Macanudo
The cab ride was cheap and the smell of it was too familiar. I handed the cabbie
five dollars and ignored the change. The air smelled like a humid party. The curb was
randomly dressed with garbage and the wet streets reflected the distorted lights that
hung above like concerned parents. It had stopped raining about an hour ago and
people had just begun their night. It was only about ten o’clock and I knew that I had
nothing to do until tomorrow.
A bell attached to the top of the door jingles as I open it and I’m reminds
of the cheap hotels in Chicago. A dark haired young boy in a bright red uniform
approaches the counter and says, “Welcome to Rosefield Inn.”
“I should have a reservation sent in from Chicago.” I reach into my back
pocket and pull out my business card. “I will be working for Mr. Fouse at the
Daily Times, and should only need a room for a few nights. If you could, please
send a bottle of whisky and some extra towels up to my room.”
The young boy acknowledges me and hands me two keys with the words
“Forty One” carved on each. As he begins taking the order on a small pad of
paper I interrupt him and ask, “What time does the lobby bar close?”
“Last call is about two o’clock, and the piano guy got here around an hour
I say “Thank you” and walk away.
There is something peculiar about a new town. Sometimes the streets
seem a little wider or the sidewalks are a little thinner. Furniture, especially the
oversized kinds in hotels, looks completely different decorated in unfamiliar
patterns. Cars make funny noises and the streetlights have awkward timing.
Despite the little differences one can always find comfort in the same place.
After attending to my room and dropping off some luggage, I look at my
watch and return to the lobby bar. As I approach the door, I hear a distant
collection of yelps and hollers muffled by the noise of moving bodies and the
sounds of alcohol. A piano plays softly. Walking in I recognize the vibe. It’s
always the same unlike the streetlights. Several people are mingling at the bar
exchanging exaggerated smiles and laughing at unfunny jokes. Nearly every
booth is occupied by an even numbered group of people with small powerful
voices looking for attention. They yell through the cloud of smoke hoping to be
recognized.
I find a bartender and ask for rum with a slice-a-lime. I drop 5 dollars on
the bar, handle my drink, and walk away to find a seat away from a cigar-
chewing businessman. I sit down in a warm seat facing the door, with my back
to the man on the piano. From here I can catch bits of scattered conversation:
“ . . .I told him not to but you know men . . .and then next thing you know I had
slipped and...it’s just not a good idea to do something that will... he looks so
funny in that little red uniform... all I know is that if you want something done right
I half attentively listen like this for about ten minutes until something
snatches my attention. A young woman was talking about my case, my first bit
of local news.
I had been sent here on an assignment to research and write a story of a
Chicago man who had been shot. His body was found in front of Rosefield Inn
after two gunshots had been heard. He was shot in the back and had died in the
hands of his wife. I figured that the best place to start would be for me to stay
here and pick up any news that hadn’t been written in the local papers.
“Just right out front, lyin there with his head in his wife’s lap – it was so
crazy!”
The man she was talking to doesn’t respond quick enough, “Yeah and get
this, I heard that it had something to do with Rich Griffen, the mayor’s son. You
know how greedy that whole family is, I wouldn’t be surprised if he killed the man
himself – or paid somebody else to do it.”
This is something that I can use. After the ice in the bottom of my drink
tells me that it is empty I get up and retreat out of the smoke and back to my
The door has a big silver number “41” on it. It looks cheap but the bed is
comfortable.
By morning the streets were dry so I decide to take a walk to get some
coffee and a paper.
Things look different in the morning than they do at night. The outside
of the Rosefield Inn looks awkward. I hadn’t begun to get comfortable or really
adjust to the time change. It’s almost noon by the time I finish with the paper
and two cups of coffee. I’m scheduled to meet with Mr. Fouse at noon so I head
down the main street.
It looks cleaner than last night but still smells of humid people. The heat is
intense and the air conditioning in Daily Times wasn’t going to be doing anything
about it. Walking in I notice that there is a certain friendly messiness about
the office and the air is filled with the clatter of computers and smell of paper.
Editors and writers are chained to their desks with moist foreheads working over
fast fingers that grab at letters. The only man not working was a small fat man
leaning back in his chair with a desk fan at his face. I walk over to him and notice
that the stand on his desk reads, “MR. FOUSE”. As I begin to speak he whirls
around in his chair opening his eyes. “All right!” he snaps, “What the fuck do you
want?”
Steering down at him I could see sweat running down his wide face and
say, “I’m from Chicago, I was sent to cover the Haas homicide. Hopefully you
received word from . . .”
He interrupts me and smashes his fat hand on his desk, shuffles around a
combination of yellow, blue, and white papers, picks out a yellow one and hands
it to me. “Here is your interview. Meet Mrs. Haas at the Parthenon- it’s a
Greek restaurant on Fifth Street. Be there at seven thirty.” He whirls back
around, drags from his cigarette, and smiles at the fan.
I stand there for too long, then turn and walk back out to the sidewalk and
blistering heat content with the simplicity of conversation. I continue walking past
the coffee house till I get to the Rosefield Inn and realize that it’s beginning to
look little more familiar. I go up to my room and adjust the air conditioner. It’s
too hot outside right now to do anything so I pour myself a drink and click on the
I wake up to a familiar movie – I must have fallen asleep – it’s the one
where the man dies and is offered to see what life would have been like if he
would have never been born. I can’t remember the name of it and make myself a
drink. By the time my ice hits the bottom of the glass the clock is around seven.
I collect my thoughts, some paper, grab a pen and my keys – pat the back of my
pants to check for my wallet – and head down to the lobby. As I pass the front
counter, I tell the bellhop to call me a cab in ten minutes and to come and get
me when it arrives. I move into the bar where I am surprised at the number of
people. They are all men, by their lack of conversation it seems that many of
them have just gotten off of work. Most are wearing sweaty, white business-like
shirts with skinny cheap ties, most of them are drinking a domestic beer while
others grasp mixed drinks. After ordering a drink I take a seat at a table. The
room smells of cheap smoke. A row of balding heads sit at the bar steering and
listening to the television that hovers just above their heads. The boy in the red
uniform calls over to me letting me know that my cab is here. I top off the drink,
and set it down on the bar as I walk out.
