BUZZ HARCUS
A COLLECTION OF
SHORT STORIES
Copyright 2011 by Leslie F. “Buzz” Harcus
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in
any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording,
or by any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the author,
except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
ISBN 978-1-4658-8455-8
Sandhill Publishing
Harcus, Leslie F.
10385 Twin Lake Road, N.E.
Mancelona, MI 49659
This work of fiction is a collection of short stories. Names, characters, places and incidents
are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover and layout design by Allen/Harcus
Printed in the USA
SHORT STORIES
BY BUZZ HARCUS
Waiting for Al
A Job For Frankie
Rescued
A Special Prom Date
Waiting for Al
by Buzz Harcus
I was standing on the corner of Fourth and Lyons waiting for Al to show so's we could grab dinner at Emil's, a small French joint over on Sixth. I don't know what there is about it but Al's always late, no matter where you want to go.
I guess I'd been waiting about ten minutes watching the skirts go by, winking occasionally at what I considered outstanding female virtues, when I noticed this guy walking back and forth in front of Jerry's place. At first, I hadn't paid any notice to him but now he was getting on my nerves. He'd start for the door, just about go in, stop like he was real confused about something, then walk on down the street. Pretty soon back he'd come and with a somewhat determined look on his face, head for the doorway again. Then he'd get that confused look again, a real queer, uh-well, confused is the only way I can describe the look on his face, like should he go in or shouldn't he? Maybe his old lady'd kill him if he does, ya' know?
I figured him to be about twenty-three or four, somewhere around in there, about five-ten, skinny, probably about a hundred and forty pounds, crew cut, pimply face; real milquetoast type, even down to his horn rimmed glasses. Gals might figure him as the intellectual type, ya'know, but not me. He looked like a nothing standing there in an old pair of khaki pants, faded blue T-shirt under a faded tan tank jacket; a big nothing by my book.
So, anyways, I'm soon standing there on the corner for half an hour now and Al still ain't showed, and this poor slob is still trying to get up enough nerve to go in the bar.
By now, I need a drink so I figures t' go into Jerry's and hoist a quick one. Heading toward his joint I notice the kid is attractin' an audience. He stopped, stepped aside, and watched me as I started to go in, so I turned to him and says, "Hey, ya' wanna go in with me?"
"N-no...no thanks..." he stammered, his pimply face breaking out in a flustered look.
I could see the sweat standing on his forehead. He wanted in so bad he could taste it.
"C'mon," I coaxed. "I'll buy ya' one."
"N-no...I-I'll b-be in l-l-later," he stammered.
"Suit yerself," I said turning and walking inside the dimness of Jerry's bar and grill. I hiked my butt up on a stool by the entrance so's I could see the street in case Al went by.
Fan blades wafted a cooling air down across the bar, a welcome contrast to the shimmering heat out on the sidewalk. I ordered a cold Blatz from Jerry, wiped the top off, which is a habit I got into overseas after my first taste of dysentery, and took a welcome sip.
The Tigers were playing Boston on television and most of the customers along the bar were watching it. They were out of the pennant race so I wasn't really interested in the game. Instead, I kept looking out the door watching for Al, but mostly, watching the poor kid still trying to get in, finding myself unconsciously hoping the poor slob would finally make it and get in the joint. I think I'd even buy him a beer if he'd make it.
A couple of loud mouths at a table behind me, three sheets to the wind, were having a real good laugh watching the poor guy trying to get in the joint.
"Hey! Here he comes again!"
"Bet ya' a beer he don't make it," says the tallest loudmouth.
"Yer on!" says the other loud mouth.
But once again the poor slob turned away and headed down the street.
"Haw, Haw, Haw," laughed the tall one. "Ya owe me another beer. Christ, that Benny's a barrel of laughs. We oughta' get a couple of new guys and bet on him. Geez, we'd have free beer
'till hell freezes over."
"Yeah, how about that!" The other laughed heartily. "Oh, oh, here he comes again." They both laughed, guzzling more beer.
