Friday Night Corridor: A Liberation Side-Story

(Originally posted on exploitedantonyms.wordpress.com as part of a writing assignment where I picked up the story of Kaylant, Florida. Look for the reference to Liberation: Chapter 4!)

The two of them stood there trembling, horrified… no, mortally shaken by the events they had witnessed there that night. James Ploindekker, a businessman with a master’s degree from the University of Central Florida, and Jessica Fleighty, an artist who made her peanuts selling her paintings at various markets, flea and farmer alike, were experiencing what many could only describe as an atrocity dealt to the truly undeserving.
“Do you think it’s alright?” Jessica asked, fresh canvas underarm. James poked at it, examining it, trying to think about it from as many angles as he could, a habit he formed as a youth in grade school having spent most of his time after school behind a television set, video game controller in hand. “Sorry, but it’s gone, the pepperoni’s stuck to the pavement, you don’t want to even try.”
Jessica’s cheeks reddened and she crumpled the paper plate in her hand, tossing it into a nearby trashcan. She took James by the hand and led him around the corner, passing the bar on the corner where more than a handful of inebriated millenials were enjoying their first official night out on the town. James weaved in and out of the people standing on the sidewalk until he took his place standing behind her in a line outside a bar named Sky57. As a large man in a black t-shirt checked the ID’s of all entering the standard-sized door frame that was the entrance, cars glided by behind him, cells through their vessel. James fumbled for his wallet while Jessica did her best to balance her canvas while rifling through her purse for her ID. James pulled his out as Jessica walked through the doorway, walking up an illuminated flight of stairs without a moment of delay; he followed after her.
James walked by at least three pairs of people talking just inside the doorway of the blue and white-lit bar room, a fourth formed a mobile barrier that failed to prevent him from reaching his destination. James turned his body lengthwise as he slipped by the pair of young women talking about some new singer they heard on the radio and headed for the cold, aluminum handrail in pursuit of his partner for the evening. His search didn’t take long as he spotted her off to the side of the roof overlooking the street; her canvas was already being propped up into an angle proper for maintaining stability. James approached Jessica slowly, watching her as she pulled a single, yellow pencil out of her back pocket and stared down at the street scene playing out below her.
“Is this how you spend your weekends?” James asked, failing to avert her gaze. “Sometimes,” she replied, “most of the time I’m at home spying on the neighbors for inspiration.” She chuckled in an obvious manner, looking over at James, who was content with looking on as she went to work sketching the way that buildings met the street and the palm trees marked the edges of the park in the distance from where they stood. James could only stand and stare in disbelief at the speed at which she sketched out what permeated her field of vision. “How long have you been doing this?” James asked of Jessica. “You know, art in general,” he added. Jessica paused for a second to examine the height of a newspaper stand compared to its passersby and then answered his question. “Seventeen years now, well, seriously pursuing it anyways, I don’t really count what I drew as a child,” she said modestly. The truth of the matter is that even her early drawings as a child drew the attention of her school teachers. As she scribbled on, a bartender was walking around the rooftop with a tray of mixed drinks. James called her attention over, handed her a $10 bill, took two and told her to keep the change. “Could you hold on to that for me for just a minute? I’m almost done. “Almost done?” James thought, “it’s only been five minutes.”
Indeed, the quality of the sketch this girl had produced in under five minutes was astounding to James, who had at once considered entering into the art field, but if not for a rude awakening enacted on the part of his best friend falling into a crater of debt, he too would be holding an art utensil in his hands. This much was certain, she was much better at this than he could ever have been, James thought, patiently holding the glass of poisonous-looking whiskey-and-yellow-something drink for Jessica in his right hand while his left hand cared not much for appearances and slung a splash of the liquid past his lips and down his semi-parched throat. Almost as soon as he did, the canvas leaning on the short fence on the edge of the rooftop was removed from its position of authority and sent to rest against the wall.
James extended the hand holding Jessica’s drink and she eagerly took hold of it. As she sipped the suspicious, yellow drink, her lips came untied, “so I used to do this thing where I would go to the roofs of this one building and try to paint some of the offices with open windows. I figured it would be this opportunity to try something new, but one day someone called security and now they not only lock the doors, but I’m no longer allowed to go into the building.” She laughed while James pressed himself to come up with a response.
“Did you get any good pieces out of it?”
“I did manage to get a few good ones. They never made it past the sketching stage but I’m still getting around to them,” Jessica said, crossing her right arm across her torso. “Why did you choose to pursue business?”
James replied candidly, “because it lets me be myself. I’m not the kind of person who can sit behind a desk and work 9-5, so I specialized in the selling aspects of business and now I go from business to business selling consulting services.” Jessica looked at him with a curious expression, the tinge of red in her cheeks still lingered from the pizza incident just prior.
—-
Forty minutes later, James and Jessica found themselves in the bar room below sitting on a couch with a man in a wrinkled, white double-breasted coat with matching khakis and a grey fedora who was sipping from a glass on the opposite end. James was sitting halfway on the armrest, glass half-full of the same noxious yellow liquid from the rooftop, each successive one lost a little more of its pineapple-and-grenadine accents in exchange for decreasingly subtle hints of its Tennessee heritage.