“The Parthenon on Fifth Street please.” He nods his head, pulls the cab
into drive and pulls away from the curb. The cab ride is short but I know that it
would be a long walk. We roll up to a nicely lit restaurant. I tip the cabbie and
ask him to be back in about an hour.
Greek music spills from the front door and a short man with very little but
gray hair introduces himself and the night’s specials with a nice smile.
“Actually I am here with a guest. I was supposed to meet her here but I
don’t know what she looks like, perhaps you could help me.”
“Quite surely” he responds. “Does the lady have a name?”
“Mrs. Haas, I was supposed to meet her here at seven.”
“Of course, she just arrived a few minutes before you. She is the lady in
the blue dress sitting back there next to the window.” He directs me to her table.
I introduce myself with a delicate handshake and thank her for the
interview.
She asks with a soft voice “Would you like something to drink before we begin?”
We both lean towards the waiter. She asks for a martini and I ask for a 7 and
seven. She is a very pretty lady. Her long blonde hair hangs past her shoulders.
It was bouncy and looked brittle. Her eyes match her dress and her ears weigh
down with big silver earrings. She was standing tall with confidence and form in
her posture, she was very aware of herself. I could see that she was not wearing
a wedding ring.
“So what brings you to this town?” I ask.
“Well I did some legal secretary work in Chicago before I came here. The
firm I worked for closed and I was offered a job working for the same firm here in
“Well that was very nice of them” provoking her.
“Yeah but there were some complications. Frankie...” she takes a deep
breath “and I were having some complications. He didn’t want me to stay in the
firm.” She smiles and says, “He always talked about us moving out west and
even opening a small craft shop. He liked to work with wood.” She was
beginning to look uncomfortable like she was almost about to cry. I ask her if
she would like something to eat.
“No. No I’m all right.”
“Well how do you know the mayor, Mr. Griffin?” I ask.
“The firm that I work for represents Mr. Griffin as well as many other
wealthy people. Mostly men though.”
“Have you ever met the mayor?”
“He makes appointments at the firm often. We represent him in all of his
legal paperwork and legal actions.”
“Have you ever met his son, Rich Griffin?” I’m all ears.
She takes a drink from her martini, breaths and says, “I have met him a
few times. He is a very nice fellow. Comes in with his father on occasion.”
At times like this it is best to give these questions some time to settle. I
reach down to my pager. It hadn’t go off but I look up like it has.
“Can you excuse me for a second? I need to make a quick phone call.” I
walk back over to the short man by the door and ask him to get me a cab. He
asks me if everything is okay and I say “Yeah! Everything is fine. Could you
please let Mrs. Haas know that I had to leave in an emergency? Tell her that I
will get a hold of her later and that I apologize for leaving.” I leave the man with
enough money to cover the drinks and fall into my cab.
“Rosefield Inn please.”
The sun begins to wake me from my dream.
…lying on the sand with a Macanudo in my left hand and a pink drink with a green
umbrella in it next to my right hand. The water flashes light onto the underside of my sailboat
that sways to a driftless pattern out in front of me. S.S. Griffen. A short man, probably in his late
fifties, in a black suit, waddles over to me and hands me a cordless phone on a silver plate larger
than his head. I pick it up, nod at the old boy and say,
“Señor Griffen! Señor Griffen, your breakfast is ready.”
I throw back the silk and shift my body into an upright position. After a few
moments of stretching and blinking, the experienced Mexican boy carries the
tray over to me and sets it on my bedside nook. I look at the horrible hair of my
reflection, and pull off the silver lid covering my breakfast. The filet throws steam
at my face while the eggs lie intimidated next to it. A muffin, glass of milk and
cup of cappuccino, and a setting of Mother’s silverware sit on the tray next to her
“good” china.
“Señor Griffen! Señor Griffen, Mr. Griffen called and asked for you to
meet him at office . . . oh! Rose come earlier again. She wanted seeing you. I
told her you were in meeting and sent her away.
“You may go now Neno, pack my briefcase and set it at the foyer door.”
As he walks across the room and closes the door I turn towards the meat
and begin cutting. A copy of today’s Daily Press is lying next to me and I begin
shuffling through the thin pages as I sip on my French silk cappuccino.
Governor Griffen (left) shakes hands with Captain Wilson of the local Police
Department for the opening of the first annual Officer’s Ball that took place
last night at Tanagon Ballroom.
After the plate clears I take my last sip of my drink and shuffle my way
towards the shower to begin my daily ritual of skin creams, conditioners,
purifiers, and vitamins.
After my routine I begin cycling my way through the suits and ties till I
finally get to a pair of khaki shorts, a polo shirt, and some clogs. I walk over to
the bureau, snap on my watch, scoop up my keys, leather wallet, a book of
matches, and my cutter as well as a few Macanudos. Standing in front of my
reflection, we smile at each other and reach for my cell phone, then the door.
I like to hum Tony Bennet songs as I walk through the hall, down the
stairs, past the kitchen where Neno is preparing for lunch, through the front
foyer, and on into the garage where my car radio takes over for me as I turn over
the engine. The garage door opens and I pull down the drive.
The sun throws waves across the pavement like an invisible curtain and
the wind throws my hair around as Tony sings in my car. I pull up to my father’s
office building, underhand my keys to the valet and press on for the elevator.
“Twelve please.”
“Good to see you sir. A beautiful day for golf isn’t it?”
The operator is a tall skinny boy, probably seventeen or eighteen, and
enjoys talking about golf even though he looks too uncoordinated to play the
game. I smile, to humor myself, and lie, “Yup! Just cumin up to see if the old
man wants to go on a break and swing at nine holes over at Grendales. Do you
know if he’s up in his office by any chance…” I look at his plastic golden
nametag, “Chip?”
Over excited he turns and faces me,
“Well nobody goes in or out without me seeing sir and last I saw of
Governor Griffen was about ten o’clock when I took him up to his office.”