I turned my attention from them to the door. The poor slob, Benny, I guess his name is, is trying again. Now, I could feel myself pulling for him. Come on, Benny. Come on, Benny. You can do it. Come on in. Show them smart-assed guys up. Come on in!
"He ain't gonna make it!" Loudmouth roared.
"Hey, Jack," says the other. "Let's help him in."
"Good idear, Sammy...Let's give our ol' buddy, Benny, a helpin' hand."
"Yeah," says Sammy, "our ol' buddy, Benny..."
They rose drunkenly, held onto the table momentarily for support, then launched themselves forward, staggering toward the door, laughing and falling all over one another.
Something inside me clicked. I get damned mad at jokers like them two anyways, but, then, I figured not knowing what the setup was, maybe I'd better keep my nose out of it. I lifted my bottle and let the cool brew drain down my throat.
By now the loudmouths were talking to Benny telling him they'd buy him a beer and to come inside with them.
“I’d-I'd -like t-to, f-fellas, b-but I-I can't...n-not just y-yet..." he stammered.
"Sure ya' can, Benny," Jack says. "We'll even help ya', won't we, Sammy?"
"Sure thing, Benny, ol' buddy..." He doubled over laughing.
They both grabbed Benny at the same time, clutching at his arms, dragging him toward the doorway. A look of real terror blanched Benny's face.
"P-Please, f-fellas'..." he screeched. "N-No! P-Please!"
"Aw, sure thing, Benny. You'll feel better after you've had a cold beer."
"N-No! P-Please!" Benny begged.
It made me sick to watch those two smart alecks. They had him just about in the door now. He was pushing and jerking, trying to get out of their grasp, and they were jerking just as determinedly with all their drunken strength. I'd had it. I was just about to slide off the stool ready to throw punches when this voice boomed behind me.
"Hey! Leave that guy alone!”
I jumped, so startled that I spilled my beer, whirling around in time to see Jerry coming from behind the bar, a sawed-off pool cue in his hand.
"What th' hell do you two jerks think yer doin'?" He demanded, not breaking his stride, half way to the door now. "Leave Benny alone! Let the kid go!"
"What for?" says loudmouth, Jack. "We was just havin' us a little fun."
"Yeah," says Sammy through rubbery lips, bleary-eyed. "Jus' a little fun...right, Benny?"
Benny had backed off at the sudden release of his arms, backing away from the entrance, big tears trickling down his face.
"Y-yeah, o-only l-let's don't d-do it any m-more," he stammered.
"Sure thing, Benny. Anything you say," Jack smirks. "C'mon in. No hard feelings, right? Let's go in here and have a beer. Okay?" He reached out fo
r Benny, who immediately backed further away, staying out of his reach. "C'mon, Benny. "We'll treat." he sniggered.
Sammy laughed, slapping his knee.
"Okay. That's enough!" Jerry threatened the two waving his pool cue. "You guy's get the hell out of here and don't come back. I don't need yer lousy business. G'wan, get movin'."
"Keep yer pants on, peddler," Sammy snapped, trying to focus on the bartender with his blood-shot eyes. "This's a free country, right, Jack? We'll drink wherever we damned please." He thrust his chin out belligerently. "Wherever we damned please!"
"Not here you won't," Jerry yelled, advancing toward them, the cue stick raised on high. "Not here you won't!"
"Aw' right! Aw' right!" Jack said, retreating, his voice fading as fast as his bravado. "We don't like yer crummy joint anyways. Right, Sammy? Let's go."
"Yeah," replied Sammy, straightening on wobbly legs. "So long, Benny, ol' buddy," he said, passing him. "Buy ya' a beer sometime, if ya ever get in..." They both doubled up howling with laughter, staggering off down the street.
"That's okay, Benny," the bartender said going over to him. "Everything's okay now. Don't you pay no attention to them. They gotta get their kicks somehow. If it ain't swipin' candy from kids, it muggin' dames or little old ladies. They pick on guys like you who've got problems."
He put his arm around Benny's shoulder. "Now you just take it easy. When you get good and ready, why you come in and I'll set ya' up. Okay?"
