Friends And Others

An essay on what one woman see's on a less than ordinary day in her life.

Picking up my keys, wallet and phone I drop them in my bag. The news droning on in the background, churning out story after story. I put on my shoes as the anchorman reports on a shooting in Brickville. So sad, I think shaking my head, but unfortunately it’s just another day in the new normal that is 2017. I check my watch, sling my purse over my shoulder and grab the remote about to hit the off button. 

“The shooting took place at Warwick Dr. and Collins St.," the anchorman says. 

I put the remote down and give my full attention to the TV screen. This trip will take me one block north of Warwick and Collins, I’m feeling uncomfortable, someone's been shot and I don’t want to go there.   

“According to police, the shooter has not been located,” the anchorman says. 

 I open the closet knowing this trip will take me through a wooded park only minutes from Warwick and Collins. I’m nervous and absently  slip on the wrong pair of shoes. I pick up the phone and call my husband, he answers on the third ring. He suggests calling a friend who lives in the area. Not a bad idea maybe she’ll meet me for coffee and we can walk back together. I make the call, she agrees and we arrange a meeting time.   

Waiting for the bus, I watch the cars zooming by, there are so many faces, so many colors and nationalities all with the same hurried, stressed expressions.  

The bus arrives and I step aboard, choosing a window seat near the middle, as the vehicle jolts and  moves on. It pulls to the next stop near the local elementary school, where a group of smiling, excited kids wait to board. As with the adults in the cars, the kids faces are a mix of colors and nationalities minus the hurry and stress. A young neighbor is among the crowd of cheerful students. Our eyes meet and recognition brightens her already beautiful smile. She moves down the aisle toward me stopping next to my seat and asks politely if she can sit with me. 

“Of course,” I answer.

This lovely young dark-skinned girl asks lots of questions of me. I ask some of her as well. I learn she is 11 years old and enjoys playing the piano in her spare time. She tells me of her love for animals and I tell her I have two cats.  

She is interesting, this polite girl, she will definitely be a fine young woman one day soon. Suddenly, my stop approaches, I find myself in need of ringing the bell or missing it. Something important flashes by the window as I reach over her to pull the cord, I'm oblivious. I bid my young friend a good day and leave the bus near my favorite coffee shop.    

I wait at the intersection for the light to turn green, the coffee shop is partially hidden kitty cornered behind a clothing store in the same strip mall. The light turns green; I cross and round the corner of the clothing shop heading toward that first beloved cup of java. I can see the coffee shop now and stop dead in my tracks. There’s a scene in front me, it's not right and it’s not the usual packed parking lot or line of cars coming and going from the drive through. Actually, the parking area is deserted except there are 4 or 5 white police cruisers surrounding a red pickup truck in the empty lot. I know this scene, I have seen it before.

The vehicles look grossly out of place, the red pick up sticking out like a cardinal in a flock of swans, it paints a disturbing image. My memory banks fire up, not de ja vous, I saw this image on the morning news. This vehicle belongs to the driver shot in the wee hours of the morning earlier today.   

Why is it here? "One block away," that's what the morning anchor had said, I’m freaked. Rushing into the coffee shop, also deserted aside from the staff, I stop inside the door to check my phone, secretly trying to catch my wits. The employees are bustling around me, keeping busy wiping down windows or waiting for me to come and order. I search the coffee shop for an employee I know well, one I have become good friends with over the past 3 years,  but I can’t find her. I proceeded to the cash register. The cashier greets me with a nervous smile.

“That truck... it was on the news this morning. Someone's been shot in it.” I babble loudly. 

The woman behind the register whispers, “yes, yes”.

Immediately I realize the reason for her hushed voice, although reverence for the scene outside the window is enough reason, a police officer stands beside me at the next cash register ordering coffee.  Of course he’s ordering coffee, it has been a long night for them, I would be ordering coffee too.

“Two cups of coffee medium, first black decaf, second 1 crème please.” I order, I pay and move to the side and wait.  

My friend appears from the back room, we hug, “I haven’t seen you in a long time,” she says.

“I know, I know been busy,” I respond. “What happened here, did the guy come into the shop?” I ask.

Looking around and in the same hushed whisper as the cashier, “No,” she says.

I sit down at the table closest to the window, where I have a clear and perfect view of the red pickup truck parked at a crooked angle out front. Why am I sitting here, maybe its morbid curiosity, or a need for drama, maybe it’s something else? I can’t really say, because I don’t really know the answer to that question.

My daughter's are constantly hounding us to move out of Brickville, they say it’s not safe. I take a picture of the truck, caption it with: “Not what you expect with your morning coffee,” and post it to Facebook after tagging each of them. They’ve both moved to a smaller town about an hour North of Brickville, believing it is safer than the city. I usually counter their argument with it’s just a crime per capita thing, it sounds like smart jargon anyway, doesn’t it?  