He smiles and waits for me to talk to him more, maybe hoping for me to
ask if he could go to Grendales as well. I instead occupy myself by fixing my
reflection in front of me. We take opposite hands and brush the dark brown hair
away from our eyes, tug on our collar, and smile.
I step off the elevator and through the double glass doors that read,
The secretary waves her skinny arm and says,
“Go on in Mr. Griffen.”
I smile and move to more double doors. As I step into the window-
covered room I reach into my pocket, grab my cutter and two Macanudos, clip
them, and return my hand for some matches.
“Hey there boy! How’s your new Royce treaten you, you handsome son-
of-a-bitch.” He rocks back in his chair. “You know you don’t get those looks
from your mom.”
We both laugh and fill the room with expensive smoke. I step to the bar
and fix two drinks with one hand: Booker’s Scotch, on the rocks.
“So I called you into my office because I wanted you to know that I was
interviewed yesterday about the Officer’s Ball. The bastard reporter had the
nerve to ask me if I knew anything about Captain Wilson and his accused money
laundering scheme.”
He takes a swig from his drink.
“Of course I fuckin knew, it was all over town. Then I told him…” he shifts
his body and intonation to meet a more formal level, “I hope that the truth sets
him free of all accusations. Captain Wilson is a good man, and I would trust him
with every penny I own.” With this he points his finger and impersonates
someone who cares. We both laugh again and drag from our cigars.
I sip from my glass and shake my head. Strong drink!
“That crazy woman came by my place sometime this morning. Neno told
me she really wanted to talk. I just don’t know what to do with her. She won’t
stop bothering me.”
“Look son, women are the root of all that’s evil and only the unmotivated,
poor bastards say that it’s money. I’ve been telling you that for a long time now,
and here you are with another woman tied up to you again.”
I look at him and say, “It’s all your fault, I didn’t get these good looks from
mom you know.”
We laugh again and he rocks back in his chair and returns with the cigar
in his teeth, puffing like a factory.
“I think I’m just going to tell her the truth about Sara and me. That will
make her hate me enough to leave me alone. I hope.”
“This is that chickety you’ve been seein on the side right, the one working
over at the firm?”
“Yup. If I tell Rose about me and Sara then she’ll definitely hate me”.
“Well all I’ve got to say is to be careful when hurting a woman--they bite
harder then they can punch”.
We smile and return to our drinks and cigars. After some mindless
chatting and some more Booker’s I leave to meet Sara for lunch at La Fiacce’s.
“You’ve reached the voice mail of” the electronic operator interrupts and
that fuckers voice, deep, soft, fake, “Rich Griffen,” returns, “please leave a
message after the tone.”
“All right. I’m sorry for whatever I did that made you leave me, but there
was no reason for you to find another woman.” I take a deep breath and sputter
back into control.
“I tried to give you everything you ignorant son-of-a-bitch. I don’t even
know what I’m apologizing for; you’re the one who’s heartless. The least you
could have done was to let me know things were over.”
I can feel my tears run with eyeliner down my cheek. My head is spinning
and my knees buckle inward. I fall to the floor and drop the phone
simultaneously. I put my red face in my hands and my whole body convulses
with sorrow and pain. I try to fight it but my hand reaches for the phone. My
voice squeaks into a frustrated tone,
“You know…things could have been perfect between the two of us, but
no…you had to go and be a cheat, you lying piece of shit. All you had to do was
come to me and I would have done anything for you. We were beautiful together
but you fucked it all up. You ruined my life. Now what am I supposed to do, just
take this sort of shit? Listen Rich, this isn’t over, and I’m not going to let you go
that easily.”
My breath takes over and shakes the phone from my hands. How could
somebody do this to me? I should have seen it coming. Friend my ass, I should have
known better than to trust a man with another woman. Bitch stole my man away from me.
My sobs quickly turn into laughter. Things will be all right. He’ll learn that
that bitch is no good for him, and want me back. He’s just making a small mistake.
He’ll call and ask me to take him back. The laughter quickly turns back into shaking
and my eyes begin to run dry.
The beeping of an empty phone line brings me back to my bedroom floor.
My hands are covered in makeup and my head feels like it is going to burst. I
reach for the phone and smash the talk button to quiet the interruption. I throw it
across the room and it shatters on the wooden floor. The congestion in my face
convinces me to take a shower and get myself back together again.
He could be coming over any minute to ask me back. You don’t want him to see
you like this do you? You should wear that nice red dress that he likes so much. I think
that he likes my hair up and I can take out my old diamond earrings that I was saving for
my wedding. He’ll come back. He’ll come back. He’ll come back.
The makeup is still smeared down my cheek and my hands look like their
covered in soot. It takes me some time to build up the energy, and I lift my
lifeless body off of the floor and drag it to the shower.
The water doesn’t do anything for the pain. My stomach is twisted like
wrung out laundry and my head feels like it’s full of lead and too heavy for my
shoulders. I can barely open my eyes and my body aches with weakness. I
don’t know why, but I start laughing uncontrollably until my knees give again and
my body hits the bottom of the stall. The laughter throws my body back and now
I’m lying in the shower with tears squeezing through my clenched eyes.
I push open the shower door and grab two towels to dry. I open the door
and the steam from the room rushes past me and into the hall as I step out of the
humidity and into my bedroom. Lying back on my bed I begin to reminisce about
the fun Rich and I have.
I wake up lying on my bed with a towel wrapped around me. I pull myself
together and walk over to the window. The streets are black and the lights above
them throw fake yellow cones of light onto the people. The sun set about an
hour ago and the sky in the west is lighter than the east. People scatter up and
down the sidewalk while cabs and cars honk at each other. My eyes diverge
through the window and I find myself staring back at me. My awkward reflection
beams off the hazy horizon and muffled sounds of life below in the street. I step
away from the window and move towards my dresser. Five framed pictures of
Rich and me are scattered among hairpieces, a jewelry box, some newspaper
clippings, and a mirror. I look at my reflection. You don’t deserve to be treated like
I look down at the picture frames and ask myself, what are you going to
do now? I look back up at the mirror and an old newspaper clipping catches my
attention.