The night ended for the two with Jessica walking out of the bar at last call, telling James that she would see him again and marching off into the night to walk a dog she claimed was in desperate need of a walk. James decided against settling in for another yellow drink, settled his tab, and walked back outside into the street long blocked off to traffic as the masses mixed and ebbed into the fishbowl of Kaylant, Florida’s downtown scene. Half-buzzed and aimless, James walked down the south-bound sidewalk, passing Burt’s Cafe au Lait & Coffee Bar on his right, watching as a man and a woman smoked cigarettes off to the side of the door. As he passed them, the distinct clatter of a car striking a lamp post and the squeal of tires of pavement sliced through the air from behind James, urging him to turn around and watch whatever scene was playing out behind him.
From where he was standing, James could see what appeared to be the corner of a street barricade poking into the street that was supposed to remain unoccupied by motor vehicles. James walked closer and found the barricade’s accomplice, the front end of a red sports car that was firmly planted against the shiny, metallic base of a street light. The tires squealed once more as the driver attempted to dislodge his car from its overly-conspicuous prison. More onlookers took notice of the scene and stared on as if in a state of disbelief. A police officer poked his head around the corner from the doorway of a night club that was steadily releasing its occupants to their fates, leaving his post in favor of what he thought could become a DUI arrest.
The officer shot a reassuring glance at James, who assumed it was a nonverbal clue that everything was under control. As the officer approached the vehicle, its occupants fell deathly prone and couldn’t help but stare at the approaching man in uniform. The driver broke his stare and turned to his passenger, who threw his arms into the air as if declaring his inability to answer whatever question the driver posed. The officer’s eyes were trained on the occupants as he approached the front door and stood there looking at the driver, who rolled down the window with the hopes that his cooperation might make things go better for him.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” the officer said in a tone that brought together elements of authority and an intentionally lackadaisical approach. The driver of the pinned vehicle replied to his gesture with a courteous response, calmly explaining that he and the passenger had been arguing over an issue and in his confusion, his foot unintentionally pressed on the accelerator, which brought them to their current predicament. The driver’s words were as articulate and smooth as the blends of coffee served in the very coffee bar behind James, who was following the unfolding of the scene along with the three other onlookers, all of whom held a different reaction. The driver exited the vehicle and walked over to the side of the officer who was already facing the barricade. Together, the two lifted and moved it aside, partially freeing the little, red sports car. The passenger began to move to the driver’s seat, who was quickly reprimanded by the driver, who was having a word with the officer before climbing into it himself. The officer got the driver’s attention once again, but as soon as the officer began approaching the car once more, a woman’s scream issued forth from the night club the officer was just watching. The officer’s attention shifted and the occupants of the red sports car threw it into reverse gear and backed around the left corner before speeding off.
The officer’s full attention came to the bar when the sound of two gunshots rang out into the main drag. Pulling out his walkie talkie, the officer alerted his fellow officers of the situation while drawing his Glock .45 and holding it close to his side. The officer approached the front door of the club, forcing his way into the building amidst the tide of fleeing occupants. James, who was just coming out of shock, gathered his wits together and began running away from the scene, crossing to the other side of the street and taking off at full speed.
James kept running until his brain shouted at him to stop, telling him that he was far enough away from the danger to allow himself the courtesy of catching his breath. As he did so, he took in his surroundings: there were far fewer street lights than there were previously, ten-foot high evergreen trees lined his side of the street. From the looks of things, he had found his way to Treasure Hill Park, James thought as he couldn’t recall how he’d run over half a mile. He thought about his decision to decline joining his college track team while he was still a student months prior, but that was neither here nor there.
Contemplating how he would make it back to his car, he figured that the best way would be to walk down one street and make his way back to the end of the street, where he would find his car and be able to finally go home. With this in mind, James took the cross street that formed the outer boundary of the park halfway to the next street when he heard the sound of a small dog barking furiously. James turned and could see a one-foot tall black-and-brown puff running back and forth barking at a tall figure in a dark jacket. James squatted down and shifted to the left, poking around a bush and catching a full glimpse of the scene playing out. The tall figure was holding a girl to a tree by the mouth while trying to wrestle a purse out of her hands. James recognized that person as Jessica, the girl he had been on a date with less than an hour ago. She was resisting him and he kept his hand on her mouth, a measure the attacker had hoped would keep her from crying out for help. When this failed, the attacker grabbed the purse with both hands, tore it from her grasp, and bolted in the direction towards the exit gate.
James, who had been watching the scene, quickly stood up and tried grabbing the purse from the man in the dark jacket, but this didn’t go how James expected as the attacker struck him with his shoulder and knocked him off his feet. From where he was lying, James watched as the man ran off down a dark street, prize in hand. Picking himself up, James walked over to the tree Jessica was sitting and while he startled her for a moment, she let her guard down when she recognized him and started sobbing. James picked her up off the ground and she wrapped her arms around him and the dog now started barking at him, not knowing friend from foe.
When the tears stopped, Jessica looked at James and smiled, laughing through the tears. James took her by the hand and said to her, “you look like you could use that slice of pizza now.”