I wait for my friend to arrive wondering if the man spilled a lot of blood in the truck, another morbid thought. It will be much later in a follow-up story on the news that I learn a male black in his 50’s had sustained a gunshot wound to the abdomen and was rushed to hospital, condition critical.  

My friend arrives and she stops outside the coffee shop, clearly speaking with someone on the phone. I fiddle with the phone, trying to figure out why the wifi is not connecting and uploading my picture to Facebook.

My coffee shop friend is cleaning the windows near me. “So, did he come in here looking for help?” I ask, trying again to understand what happened. 

“No,” she answers in a confidential whisper. She says something else, but the manager is watching and my lack of decent hearing coupled with her accent make understanding impossible.

“How are the wedding plans going?” she asks in a loud and clear voice. 

My daughter is getting married in a few months and it has been a long hard year getting everything together. “Stressful,” I respond.

The  friend, finally done with her call, enters the coffee shop and I wave her over. She waves back, comes over and plops down in the chair across the table from mine with her back to the red pickup truck. 

“Friend of yours?” she asks, nodding toward my window cleaning friend.   

“Yes, actually,” I respond.

A pencil thin woman with long grey hair and a haggard face enters the coffee shop pulling a shopping cart lined with a garbage bag behind her. This is a woman I try to avoid at all cost, mentally I groan, this is not the day for this. She sits down at a table beside us and pulls a faded black fanny pack from her cart.

I should explain here why I keep my distance. A few months ago while I was standing in line the grey haired woman thought I was staring at her. I am a people watcher, that is true, and when my eyes met hers for some reason she got her dander up. As for my part in the situation I find people interesting and like to observe them, I am guessing she doesn’t appreciate being observed and got all fired up. 

“Why do you have to glance around?” she said to my back. “All coffee shops look the same. Haven’t you ever seen someone with cancer before?”

I guess she was implying she has cancer, I thought she was a homeless person. Yes, she is rail thin and frail looking and cancer causes that, but so does drug abuse. Maybe she’s a homeless person with cancer, what do I know? Anyway, I ignored her picked up my order and left.

I sip coffee with my friend and catch up on the latest family news as I glance repeatedly at the red pickup truck surrounded by white cruisers. This is any non-descript pickup truck, it’s not a wealthy persons truck, just a working stiff’s kinda vehicle. Silver bars crown the top of the length of the box and the front grill is missing a few flakes of paint. It’s not in bad condition, well there’s no rust anyway. There might be flames painted a purplish color on the driver’s side door blazing back toward the rear of the truck, either very subtle or weather faded. It’s a youngish guy’s truck, I think. 

I wonder now why a 50 something year old male was driving it, although a lot of people seem to do whatever they want these days. Was the truck his, a buddies or a son’s maybe, I’m thinking about the gunshot victim in past tense, will he survive?  What was he doing out at 4:30 am, the time the news reported as the alleged hour of the shooting. Why was he meeting a 33 y/o black male in a black Nissan, the man who would eventually shoot him?

Everyone says “drugs, or gangs,” but what does it take to bring an innocent new born infant to a grown man who ends up here, where the red pickup truck is now parked behind a yellow piece of police tape. “They say” lifestyle and upbringing play a role, do I really want to know the answers, do I really care? That life is so different from mine, isn’t it?  It’s sad, just sad enough for me to paint a morbid painting in my mind of the white police cars surrounding the red pickup truck.

So here I sit sipping coffee with a friend, talking about the latest family news and observing this morbid art that's to close to my beloved morning java, brought to you by the new normal that is 2017.

Finishing our coffee, we get up to leave. I stop and drop a paper in the recycling bin. I glance back at the truck and see my friend’s blue tooth ear piece sitting on the table. I walk over, pick it up and hand it to her. The grey haired woman is now directly behind me. I hand the piece to my friend and flash her a big grin, “It pays to look around doesn’t it?”  I wonder if the grey haired woman was listening.

Reviews

[OnePage]

There were many things I enjoyed about this story: the imagery, the fear that is very much real in every human being, along with the curiosity the woman showed. A great story, I loved it! I think you’d be a great mystery writer, since you are able to slip little details in through every crack, and I would love to read them as well!

[Karen Redburn]

Thank you for the kind words and vote of support. This story was stuck in my head and husband encouraged me to write it out, so I would shut up about it. Funny thing is, it worked! Once written down, let it go... When we witness something that causes extreme stress, details seem to stick and it made it an easy write. Not sure I could do it again or on a consistent basis, but again I do appreciate the kind review. Cheers!

