Honk! Honk!
The polite sound of a car horn caused the Cabby to break his stare away from the black beast that’d captured his thoughts, and he looked into his rearview to see an 18-wheeler pulled up behind him, waiting for him to carry on. He went to pass along the hospitality of his horn toward the animal standing in his way, but of course, when he looked ahead, the mysterious black mutt was nowhere to be found. The empty path it left grew a stitch of doubt in his mind… Was it ever really there in the first place? For some reason, he wasn’t sure. The memory of the yellow-eyed creature was more like that of a dream when he thought back on it. In fact, its presence quickly began fading from his mind, and he shook his head to rattle away the disorientation as he again started making his way for the station up ahead.
He pulled up to the pump with his thoughts already drifting to that of his supposed “family”. He wondered when the day would come that Wifey would get upset enough with him for leaving her alone to brutally massacre one of the kids and leave its bleeding carcass sprawled out on the kitchen floor as a sign of her prolonged neglect. It was bad enough she’d never really done much to help out around the house… Would he have to juggle her homicidal abandonment issues as well as her complicated, special diet and winter flea allergies? The whole arrangement seemed more and more one-sided, the more he thought it through, and it might be time the two of them had a long overdue, “family talk”.
Perhaps professional counseling was in order…
The Cabby parked his car and got out to fill her up, but before he got settled, gave the block a quick onceover. He was bothered by what he thought was an irrational itch; a case of the jitters he figured started with the approaching cloud cover but felt as if maybe there was something more to it.
He looked around the station, up and down the empty streets. If he didn’t know better, he’d think someone was following him, but realistically, he just wasn’t that interesting of a person. Following him around would be like studying the social habits of a sea cucumber, but less exhilarating. It was more likely just an overflow of apprehension rubbing off from spending the last hour with that wound-up girl, but still… He couldn’t help but look over his shoulders a few more times before finding enough comfort to drop his guard.
After a few good ganders, the coast appeared clear, so he swiped his credit card and went to select a low grade of fuel. He’d openly whine about the soaring prices and ritually act out his shock and horror, but there was no one around to sympathize with him and “shoot the shit”, as they say, so really there wasn’t any point in playing the role of the aghast consumer. He’d save the act for a time when it might start him up a conversation with a random business woman or college girl who’d just happen to be pumping alongside him, eager for an ear of sympathy concerning a mutual disgust for the plummet of the U.S. economy. He’d become a pro at that sort of small talk: regurgitating philosophies and other people’s opinions he’d hear on the news, talk shows, or read in magazines while waiting to pick up a fare. It was easy to fake an interest in the rest of the world to fit in. All you’d have to do was talk and act like everyone else and the public would accept you by default, openly welcoming your conversation since it was one they were already so well versed in responding to. They’d all assume he was completely normal and merely interested in polite discussion, when in fact he’d use that sort of thing as a way to interact, solely to accumulate visual stimulation for later. It was much more effective to fantasize about a woman who you’d actually met – concentrating on how her lips moved, the texture of her skin, and the smell of her perfume – than it was to imagine someone you’ve never talked to…
“What the hell…?”
A moving shadow caught the corner of his eye, interrupting his thoughts, and he whipped his head around to see if someone was behind him. He thought something had scuttled past toward the gas station’s store, but when he turned his head, there was nothing there.
He gave his surroundings another thorough look, growing uneasy being in unfamiliar territory. He felt as if someone was watching him, stalking him from the shadows, but couldn’t put the pieces together as to who or what it might be since the memory of the yellow-eyed wolf had already dissipated from his mind. Even if he knew Tessura caught her prey’s scent in his cab and was planning his interrogation, he wouldn’t be aware of her if she didn’t wish it. Her presence was otherworldly. If she was ever seen, the sight of her was wiped from a person’s thoughts within minutes unless she sought differently.
He jumped at the clank of the gas pump topping off and shook his head, muttering, “Jesus… What the hell’s gotten into me?” as he took the nozzle from his car and set it back in its place.
The little, cracked display-screen on the pump read: “Please see cashier for receipt”, so he capped his tank and checked the number before walking toward the store…
If he could’ve seen the bloody horror scene he was strolling into, he would’ve run away screaming for the comfort of his calico cat, and their current domestic differences would’ve seemed less than trivial at best. Unknowingly so, his only hope of ever seeing his beloved Wifey again was to somehow discover himself to be of use to the demon that stalked him, and unfortunately, he just wasn’t the type of person to have anything worthwhile to offer. As it turns out, his home life stood against much greater peril than he could imagine, and no amount of counseling or family therapy would dig him Wifey’s rapport out of the inevitable shithole his future had in store.
3
When Alex last spoke with her mother, she’d told her to come here, to this Reservation outside L.A., and to this specific restaurant around this time of night. It stayed open late and was probably the only place around besides the gas station that did. Aiyana said he owned the place – her real father – and that that’s where she’d find him. She wondered if she’d know him when she did, or if he’d know her. Did he even know he had a daughter? And, if he did…
No… There wasn’t time for that.
She shook off the emotions stirring in her gut and instead made way for equable thinking. Misdirected blame or remorse wasn’t what was important right now.