I decide to relieve myself of the towel and change into my new red dress,
put on those diamond earrings and red leather heels that I know Rich likes. I
return to my dresser with my handbag and make some small additions to it. I
look to my reflection on the armoire, adjust my mascara and hair then smile one
last time.
I look down and spread my eyes wide to keep the tears from dropping falling. I
reach and grab my keys, some lipstick, and a golden bracelet that Rich bought
for me a few months back as well as my handgun. I swing open the chamber
and drop six bullets in as a single tear drops and lands on the dark steal.
After locking the door to my apartment, I hail a cab.
“Fifth and Laski Street please.”
“Griffen Complex ma’am?”
His name burns, “Yes.”
The cab driver pulls away from the curb, starts the tab and, peeks through
the rear view mirror.
“Hi, is Sara Haas available?”
“No, I’m sorry, she’s not in right now may I take a message?”
“Will she be back anytime soon?”
“She is out on her lunch break and should be back shortly. Can I take
your name and let her know who called?”
“Yes, please have her call Frank, her husband, has called. Please tell her
as soon as she gets in. Tell her that I need to talk to her about something that is
very important.”
“I sure will.” She repeats, “call Frank, it’s very important. Thank you for
calling the Law Office of Mitchell and Robinson, have a nice day.”
“You too.”
I look down at the phone in frustration and press my thumb against the
END button. I throw the phone onto the empty passenger seat and return my
eyes to the road. She just doesn’t know how hard it is for me to live without her. I
know that we’ve had some hard times together but that’s what relationships are all
about: pushing beyond those difficult times and making way for good times. I know that
she misses me, and all I have to do is talk to her about what went wrong, then everything
will be back to normal again. We can move her stuff back into my apartment, we can
start doing our walks along the lakefront again, and…
I can’t take the memories, they’re too painful, and I break down in tears.
My depressed eyes begin to swell as tears fall down my emotionless face onto
my lap. My nose begins to run and my sleeve accommodates for the lack of
napkins.
She always carries napkins with her. If she hadn’t have been so persistent in our
separation then we would have been back together again and she could reach into her
purse and wipe my tears away. That’s all I want, is for her to wipe my tears away.
A though floats into my sorrow. Maybe she’s found somebody else. Maybe
she doesn’t love me anymore. What if she says, “Sorry Frankie baby, I’ve fallen in love
with another man” then what will I do?
I scream and fill the car with an ocean of pain. My face grows redder. I
roll down the window and turn up the radio to try and calm myself. We’ll work
things out. No matter what has happened in the time that we’ve been separated, we’ll
work things out.
I look down at my phone to see if I have missed any calls then wipe my
eyes with my hand and try to focus on the interstate. Every car looks like hers,
and every lady behind the wheel looks like her. This pulls me back into my
sorrow that I am so steadily trying to rid myself of. My eyes fill again and I start
pounding my hand against the steering wheel. Where are you Sara? Where are
My phone rings and I scoop it up without looking at it.
“Sara!?”
“Frankie? Did you call me at the office during my lunch break?”
“Yeah! We need to talk.”
Her voice sounds so sweet that the tears stop falling from my face and I
smile despite all of the sadness.
“I already told you babe, there’s nothing to talk about.”
“But I was calling to say…that I am sorry. I’m sorry about the whole mess.
I should have respected your job from the beginning. I never wanted any of this
to happen, I just wanted to have you all to myself.”
A long silence tricks me into thinking that we lost connection.
“You still there?”
“Yeah, I’m still here.”
I’ve needed those words for a long time and my heart begins to fill up
with warmth and hope. She takes a deep breath; I can tell her emotions are
beginning to swell up.
“Frankie. You know that all of this is your fault. What else did you
expect? That I was just going to stay at home all day and wait for you to get off
of work, I need a career too. I need to feel productive, like I’m applying myself
to something, and you were taking that away from me.” She pauses, “Are you in
the car?”
“Yeah. I’m heading down right now. I can’t take this anymore. I can’t
spend another day without you. I love you, and this hurts too much.” The tears
begin falling again.
“Oh…Frankie baby. You know I love you too. But I’m not going back
with you unless you promise that you’ll let me work at a law firm in Chicago, and
never give me a hard time about it. I need things too Frankie, and this is what I
“All right. Anything you want. Just let me come and bring you
home…please.”
“You know that I never wanted to leave you but you gave me no other
choice. You’re so thick headed sometimes it makes me...grrrr.”
There is another long silence before she asks,
“Where are you?”
“I’m coming up to your exit right now.”
“Oh. Meet me in front of The Parthenon on Fifth and Laski. It’s on the
right hand side of the street. Let me gather some of my things and I’ll be waiting
out in front…I love you Frankie.”
“I love you too Sara. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
The relief has given me new energy, new strength. The night air seems
so much more soothing and sweet and the car seems to be more comfortable. I
dry my face off with my hand again and lean over to the glove box to grab some
cologne that I carry for emergency purposes. As I pull off onto the exit ramp
memories of time spent together come back to me. My face regains its color as I
sniffle and clear my sinuses.
The streets are busy with people and bright lights. I take a deep breath
and try my best to regain some of my strength. My eyes fall on every woman
that looks like Sara and it begins to make me laugh. Finally the marquee jumps
out from around a corner,
As quick as I can, I park in a nearby lot and spring from the car. My
energy and strength have returned with the idea of seeing Sara again. I jog out
of the lot onto the sidewalk and face the inn. There she is…beautiful, stunning,
and radiant with all of my happiness. My jog turns into a run and finally we grasp
each other in our arms.
“I love you Sara, and I’m sorry about all of this. Come back to Chicago
with me and you can go and get a job anywhere you want to just please come
home with me.”
“Okay baby, okay.”
Just then my body reacts to a loud bang, my knees buckle and I fall
forward. A sharp pain shoots through my back as people scream and run around
me. A woman in a red dress runs by laughing. I want to take Sara’s hand and
run too but I’ve lost control of my body. All I can feel is cold, like steal, like frozen
I look up and I’m lying in Sara’s lap looking at her panicked face. The
noise fades and all I hear is a frozen cold buzz, deafening. My breaths seem to
shorten on their own and with the last one I spit,
“Sara.”
five dollars and ignored the change. The air smelled like a humid party. The curb was
randomly dressed with garbage and the wet streets reflected the distorted lights that
hung above like concerned parents. It had stopped raining about an hour ago and
people had just begun their night. It was only about ten o’clock and I knew that I had
nothing to do until tomorrow.