Benny looked at Jerry for a couple of seconds, then nodded yes.
"Good boy," Jerry said. "Now, don't hurry. Jus' take yer time."
He looked up the street making sure the loudmouths were gone, then he came back inside moving behind the bar, carefully placing the cue where it would be ready for any future action.
"People like them two grind me," I said, striking up a conversation with him.
"Yeah. Punks. Them two punks just ain't no good. Makes ya' sick inside when ya' see that kind of trash walking the streets. Should be in jail doing hard time." He noticed my spilled beer, grabbed up a bar rag and began wiping the counter off.
"What's the deal with him...this guy, Benny?" I asked, noticing that Benny had once, again, reached the door only to stand there with that dumbfounded look, not able to come inside.
"It's kind of a long story," Jerry replied.
I got the cue right away and raised up my bottle for a refill. Anyways, I'd spilled practically all of it 'cept a swallow.
Jerry broke out a new bottle, took my bill and rung it up while I wiped off the top of the bottle. He came back and stopped in front of me, slapped my change on the counter, and rested his foot on the wash tanks. I motioned for him to get himself a beer.
"Benny's got a real problem," he said. "He's got to make up his own mind as to whether he wants to come in or not." He reached over and pulled himself a draft, then took a healthy swallow. "Ya see, he's got a real mental problem, like, uh, 'klaws-tro-foe-bee-ah' -- I think that's the name. Well, anyways, he’s scared of being closed in or trapped --" He paused a moment, took another sip, then continued. "Lemmee tell ya' Benny's an okay guy, 'cept fer this trouble, ya' know. Do you realize he's thirty-eight years old?" He pointed toward the doorway; Benny was standing there again, fidgeting, jaw set , then he walked away. "Yessir, thirty-eight years old."
"Yer kiddin"," I replied. "He looks more like twenty-three or four."
"No, sir. He should be a hundred and thirty-eight after what he's been through, but he is thirty-eight." He picked up his glass and swallowed the rest of his beer, then draws another one. While he does this, I pull down a couple of swallows.
"Him and me was in Italy together in a tank outfit," he says, getting comfortable again. "Just outside of Rome we got ourselves caught in one hell of a cross-fire from some concealed German 88's. The tank Benny was in was first in line, mine was second." He is now demonstrating the setup with a couple of six ounce glasses, one in front of the other. "I was a staff sergeant, Benny a buck sergeant. Well, sir, a shell hit us and knocked our tread off so we had to abandon. I got out just in time to see a shell hit Benny's tank. Another shell hit and knocked the turret kinda' cock-eyed, jamming the top hatch, ya' know what I mean? Those poor guys didn't stand a chance."
I nodded yes; we'd had tank support when I was island hopping with the Marines. I'd seen our flame throwers at work, had seen Japs burned beyond recognition in their little tanks.
"Well, it was just enough to jam it. I figured the whole crew had been knocked off. Then, whammo, another shell hit it. By this time I'd high-tailed it off the road behind a big rock for cover. All I had was my .45, and that's no great help against an 88. Anyways, as I peeked around the rock I could see smoke and flames poof right out of all the ports on his tank, and then I could hear the 50's going off inside. The place was a real inferno and as I lay there watching, I could hear a real funny sound rising above the roar of the ammo and fire -- and then it hit me, I realized what it was; someone was screaming their lungs out in that fire-trap tank. That's a hell of a way to go, ya' know?" He took another swallow. "It was poor old Benny, there."
