by A. J. Downey
I laughed. “Uh, yeah. I said I would do my best to get some of your things. I got lucky and pulled through.”
She kneeled at my feet in the narrow space and opened the hard black faux-leather case with all of its random colorful stickers to reveal the old acoustic guitar inside.
It was a beautiful piece, even with its sunburst finish starting to flake in places. I couldn’t tell you what brand it was or how old, but it was definitely a traveled and storied piece. She sat down right there on the floor and put it in her lap, playing a few chords, her fingers walking expertly up and down the frets, fingertips of her opposite hand plucking along the strings.
A neighbor banged on the wall of the kitchen and she looked up startled.
“Shit, sorry! I guess it’s a little late.”
“Ah, yeah, I get it though. It must be important to you.”
“Very. It’s one of the only things I have left of my granddad.”
“I’m glad I could get it for you, then,” I said and she set it back in its cradle of crushed blue velvet. She closed up the case and set it reverently against the end of my dresser where there was just enough wall sticking out behind it to keep it from sliding and crashing again.
“Thank you, seriously. I mean, you have no idea how much it means to me that you got it.”
“I got this too,” I said, shrugging out of her old-school olive drab military backpack full of patches of places traveled. The thing had to be nineteen seventies, probably found at a thrift or surplus store somewhere.
“Jesus! You got it all, didn’t you?” she asked, taking it from me.
“Mm, just the things you asked for,” I said, wheeling her suitcase from around the kitchen counter.
“Please tell me you aren’t going to get in trouble for this,” she said, looking up at me with those wide, dual-colored eyes of hers. I smiled and shook my head. They were even more beautiful in the dedicated light of my apartment lamp.
“I shouldn’t, no,” I said.
“Thank God. I seriously don’t know what I would have done without you, tonight.”
“This is definitely not something I’ve ever done before,” I said.
“Well I’m grateful you saw fit to trust me, even though I’m not sure why you do,” she said quietly.
“Me either, to be completely honest. I guess I just get a certain kind of good vibe off of you. After being a cop, you get a certain read on people, I guess.”
She backed off and sat back down on the bed, hugging her backpack to her chest.
“Anything I can do to repay you, seriously, just name it.”
“It’s been a long night,” I told her. “I honestly just want a shower and to get some sleep. I have work tomorrow.”
“Sure. Um, I’ve had a nap – obviously. I can get dressed and go.”
I shook my head and tried not to chuckle. I mean, there really wasn’t anything funny about it. Instead, I stepped carefully around her guitar and toward my closet shrugging out of my leather jacket and cut and said, “How about this? I’m going to get in the shower and when I get out, you tell me how you want to handle the sleeping arrangements – what would make you the most comfortable, and that’s what we’ll do.”
She chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully, those dual-colored eyes of hers roving my face and finally she asked, “Why are you being so nice to me?”
I shrugged and said, “Seems to me that you’re overdue for some kindness. I mean, correct me if I’m wrong.”
She shook her head and I raised my eyebrows.
“You’re not wrong,” she said softly.
“Kind of figured,” I said kindly and went to my dresser, picking up my flannel pajama bottoms and plain white tee that were folded on top of it.
“See you in a few, I guess,” she murmured after I pulled a towel down off the closet shelf. I gave her a nod and shut myself into my bathroom.
I sighed out and stripped down, kicking my boots into the corner by the door and tossing my clothes directly into the basin of my stacked washer and drier. I took a luxurious long and hot shower and half expected that when I did get out, that she would be gone. I was a little surprised to find that the thought vaguely hurt – but I would understand.
When I got out, I toweled off and got dressed pretty quickly. It wasn’t quite cold enough to warrant turning on the heat yet, but it wasn’t exactly warm out of the shower, either.
When I opened up the bathroom door and rounded the corner, she was still there. Sitting up in my bed, closest to the window and door, a pillow shoved behind her back and a leather-bound, thick journal open on her lap. She absently chewed the end of her pen as her eyes roved the page in front of her and she sighed out, a frustrated sound, and struck something through and scribbled something else below it.
“You make up your mind on how we’re going to do this, then?” I asked.
She looked up at me and asked, “How old are you?”
“Just turned thirty, why?”
“I’m twenty-five.”
“So?”
“So we’re both adults past the age of consent and while I’m not consenting to sex, I think we’re both old enough and mature enough to sleep in the same bed, if that’s okay with you.”
I smiled and nodded. “As long as you’re good, that’s all that matters.”
“That hardly seems fair,” she said.
I raised my eyebrows and asked, “How’s that?” She considered me a moment as I rubbed my towel over my wet hair to get it from ‘wet’ to just damp.
“Consent goes both ways. I’m a firm believer in that. Women are just as predatory in their own way as men – it’s just showcased differently.”
“I can see your point and believe me – I’ve done a lot worse for myself than just sleep next to a pretty woman I’ve just met. I think we all have at some point or another.”
Her lips crooked up into a one-sided smile and she asked, “So you think I’m pretty?”
