I Am the Messenger

"Of course--you're the guy from the bank. The hero."

The fool, more like it, I thought, but I said, "Oh yeah--you're the girl behind the counter. You work here now?"

She nodded. "Yeah." She was a bit embarrassed. "I couldn't handle the stress in the bank."

"The robbery?"

"Nah, my boss was a total prick."

"The acne and the sweat patches?"

"Yeah, that's him.... Tried to stick his tongue in my mouth the other day."

"Ah well," I said. "That's men for you. We're all a bit that way."

"Ain't that the truth." But she was friendly from start to finish. When I was outside the shop, she called after me. "Enjoy the cake, Ed!"

"Thanks, Misha," I called back, but not loud enough, probably. I don't like making noise in public.

And I was gone.)

I think about it briefly as I open the box and look at half a mud cake. I feel for the girl because it can't have been too nice having that guy all over her like that, and it was she who quit. The bastard. I'm scared out of my mind before I try to put my tongue in a girl's mouth. And I don't have acne or sweat patches. Just shithouse confidence. That's all.

Anyway.

I give the cake a last examination. I smell good. I'm decked out in my nicest clothes, ready to go.

I step over the Doorman and close the door behind me. The day is silver gray and cool as I walk over to Harrison Avenue. I'm there by six o'clock, and the old lady is attending to the kettle again.

The grass on her front lawn is gold.

My feet crunch over it, like the sound of someone biting into toast. My boots seem to leave prints, and I truly feel like I'm walking over a giant piece of toasted bread. The roses are the only things alive, standing resolutely by the driveway.

Her front porch is cement. Old and cracked, like mine.

The flyscreen door is torn at the edges. Fraying. I open it and knock on the wood. The sound rhymes with my heartbeat.

Her footsteps climb to the door. Her feet sound like the ticktock of a clock. Counting time to this moment.

She stands.

She looks up at me, and for a moment we both get lost in each other. She wonders who I am, but only for a split second. Then, with stunning realization clambering across her face, she smiles at me. She smiles with such incredible warmth and says, "I knew you'd come, Jimmy." She

steps toward me and hugs me hard, her soft, wrinkled arms encasing me. "I knew you'd come."

When we move apart, she looks at me again, till a small tear lifts itself up in her eye. It trips out to find a wrinkle and follows it down.

"Ohh," and she shakes her head. "Thanks, Jimmy. I knew it, I knew it." She takes me by the hand and leads me into the house. "Come in," she tells me. I follow.

"Are you staying for dinner, Jimmy?"

"Only if you'll have me," I reply.

She chuckles. "'If you'll have me....'" She waves me away dismissively. "You're such a card, Jimmy."

Damn right I'm a card.

"Of course I'll have you," she continues. "It'll be lovely to go over old times, won't it?"