Liberation: Chapter 4

A flash of light from the sun accented the moment perfectly.


Akira Kitsune drew his katana with lightning speed and held it low, reaching across his body. The tip threw its captured sunlight at their foe, who stubbornly stepped out of the shadows. "Hey there," this foe spoke, his stance was completely open, arrogant; he was either very skilled or was trying very hard to seem so. Akira's eyes wouldn't move from his direction, he was intent on discovering a flaw in his form, but that moment never came. Mere feet away, the mystery man spoke, "Akira Kitsune, retainer of the Chisan Shogunate. I've heard you're good." In the same moment he fell silent, the unfamiliar person's sword was already drawn. He held it high, and turning it upside down, he buried the very end into the moist soil at his feet.

Akira observed his unusual foe, "you must be a mercenary." Akira's opponent smiled brightly, his eyes catching the light radiating from Akira's blade. The man crouched low, his rear leg moving steadily behind him, katana in tow, "that's right, there's a pretty price on that head of yours. Who wouldn't pay top-dollar for the man reputed to have broken his vow of honor to Shogun Chisan and defeated an entire outpost of men within an hour." The crouching man licked his lips in anticipation. "I've been waiting for a good fight, can you believe I haven't faced a worthy adversary in over a month? I feel like I'm getting rusty." Akira appeared to be angered from the mercenary's words, "scum like you don't belong in his country. Only honorable men and women deserve to live in Japan, you're a poison to this sacred nation." The mercenary looked at his opponent with steely eyes, "you're one to talk. This country values its honor, and you threw yours away," a sick smile formed from the mercenary's lips, and he spoke in a quick and sinister tone, "Now let's stop talking and fight."

The mercenary lunged forward, leading with his rear leg. Akira reacted to the movement by stepping backwards and deflecting the incoming sword by driving its end into the sky, then kicked his opponent in the chest, knocking his back to the ground, his katana lay just out of his reach to the right. Akira pressed his foot into the mercenary's chest to keep him on the ground. "You're nothing but a novice, an amateur. You don't deserve to chase after my bounty." The mercenary's eyes began to fill with fear and he struggled furiously to reach his katana, but Akira kept his back pressed firmly to the ground. "G... gah! N, no. D, d, don't kill me."

Akira raised his sword up high, the tip pointing downward, "You're spirit's too weak to win this fight, you're nothing but a coward waiting to be erased," Akira muttered as he tightened his grip around his katana's hilt. "I am the anti-venom to this country's suffering," Akira plunged the blade downwards, and the mercenary's final words escaped into the wind, "N, no!!"

Everything fell silent...

Then the lights dimmed away, leaving the audience with the scene of Akira Kitsune crouched over the mercenary. A broad, velvet curtain cut the audience away from the scene they had just witnessed. At first, the crowd was enveloped in a shroud of silence, save for a few, select souls who had reveled in the display of passion. Their claps gave rise to a larger, second wave of applause, less enthusiastic as a whole than the first. Among the minority sat a girl in her early twenties. Soon after the second wave of applause had begun, she placed her elbows on her lap and rested her head on her upturned hands. She faced the stage with a contented smile on her face.

The applauding masses gradually fell towards silence, and the curtains rustled slightly before they retracted and revealed the entire cast of the play standing in line next to each other. Akira Kitsune, the mercenary, who had a prop sword sticking through the front of his costume, a humble-looking village girl, two boys who shared remarkable similarity to one another, and old man with a sickle tied to his back, and a border officer wearing a rounded, grass hat with a point at the top.

The young girl stood up and cheered for the cast, looking at the old man in particular, who sent a warm smile radiating in her direction. She smiled back to him and began looking for a way out of the jungle of dusty, red velvet chairs.

Once she reached the atrium, she took a seat on the opposite side of a specific stairwell, she knew she'd see her father shortly.

When the time came, she attempted to sort him out from the hundreds of attendees who were making their way to their luxurious, fuel-efficient cars. She recognized him by the round, pointed hat he was wearing. She just looked at him if full-costume and shook her head back and forth slowly, wearing a smile that was holding back a giggle that if released full-force would attract the attention of at least a family of three.

When she caught her next glimpse of him, after two rich-looking ladies passed in front of her, he had tipped the front of the hat over his eyes, as she'd seen from Akira Kurosowa's samurai characters. Her laugh broke through and she covered her mouth suddenly and thrust her face down, which didn't prevent any looks from the occasional passerby.

