on the ground floor of a parking ramp, in the corner away from the little booth and the exit and entrance.
Parking ramps are dangerous places.
I looked around for video cameras and didn’t see one. Then I waited. I couldn’t afford to be choosy this time, it was a matter of survival. Any age, any sex, as long as he or she was alone; I didn’t think I could survive a serious conflict of any kind.
I waited.
I huddled with myself, and the cold, though it could not penetrate the ugly parka, found all of the niches in the sleeves and collar. I shivered, and my teeth chattered. No one came, and no one came, and then a group of four, then two couples, and then no one and no one and no one. The sliver of moon had set many hours before.
Me, too.
Bars were closing, and now there were too many people. I waited, desperate and shivering, and my body clock went tick… tick… tick, winding down. People everywhere, walking past; cars starting, leaving, jockeying for position in the rush to the exit. A young couple whose Toyota was parked directly in front of me got into their car, and the man seemed to see me, but looked away. He probably thought I was drunk. Maybe he thought I was going to freeze to death and didn’t care. What’s become of human decency?
Tick… tick… tick.
Not so many, now. Footsteps echo through the empty ramp, but always in pairs.
Tick… tick… tick.
Now, no one at all.
Is it over? There are still a few cars, but perhaps they are abandoned.
Should I return home? Can I make it home at all?
Patience, patience. There is all eternity before you.
Tick… tick… tick.
Could I bring Jill to me? That would be better than nothing. But no, I could see the ugly beige partitions through her unfocused eyes, feel the needle in her arm, hear the rolling of carts down a hospital corridor. She would never make it here.
Tick… tick… tick.
Footsteps.
Another couple; the man very drunk, and large, from the sound of his footfalls, a woman with him, telling him that she’ll drive. He is arguing. I must take a chance, because there may not be anyone else. Besides, she is right; he ought not to be on the road tonight; what if he killed someone?
They walked past my spot, about thirty feet from me, and I fell in behind them. My legs were very stiff from having squatted there by the wall for so long, but I was no longer cold. He would be likely to fight, whereas she would be likely to scream. Of course, you cannot tell these days; it could be the other way around, but I went with the probabilities. A fight would be bad, a scream would be worse.
Now they were at their car, an old Dodge Dart that looked like he’d driven it drunk once or twice already. They were standing by the door, still arguing about who was going to drive. He was being stubborn. Maybe I could take them both at once, and not have to worry about either a fight or a scream. That would be best. I resolved to try, in any case.
I approached them; she on my right, he on my left. I’d have preferred it the other way around, but you take what you can get. I braced myself. It was going to have to be quick and certain.
I said, “Excuse me.” They turned as I approached. The woman seemed to be in her early forties, with bluegray eyes, and so muffled that I could tell little else about her. The man was about the same age, and, indeed, large; perhaps six feet tall and husky. I guessed most of his weight to be fat, but I’ve been wrong before.
He scowled at me and said, “Whattaya want?”
Afterward I leaned against the car, closed my eyes, and knew that I would live. I’d been right: mostly fat. When I was a few blocks away I went through the wallet and the purse. I can give them a name now: Lawrence and Roberta Tailor. His wallet had her picture in it, and another picture showing two girls, aged about five and seven; daughters, I suppose, but that wasn’t what I was looking for. I found the money and the credit cards, and threw everything else in a Dumpster. Just another typical robbery-murder, folks. Nothing to get excited about. Probably a gang. We need law and order, don’t you think? Most likely drug related. Just say no.
On my way home I threw the credit cards in the river. The money I kept. What the Hell.
I’m feeling better, although not as good as I’d like. I’m sorry that I had to kill Lawrence, but I didn’t really have any choice. I don’t feel bad about Roberta because I didn’t kill her; the embalmers will do that. A shame, but it isn’t my problem.
Today’s lesson: Everything is relative.
I don’t think I’m really in any better health than I was when I rose yesterday, but, after all I went through, I don’t mind so much.
Jim didn’t notice the difference. “You look rough,” he said.
“I have a right to. It was grim last night.”
“Oh?”
“For starters, I was shot.”
He was suddenly very concerned. “Where?”
“Stomach.”
“Bad?”
“It could have been worse; there could have been sunshine.”
“Do you need anything?”
“I should be all right, now. I just have to give it some time.”
“Tell me what happened.”
I did. He listened, looking past my shoulder. When I was done, he said, “What are you going to do?”
“Recover. I’ll take my time about it, though; I’ll be careful.”
He chuckled. “You’re learning wisdom. It’s about time.”
I shrugged. He didn’t have anything else to say, so I came up to my little typewriting sanctuary, thinking that I would feel better after speaking to this machine, but now I find I don’t have anything to talk about.
I think I can risk seeing Susan today.
She continues to amaze me. Every time I am with her, it is like a renewal. I am challenged in mind and spirit, and filled with an indefinable desire for higher things. And yet, there is nothing magical about it, unless, indeed, human romantic love is magic, which might be true; I wouldn’t know, not being a poet save now and again when I can’t help myself.
The clouds were low, with a bright quarter-moon, still low in the east, providing backlighting for some unusual cumulus formations-the ice-cream cone variety, with puffy mounds on top tapering down almost to a point. I didn’t think they would dump any snow on us before tomorrow. The air was a bit warm and full of moisture and the smells of man and nature, who keep changing each other and producing queer odors while doing so.
The blue lights were still on in the attic, giving me the pleasant feeling that all was as it should be. I knocked on the door. Music that I didn’t recognize was turned down, there was the slap of Susan’s bare feet against the floor, and she opened the door.
The first thing she said was, “Do you know about Jill?”
“What about her?”
“She’s in the hospital.”
I pretended surprise, widening my eyes and leaning against the wall. “A relapse?”
She nodded. She was wearing a big pink furry bathrobe and her hair was set and slicked back; she smelled fresh, clean, and entirely wholesome. Her eyes were wide, and she looked at me as if I were the only thing in the world. “I went in to her room this morning and she was chalky white, and gasping, like she could hardly breath. I thought she might have pneumonia, or had suddenly become asthmatic.”
“You called 911?”
“Yes. They gave her oxygen and took her away.”
“Sounds very frightening.”
“It was. I’m all right now, but I wish you’d been here.”
