I shut off my music and savor the cooler\u2019s low hum while zipping up my backpack. Vinegar from the last batch of pasta salad lands bitter in each breath. I wipe the prep counter down one last time, so Les will smell the cleaner when he comes in.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s time for one last look and a mental audit of my task list. Three batches of pasta salad, made. Swiss, provolone, mild cheddar, and jarlsberg, sliced. Black forest ham, honey smoked turkey, buffalo chicken, prepped. Slicers, cleaned. Just in time for Les to come in and make a mess before the early morning rush. I set the timer on the bagel warmer before plopping down in the back office to roll myself a cig. Sumatran tobacco\u2014the only stuff I smoke anymore. People think it\u2019s weird that I roll my own. I won\u2019t smoke the shit Phillip Morris calls high quality.<\/p>\n
Les\u2019s headlights flood the window. His car door bangs, and his keys jingle against the door. \u201cKelly?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m in here.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cKitchen looks good,\u201d he says without looking. That\u2019s one perk of being a long standing employee. EIther he knows I do a good job, or just doesn\u2019t care enough to check.<\/p>\n
\u201cThanks,\u201d I say, pulling back the lever on my cigarette roller. \u201cThe slicer\u2019s still jamming. It messed up a bunch of ham earlier. I minced it and added it to the ham salad.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cGood call.\u201d He picks up his Not My Problem mug and slogs toward the coffee maker.<\/p>\n
My mouth waters looking down at the freshly rolled cylinder of heaven between my fingers. I reach in my left pocket and squeeze my Zippo. \u201cWell, if you don\u2019t have anything else for me, I think I\u2019m gonna head out then.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t you ever get scared walking home in the dark?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI actually like it. It\u2019s so quiet.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, you know what they say about human trafficking and stuff. Just don\u2019t get snatched, okay?\u201d<\/p>\n
I look down at my lumpy, bulbous stomach. My thick legs and mannish face keep me from being afraid. I want to ask who the hell would traffic this body? Instead, I smile and say, \u201cI\u2019ll be fine. I have pepper spray.\u201d<\/p>\n
Historic Booker Street\u2014the thread running its frayed old fibers through Gehenna\u2014waited for me, empty and silent. The clock on the belltower reads 4:07. I\u2019m so glad to be gone before the morning rush. Dalrymples is its own circle of hell from five to seven AM. People blame things like not being a morning person, or not having their coffee yet for their shitty disposition. I bite my tongue instead of asking why they work in the morning then. You hate mornings? Do what I do and work at night.<\/p>\n
I live my life in the in between. When the world sleeps, I make pasta salad and pre-made sandwiches for them. The people who happily wolf it down never stop to think that someone had to make<\/i> this. Gloved hands put these ingredients together and wrapped it up in a neat little package. While they run an endless race in circles, I dream.<\/p>\n
Joy Division\u2014New Dawn Fades\u2014starts up in my earbuds. I do an internal happy dance at the sheer perfection of this song for my walk.<\/p>\n
Taking the most convoluted ways home possible so I see more hidden places is its own little game. Strange little brick buildings covered in ivy and graffiti, crumbling concrete stairs leading to black doors underground, yard mushrooms made of random stuff the maker probably thrifted or resurrected from a dumpster, and the occasional late night\/early morning wanderer, like me. We pass without speaking, but we know<\/i>\u2014a comradery that floats above words.<\/p>\n
I turn down Laurel and then onto Wolf Street. There\u2019s a perfect smoking spot this way, at the picnic area behind one ancient apartment building. The way the warm light turns the grass lime and paints the picnic tables electric red, and angular shadows cast by the tables make me feel like I\u2019m sitting in a painting on a random thrifted shop wall. At times it\u2019s almost too much. And then I realize I\u2019m one of the lucky ones. Most people will never appreciate this kind of beauty.<\/p>\n
I perch on a table covered in doodles and crude musings in marker and rest my feet on the bench. The other table has an entire body traced on it in thick black sharpie. I never sit there.<\/p>\n
I roll another cigarette and spark it up. The delightful burn of Sumatran smoke fills my lungs, coats my throat, and takes me away for a second. I don\u2019t even know where Sumatra is. I just know they grow damn good smoke there. Crickets and the first cicadas to emerge this year serenade me. RIght now, this is better than Joy Division. Do they know how beautiful their song is? Are they singing just for me? Probably not. I\u2019m probably the only one to ever stop and listen to them.<\/p>\n
This building has been here for decades. A first floor window glows blue with filtered TV light. Dull gray shines in thin strips through blinds in a second floor apartment. On the third, green light frames the distinct silhouette of a cat.<\/p>\n
I nod at him, and turn my head to blow out the smoke, even though it won\u2019t reach him.<\/p>\n
The first floor TV turns off. Someone\u2019s either going to work or going to sleep. Hopefully it\u2019s the latter.<\/p>\n
A squirrel darts across the stone wall and up an oak tree.<\/p>\n
The cat hasn\u2019t moved. No tilt of the head, stretch of a paw, or flick of the tail.<\/p>\n
I take another puff of my cigarette, and laugh softly at nothing. \u201cYou know,\u201d I whisper, looking up at the scrappy feline, \u201cThey always say I should talk to someone. They never say who. You\u2019ll do.\u201d<\/p>\n
A poster of a winged figure hangs on a wall behind him, either an angel or Pegasus, I can\u2019t tell from down here.<\/p>\n
The cherry glows as I take another long drag. \u201cI\u2019ll tell you a secret, window kitty,\u201d I say. \u201cPeople think I\u2019m messed up in the head. In school I had to do all these psych evaluations and stuff. I had to take Ritalin in front of the whole class. They called me psycho girl, and crazy Kelly. I have a high IQ so I was bored in school.\u201d I laugh again\u2014so hard I double over and my head swims. Laughter I barely recognize echoes through the yard. My side cramps, and my cigarette falls to the grass. Wheezing, I wipe tears from my face. \u201cI know I\u2019m too smart to work in a deli. I could be a surgeon. Or a rocket scientist. But I don\u2019t want to be responsible for saving lives and launching rockets. I could do those things. And then what? Die young from all the stress and never get to spend the money?\u201d I sniffle and look down at the orange ember on the grass. \u201cForget that. I\u2019ll make ham salad for the masses, and talk to window cats.\u201d<\/p>\n
I bend over to pick up my smoldering cigarette. Sumatran tobacco is too good to waste.<\/p>\n
And that damn cat still hasn\u2019t moved.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo people think I\u2019m crazy. Maybe they\u2019re right,\u201d I say, wiping tears from my face. \u201cI\u2019m sitting here at 4am telling a cat how smart I am. But you’re a good listener.\u201d I finish my cigarette and snuff it out on a black sharpie request for \u201cfelatio,\u201d and pocket the butt. \u201cDoes your owner let you go outside? Maybe tomorrow I\u2019ll bring you some tuna.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stand up and pull out a sharpie from my backpack\u2014the same one I use to label the large batches of salad at work\u2014and add the second L. Can\u2019t leave the night this sloppy.<\/p>\n
\u201cMaybe one day I\u2019ll go to Sumatra and tell you all about it,\u201d I whisper. He stretches and licks a paw. Thank the universe I didn\u2019t just spill my guts to a statue. Buy tuna<\/i>, I tell myself, walking away.<\/p>\nAuthor\u2019s Note:<\/h1>\n
Thanks for reading! Follow me on twitter at: https:\/\/x.com\/Valkrane<\/a><\/p>\n Like my author page on Facebook: https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/profile.php?id=61569818831489<\/a><\/p>\n