The pair, father and daughter, sat down on the floor of a dark room in the back of the theater. The coffee they held in classic theater-play mugs was both mediocrely-hot and slightly stale, "did you enjoy it," her father asked, waiting for her to reply before he drank. She held her mug close to her body with a hand on the bottom, "I did, you played a good dying old man." He set his coffee between his crossed legs and held his left hand to his chin, "I'd hope so, I Am getting on the rotting side."
"No you're not. You'll outlive everybody who came to see you tonight."
He took another sip of his coffee and held it in his hands, "I appreciate the optimism, honey. But I'm not immortal like Akira Kitsune."
"He's not immortal, he's just honorable, more so than the other characters," she took a sip of her coffee, "that's why he can't be beaten by all of those strong people." She looked at her father with an 'I bet you didn't know I understood that' look. He looked back at her with an joyous, interested expression, "How's life been? Have you met your Oedipus yet?"

Had she been sipping her coffee, she would have spit it all over her lap, instead, she looked up at him with a quick glance and looked him in the face silently. He looked back, making goofy facial expressions before he settled into an infectiously warm smile which made its way to his daughter, "Dad, you're too sarcastic for your own good. You're going to get yourself into trouble one of these days." She brushed the dark hair out of her face and sipped her coffee, holding the mug with both of her hands, never breaking eye contact with the silly old man in front of her.

He scoffed, trying to cover the smile on his face, "you're too strict on me. When will you just let me be myself for once?" He joked. His daughter just smiled and shook her head, ran her fingers over the side of her face, and let her head fall into the hammock formed by her hand.

"Didn't you say to me earlier you wanted to take me somewhere?" The old man questioned, knowing the answer already. "Oh, yeah," she said as she reached into her jacket pocket to look at her cell phone. "Shit, it's so late."
"Is that going to be a problem?"
"No, no. It isn't, I was supposed to call someone."
"A boy?"
"Kinda... not for that reason though."
"Is it a work thing?"
"No, it's not that either. Don't worry about it. It's not important."

She closed her phone and replaced it in her jacket pocket, "let's get going, you're going to love it," she said with a smile.

----

It was ten o' clock. The cars along third street ran alongside the sidewalk pedestrians with a pompous zeal, taking whatever opportunity they could to show their superiority before reaching their destination and joining the inferior masses on their nightly pilgrimages. Only a few drivers actually drove with courtesy towards the crowd they knew they would soon be joining. One of the former slowed down and took a right on a corner regardless of the cross-walkers who had already begun making their way across the busy street. He knew they were far enough away that he wouldn't hit any of them, they hadn't even made it to the street.

A familiar face was present in the half-down drivers-side window. Dan drove down the crowded avenue until he found a parking spot. He flashed his turn signal, put his car in reverse, and backed into the spot with all the grace of a humpback whale. When he shifted into park, after a couple bouts of tug-of-war between (D) and (R), he grabbed his computer bag and climbed out, locking the door from the sidewalk; traffic began moving again. Hooking a right and walking south, Dan pulled the cell phone out of his pocket and started scrolling through his missed calls. Someone had been trying to call him, but he refused to answer while he was driving, he didn't want to be an asshole.

The phone began dialing, and he jumped out of the way of a middle-aged lady he almost ran into the back of, his computer brushed her arm only slightly. She looked at him with an estranged and demeaning expression, and he waved with a smile and continued his faster-than-normal march to his weekend perch. As soon as he brought the phone up to his ear again, a female voice sounded off, "hello, Carla speaking," Dan smirked.

"Hey there, what's going on?" Dan waited for a reply, "Hi Damn, I mean Dan. My mistake."
"Carla? Are you having as wonderful as an evening as I am?" Dan smirked.
"I'm not relentlessly chasing down girls just out of high school if that's what you're asking," the phone whipped back.
"Touche, did you get a chance to run those quotes for me today?"
"I sure did, too bad you weren't around when we had to call them. Some got very upset, you would have enjoyed it."
"Please tell me you saved a couple for me on Monday." Dan said in a rather disappointed tone.
"Criminals don't get any justice in this town, I heard you got arrested."
"Only if you consider being puked on, kicked, and yelled at by a very large and scary man as being arrested." "He did all that to you? You should have gotten his number."
"How could I have been so inconsiderate? I completely forgot that you go for guys like that."
"Only on sick days, hun," the phone paused, "I saved you a couple of special cases. They're sure to be very upset customers."
"You know I live for this shit, Carla."
A silence formed between Dan and his phone; it filled up, bloated at the edges, and eventually burst from the pressure.
Dan spoke, "I've got it covered. If I'm not too hung over in the morning I might even call them then."
The phone chuckled. "Good luck, and see you on Monday." The phone fell silent. "God, I love 2011."

---

He could see it from down the street, "Burt's Cafe au Lait & Coffee Bar," a little coffee shop whose owner decided that since McDonald's decided to break into gourmet coffee, he should try it himself. The conversion hadn't gone quite as he planned, however. Claude, the owner of Burt's, never knew much about gourmet coffee and people stopped coming altogether. It wasn't until he hired Rita, a former Starbucks manager, that the coffee bar began attracting customers back. Dan was one of the newer customers, and while he knew he could get a better cup of coffee down the street, he came to this particular coffee bar every week.