“Shit,” I said. “I did say that, didn’t I? I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable.”
Her smile took over the other side of her mouth and soon she was grinning, her nose wrinkling impishly. The look was adorable and I felt my heart do this skip-a-beat thing in my chest. I mean, if I were a dog, not a man, I would be panting and it was ridiculous.
“You’re adorable, you know that Jeremy Poe?”
I laughed and felt myself blush slightly and asked, “Adorable? I don’t think anyone’s called me that since my memaw.”
Her smile grew, as if that were possible and she got up out of bed and went to her backpack. She tucked her journal and pen away and came up with a toothbrush and a mostly used tube of toothpaste out of one of the side pockets.
“Just let me brush my teeth,” she murmured and I stepped aside, between the bed and the wall to let her pass. She went into the bathroom and I tossed my towel into the dirty-laundry hamper in the bottom of my closet. There were a couple more in there and I was glad she’d felt comfortable enough to shower. Of course, why wouldn’t she? She’d certainly felt comfortable enough to help herself to my underwear drawer. The thought pleased me, and every time I thought of it, I suppressed a chuckle. I went back out and switched out the light before heading to bed and climbing in on the side she’d left for me.
The water shut off a second later in the bathroom and she switched off the bathroom light.
“Oh!”
“Sorry, you good?” I asked, figuring she was taken aback by the dark of the room.
“Um, yeah.”
She sounded uncertain and I frowned slightly.
“You sure? You don’t sound like it.”
“It’s stupid,” she declared and the bed dipped, her silhouette disrupting the faint lines of streetlight coming through the slats of the blinds over my window. She sank down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight as she slid under the covers.
“I promise it’s not,” I said, genuinely curious by now.
> “Twenty-five years old and I’m still afraid of the dark,” she said quietly and I fought not to laugh. I succeeded but only by a slim margin.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Why’s what?”
“Why are you afraid of the dark?”
The bed shifted slightly as she shrugged.
“Bad things happen in the dark,” she whispered.
“Good things happen in the dark, too.”
She laughed and I was glad for it. I mean, I really wasn’t trying to come off as totally creepy but it seemed like despite my best intentions, when it came right down to it I was suffering from foot-in-mouth disease tonight.
“That has to be one of the sweetest, yet cheesiest things that’s ever been said to me.” She giggled and I couldn’t help but smile in the close dark. I turned from my back to my side and propped my head on my hand.
“What exactly is your story, Saylor Grace?”
She hummed out and turned onto her stomach, hugging her pillow to her chest.
“Well, I was born in California and when I was three, my mom and dad moved back to my mom’s hometown; where my mom grew up in Washington. By the time I was five, my grandma was dying of cancer and my dad was drinking a lot. He would beat my mom. I don’t remember much. I think I blocked it out or whatever, but he ended up killing my mom and himself and I ended up with my granddad.”
“Shit,” I said softly.
“Yeah. My granddad was awesome. The best thing ever. I mean, my grandma had died, so it was just me and him. Then, when I was fifteen, he had a heart attack and died in his sleep. I was put into foster care after that.”
“Wow.” I didn’t know what else to say. I mean, she’d had it rough.
“I ended up sleeping under a bridge for the most part. The foster family was shit and I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t graduate but, I did eventually get my GED. I spent a lot of time couch surfing – the indie music scene was great in Seattle, but it was so expensive to live there, so I eventually went through my granddad’s and my stuff in storage and pitched everything but the essentials. Took the car and made my way here to meet up with my now ex-boyfriend, Cody. God, what a joke.”
“Hey, it’s not your fault, his actions are no reflection on you.” Too many times I’d heard the victims of a given scenario blame themselves, or blamed by others for the pile of shit they’d landed in. It was a tough and bitter pill to swallow. Society had it all wrong in that regard. Yes, there were preventative measures a person could take when it came to being victimized, but there was never a one-hundred-percent foolproof way to avoid being victimized. It happened to the best of us. It happened all the time. It was a hard truth and a fact of life.
“I’ve heard that one before,” she said with an edge of bitter laughter to her voice.
“Yeah, from who?” I asked and felt a little steel creep into my tone.
“Cops like yourself,” she said a little more softly. The vulnerability in her voice at the confession made my heart brittle.
“Not like me. Cops, maybe, but not like me. Not like a lot of my brothers, either,” I said.
“Brothers?” she echoed. “How many you got?” I could see her attempt at changing the subject but…
“Biologically, I have one sister. An older one. I’m talking about my club.”
“Club?”
“Yeah, I belong to an MC or motorcycle club. We’re all first responder and law enforcement types. They’re my brothers in every which way but blood.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I heaved in a big sigh and let it out. “Cops are people, too,” I said. “Flawed, imperfect. We got a lot of assholes on the force. Some of ‘em jaded from too long on the front lines. Some of ‘em have no business being cops – never have and never will, but it’s tough when the whole department is judged by the actions of a few.”