A bell attached to the top of the door jingles as I open it and I’m reminds
of the cheap hotels in Chicago. A dark haired young boy in a bright red uniform
approaches the counter and says, “Welcome to Rosefield Inn.”
“I should have a reservation sent in from Chicago.” I reach into my back
pocket and pull out my business card. “I will be working for Mr. Fouse at the
Daily Times, and should only need a room for a few nights. If you could, please
send a bottle of whisky and some extra towels up to my room.”
The young boy acknowledges me and hands me two keys with the words
“Forty One” carved on each. As he begins taking the order on a small pad of
paper I interrupt him and ask, “What time does the lobby bar close?”
“Last call is about two o’clock, and the piano guy got here around an hour
I say “Thank you” and walk away.
There is something peculiar about a new town. Sometimes the streets
seem a little wider or the sidewalks are a little thinner. Furniture, especially the
oversized kinds in hotels, looks completely different decorated in unfamiliar
patterns. Cars make funny noises and the streetlights have awkward timing.
Despite the little differences one can always find comfort in the same place.
After attending to my room and dropping off some luggage, I look at my
watch and return to the lobby bar. As I approach the door, I hear a distant
collection of yelps and hollers muffled by the noise of moving bodies and the
sounds of alcohol. A piano plays softly. Walking in I recognize the vibe. It’s
always the same unlike the streetlights. Several people are mingling at the bar
exchanging exaggerated smiles and laughing at unfunny jokes. Nearly every
booth is occupied by an even numbered group of people with small powerful
voices looking for attention. They yell through the cloud of smoke hoping to be
recognized.
I find a bartender and ask for rum with a slice-a-lime. I drop 5 dollars on
the bar, handle my drink, and walk away to find a seat away from a cigar-
chewing businessman. I sit down in a warm seat facing the door, with my back
to the man on the piano. From here I can catch bits of scattered conversation:
“ . . .I told him not to but you know men . . .and then next thing you know I had
slipped and...it’s just not a good idea to do something that will... he looks so
funny in that little red uniform... all I know is that if you want something done right
I half attentively listen like this for about ten minutes until something
snatches my attention. A young woman was talking about my case, my first bit
of local news.
I had been sent here on an assignment to research and write a story of a
Chicago man who had been shot. His body was found in front of Rosefield Inn
after two gunshots had been heard. He was shot in the back and had died in the
hands of his wife. I figured that the best place to start would be for me to stay
here and pick up any news that hadn’t been written in the local papers.
“Just right out front, lyin there with his head in his wife’s lap – it was so
crazy!”
The man she was talking to doesn’t respond quick enough, “Yeah and get
this, I heard that it had something to do with Rich Griffen, the mayor’s son. You
know how greedy that whole family is, I wouldn’t be surprised if he killed the man
himself – or paid somebody else to do it.”
This is something that I can use. After the ice in the bottom of my drink
tells me that it is empty I get up and retreat out of the smoke and back to my
The door has a big silver number “41” on it. It looks cheap but the bed is
comfortable.
By morning the streets were dry so I decide to take a walk to get some
coffee and a paper.
Things look different in the morning than they do at night. The outside
of the Rosefield Inn looks awkward. I hadn’t begun to get comfortable or really
adjust to the time change. It’s almost noon by the time I finish with the paper
and two cups of coffee. I’m scheduled to meet with Mr. Fouse at noon so I head
down the main street.
It looks cleaner than last night but still smells of humid people. The heat is
intense and the air conditioning in Daily Times wasn’t going to be doing anything
about it. Walking in I notice that there is a certain friendly messiness about
the office and the air is filled with the clatter of computers and smell of paper.
Editors and writers are chained to their desks with moist foreheads working over
fast fingers that grab at letters. The only man not working was a small fat man
leaning back in his chair with a desk fan at his face. I walk over to him and notice
that the stand on his desk reads, “MR. FOUSE”. As I begin to speak he whirls
around in his chair opening his eyes. “All right!” he snaps, “What the fuck do you
want?”
Steering down at him I could see sweat running down his wide face and
say, “I’m from Chicago, I was sent to cover the Haas homicide. Hopefully you
received word from . . .”
He interrupts me and smashes his fat hand on his desk, shuffles around a
combination of yellow, blue, and white papers, picks out a yellow one and hands
it to me. “Here is your interview. Meet Mrs. Haas at the Parthenon- it’s a
Greek restaurant on Fifth Street. Be there at seven thirty.” He whirls back
around, drags from his cigarette, and smiles at the fan.
I stand there for too long, then turn and walk back out to the sidewalk and
blistering heat content with the simplicity of conversation. I continue walking past
the coffee house till I get to the Rosefield Inn and realize that it’s beginning to
look little more familiar. I go up to my room and adjust the air conditioner. It’s
too hot outside right now to do anything so I pour myself a drink and click on the
I wake up to a familiar movie – I must have fallen asleep – it’s the one
where the man dies and is offered to see what life would have been like if he
would have never been born. I can’t remember the name of it and make myself a
drink. By the time my ice hits the bottom of the glass the clock is around seven.
I collect my thoughts, some paper, grab a pen and my keys – pat the back of my
pants to check for my wallet – and head down to the lobby. As I pass the front
counter, I tell the bellhop to call me a cab in ten minutes and to come and get
me when it arrives. I move into the bar where I am surprised at the number of
people. They are all men, by their lack of conversation it seems that many of
them have just gotten off of work. Most are wearing sweaty, white business-like
shirts with skinny cheap ties, most of them are drinking a domestic beer while
others grasp mixed drinks. After ordering a drink I take a seat at a table. The
room smells of cheap smoke. A row of balding heads sit at the bar steering and
listening to the television that hovers just above their heads. The boy in the red
uniform calls over to me letting me know that my cab is here. I top off the drink,
and set it down on the bar as I walk out.