Dan walked in through the front door and began to set up shop. Laptop computer, USB mouse, and wall charger in check, he walked up to the counter to order. "Hey Dan, what can I get for you?" A young girl asked of him. "I'll have a medium coffee, no sugar, no cream, and no room, please." The girl smiled, looking up at him from her downcast face, her fair skin was illuminated from the overhead lamps. "Will that be it?" Dan nodded and hummed an "Mmhmm" at her, "$2.04." She grabbed his coffee and he handed her the money. "Here's your change, happy camping." She threw him a quick smile and greeted the customer in line behind him.

Melissa was a friendly face to him. Dan used to frequent the bookstore Melissa used to work at long before she started working at Burt's. She was friendly to him then, and friendly to him now. They used to sit outside, bum cigarettes from each other, and tell each other stories of their past deeds. She was younger than him, by about seven years, but they had always shared a particular chemistry between one another which coincidentally led them into some deep conversations. When she started working at Burt's, Dan knew it was a sign, he didn't know what kind, but knew it was a sign.

By the time Dan got his coffee and sat back down, Windows had just finished loading, and it would soon ask for a password. He entered the same password he had been using since high school, looking at the keyboard all the while. He looked out the window and around the store before meeting Melissa with his line of sight. Her dark, braided hair fell over her shoulder as she leaned over the counter and her smile was simply stunning. She faced him and stared him down with a goofy smile for a few seconds before returning to her customer. Sheathing his smile, he returned to his computer and booted up his word processor. Opening his last saved file, he began scanning over his previous writing before starting a new line.

"When the current system is challenged, the people who strive for change are held accountable for anything that can be considered "damage," and they are punished." Dan paused for a moment to think, then began typing again. "At this point, the people can either stand up and demand a new system or create a new one of themselves. If the latter occurs, however, the new system must eventually stand up to the established system if change is to be obtained." Dan took a quick sip from his coffee and leaned his head against his left hand.

Just then, the chair in front of him was pulled out and was quickly filled with a someone, a female, "Hey dere." Dan tried to sound Canadian as best he could for that moment. He seemed to be rewarded for his efforts. Melissa had set a clear, disposable cup filled with lemonade in front of Dan. "This might help you. Hydration works wonders." Dan reached over and grasped the cup, taking a sip from the straw. "Not bad, it's a little on the cardboard-tasting side but I can manage." Melissa smiled brightly, rolling her eyes and audibly huffing, "Hey Dan, you want to go out for a cigarette?" Dan slipped the straw out from his lips."Nah, I'm not smoking anymore," he looked at her with an overly-serious expression, "smoking kills, children," he said in a television announcer-like voice. Melissa didn't laugh very much, but she replied without much of a delay. "At least come outside and talk with me if you won't smoke. Dan bowed his head for a second and replied, "sure thing. I'm just worried about my stuff."
Melissa shrugged, "the guys here will watch it, don't worry," she said, blinking rapidly as she spoke.

Outside, Dan checked the time on his phone. "How've you been? It's been a while since you've worked."
She blew out a puff of smoke. "Good," she said in a climbing tone, "semester's over now, so I'll be working here more for a few weeks. You should come by more, I miss seeing you."
Her up-front demeanor caught Dan off guard, "Good, cause I miss seeing you around. It's not the same place without you."
She threw her face downwards to conceal her smile, "I know, the guys here need me more than they know."
"I'll say. Everybody else gives me a sort of weird glance whenever I order just a coffee."
"You know that I, at least, understand your weirdness," she said self-assuredly, then burst out with a series of quick chuckles.

Dan smiled with her. He'd missed his friend, that wasn't a lie. It was also true that some of the workers always seem to be struck with some form of shock-and-awe when he ordered a plain cup of coffee. In this town, nobody seemed to enjoy the simpler pleasures in life, other than Melissa, of course.

"Since it's the weekend and all, and I'm working early, we should go see a movie." Dan liked the idea, and he's had definite feelings for her from time to time, but he knew that he was too old for her. It was about time he started focusing on girls his own age, he told himself. "I'm actually packed for the weekend. I have to be the bad guy and call people to tell them they're being cancelled."
Melissa didn't waste a second, "that's even better, a movie will be the perfect way to get your mind off of it. It'll just be as friends, it's not like it'd be a date or anything."
Dan thought for a second before replying. "Sorry, but I'll have to decline."

It wasn't Melissa that Dan was worried about, it was him. He knew that if he went to see a movie with her, he'd want more from Pandora's Box, and he'd gone down that same route before with younger women, and Melissa was a woman by every definition of the word, he felt it was time for him to move on to older women for once in his life.