He pointed at the pitiful figure standing at the doorway again. "He was trapped inside. The escape hatch was blocked by the bodies of the rest of the crew and the fire was setting off them 50 calibre rounds which ain't too far from the 75 millimeter shells. Well, I don't know what got into me, maybe because I know how I'd feel if I was in that death trap, but I made a break for the tank, climbed up on it and jerked that damned hatch open. How, I don't know to this day, but I'll never forget the look on Benny's face, or what was left of it, when he saw that open hatch. I mean to tell ya, there was flames and black smoke rolling out of there, but thick! Then Benny's head and shoulders came up through the hatch. He was a mess! His hair burning, his clothes on fire -- well, you can picture it. I even hate to think about it, even today. It's the only time I've ever seen anything so bad it turned my guts inside out. I grabbed his hands and jerked him out, but not before an exploding 50 calibre nailed him. He tumbled to the ground in a burning heap. Just then a German machine gunner, who was really having himself a ball, started spraying the side of the tank. I heard them slugs slappin' steel and then I got knocked right off my pins finding myself on the deck beside Benny. Two broken legs and a chunk of my side gone, how about that, huh?"
He indicated his legs and left side.
"How about that? My crew came running over and pulled me to one side behind that big rock out of the line of fire. Then they dragged Benny over and smothered the flames. The fire must have got to the 75's 'cause all of a sudden that old tank just up and disappeared in one hell of an explosion. I came to a couple of days later in a rear area field hospital. They'd pinned a Silver Star on me for bravery in going to Benny's aid, and also a Purple Heart for getting myself shot up."
He paused, remembering back to that moment.
"Well, I had my ticket back to the states, a Silver Star, Purple Heart and a big hole in my side. Poor old Benny, there..." He pointed to the door where Benny was just walking away again, "He had a real rough deal in the hospitals, third degree burns, skin grafting, and all that. I kept tabs on him all the time, even after I got out of the Army and bought this bar. I used to go up to the Army hospital and visit him. They fixed him up pretty decent, I think, but they couldn't get the mental block out of his mind. When he finally got discharged I told him he could live with me. He's doin' real fine, 'cept now and then he just has to make up his mind about going into a place. Some days he's not bothered at all, but other times it's like, well, right now. He's afraid of getting in a joint, getting trapped. He just can't forget what happened."
I shook my head, a big lump coming in my throat. I picked up my beer but it suddenly seemed flat. Jerry shoved off down the bar to wait on a couple of new customers. I looked toward the door again. Benny was standing in the entrance now, a little closer to being inside. I could feel myself pleading inside for him to make it, to come on in.
Just then, Al went walking by and I slid off my stool and headed for the door. Benny saw me coming and stepped back, hesitated a moment, then walked off down the street.
I cursed myself. Maybe this would have been the time he'd have come in. I watched him for a moment, then headed for Al, who was waiting on the corner.
"Hi!" I said casually.
"You been in a bar again," she snapped, eyes narrowing at seeing where I was coming from. "How many times I gotta tell ya' not to go in a bar. Some floozie'll pick ya up and roll ya. How many times I gotta tell ya, huh?" She was starting in reading me the riot act, her big lecture on drinking and sin. Al was okay, but she was a dame, worst of all, she was my wife.
Her mouth was hitting sixty now and I was hoping she'd get lock-jaw. I kept nodding my head, agreeing with her -- what else could I do? I looked around to see if we'd attracted an audience. Nope. Then I looked up again. Benny wasn't walking up and down the street anymore. He wasn't in sight at all. A big grin broke out on my face. He'd made it!
"You ain't even heard one word I said," she yelled grabbing my arm. "Not one word!"
"Shut yer yap!" I snarled at her. "I gotta buy a friend a beer. You can come along if ya' want to, but keep yer yap shut! Ya' understand?"
"Y-yes, honey..." she stammered, timidly as I grabbed her by her elbow and steered her into Jerry's place. "Anything you say."
The End
A Job For Frankie
by Buzz Harcus
Helen Walker looked at herself in the living room mirror. Hair combed, lipstick on straight, not too much eyebrow pencil, suit neat and pressed. Half turning, she made sure her seams were straight, then stepped back for an overall view. Good.
"Anyone would think I was out to trap a man the way I'm double-checking myself," she said out loud, then blushed at the thought and, forthwith, gathered up her purse and coat and headed for the hallway.
Nearly past the bedroom, she hesitated, then pushed the door gently open. The room reeked of alcohol and stale tobacco. It was dark except where light flared in around the window shades and fell across the bed. Covers were pushed back haphazardly twisted, partly on the bed, partly on the floor. His shoes and rumpled socks lay by an empty whiskey bottle.