“The Parthenon on Fifth Street please.” He nods his head, pulls the cab
into drive and pulls away from the curb. The cab ride is short but I know that it
would be a long walk. We roll up to a nicely lit restaurant. I tip the cabbie and
ask him to be back in about an hour.
Greek music spills from the front door and a short man with very little but
gray hair introduces himself and the night’s specials with a nice smile.
“Actually I am here with a guest. I was supposed to meet her here but I
don’t know what she looks like, perhaps you could help me.”
“Quite surely” he responds. “Does the lady have a name?”
“Mrs. Haas, I was supposed to meet her here at seven.”
“Of course, she just arrived a few minutes before you. She is the lady in
the blue dress sitting back there next to the window.” He directs me to her table.
I introduce myself with a delicate handshake and thank her for the
interview.
She asks with a soft voice “Would you like something to drink before we begin?”
We both lean towards the waiter. She asks for a martini and I ask for a 7 and
seven. She is a very pretty lady. Her long blonde hair hangs past her shoulders.
It was bouncy and looked brittle. Her eyes match her dress and her ears weigh
down with big silver earrings. She was standing tall with confidence and form in
her posture, she was very aware of herself. I could see that she was not wearing
a wedding ring.
“So what brings you to this town?” I ask.
“Well I did some legal secretary work in Chicago before I came here. The
firm I worked for closed and I was offered a job working for the same firm here in
“Well that was very nice of them” provoking her.
“Yeah but there were some complications. Frankie...” she takes a deep
breath “and I were having some complications. He didn’t want me to stay in the
firm.” She smiles and says, “He always talked about us moving out west and
even opening a small craft shop. He liked to work with wood.” She was
beginning to look uncomfortable like she was almost about to cry. I ask her if
she would like something to eat.
“No. No I’m all right.”
“Well how do you know the mayor, Mr. Griffin?” I ask.
“The firm that I work for represents Mr. Griffin as well as many other
wealthy people. Mostly men though.”
“Have you ever met the mayor?”
“He makes appointments at the firm often. We represent him in all of his
legal paperwork and legal actions.”
“Have you ever met his son, Rich Griffin?” I’m all ears.
She takes a drink from her martini, breaths and says, “I have met him a
few times. He is a very nice fellow. Comes in with his father on occasion.”
At times like this it is best to give these questions some time to settle. I
reach down to my pager. It hadn’t go off but I look up like it has.
“Can you excuse me for a second? I need to make a quick phone call.” I
walk back over to the short man by the door and ask him to get me a cab. He
asks me if everything is okay and I say “Yeah! Everything is fine. Could you
please let Mrs. Haas know that I had to leave in an emergency? Tell her that I
will get a hold of her later and that I apologize for leaving.” I leave the man with
enough money to cover the drinks and fall into my cab.
“Rosefield Inn please.”
The sun begins to wake me from my dream.
…lying on the sand with a Macanudo in my left hand and a pink drink with a green
umbrella in it next to my right hand. The water flashes light onto the underside of my sailboat
that sways to a driftless pattern out in front of me. S.S. Griffen. A short man, probably in his late
fifties, in a black suit, waddles over to me and hands me a cordless phone on a silver plate larger
than his head. I pick it up, nod at the old boy and say,
“Señor Griffen! Señor Griffen, your breakfast is ready.”
I throw back the silk and shift my body into an upright position. After a few
moments of stretching and blinking, the experienced Mexican boy carries the
tray over to me and sets it on my bedside nook. I look at the horrible hair of my
reflection, and pull off the silver lid covering my breakfast. The filet throws steam
at my face while the eggs lie intimidated next to it. A muffin, glass of milk and
cup of cappuccino, and a setting of Mother’s silverware sit on the tray next to her
“good” china.
“Señor Griffen! Señor Griffen, Mr. Griffen called and asked for you to
meet him at office . . . oh! Rose come earlier again. She wanted seeing you. I
told her you were in meeting and sent her away.
“You may go now Neno, pack my briefcase and set it at the foyer door.”
As he walks across the room and closes the door I turn towards the meat
and begin cutting. A copy of today’s Daily Press is lying next to me and I begin
shuffling through the thin pages as I sip on my French silk cappuccino.
Governor Griffen (left) shakes hands with Captain Wilson of the local Police
Department for the opening of the first annual Officer’s Ball that took place
last night at Tanagon Ballroom.
After the plate clears I take my last sip of my drink and shuffle my way
towards the shower to begin my daily ritual of skin creams, conditioners,
purifiers, and vitamins.
After my routine I begin cycling my way through the suits and ties till I
finally get to a pair of khaki shorts, a polo shirt, and some clogs. I walk over to
the bureau, snap on my watch, scoop up my keys, leather wallet, a book of
matches, and my cutter as well as a few Macanudos. Standing in front of my
reflection, we smile at each other and reach for my cell phone, then the door.
I like to hum Tony Bennet songs as I walk through the hall, down the
stairs, past the kitchen where Neno is preparing for lunch, through the front
foyer, and on into the garage where my car radio takes over for me as I turn over
the engine. The garage door opens and I pull down the drive.
The sun throws waves across the pavement like an invisible curtain and
the wind throws my hair around as Tony sings in my car. I pull up to my father’s
office building, underhand my keys to the valet and press on for the elevator.
“Twelve please.”
“Good to see you sir. A beautiful day for golf isn’t it?”
The operator is a tall skinny boy, probably seventeen or eighteen, and
enjoys talking about golf even though he looks too uncoordinated to play the
game. I smile, to humor myself, and lie, “Yup! Just cumin up to see if the old
man wants to go on a break and swing at nine holes over at Grendales. Do you
know if he’s up in his office by any chance…” I look at his plastic golden
nametag, “Chip?”
Over excited he turns and faces me,
“Well nobody goes in or out without me seeing sir and last I saw of
Governor Griffen was about ten o’clock when I took him up to his office.”
He smiles and waits for me to talk to him more, maybe hoping for me to
ask if he could go to Grendales as well. I instead occupy myself by fixing my
reflection in front of me. We take opposite hands and brush the dark brown hair
away from our eyes, tug on our collar, and smile.