"So what are you writing?" Melissa paused for a moment, looking at the side of Dan's face, her back to the wall, "you seem pretty wrapped up in it."
Dan turned to look at Melissa, "it's an essay. I used to write a lot in college, and it's been so monotonous at my job, I wanted to start writing again, so I'm writing an essay about politics." Melissa took a drag and fully exhaled before replying, "that's cool. Is it about Democrats and Republicans or something?"
"Kind of, it's more of an imaginative piece, predicting how a revolution would occur, what leads up to it, and how it would possibly end. I dunno, I had more fun in school with poetry."
"You should do that, then."
"I would, but poetry doesn't have much of a place nowadays. How would I ever get noticed with everybody else out there who have been writing since they were kids?"
"That isn't what it's about all the time. It's about expression, getting out all of the things inside that weigh you down. Poetry is one of the soul's many languages, it's not something that you can learn because everybody in the world was born knowing how to do it."

It was in these moments of insight that Dan truly felt attracted to her, when he was certain that she was the perfect girl for him. If only they had met at another time in their lives.

"You're right, I should do that more. My job is so frustrating that getting some of that out would do me some good." She smiled, "then you should do that instead of your big-headed political essay." He smiled toward her. "Go on, shoo!" She signaled with her left hand, "I'm going to finish this up, you go inside and write me something." Dan remained still, but made a funny face at her, turning his head to the side and looked at her with one eye, much in the same way a bird would, "I'll do that, and I'll make you proud, grand, grandmaster of all things expressive." She chuckled at his goofiness. "Go inside already." Dan turned his back to her and looked over his shoulder, "I'm already gone."

Dan took off around the corner and Melissa stood there, watching him for a brief moment before returning to her cigarette.

Liberation: Chapter 3

The chill of the wind in the slash pines marked the season, November had begun to build a forward momentum and was trying its best to let everything from the migrating birds to the busier-than-normal residents of Kaylant, Florida breathe its energy. In this modest Florida city of 26,000, second jobs are commonplace, even among professionals, and unless you bring in six figures, your weekend wasn't spent at the beach, but at the local BP working a double. This Thursday afternoon heralded the beginning of a three-day weekend, and a spell of silence indented that vital first sentence of this particular working gear's weekend sabbatical.

"Uh..."
Dan stood in a trance, he had to make a careful choice. Brad was a friend, he wouldn't want to make a fool decision. Even if he did, it wouldn't make a big difference, but it would probably matter in some small, perhaps inconsequential way. But he used to do this too, he remembers what it was like. They were all so similar, yet the difference lies in subtlety. Which one? Which one?

"Which one, sir?" Inquired a man roughly eye-level with Dan. He was older, but his hardened gaze told Dan he'd been doing this for a very long time. Pulling himself together, Dan focused on the task at hand, put all of his energy into making the best decision not only for himself, but for his friend too. His mind flew through a cloud of possibility, breaking past all of the barriers, approaching the pinnacle of mentality where the truth waited for him to arrive. Closer, slower, the end was nigh, the train was coming to a stop. Dan peered out of the window, and saw the truth waiting for him like a child with a big red balloon. His mouth wet, his tongue extended, and he spoke...

"That one, above the grey and gold one." A nod accented the statement. "The 27s?" Inquired the clerk. Daniel looked at the package with a limited intensity, "uh huh." The clerk took a package of cigarettes from the rack and turned around, scanning the UPC. "$6.80, will that be cash or credit?" The clerk's eyes deflected from the computer screen to his customer, who pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket.
"Cash," Daniel's word coincided with the moment his middle and forefinger pinned the note to the counter top, he slid it to the clerk and grabbed his cigarettes. The clerk gave him his change and gestured kindly as left the convenience store. "Come again."

Outside, Dan stepped to the side of the door and examined the cigarettes. He unwrapped the cellophane and opened the top of the pack. He placed his thumb on the filter of a cigarette and pulled it upwards, but he stopped himself from taking the plunge. Pushing it back into the pack, Dan reminded himself that he gave that up. Cocking his head upwards, he quickly scanned the parking lot and walked around to the side of the convenience store to Brad's car. Dan was met with a flash of sunlight as he rounded the corner and walked around the back of the silver Outlook and homed in on passenger seat door.

Dan climbed in through the door and held the cigarettes up to his friend, "Here's your payment for coming to get me," Dan said in a contrived tone. Smiling a boyish grin Brad removed them from Dan's grasp with a slow, right hook-motion, "you've really quit haven't you?" Brad said to Dan, referencing the broken seal of cellophane and full pack of cigarettes. Dan looked over to his friend, "I've been keeping it that way, it's never been easy, you know." Brad nodded in compassion while Dan fastened his seat belt. Brad lit his cigarette with the car lighter, and took the first puff, "that's good, I'm happy to hear you're sticking with it," Brad stated as smoke rolled out of his nose and mouth. "Did you have enough in that joke-of-a-bank-account of yours?" Brad said as he chuckled to himself. Dan replied, self-assuredly, "Sure did." Dan reached for the cash in his pocket. "Once I get old Betty out of jail we're going out for a night on the town." A slowly-intensifying smile crept across Brad's face and he chimed in, "Old Betty huh? You have a date with another senior citizen? And she's a convict?" Dan sat there for a second before smirking and facing the window. "First of all, she wasn't over 55, second, you know I'm talking about my car, and third, it was an interview, not a date." Brad decided to muse himself a little, "all I'm saying is that if an attractive, recently-divorced editor of a nationally-recognized publication wanted to interview me at a four-star restaurant that's more than well-known for their champagne, age wouldn't make a difference at this point. Hell, we're old men practically." Dan rubbed his chin to hide a smile, "Age is a state of mind, my friend. If you feel you're better suited to prowling the nursing home, I've got your back," Dan responded without missing a beat. Brad sounded off with an accented "Fuuuck you," before starting the engine of his proud locomotive. He backed around the corner of the convenience store, causing apparent concern for a couple walking just outside the store. The boyfriend started walking toward the SUV shouting something harsh from behind his Oakley knockoffs, but not before Brad threw the car into gear, sporting a one-fingered salute as he drove off the lot.