In the middle of the bed lay Frankie, not the Frankie she knew, the Frankie she once loved, but a different Frankie. It was not the bed they had passionately shared together when first married. This was the new Frankie, a bad Frankie, and he frightened her. He hadn't changed too much in physical appearance: the same solid build, black curly hair, strong dominant chin and dark exciting eyes.
It was his attitude; it had changed drastically. Now he was bitter and depressed, quick to contradict, running with a new crowd now, having argued all his old friends away.
"Frankie," she whispered. "I'm going to work now. You going to get up before I leave?"
He grunted.
She looked down at him as he lay sprawled across the bed in a dirty T-shirt and rumpled khakis, dark face made darker by a heavy growth of beard that ran into dirty, matted hair.
"Frankie," she said, her voice wavering slightly. "Won't you please try today, for me? Please?"
He rolled over on his back, hands under his head as though searching for an answer on the dark shadowy ceiling.
"Please, Frankie," she said again, "for me."
For the first time he looked directly at her, studying her body silhouetted in the doorway. She was a striking girl, not too tall but well-endowed by nature in the right places. Her eyes were dark and sad now, but could smoulder deeply with desire or hate, depending on the moment.
Finally, he nodded. "Yeah, sure thing. I'll do it today."
"Promise?" she said hopefully.
"I said today!" His voice was harsh.
"I-I just wanted to make sure."
"Look. I said today and I mean it." He rolled over to the edge of the bed which creaked under his weight. He looked down, then leaned over and picked up the bottle.
"Frankie, please..." she pleaded. "Not now. Not today."
He looked at her with eyes dark and hard, wiped off the top and raised it to his lips, then paused.
Suddenly he laughed and dropped back on the bed. "It's empty! How about that. It's empty! You can't get a drink from an empty fifth, can you, Helen?" He laughed loudly. "How about that, Helen, can't get a drink from an empty bottle, or love from a cold woman. Ain't that right?"
She stood still as if suddenly slapped, all color drained from her face.
"Well, ain't that right?" he asked again.
"Frankie, please..." Her voice grew husky. "I told you it'd be different if you'd just get a decent job."
"A job? That's funny." He looked up at her and laughed, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "No job...no favors. Jeez' that's funny." He laughed again.
"I don't think so," she replied, a crispness to her voice.
He sat up.
"I do. I think it's damn funny. A man can't sleep with his wife 'cause he ain't got a job. I never heard of anything so stupid!" Angry sarcasm was evident in the sharpness of his response. "You're whole attitude is stupid!"
"Please, Frankie..." she pleaded. "Not so loud. You'll wake the whole building."
"I don't care." He wiped his hand across his face. "I don't care anymore. You won't admit it, but we're through. I'm not what you want me to be and you're not what I want in a woman."
Helen blinked back tears of anguish. He was wrong. If only he changed; he'd see a new her.
"We're quits!" he continued. "Quits!" He shook his head, coughed and swallowed a couple of times. "Cotton in the pipes...shoulda' been with me and Rico last night. What a blast." He laughed, then stopped abruptly. "Naw, naw...not you."
Tears flowed freely from her eyes now, there was no holding them back, even the trembling feeling returned to her stomach, the same trembling every time they talked.
"Well, a guy's got to get his pleasure somewhere, ain't he?" came his shouted words.
She turned, her back to him. "I said it'd be like it used to be if you'd get a job and show me you're a man."
She clutched her handkerchief, dabbing quickly. What had happened to all their plans? A year in prison shouldn't change a man that much. They were happy before it happened. They could be happy again.
Frankie? Why he's just resting a bit before he goes back to work she had told her mother and friends, but how long need a man rest? It had been six months and he hadn't even looked for a job. Rico will fix me up with something he kept saying. It had to be Rico and the others.
"Got any butts on you? he said.
Startled out of her thoughts, she stammered. "What-what did you say?"