The entryway to the restaurant stood on the corner where she left the cab. It didn’t look like much from the outside, being rundown and monotonous. No friendly windows with neon signs or even a chalkboard on a stand with daily specials and a greeting… It definitely wasn’t the kind of place she’d walk by and want to wander in for coffee and pie, and the bars on the windows weren’t exactly an appealing décor.
The glass front entry was closed, rusted around its metal frame and not at all inviting. She reached for its handle, pulled at its hinges and invited herself in nonetheless. Her instinct which drove her to hesitate needed to be put aside. Regardless of how awkward she felt just strolling into this local joint near midnight and making herself at home, time was of a limited sort. Besides, she was desperately in need of a coffee.
…Japanese furnishings and the smell of fried appetizers? This place…was not at all what she was expecting…
The lighting was low, with short, polished wood tables and cushions on the floor where there should be chairs. Bamboo blinds with cherry blossoms painted, Buddha and elephant sculptures, temple-shaped stone lanterns, and a tall, rectangular stone wishing well sat centering the dining area. Definitely not what she was expecting… The sound of water trickling and meditative musical instruments – string and wind – danced softly through the air almost immediately calming her nerves, but only for an instant. She very quickly became tense again, not knowing what she’d find.
The place was vacant. A counter sat past the fountain in the back that looked like a good place to start, so she headed toward it, eyes wandering around the room on the way. On top of the counter sat a water-dragon sculpture about twelve inches tall. It curved gracefully into a near question mark, resting on a pile of little green stones. It had an orb in its
claw, long horns, and scaly spikes coursing its snakelike body. She approached the strange, stone creature and reached out to run her fingers over its texture, but caught a glimpse of a handwritten sign next to it that read, “Please don’t touch my dragon”. She stopped herself before indulging in her tactile curiosities and lightly smiled at the appropriateness of the presumptuous little flashcard with the eye-catching red ink.
She looked away from the sculpture to its right where another sign sat beside a hanging, iron bell that read, “Ring me for service”. She zeroed in on the straw-colored string dangling from the bell’s skirt and reached for it, but before she had the pleasure of giving it a pull, a man stepped out from the paper wall behind the counter and spoke up.
“That won’t be necessary.” He jumped out with his statement as if to catch her before she gave the little, iron noisemaker a good clang. “I already know you’re here.”
The older Native-American man shuffled out with an empty porcelain cup and a towel he used to dry its inside. Alex froze where she stood with her hand still teasing the string of the bell, a lost look in her eyes. The old man smiled.
“You look disappointed.” He used his towel-hand to point at the bell. “You can give it a ring if you really want to.”
Alex wasn’t sure what he meant at first – being nervous and not knowing where to begin or how to ask a perfect stranger if he was her father – then followed his gesturing toward her and snapped out of it to give him a response.
“Oh…” She pulled her fingers away from the string. “…No, sorry…I, uh…”
She didn’t know what to say. Her stupor was apparent and a little awkward, so the old man decided to break the ice.
“Tea?” He raised the empty cup in his hand to give her a visual. She looked distracted, and he thought it’d help if he wriggled it around in front of her.
She looked down at the cup and then back up at the old man.
“…Coffee?” She countered.
“Tea.” He assured her.
“Oh…o-okay…”
He smiled and gestured to a spot behind her.
“Help yourself. It’s hot.”
She turned back to see a kettle and two cups on the table. She hadn’t noticed it when she walked by, which was a dead giveaway how distracted her mind had been. The aroma was strong and enticing. Despite knowing her thoughts were elsewhere, she found herself surprised she didn’t smell it earlier.
She looked down at the two cups and steaming, Japanese kettle and then back to the old man making his way to join her. He was older than she thought, probably in his late sixties…which was slightly gross if she really thought about because that would have made him almost fifty when he and her mother… Ick! Either her mother had really liked her older men or there was more to this elderly fellow than what met the eye.
When he got closer, she decided to actually try stringing a whole sentence together and speak to the man for once instead of just mumbling uncertainties his way. He sat down at the table so she followed his lead.
“So…” She sort of smiled so he’d know she wasn’t trying to be rude. “Isn’t there some kind of Japanese tradition when pouring tea? I always thought it was a little more complicated than ‘help yourself’.”
“You’re right, of course.” He nodded after he slowly sat down. “But I left my Kimono at the Dry Cleaners. If you want to come back tomorrow, I can be dressed for the occasion.” He shrugged. “But I can’t guarantee the brew would still be hot.”
She smiled at his good-natured wit and reached out to pour herself a cup. When her glass was full, she looked up and asked with her eyes if he wanted one too. He nodded, accepting her offer, so she tipped the kettle over his cup and steam rose from the glass. He watched the liquid fill with a childlike eagerness and she looked him over while she thought his attentions were occupied. He appeared chipper and full of life for a man his age… And for a man his age at this hour, for that matter. He had a braid, like her brothers, but instead of dark brown it was gray and coarse, but well-kept. The lines on his face told a tale of experience, and the carefree nature gleaming in his eyes either meant he was enlightened, or possibly a hopeless halfwit, dumber than the cushions warming the skin of their glutes. She hoped for the former but wouldn’t be unconvinced of the latter until further investigation.
