Depraved ThiefA Story by Theodore VelvetA new perspectiveJay Launders is walking
through an array of mismatched buildings. Some are short and wide, others tall
and intimidating. The only
characteristic that seems to consistently appear in this neighborhood was the
lack of operative windows. Even this
seemingly unifying attribute brings no semblance of conformity to the street, quite
the opposite, for though no windows are fixed and functional, many eccentric
windows decorate the buildings surrounding Mr. Jay Launders: Some are
shattered, others boarded up, and others still are far too filthy for any light
to be able to pass through them. Any
other matter of constancy and order would bring comfort to a man like Mr.
Launders but, alas, the consistent lack of clear, useable windows in the
neighborhood is yet another haphazardly manicured finger playing the orderly
strings of his nerves like a banjo. Beads of sweat adorn his
stony face, threatening to spill on Mr. Launders’ perfect suit and leave a
stain of evidence: concrete confirmation of the existence of emotions in his
file cabinet brain. Mr. Launders
tightens the sweaty grip that keeps his briefcase from escaping his hand,
preparing to turn the last corner. Every
step tears into his calm, unbattered physique, threatening to ultimately break
it. His heartbeat slows from a polka to
a march as the stairs to the terminal come into focus. His mood has now become
that of a sun’s in the early morning after a night of nothing but violent
rain. The sun inside him is warming the
wet grass, evaporating the dewdrops which the rain had left on his pallid
visage. BAM- A masked man slams
into Mr. Launders, dragging him into an alley. “Gimme
all your f*****g s**t!” whispered the masked man. The gun trembled in his unsteady hand as it
set itself into Mr. Launders’ ribs. “F**k…
Jesus Christ; what the f**k?!” The
masked man looked down, his eyes widening as they discovered Mr. Launders’
briefcase. He gestured with his gun and Mr. Launders hurriedly opens the
briefcase, scattering weeks of work haphazardly on the asphalt. The masked man rifles through and quickly
realized the heap contained nothing of value. The
masked man once again turns his gun to Mr. Launders, “Gimme that ring,” he
looks behind him and all around as Mr. Launders scrambles with his wedding
ring. “Hurry, damn you!” the masked man cried, discarding stealth for the
sake of his fury. He reaches into Mr. Launders’ coat, taking the wallet from a
pocket and opening it. He looks up to
see a glittering piece of jewelry in a sweaty, outstretched hand. The masked man grabs the ring from Mr.
Launders, pushing him to the ground and retrieving $64.22 from his wallet before
running off.
Phillip Carver places his
items from his cart onto the conveyor belt.
He watches as diapers, toothpaste, socks, and tiny shoes, among other
items, travel along the conveyor belt to the cashier scanning across from him. “How are you today, sir?”
the cashier asks. “Oh, I’m just fine, thank
you,” Mr. Carver answers. He takes out
his wallet, retrieving the cash and handing it to the cashier. “Are you hiring?” Mr.
Carver asked. “No, sir, I’m afraid
we’re over overstaffed,” replied the cashier. That is no surprise to
Mr. Carver, after witnessing almost every business except for Wal Mart go under
during the recession and being struck with the fact that there are no jobs
anywhere. He returns his wallet to his
pocket significantly lighter than it was before the shopping trip; every dollar
was spent. Tucked between the leather
flaps of his light wallet as he leaves the store are only a sentimental
photograph and some jangling change. Change. That would be nice. Memories project like a movie picture show on
the inside of his eyelids as he closes them, settling on the last seat of the
bus. When he opens his eyes millions of
years later, Mr. Carver witnesses colorful pictures flash by, coming into
clarity when the bus stops and then whizzing by again. Bright words and symbols dance in jubilation
around boarded up or shattered windows.
The bus slows and Mr. Carver allows a sigh to escape him, grabbing his
cargo and exiting the bus. As he steps
onto familiar asphalt he counts his blessings and continues the trek home, 22
cents jangling in his wallet whilst he goes. © 2015 Theodore Velvet |
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Added on February 1, 2015 Last Updated on February 5, 2015 Tags: Perspective, Poverty, Thief AuthorTheodore VelvetMontgomery, NYAboutTheodore Velvet is an aspiring new writer. His talents include reading, writing, and giving a f**k. His work is for those who care to take a journey within themselves and find the darkest substa.. more..Writing
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