"Butts. Cigarettes. Got any on you? This pack's empty." Frankie crumpled the package and tossed it over on the dresser. "You know I ain't worth a damn in the morning without one."
She fumbled in her purse and finally came up with a cigarette. She lit it, walked over and gave it to him. No thank you. He took a long drag on it.
"There," he said. "There's something about that first one of the morning. Seems to start the day right." He had seen the glistening wetness of her eyes in the flare of the lighter but chose to ignore it, instead, standing and stretching.
"I've really got to go now," she said. "I'll be late as it is." Of a sudden she reached over and rested her hand on his. "Frankie, you will try today?"
He looked at her, a half smile on his lips.
"Yeah, sure thing, kid. I got it all planned out. I'll give it the old college try. You'll be surprised."
"I know you can do it," she said, forcing a smile. "We'll make out all right, won't we?"
"Sure," he said. "Just like old times." Quickly he pulled her to him trying for a kiss but she turned and he buried his face in her neck.
"C'mon, just one for luck," he whispered.
"No! Frankie, no..." She pushed herself away, confused, her face flushed with sudden an
ger.
"Okay, Helen. I just wanted to check." He looked at her with cold, cruel eyes. "You eating lunch at noon today same as usual?" His voice was calm now.
"You know today's bank day. I don't eat until two."
"Oh yeah, deposits," he said. "Forget it then."
"I'm sorry, Frankie. Maybe later, okay?"
"Forget it," he snapped. "Go to work with all them herpi...herpitologists -- or what ever they call themselves. G'wan. Give my love to the snakes. Maybe I'll see you later." He flopped back on the bed, smoke from his cigarette curling upwards toward the ceiling that he was so intently studying.
"Frankie, please." Her whole insides trembled when they argued like this and it always ruined her day. Couldn't she at least go to work one day without this sick feeling? "Try. I'll meet you later...for lunch...okay? It'll be different, you wait and see."
"Sure thing." He smiled up at her. "I'll really make you proud you married Frankie Walker, too. You wait and see. Headlines!"
The morning went by fast and by noon Helen had cleared most of the work from her desk. She hoped the rest of the office hadn't noticed her nervousness but today she couldn't get Frankie off her mind. By the clock it was almost 12:45, time to pick up the money for the bank. She left her desk and walked slowly up the two flights of stairs to the finance department.
"Hi, Helen," came Bud Johnson's friendly voice as she approached the payroll window. "How's tricks?"
"So-so, Bud," she shrugged. "Bank money ready to go?"
He looked at her in surprise.
"Didn't you get the word?"
"What word?"
"Banks close at noon today on account of the holiday."
"Oh, gosh. I forgot all about it. I've had so much on my mind. Am I too late?"
"Mr. Jackson took the money over earlier," Bud replied. "He couldn't find you."
"I was down in the lab for about an hour. That's probably when he was looking for me," she offered as a half-hearted excuse. "Oh, well, I'll go to lunch then."
"Helen! Helen Walker!"
Helen turned as she heard her name called. Dr. Gilbert from serum research was hurrying toward her.
"I'm glad I caught you before you left," he panted as he stopped beside her. "I'm terribly sorry to bother you but I've got to get this satchel over to the zoo before three." He talked in short, chopped sentences, trying to catch his breath. "The zoo is right on your way to the bank and I thought you might deliver it as long as you're in the vicinity.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Gilbert," Helen said. "Mr. Jackson took the money over this morning because the banks close at noon today. I don't have to make the trip now."
"Oh." The smile on Dr. Gilbert's face went blank. "Oh well, perhaps I can get someone else to make the trip. Bud --" he said turning to the young man, "Whose available now?"
"No one now, sir," Bud stammered.
"No one?" Dr. Gilbert repeated. "Oh dear. This has to be there by three at the latest.
"If it's that urgent, I'll go," Helen offered.
"Well, it's just the rattlesnake, the big diamondback. It has to be delivered to the curator of the zoo for a milking demonstration before three o'clock."
Helen stepped back looking warily at the satchel held so casually in Dr. Gilbert's hand.
