Transaction

Part 1 of a series of interconnected short stories, with illustrations from Barney Bodoano

It was the third time this week that Frank Czarnowski had been misdirected by the weatherman towards what little summer clothing he'd salvaged from Nancy's. Today's combination of beetroot-stained safari shorts, bowling shirt, and cat-scratched Celtics baseball cap was a particular low point, so much so that Frank grimaced with a toothache snarl as he caught his own meagre reflection in the window of ' Five Star Cars.'

Despite Ken Joshua's gleaming breakfast television smile and promise of third degree burns, this morning's blue sky had retreated as two invading clouds threatened violence. And, as is always the case, such threats were only backed up once Frank left the house and jumped on the number 15 bus into town.

The deluge battered the windscreen as the driver slowed to a snail's pace, wheezing as he scrambled around furiously to wipe the condensation from the inside of the glass as the wiper whimpered from left to right in the gale. It made no sense whatsoever to continue his journey up to his old apartment right now. Having various kitchen receptacles, plus a George Foreman grill, thrown at your head by a rabid Jewish secretary was never an easy sell, but the added prospect of removing the last of his comic book collection from her apartment, only to have it drenched, was about as appealing as another stint of 'relationship counselling' from the asphyxiatingly tedious Hank Cheeseman, his mother's new "gentleman friend." This called for a detour.

His left sandal sank as he placed it into the brown pool of drain water which now surrounded the bus stop. A young couple giggled as they glided their way around Frank, shopping bags covering their heads and seemingly unaware of the thunderous growl overhead. The rain peppered the peak of his cap like a pellet gun as he ran up a side street and took shelter under the plastic awning of the liquor store. Half the town seemed to have shut down and gone home. He rattled the shop door a couple of times but gave up when the owner switched off the lights.

From where he was stood only one place seemed to be open for business, and even heading there was a punt. Half the neon sign for 'Tony's Coffee House' blinked sporadically but Frank thought he could hear the faint whine of country music secreting from it's insides. He dashed for the entrance, his hand sticking on the bacon grease which caked the door handle.

Inside, it appeared that he had the run of the place. Hardly surprising, given Tony's legendary reputation for coating even the most basic sustenance in a thick film of pungent oil, whilst the coffee tasted like it was hardening your arteries with every atrocious lukewarm gulp. 

Frank made his way to a table in the far corner, away from the stench of the dilapidated kitchen and Patsy Cline blaring obnoxiously from the stereo by the cash register. The waitress waved a bony claw half-heartedly in his direction and began to traipse her way unceremoniously over to take his order. 

"Rose" had been embroidered across one of her sagging lifeless tits, and Frank struggled to remember the last time he'd come across such an ill-fitting name. 

"What'll it be?" she drawled.

"I don't suppose you've got any whiskey, have you Rosie darlin'?" 

Frank rearranged his mouth into it's most charismatic smile before attempting to further charm her with a wink, only to back out half way through, leaving him with what resembled a demented nervous tick.

".....Huh?" 

"No, nothing. It's ok. Coffee's fine, thanks,"

Rose dragged her hooves across the cafe floor, hacking up phlegm into a tissue before pulling out a pack of crooked cigarettes and heading to the kitchen.

Frank pushed his seat back and closed his eyes for a moment. How the hell did it get to this? But that was just the problem. He'd seen it coming months ago. 

Nancy. He thought about calling her.

The bell above the cafe entrance gave a dull thud as the door swung open. Despite the torrential downpour, Frank could see that the man in the doorway was sweating profusely, panting as he surveyed the room, and manically readjusting a paltry combover. Instantly his eyes locked onto Frank and he made his way over towards him.

"I do NOT have time for this, ok? You tell Bob from me, he doesn't ever turn up at my wife's work like that again, ok? You got that?"

Frank's eyes narrowed, perplexed by the stranger's steely certainty that he was speaking to exactly the right person. He attempted to lift a hand to gesture his innocence, but before he could raise a finger he felt something being pushed under his seat.

"I got you... well, look.... I got you half, ok? But..." His bottom lip trembled as he tried to translate Frank's gaze.

"This time next week, ok? You won't have to worry. I promise you, on my mother's life."

Suddenly he was on his feet, his mouth agape, his hands wringing. Never had Frank seen such a specimen. With complete and total bewilderment he found himself nodding a consolatory "yes", if only to see some hope trickle back into his desperate bloodshot eyes.

"Oh my God. Thank you. Look, I gotta go. Tell Bob to call me at the payphone on Thursday night. Nine o 'clock."

"Thursday. Nine o'clock" repeated Frank, his hand jerking up to catch the words before they left his tongue. He watched as the man backed away towards the exit. Everything about him was fixed on Frank, assessing his chances of a safe retreat. Frank went to stand up, to object, to explain, but the man was gone, the cafe door swinging in the bitter wind and eliciting all manner of expletives from Rose as she returned from her break.

Frank reached down between his legs. A briefcase. He felt for the handle, lifting it slowly onto his lap under the table. His heart pounded frantically, the pulse in his neck beating with a ferocity he'd never before encountered. To his left was the bathroom. As Rose made her way to the cafe door, her back turned, Frank leapt up, clattering through into one of the toilet cubicles. He pushed the lock shut and lifted the case up onto his knees.

Click. Click.

"Jesus Christ, what have I just done?"

Reviews

[char]

Love the metaphors and personification you used. They were very, very original and humorous. Bonus points for using figure of speech in a cool way ;)

[Phil Rogers]

Very kind, thank you Anna x

[Samuel Dickens]

Terrifically entertaining. Full of clever wordage--"rearranged his mouth", "dragged her hooves across the floor". Coffee that clogs arteries? I'm in trouble.

[Phil Rogers]

Cheers Samuel! I'm a first timer at this, wrote it late last night and thought i'd see if anyone likes it - glad you did!

[Samuel Dickens]

First time? Last night? Now I'm even more impressed. You've got something good going for you, Phil. Here's how it works--you do some reviews of other writers, and they'll (hopefully) return the favor. If you want, look who reviewed some of my writing, and do them.

[Phil Rogers]

OK will do! Thanks again!