He waved his nose over the rising steam and Alex did the same. She gave it a sniff – a deeper inhale than she’d planned, but the aroma was very soothing – and lifted the cup to her lips, looking forward to experiencing the flavor firsthand.
The hot liquid hit her upper lip and trickled over her tongue. The flavor widened her eyes and drove a pleasurable groan from the back of her throat.
“Mmmm.” She removed her lips from the cup but had a tough time doing so, immediately wanting to take another sip. “This is really good.” She was surprised to find a genuine smile tease the corners of her lips. “What is it?” She really wanted to know. The flavor was very exotic.
The old man took a sip when she did and lowered his brow as if contemplating his vast knowledge of the many flavors of tea.
“Mmm…” He nodded and gave the brew another whiff, then tilted his head slightly to the side, examining his cup. “Couldn’t say.” He took another sip after offering his expertise. “I’ve never really been that well organized.”
She almost laughed. The old man was definitely not what she was expecting. None of this was. She almost forgot about her troubles for a moment as she continued their conversation.
“Tastes like…” she gave her cup another sip and her lips a smack, “…peach…and cinnamon, maybe?”
The old man nodded and gave his serving another try.
“Mine tastes more minty…”
She let out a tiny laugh, amused he’d taste something different than she did.
“But aren’t they the same flavor? They both came from the same kettle…”
He looked up at her with a look of contemplation, then: “You’re probably right.” He glanced back down at his cup as he started for another sip. “Maybe it’s because I just brushed my teeth.”
This time, she couldn’t restrain her laugh and let a giggle loose that brightened the room. The old man looked surprised, as if he hadn’t been joking, but deep down, she knew he was sharper than he’d let on. He let a smile slip through as he took another sip, verifying her suspicions of him being more playfully sly than the part of the “clueless older fellow” he was attempting to portray.
She gave the hot liquid a blow then took a drink. The tea was delicious and the moment very relaxing, but her worries were too cumbersome to be masked for long. She glanced up at the aged man through eager eyes, deciding to screw the bush she’d been beating to death and get to gettin’ the show on the road.
“So, are you my father, or what?”
He almost choked on his drink and spit up a little with her smooth delivery. Her face said, “Oh god… I just killed my dad…”. Then her mouth apologized for her outburst.
“Oh…sorry… I guess that was a little sudden, wasn’t it…” She genuinely felt bad. The poor guy was old. Real old. Old people didn’t take well to life-altering, freak surprises. “I didn’t mean to upset you…”
He wiped his mouth with an oriental-style napkin to reveal a smile and a chuckle.
“I’m not upset, young lady.” He put the napkin down after soaking up the spittle in front of him. “I’m amused. You’re very strong to be so direct.” He smiled softly. “…Just like your mother.”
Okay…so…that was saying something, but he hadn’t exactly answered her question…
“Soooo…”
“Yes. I am.” His smile told of a delicate love – one that she’d never seen in another man’s eyes before aside from her brother’s. “And I’m also closed. It’s past midnight.”
He started to get up and Alex f
ell speechless… Then the old man offered her his hand.
“Would you like to walk me home?”
4
The Cabby shuffled into the store at the station in a disorientated fog. It was one of those waking moments where the real world felt surreal; dreamlike. Movement broke into frames and flicked past in slow motion, the quiet weighing on his bones as though he was walking underwater. An electronic ding-dong went off when he entered the store that was abnormally low-toned and askew. Inside, the lights vibrated at a frequency he could feel in his lids and he narrowed them to a slit against their obnoxious glare. A faint static buzzed in the background from a TV that was left on without a signal, and it grew louder as he neared the unmanned counter at the front of the store.
“Hello?”
He gave his standard greeting a go, hopping to get someone’s attention, waiting alertly for a response. An open door yawned with shadow behind the counter that led to the station’s garage, so he leaned toward it, drawn in by its mystery, and gave his greeting another try.
“Helloooo? Anybody back there?”
A rustling sound, like someone moving behind the wall caught his ear, but no voice answered his call.
He decided on giving them a minute. Maybe whoever lingered in back couldn’t hear him while engrossed in chores, so he walked politely away from the counter to make himself a cup of coffee.
He couldn’t figure why he felt so uneasy and out of touch. Maybe he was more exhausted than he’d realized. The drive out to the Reservation was longer than a normal fare, and the air of the night hung strange from the start.
A few more bumping and dragging sounds escaped the dark of the open door, and he gave it a good gander while pouring a tall serving of decaf into a Styrofoam cup. He grabbed about five packs of sugar and opened them together, spilling a fountain of white crystals into the steaming black liquid before reaching off to his right for a stirrer, eyes still examining the shaded doorway. On the opposite side of him sat a wall of refrigerated shelves behind glass doors, housing rows of 16 to 40oz malt liquors. He glanced toward them, thinking maybe he’d pick up a tallboy for later, but the thought was interrupted when he jumped at the reflection of two, piercing yellow eyes.
Blood Magik- A Cold Day In Hell Page 20