I step off the elevator and through the double glass doors that read,
The secretary waves her skinny arm and says,
“Go on in Mr. Griffen.”
I smile and move to more double doors. As I step into the window-
covered room I reach into my pocket, grab my cutter and two Macanudos, clip
them, and return my hand for some matches.
“Hey there boy! How’s your new Royce treaten you, you handsome son-
of-a-bitch.” He rocks back in his chair. “You know you don’t get those looks
from your mom.”
We both laugh and fill the room with expensive smoke. I step to the bar
and fix two drinks with one hand: Booker’s Scotch, on the rocks.
“So I called you into my office because I wanted you to know that I was
interviewed yesterday about the Officer’s Ball. The bastard reporter had the
nerve to ask me if I knew anything about Captain Wilson and his accused money
laundering scheme.”
He takes a swig from his drink.
“Of course I fuckin knew, it was all over town. Then I told him…” he shifts
his body and intonation to meet a more formal level, “I hope that the truth sets
him free of all accusations. Captain Wilson is a good man, and I would trust him
with every penny I own.” With this he points his finger and impersonates
someone who cares. We both laugh again and drag from our cigars.
I sip from my glass and shake my head. Strong drink!
“That crazy woman came by my place sometime this morning. Neno told
me she really wanted to talk. I just don’t know what to do with her. She won’t
stop bothering me.”
“Look son, women are the root of all that’s evil and only the unmotivated,
poor bastards say that it’s money. I’ve been telling you that for a long time now,
and here you are with another woman tied up to you again.”
I look at him and say, “It’s all your fault, I didn’t get these good looks from
mom you know.”
We laugh again and he rocks back in his chair and returns with the cigar
in his teeth, puffing like a factory.
“I think I’m just going to tell her the truth about Sara and me. That will
make her hate me enough to leave me alone. I hope.”
“This is that chickety you’ve been seein on the side right, the one working
over at the firm?”
“Yup. If I tell Rose about me and Sara then she’ll definitely hate me”.
“Well all I’ve got to say is to be careful when hurting a woman--they bite
harder then they can punch”.
We smile and return to our drinks and cigars. After some mindless
chatting and some more Booker’s I leave to meet Sara for lunch at La Fiacce’s.
“You’ve reached the voice mail of” the electronic operator interrupts and
that fuckers voice, deep, soft, fake, “Rich Griffen,” returns, “please leave a
message after the tone.”
“All right. I’m sorry for whatever I did that made you leave me, but there
was no reason for you to find another woman.” I take a deep breath and sputter
back into control.
“I tried to give you everything you ignorant son-of-a-bitch. I don’t even
know what I’m apologizing for; you’re the one who’s heartless. The least you
could have done was to let me know things were over.”
I can feel my tears run with eyeliner down my cheek. My head is spinning
and my knees buckle inward. I fall to the floor and drop the phone
simultaneously. I put my red face in my hands and my whole body convulses
with sorrow and pain. I try to fight it but my hand reaches for the phone. My
voice squeaks into a frustrated tone,
“You know…things could have been perfect between the two of us, but
no…you had to go and be a cheat, you lying piece of shit. All you had to do was
come to me and I would have done anything for you. We were beautiful together
but you fucked it all up. You ruined my life. Now what am I supposed to do, just
take this sort of shit? Listen Rich, this isn’t over, and I’m not going to let you go
that easily.”
My breath takes over and shakes the phone from my hands. How could
somebody do this to me? I should have seen it coming. Friend my ass, I should have
known better than to trust a man with another woman. Bitch stole my man away from me.
My sobs quickly turn into laughter. Things will be all right. He’ll learn that
that bitch is no good for him, and want me back. He’s just making a small mistake.
He’ll call and ask me to take him back. The laughter quickly turns back into shaking
and my eyes begin to run dry.
The beeping of an empty phone line brings me back to my bedroom floor.
My hands are covered in makeup and my head feels like it is going to burst. I
reach for the phone and smash the talk button to quiet the interruption. I throw it
across the room and it shatters on the wooden floor. The congestion in my face
convinces me to take a shower and get myself back together again.
He could be coming over any minute to ask me back. You don’t want him to see
you like this do you? You should wear that nice red dress that he likes so much. I think
that he likes my hair up and I can take out my old diamond earrings that I was saving for
my wedding. He’ll come back. He’ll come back. He’ll come back.
The makeup is still smeared down my cheek and my hands look like their
covered in soot. It takes me some time to build up the energy, and I lift my
lifeless body off of the floor and drag it to the shower.
The water doesn’t do anything for the pain. My stomach is twisted like
wrung out laundry and my head feels like it’s full of lead and too heavy for my
shoulders. I can barely open my eyes and my body aches with weakness. I
don’t know why, but I start laughing uncontrollably until my knees give again and
my body hits the bottom of the stall. The laughter throws my body back and now
I’m lying in the shower with tears squeezing through my clenched eyes.
I push open the shower door and grab two towels to dry. I open the door
and the steam from the room rushes past me and into the hall as I step out of the
humidity and into my bedroom. Lying back on my bed I begin to reminisce about
the fun Rich and I have.
I wake up lying on my bed with a towel wrapped around me. I pull myself
together and walk over to the window. The streets are black and the lights above
them throw fake yellow cones of light onto the people. The sun set about an
hour ago and the sky in the west is lighter than the east. People scatter up and
down the sidewalk while cabs and cars honk at each other. My eyes diverge
through the window and I find myself staring back at me. My awkward reflection
beams off the hazy horizon and muffled sounds of life below in the street. I step
away from the window and move towards my dresser. Five framed pictures of
Rich and me are scattered among hairpieces, a jewelry box, some newspaper
clippings, and a mirror. I look at my reflection. You don’t deserve to be treated like
I look down at the picture frames and ask myself, what are you going to
do now? I look back up at the mirror and an old newspaper clipping catches my
attention.