Half an hour passed and Dan and Brad reached the impound after an extended series of U-turns, illegal rights, failures to signal, and illegal lane changes. They had reached their destination, the words "Kaylant Auto Park" painted in blue over a long banner made from intersecting sheets of plywood signaled the end of their journey. Brad took the right into the impound but stopped in front of the makeshift banner. With cold eyes from behind the shaded glass of his aviators, he did the only thing that could complete his 1980's Top Gun facade, he lit another cigarette and stared down the motionless banner as if it were a sworn enemy. Brad's intensity was broken as a mother with her teenage daughter in a brown suburban blew her horn to his rear. He broke off his stare and drove into the lot.

Brad grimaced at the broken-down vulgarity of the impound, "good move getting cash, I don't think they accept credit or debit." Dan admitted to himself having the same impression of the Kaylant Auto Park, he expected to find a pitbull tied to a fencepost every time he could see around a new corner. Brad pulled his silver beast into a parking spot to the left and put it in park. Dan unbuckled his seat belt and stepped out, walking to the left to reach the stairs leading to the main office. "I'll just wait out here," Brad said matter-of-factly. Dan passed by the driver's side window, looked in, and walked up the stairs. He reached the door and turned door knob only to realize it wouldn't turn. Looking down at it sharply, he jabbed it briskly left and right a few times before it opened, and he walked into the office.

Once inside, Dan noticed the one-hundred-and-eighty degrees of difference from the outside of the office. Painted walls, the average-looking waiting room chairs, the fact there was carpet; had it not been for only a single, half-functioning fluorescent light lighting the office with a dull shade of despair, the inside of the office could almost be considered... normal for this city. His remained focused and walked towards the man sitting at the desk bathing in lifeless illumination. That man, he remained virtually motionless, breathing his necessary breaths, but none more. He stared listlessly at a blank claims form, making no effort to populate it. For all Dan knew, this man could be dead, which would probably be appropriate, given the mood of the office.

Daniel approached the desk, at which moment the mannequin of a man snapped a curve in his neck and looked at Daniel. "Good afternoon sir," this mannequin-man spoke, his bark-black hair, sagging face, grayish-blue eyes, and subdued vocal tone told Daniel that this man was as lifeless as the light that could manage no more than to ward off the darkness that would surely consume him from all sides. Daniel managed to break himself from his current train of thought, "hi," he managed to sputter, "I need to get my car out of here." The man, identified by his name tag as "Tyler" breathed a heavy breath inward as he reached behind him to grab a clipboard hanging on the wall, "was your car towed within the last 24 hours?" Daniel replied with a 'yes' and Tyler flipped over a single page on his clipboard. "What's the tag number?" Daniel shot back, "H-zero-one, eight, V, I" Tyler looked at the page for a second, "Yep, we've got her, that'll be $187.50 from you sir," Tyler muttered in a deadened tone. "Cash or charge?" Daniel reached for the money in his left pocket. "Cash," Daniel pulled out $193 from his pocket, pulled off the three single-dollar bills, and handed them over to Tyler, who opened a drawer, put the cash in, and handed Daniel back a dollar bill and six quarters and shot him a quick look, "I'll be right back." He signed off with a smile and headed to the back room. Checking his cell phone, it was 4:36 and the sun was bright, but it wouldn't be for much longer.

Meanwhile, Bradley sat outside in his car, admiring the dump he was in the midst of, smoking another cigarette, when he noticed a short, stocky, balding man of roughly 40-or-so years and Hispanic or Indian descent walking next to a light-skinned man of average height speaking Spanish. The Spanish man spoke for a while, but then paused and said something seemingly removed from his established rhythm, and the short man's eyes lit up like a fire. He immediately turned to the Spanish man and began yelling up at him in extended bursts, his downwards-flying forearms accented with the trademark tightly-clenched fists of a tiny raging man took the Spanish man by surprise, throwing him on the defensive, taking a step backwards, frightened. Bradley chuckled and smirked at the ordeal, watching amusedly from the car window. The Spanish man paused and looked at Bradley for a second, then slowly back to the short man, who had paused his yelling for the duration of the Spanish man's diverted attention, and then continued with a short lunge and a shout, scaring the Spanish man again, and resumed his yelling. Brad, thoroughly satisfied by this display of aggression, turned to face the building once more while taking another puff of his cigarette to witness Dan emerging from the office as he made his way down the stairs.

