the woman from the escort service tried to enjoy her dinner. Her date, the driver of the BMW, had already made two trips to the men’s room returning flushed and agitated. She was not offered whatever he was using. In fact, she was not even asked what she might like to eat. Her date ordered himself one of the house specialties and a salad for her. On several occasions he referred to her as his “rental.” She tried not to think about the rest of the evening.

***

            Sam returned to the restaurant after completing his rounds. The back door of the restaurant opened and a small, dark man in an apron came out.

            “Heya, Sammy boy, how goes it?” he asked heartily, handing over a large plastic bag. “You got time for a smoke?”

            “Sure, sure, thanks,” Sam replied with a rueful smile. He accepted the proffered cigarette and the two men smoked in silence looking out over the parking lot. They were putting out their cigarettes when the couple from the BMW appeared from around the corner. The man strode to his car leaving the woman to try and keep up in her heels. She was barely in her seat before the engine roared to life and the car lurched backward and roared off.

            “Poor girl,” Sam observed wistfully. Gino grunted, slapped him on the back and went back inside.

            “Have a good one, Sammy.”

***

            Throughout dinner the call girl listened to a breathless recounting of her date’s every grievance - about his wife, his kids, his business associates, everyone. Between his trips to the men’s room and his abusive haranguing of the serving staff he alternated between shoveling in his food and running his hand up and down the inside of her thigh. Each time he made a point he would painfully squeeze her knee. She sat there, compliant, trapped.

            The situation only worsened once they arrived at his hotel room. All pretense gone, he pushed her inside, locked the door behind her and unceremoniously began removing her clothing. Half an hour later she was thrust out the door, disheveled and crying.

***

            Sam was tired but satisfied when he returned to the homeless encampment near the bridge. He had managed to come up with everything he needed for his friends - a slice of virtually uneaten pizza for Ignacio’s birthday celebration, a new blanket for Eliza, and a cream he had wheedled from an orderly at the clinic for Nelson’s myiasis - and that was before the windfall from the restaurant. He popped his head into Nelson’s tent.

            “How you doing, Nellie?” he asked. The light from his flashlight landed on the prone form inside.

            “Leave me alone,” Nelson grumbled sleepily. Sam smiled. He ran the light down the other man’s exposed legs. Nelson was suffering from burns to his shins received when he had stumbled into the firepit the week before. Sam leaned in for a closer look. He could just see tiny worms undulating in the wounds. Nelson reached out and raked his hand gingerly up his leg.

            “You gotta stop scratching, Nellie,” Sam admonished.

            “I said leave me alone. Fuck off!” the man bellowed. Sam backed away.

            Later, his duties discharged, Sam headed to the bridge with two bottles of Thunderbird. It was his anniversary, a big one. It would have been ten years if he hadn't killed his family. Four people, too much booze and a head-on collision. Sam had walked away unscathed leaving his wife and two daughters dead at the scene.

            Sam took his usual perch on the wall that buttressed the bridge’s foundation dangling his legs over the edge. He rested his head back against the cold concrete trying not to think. He slowly nursed his two bottles of wine feeling its warmth suffuse through him. When the last drop was gone he leaned forward and looked down into the dark fast flowing waters far beneath him. Hitting the water from this height would be like hitting a slab of concrete. He peered into the currents below and as always the faces of his family appeared, their arms reaching up imploringly towards him. He longed to join them. All he had to do was lean forward and let go.

            He pushed himself up and off the ledge and went back to check in on Nelson.

R.M. Linning lives with his family in the Okanagan region of British Columbia, Canada and has recently retired from his work as a researcher in molecular biology and bioinformatics. He writes speculative fiction of all kinds and lengths. His other interests include painting, languages, history as well as computer programming. He has published six stories thus far.