New Apartment

It was February and Bakerloo could not wait for winter to be over. The air was dry and it crisped his skin as he walked home from work. He told Pablo, his friend, that he could not even remember the last time it was warm outside. “I feel as though more months here are cold than are warm.” Pablo shrugged. “Maybe,” he replied. “Seriously now, you have at the very least February, January, December, all the way through August. Right? August was a cold month.” Bakerloo spoke certainly with his eyes squinted into deep thought. “We ran in October, and it was cold in the morning but the heat was in full effect by the afternoon,” Pablo informed Bakerloo.

“Oh. Yes I do remember that actually. Good.” His memory often evaded him, he would say. The streets they ignored were dirty. They had been required to attend a meeting in a lesser part of town. “It’s a shame what happened to this place, you know? I can imagine the spirit here fifty years ago, people filled with hope in their newly constructed homes. Now what is it?” They continued walking. The wooden heals of their Italian leather shoes clacked with every step. The locals staring at them could not help but notice these strange passersby.

“You should come by my new apartment some time.” Pablo looked impressed. “Yep, I got a great deal from the building owners. I believe you know them, the Giordanos? They do a fair amount of business with us downtown. Anyway, the place is beautiful, truly. I’m planning on tearing down a few walls here and there to open things up. Probably will have to get rid of a lot of old wall decorations and such, but these things happen.” Bakerloo continued chatter boxing as they walked onto the metro platform. “Hey, we could go there now, what do you say?”

Pablo had to go home. He said that his wife prepared dinner and that as it stood he would already be twenty minutes late. “Well then, go have fun. Enjoy your meal!” Bakerloo smiled and waved good-bye as they boarded separate trains. His smile faded and he looked down at his hands folded between his knees. He shuddered and suddenly looked awake. Standing up slowly, he exited at the next station. No one was nearby, and the only sound was the fading screech of the train’s wheels. Looking around for a moment, Bakerloo then walked toward the metro map and began studying it.

Since he was a boy, subway systems have always intrigued him. Having lived in this city for the last five years he had every track and every station memorized by heart. At times he would stare at the map not to figure out how to get somewhere, but to take comfort in its familiarity. Seeing the colorful lines loop and cross, he thought, might show him what to do with his time.

Bakerloo, taking a moment from the map, turned around to find a young girl walking along the platform. He gave her a discerning look, as there was not a chance that her laced red dress could keep her warm in this cold. Her scarf, made of a light brown fur, hung to her side and swung with her arms as she glided past him. To Bakerloo, wearing fur was a sign of ignorance and his feelings of disgust were obviously written across his face. “I want to go home,” he caught himself saying out loud. There was an empty bench nearby. The sign on top informed him that the next train would arrive in twenty minutes. Bakerloo slumped onto the bench and leaned forward, letting his head hang down. A moment of panic stuck him as he looked around for his new, custom made, leather French briefcase. It was no where to be found. Bakerloo leaned back and sighed deeply. Shaking his head he mumbled, “whatever.”

An Untypical Meeting

In my particular line of work, no one knows what might happen next. I think that if we did, we would no longer be in that particular line of work.

A few years back, I met a group of men outside my office. They wore suits that cost too little and sunglasses that hid too much. I wouldn't have expected to find these people in my building, but there they were. As I am one to make the best of a situation such as this, I invited them into my boardroom to offer a pot of tea. I like to keep tea on hand - I find that it helps for moments when I have no clue what else to do. I followed the men into my boardroom, but none of them accepted any tea. I took it as a sign of offense, naturally.

Their faces looked dumb, and I looked at each in turn. The silence grew thicker as I waited for one of them to speak up. I wasn't going to say anything.

"Hello, Mister Stroganoff," piped the tall, skinny man. I figured the one with the most hair gel would be their leader.

"Call me Count Von Stroganoff," I corrected him.

"Count Von Stroganoff, we have something to discuss with you today."

I felt bored instantly. I didn't particularly enjoy the idea of these people sitting at my father's table. In the interest of having them leave as quickly as possible I said, "Look, fellas, it's obvious you don't belong here. I don't know what it is you want from me, but there's nothing that a few guys like you have to offer someone such as myse-

"Pounds, Count. Pounds."

"Pounds I have."

He explained, "We understand the excellence of your services, and our boss is prepared to compensate you accordingly. You will find what we have to offer can be more valuable than mere cash."