Brad looked towards Dan, who had turned to look at the building and resorted to walking backwards to do so, "They found the drugs, didn't they?" Dan whipped his neck towards Brad once in disbelief, then once again in confusion, then it dawned on him that this was his friend's way of joking around. "They found them all right," Dan said indifferently, still looking at the building, putting his arm on Brad's roof. "Funny thing, too, they say that someone, probably a friend, was using my car as a stashing place. They also found a significant amount of dark curly hair on the bags, he said they looked consistent with that of a Jew-fro. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?" Brad scratched his head, "What about YOUR car? Isn't it fixed yet?"

Dan briefly recalled the incident from two weeks ago that left his car in the shop. A fruit-vendor was walking between cars during the red light at a busy intersection peddling bananas, when two men began yelling at him from across the street. The man began arguing with them, yelling something back to them whenever they yelled something at him. Even after the light turned green and he drove off Dan saw the fruit man yelling furiously across the street from his rear view window. He turned his attention back to the road ahead of him. Having just gotten off work and being Friday, Dan's first stop was Street Cle@n, a poorly-named dry cleaning business in a plaza on Rusty Pkwy. He stopped, went, turned, and even made an illegal U-turn, but he eventually made it to the dry cleaners often mistaken for a computer repair store.

Dan parked facing the road, squealing his front-left tire as he turned the corner. He popped his trunk, walked into the cleaners, and took his spot in line. Outside, a few children ran around, yelling and screaming as they do, throwing those little firecrackers at each other that snap when they hit something. One kid screamed as he was hit by one on the cheek. Looking to the right, a young blonde girl from the salon two suites down was stood outside. She gave a sort of laugh and watched them run around. Dan turned his attention back to the line in front of him, which had shortened to only two people standing in front of him. Waiting half-patiently, his eyes darted around the suite, reading the little posters detailing garment-cleaning prices and employee safety, observing the yellowed faux-silk wallpaper, he looked at his cell phone for the time, and finally put his hands in his pockets as the guy in front of him moved to the front of line. He watched the young Latina girl running the register as she took the clothes from the man in front of him. He took another look outside to see two kids hiding behind a dumpster while an elderly man walked towards them at a slow pace, the kids seemed to be holding something in their hands, but it didn't matter, Dan took another look over to where the girl had been, but she was gone.

Dan stood facing forward again at the dry cleaners, looking up at the ceiling every so often. He might have been next in line, but the guy in front of him seemed to be taking longer than the two people before him. He looked outside again to find a dump truck approaching from the far end of the plaza, and the two kids hiding behind the dumpster jumped out and both threw a hand full of their firecrackers at the old man who was very much taken by surprise. Some of the firecrackers hit him on the chest and face and snapped audibly. The old man's temper sweltered as the two brats ran off, and he took chase to them as best he could. Walking as if his suspenders held the seat of his pants far too high for comfort, the elderly man hobbled as fast as he could towards the inner walk of the plaza, "you little rascals!" He yelled as he pushed his glasses back on to his face by the bridge and breathed heavily while his right arm ran in opposition to his legs.

As Dan watched the scene, the girl at the register called for him. He stepped forward and put his clothes on the stretch of counter. Pressed, starched, and done by Tuesday at the latest, as usual. "Will that be cash or charge?" He was asked, "charge." He pulled out his card and before she could take it, the sound of two very heavy objects colliding with one another with a loud THUD shook the glass and everybody inside turned around.

Everybody turned to see a garbage truck with a caved-in front end and the dumpster that it struck running away from it's attacker. It arched around towards the plaza before the slope of the concrete threw it on its right-side wheels and it arched away. Dan looked to see where it was going, and he soon saw the dumpster's designated target. "Oh, shit!" Dan immediately dropped his card and wallet and collided with and pushed everybody out of the way as he threw himself with all his might out the front door and into the parking lot. Within an arm's length of the dumpster from Dan, it struck the back of his car and sent it flying out into the middle of the street, while the dumpster exited on the far end of the plaza. Those drivers erring on the side of caution saw the hurdling dumpster and immediately stopped to avoid the collision, while two drivers, apparently braver than the rest, sped up to avoid it. What they didn't notice was the blue sedan slowly stretching across the very three lanes they were driving on. The first car struck the front of Dan's car, sending the back end flying, while the second received the full impact of the rear end of a sedan being thrown into their gunmetal, hemi-powered 4x4.

Dan ran into the middle of the street, where a young boy, no older than 14, climbed out of the 4x4's passenger door, who, being unable to contain his excitement ran around the front of the 4x4 to look at the car they just hit. A second man, somewhere between 35 and 40, got out of the same passenger-side door and looked over at Dan, the man's face screamed of anger control issues, and they didn't look like they were going away on this particular day either.