“You know what they say,” she murmured, “one bad apple spoils the bunch.”
“Yeah,” I said unhappily, but I couldn’t argue.
“You’re one of the good ones, Jeremy Poe,” she whispered after a long silence and I was riding that fine edge of sleep.
“Yeah?” I murmured, fighting to stay awake.
“Yeah,” she whispered.
“Glad somebody thinks so, Saylor Grace.”
She let out a little puff of air, stifling her giggle and said, “I’ll let you go to sleep.”
I don’t know if I said it out loud but I certainly thought it, I’m glad that somebody is you.
4
Saylor…
I left a note and slipped out the next morning, promising to return for the rest of my things but itching to explore the city some. I mean, I was stuck here. I might as well make the best of it, right?
I walked until things became more populated and I found a pretty stable bus line, waiting for the next coach with my guitar in hand and my backpack perched on my back with a pocketful of change.
The bus fare was hella cheap here! Back in Seattle, it was pushing three bucks a ride, here it was just a little over half that. Yes, I had a car, but it wasn’t always feasible driving it everywhere back in Washington. Olympia was sixty miles south of Seattle, but Seattle had the best spots for busking – er playing on a street corner, in the region. If I could score me a good spot at Pike’s Place Market or on Capitol Hill, I could really rake it in. The best way to get around was, by far, walking or the bus system inside city limits, so I usually found a Park & Ride along the light-rail line or outside the city and rode mass transit in.
I sometimes spent weeks couch surfing, which is how I learned the hard way that I needed to go move my car every few days. I almost lost it after it got impounded for sitting too long. That was the first time. The second and last time it’d gotten impounded was when I had been pulled over for a taillight out, got caught driving without insurance and when I refused to blow the cop that’d pulled me over? Yup. Impounded again and left stranded on the side of the road.
I sat up front on the bus and made small talk with the bus driver, trying to get the lay of the land, eking out the best spots for us artsy types. Where the best busking in the city could be found – where the best tourist traps could be found.
I’d carefully written down the address number and apartment number of Poe’s place and had walked to the end of the block and gotten the street name so I could find my way back. It was a pain in the ass without having a map of the city at my fingertips, but my phone had long since been shut off and the only way I could look anything up on it, get or return messages, or otherwise use it was when I could rob a Wi-Fi signal.
A map would be reeeeally handy. Even if it was a half-assed tourist map. Something was better than nothing.
“Awright, this is you, honey,” the bus driver said, pulling up to a stop.
“Thanks, Bernard!” I got up from my seat.
“Well now, that would be my pleasure. You be safe out there now, y’hear?” He tipped his bus driver’s cap in my direction and I smiled at him.
“Always am!”
“Welcome to Indigo City, now!”
“Thanks!” I called over my shoulder.
I looked up and down the street and let out a long slow breath. It was a beautiful waterfront area, the buildings old and reminiscent of Seattle’s Pioneer Square except maybe a few of them were older. It made me feel right at home. Across the street were wide concrete steps leading down to a broad waterfront park.
Bernard hadn’t steered me wrong. This looked like a prime location to set up shop, so-to-speak.
First order of business was coffee. I set off up the street, looking in the windows of little boutiques and peering down the steps into a flower shop just starting to set up for the day.
“Coffee?” I called out to the guy rolling out the display from inside.
“About half a block up there’s a place,” he called back without looking up.
I soldiered on, thinking about Poe and a few more doors down it was just a m
atter of following my nose.
“Oh, yes!” I whispered to myself in triumph as I came up on the source of the coffee and baked goods smell.
It was a little French bakery that was almost exactly like Le Panier at Pike’s Place, back home.
Rich, buttery, flaky croissants were just coming out of the ovens and I recounted my money that I’d relocated from my guitar case to my front jeans pocket this morning, hoping that it’d somehow magically multiplied.
No such luck, of course, but this place was reasonably priced and for less than seven bucks I scored a cup of rich dark coffee lightened with heavy cream and a chocolate croissant.
This place was authentic as fuck! The rich, flakey pastry with its paper thin layers wasn’t in a crescent shape meaning it had been made with real butter. I took my culinary prize to a table in the corner and called out to the hipster barista, “Hey, would you mind if I played outside your door for a little while?”
“Uh, it depends,” he called back. “Are you on drugs?” I shook my head and pushed back my sleeves, rotating my arms so he could see.
“Do you suck?”
I laughed and said, “I think I do, but nobody else has ever complained.”
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Saylor. You?”
“Josh. Where you from, Saylor?”
“Olympia, Washington, technically.”
“Where?”
“Olympia. It’s in Washington State.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s the capital,” I said.
“Don’t care,” he shot back. “Sure you can play for a while. Might want to suck that down and get started. The morning rush is about to start.”
“Thanks for the tip, Josh!”
“No problem, and you better have a permit!” he called as I stood up. “If you don’t have one, watch for the cops. The fine is twice as much as getting one.”
“Where do I even get one and how much is it?”