My interest was sparked. Perhaps there was more to these guys than I previously though? Naturally, I couldn't keep my curiosity at bay. "What is it that your boss thinks I can do for him?"

"For her, Count. Our boss is interested in your banking talents. We are well aware of your previous work for the Komarovs and are requesting similar service. I trust that you'll find your work with us to be much more captivating."

As it turned out, there was more to them than I thought, though not in a way I would have appreciated. They crossed the line bringing up Fyodor's family.

"What do you know of the Komarovs? Who the hell are you people?"

The next moment would change my life forever. Mister hair gel smiled broadly and motioned to the man on his right. I looked quickly, ready to respond if need be. The need did not arise. A porky man placed a briefcase on my table and then moved away. I made eye contact with the de-facto leader. He looked down at the case, looked at me and left without saying a word. Glad to see them go, I sat in place for a moment. Pondering what just happened, I decided to retrieve the case. I brought it back to my office, figuring I might as well see what awaited me in the comfort of my own chair.

The cool steel of a worn case felt harsh as I opened the latches. The case creaked slightly as it opened. In the middle of the faded red velvet lining laid a picture.

"How could this happen? What is going on?" I thought as I touched her face on the photo. I could feel markings through the paper and on the back read:

Now we own both of you.

At that moment I swore that I would make them pay. I didn't realize how wild a ride I was in for...

That's not it

It amuses me how small, seemingly meaningless moments can completely alter the course of one's day. Perhaps even one's life. I told her that I couldn't have known what would happen. I couldn't have known my actions would set in motion the events that took Karim's life. Sitting in my chair, I felt myself drifting out of the conversation. Her yelling blurred into a raging hum, and I no longer was concerned about the boy.

"...give them what they wanted?" She spoke softly right in front of my face. I realized there was no escaping this conversation.

"What?" I replied obnoxiously.

"Did you give them what they wanted, did you pay them?" She asked.

She was putting all of her energy into looking calm, but I could tell that underneath she was ready to explode the second I told her the answer she already knew was coming.

"Of course I didn't." I said matter-of-factly. "I didn't pay them. I wasn't going to pay them. Knowing what I know now, I still wouldn't have paid them." She cried harder. I heard the door slam and she was gone. I looked at the dimly lit doorway and smiled.

I could only hope the lie might save her life.

Grand Plans

"He's dead." I heard her say as she walked through my door.

"Damn it all, what happened?" I feigned ignorance.

It failed.

"Don't lie to me, you knew this would happen! You could have saved him and you did absolutely nothing - you, you disgust me."

I watched as the muscles in her face tightened. Her hand clinched into a fist with every word, almost like she felt each syllable push the boy farther and farther into the past. The truth is, I had pushed him there in my mind long ago. The boy was hopeless long before he crossed my path four months ago.

The first time I saw Karim was a wholly unique experience. I usually don't even notice the random riff-raff squatting in my city, but for some reason my attention was locked on a small boy curled into the street corner next to my office. As I approached him, my eyes burned at the sight of his bed of dark red snow. For whatever reason, I immediately sought help for the boy. Later, I covered his medical expenses and asked him of the events that led to his premature stroll down death's alley.

I couldn't believe the story. He spoke with suffering beyond his years. His tale was short. It was sad, painful, and unsettlingly fascinating. In the weeks to come I would make this child's future my own. I had grand plans for the boy.

But no one escapes a debt.

New Notebooks

I bought two miniature notebooks yesterday. One will be my agenda. The other has no specific purpose yet. Either way, today I decided to open them. With only a moment of difficulty, I tore through and discarded the plastic wrapping. Suddenly, I feel forced to make the decision as to which notebook remains purposeless. I figure that pages filled with duties and obligations need as much joy as they can get, so I rest the light green notebook above the darker one.

I commit. I crack the light green book's spine with the intention to transform it into something useful. The first page pushes me back, demanding, "In case of loss, please return to:" "Don't look at me", I panic. The first entry into my agenda is difficult. Do I write my name? Perhaps an email address? Whoever finds my agenda needs to be able to contact me. The page continues, "As a reward: $"

Before my mind has a chance to wander once more, the sound of keys turning forces my eyes rightward. I spring to my feet and rush to the door. I feel the need to open the door for my lover, to hold her the instant she walks into the room.

The sight of her is dazzling. Her hair and smile are perfect - the only sign of her walk through the cold is the light chill I feel from pressing my cheek against her face. She did her eyes for me today. I break my gaze only for a kiss and forget all about little green notebooks.