[R.E. Ray]

And, this is why you need to write novels or perhaps true crime stories! An impressive short story. Though I could say much about this piece (especially with my background), I'll just say you've conveyed the "real crime" behind individual crimes. They steal our minds and liberties, essentially creating widespread fear from an isolated incident, often between two people who know each other (stranger on stranger crime is relatively infrequent compared to crimes we commit against others we know). Still, because we adjust to the "new normal" (i.e., your references to 2017), we continue on with life, often sipping coffee and sharing the dreadful experience on Facebook, thereby spreading the news but also the fear.

[Karen Redburn]

Appreciate the encouragement. I often think deeply and detailed when a scene such as the one mentioned above crosses my path. I agree it is in the retelling that fear (paranoia) take hold. Going on with life is the best way to remember these types of situations are an exception and not the rule. Thank you for taking the time to comment and for the encouragement. Happy Sunday!

[Greenhorn]

That's an interesting story you've written. Sadly realistic, but otherwise great.

[Karen Redburn]

I know, but sometimes the writer in me has to get that stuff out. It's real and there's no denying, I'm afraid. Thanks for the comment.

[Wendy Seames Garner]

I was taken with your story. It is unfortunate that life has a new, horrifying normal. As much as I liked your story, I kept waiting for more, and you left me hanging. Is there more to come?

[Karen Redburn]

Hi there, happy to read you were taken with the story.

It's all so very sad, and horrifying where we are heading.

This is a snapshot of a day in the life. I have no plans to add to or expand it at this time.

I thank you again for taking the time to stop by and comment, have a great weekend!

[Wendy Seames Garner]

Have a great day

[Diane]

I enjoyed the story and it kept me reading till the ending. What was the deal with the truck? I am not sure if i missed something. This seems like me when I go somewhere. I take in a little bit of everything, leaving things untold. haha

[Karen Redburn]

Hi there, thanks for reading and commenting.

The truck represents a violent backdrop against an otherwise normal and happy day. How it only takes one bad apple to spoil the fruit, and interrupt so many wonderful little parts that go into making a day worthwhile. Not sure if that helps explain it, but there you have it from my perspective.

I'm glad the story connected with you, its fun to notice things, isn't it? And for a writer its gold!

Thanks again for stopping by and taking the time to comment, Diane.

Have a great weekend!

[Diane]

Yes that totally explains it. Thank you.

[Debbie Barry]

Wow! This is a compelling, realistic story. It could be me, sitting in that coffee shop. The imagery with the news, and then the crime scene, is very believable, and holds the attention. The frequent return to the white cruisers and the red pickup is especially good, reinforcing a picture in the reader's mind.

I really enjoyed this story. I'm glad I stumbled across it. Thank you for sharing it.

[Karen Redburn]

Thank you for the kind words. The pickup truck and police cars image, haunts me still. Thanks again.

[Debbie Barry]

So it was a true story. It certainly felt real. Brickville sounds very much like the communities an hour or so south of me, which made the story resonate even more.

You're welcome.

[Karen Redburn]

Yes it is, my husband was tired of hearing about it. He said "you're a writer, why don't you write it down." So I did. I am in Canada, although the story is real "Brickville" is a name I made up. I'm glad it resonated with you. We are living in such violent times. I'll be over to read some of your work shortly, just cleaning up some writing, wonder of all wonders :) Thanks again!

[Karen Redburn]

Sorry, meant to add, about 90% of it is true, there is some creative licence in there.

[Debbie Barry]

I understand. Creative license is necessary, "to protect the innocent," as they used to say on Dragnet. I assumed Brickville was a representation, not a real place. I do the same thing a lot. Living outside Detroit, I hear similar news reports on the morning news any time I listen to it; I tend to avoid it these days, because there's too much violence.

Thanks in advance for reading something of mine. I recomment the recent stories, not the chapters as much. The stories are new. The Kellogg House is one of my favorites, but I'm pretty happy with Bonfire Holiday, One Autumn Afternoon, and Picking Pickles, too. Have fun! I look forward to your reviews.

[R J Askew]

Nice one. Normal life reveals itself to be abnormal in its response to the abnormal? To accept the abnormal as normal is... I'm in knots. I know it is not shocking, but I was shocked by the instinct to retell the story on Facebook. How might life be without guns or Facebook? Might life actually be better? A pointless question of course. And how far can we keep moving in our flight from violence? But then violence is the new normal in some ways. The bewildered curiosity of the observer in all her questions captures how things are. Sadly there are forces lose that will not now be curbed. Maybe 'people do what they want' captures the truth of it. You got me thinking!

[Karen Redburn]

Hey, thanks for the review. Normal, abnormal, all part of a normal day? Facebook is the new town hall, isn't it? I got you thinking? I'll take it! Thanks again.