"I-I don't know about carrying a snake, especially a rattlesnake," she said hesitantly. "That's dangerous, isn't it?"
"No. No. It's completely harmless unless you open the case. Only if you do that is it harmful, in fact, fatal." He showed her how the latch was hooked so it wouldn't snap open.
"Okay...I'll do it," Helen said with a condescending sigh. "Will you explain to my supervisor that I'm on an errand for you."
"Yes, yes, of course," replied Dr. Gilbert. "The museum is about five blocks past the bank so stay on the subway to Riley station. You come out right across the street from the zoo."
"Yes, sir," Helen said, smiling weakly as she gingerly took the satchel.
"and be careful," he added.
Holding cautiously onto the deadly package, she rode the freight elevator down to the main floor, then left the building. Too late, she remembered her coat but the temperature had risen since morning, the sun now high in the sky, it's warm rays falling across her shoulders. She kept glancing down at the satchel. How would people react if they knew what she was carrying?
At Fourth she waited for the light to change, then walked carefully across the street and entered the subway. She tried to keep away from the usual crush so nothing would happen. The platform was full of people waiting for the uptown subways. She eased over by the turnstile and waited, once again checking her satchel. It was still locked, held firmly in her grasp.
A loud roaring struck her ears and the crowd began pressing closer, peering down the dimlit tube that the speeding trains sped through. One was coming now, it's light splashing off the walls as it approached. Helen reached in her pocket for change, and then the train appeared, careening past the platform to disappear in the opposite direction. It must be full she thought. On a beautiful day like this many people would be downtown to pick up bargains and the subway furnished the fastest, cheapest means of transportation.
Thoughts about Frankie still troubled her. She wanted their marriage to work but he had to meet her half-way. He had to get a job, had to prove he was worthy of her. He said he had something big happening today. Maybe he got a job -- or -- or he was with Rico, drinking. She shuddered. Why did she let herself think the worst? He said she'd be proud of him. Again, she checked the satchel. Still locked securely.
A billboard on the far wall advertising women's lingerie attracted her attention. She thought of herself as she eyed the satiny white nightgown on the right. It reminded her of the one she wore on their honeymoon. She suddenly flushed at the thought of their passion. He loved me very much then. I could make him happy like we were before. He was wrong; they weren't through. They could re-kindle the spark.
From far up the tracks came the roar of another train approaching and with it increased pressing by the crowd. She took one last long look at the thin nightgown advertisement. He'd hold her close once again, whispering those crazy little things she enjoyed hearing, demanding kisses, strong hands sliding over the thin material, cupping, caressing, teasing, the lights low. She could almost smell his aftershave lotion. It was such a clean smell and it always made her giddy.
The train had stopped now. A hissing of air brakes broke through her daydreams. Behind her a rough voice said, "Lady, if you're going on this train, move it. You're holding up the works."
"Oh -- Oh, I'm sorry," she said, and headed for the train.
"Hey, Helen!" A familiar voice yelled.
She turned. It was Frankie waving at her. He looked handsome in the new blue suit she'd bought him.
"Frankie!" she called excitedly, beaming. "What brings you down here? A job interview?"
"I told you I'd make the headlines," he said working his way over to her through the crowd.
"What do you mean?"
"Lady" If you're going, get on board!" She was startled by the rough voice of a rude old man. "We can't wait all day."
"I'm laying my hands on some easy money real quick like," Frankie shouted above the noise of the train. Suddenly he spun her around. "Like the man said -- get on board!"
He gave her a violent shove sending her stumbling through the open door, at the same time grabbing the satchel from her hand.
"It's been real, Helen!" he shouted, grasping tightly to the satchel, hurrying away.
"No, Frankie --" she screamed, picking herself up, turning as the doors closed shut. The train was under motion.
"No! No! Frankie!" she pressed hard against the door. "It's not what you think it is!" But Frankie had already disappeared into the crowd.
"What's the matter lady?" the old guy said. "Lose something?"
The End
RESCUED
by Buzz
Harcus
A Collection of Short Stories Page 1