I decide to relieve myself of the towel and change into my new red dress,
put on those diamond earrings and red leather heels that I know Rich likes. I
return to my dresser with my handbag and make some small additions to it. I
look to my reflection on the armoire, adjust my mascara and hair then smile one
last time.
I look down and spread my eyes wide to keep the tears from dropping falling. I
reach and grab my keys, some lipstick, and a golden bracelet that Rich bought
for me a few months back as well as my handgun. I swing open the chamber
and drop six bullets in as a single tear drops and lands on the dark steal.
After locking the door to my apartment, I hail a cab.
“Fifth and Laski Street please.”
“Griffen Complex ma’am?”
His name burns, “Yes.”
The cab driver pulls away from the curb, starts the tab and, peeks through
the rear view mirror.
“Hi, is Sara Haas available?”
“No, I’m sorry, she’s not in right now may I take a message?”
“Will she be back anytime soon?”
“She is out on her lunch break and should be back shortly. Can I take
your name and let her know who called?”
“Yes, please have her call Frank, her husband, has called. Please tell her
as soon as she gets in. Tell her that I need to talk to her about something that is
very important.”
“I sure will.” She repeats, “call Frank, it’s very important. Thank you for
calling the Law Office of Mitchell and Robinson, have a nice day.”
“You too.”
I look down at the phone in frustration and press my thumb against the
END button. I throw the phone onto the empty passenger seat and return my
eyes to the road. She just doesn’t know how hard it is for me to live without her. I
know that we’ve had some hard times together but that’s what relationships are all
about: pushing beyond those difficult times and making way for good times. I know that
she misses me, and all I have to do is talk to her about what went wrong, then everything
will be back to normal again. We can move her stuff back into my apartment, we can
start doing our walks along the lakefront again, and…
I can’t take the memories, they’re too painful, and I break down in tears.
My depressed eyes begin to swell as tears fall down my emotionless face onto
my lap. My nose begins to run and my sleeve accommodates for the lack of
napkins.
She always carries napkins with her. If she hadn’t have been so persistent in our
separation then we would have been back together again and she could reach into her
purse and wipe my tears away. That’s all I want, is for her to wipe my tears away.
A though floats into my sorrow. Maybe she’s found somebody else. Maybe
she doesn’t love me anymore. What if she says, “Sorry Frankie baby, I’ve fallen in love
with another man” then what will I do?
I scream and fill the car with an ocean of pain. My face grows redder. I
roll down the window and turn up the radio to try and calm myself. We’ll work
things out. No matter what has happened in the time that we’ve been separated, we’ll
work things out.
I look down at my phone to see if I have missed any calls then wipe my
eyes with my hand and try to focus on the interstate. Every car looks like hers,
and every lady behind the wheel looks like her. This pulls me back into my
sorrow that I am so steadily trying to rid myself of. My eyes fill again and I start
pounding my hand against the steering wheel. Where are you Sara? Where are
My phone rings and I scoop it up without looking at it.
“Sara!?”
“Frankie? Did you call me at the office during my lunch break?”
“Yeah! We need to talk.”
Her voice sounds so sweet that the tears stop falling from my face and I
smile despite all of the sadness.
“I already told you babe, there’s nothing to talk about.”
“But I was calling to say…that I am sorry. I’m sorry about the whole mess.
I should have respected your job from the beginning. I never wanted any of this
to happen, I just wanted to have you all to myself.”
A long silence tricks me into thinking that we lost connection.
“You still there?”
“Yeah, I’m still here.”
I’ve needed those words for a long time and my heart begins to fill up
with warmth and hope. She takes a deep breath; I can tell her emotions are
beginning to swell up.
“Frankie. You know that all of this is your fault. What else did you
expect? That I was just going to stay at home all day and wait for you to get off
of work, I need a career too. I need to feel productive, like I’m applying myself
to something, and you were taking that away from me.” She pauses, “Are you in
the car?”
“Yeah. I’m heading down right now. I can’t take this anymore. I can’t
spend another day without you. I love you, and this hurts too much.” The tears
begin falling again.
“Oh…Frankie baby. You know I love you too. But I’m not going back
with you unless you promise that you’ll let me work at a law firm in Chicago, and
never give me a hard time about it. I need things too Frankie, and this is what I
“All right. Anything you want. Just let me come and bring you
home…please.”
“You know that I never wanted to leave you but you gave me no other
choice. You’re so thick headed sometimes it makes me...grrrr.”
There is another long silence before she asks,
“Where are you?”
“I’m coming up to your exit right now.”
“Oh. Meet me in front of The Parthenon on Fifth and Laski. It’s on the
right hand side of the street. Let me gather some of my things and I’ll be waiting
out in front…I love you Frankie.”
“I love you too Sara. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
The relief has given me new energy, new strength. The night air seems
so much more soothing and sweet and the car seems to be more comfortable. I
dry my face off with my hand again and lean over to the glove box to grab some
cologne that I carry for emergency purposes. As I pull off onto the exit ramp
memories of time spent together come back to me. My face regains its color as I
sniffle and clear my sinuses.
The streets are busy with people and bright lights. I take a deep breath
and try my best to regain some of my strength. My eyes fall on every woman
that looks like Sara and it begins to make me laugh. Finally the marquee jumps
out from around a corner,
As quick as I can, I park in a nearby lot and spring from the car. My
energy and strength have returned with the idea of seeing Sara again. I jog out
of the lot onto the sidewalk and face the inn. There she is…beautiful, stunning,
and radiant with all of my happiness. My jog turns into a run and finally we grasp
each other in our arms.
“I love you Sara, and I’m sorry about all of this. Come back to Chicago
with me and you can go and get a job anywhere you want to just please come
home with me.”
“Okay baby, okay.”
Just then my body reacts to a loud bang, my knees buckle and I fall
forward. A sharp pain shoots through my back as people scream and run around
me. A woman in a red dress runs by laughing. I want to take Sara’s hand and
run too but I’ve lost control of my body. All I can feel is cold, like steal, like frozen
I look up and I’m lying in Sara’s lap looking at her panicked face. The
noise fades and all I hear is a frozen cold buzz, deafening. My breaths seem to
shorten on their own and with the last one I spit,
“Sara.”