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Episode
106 |
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Synchronicity
It was a black dot in the middle
of the concrete. Dropped steel, the
heavy manhole cover was slightly raised with four clamps attached over the
sides, keeping it in place. Across the
textured surface, the name of the city shown against the shadows of the
raised letters. An additional shadow fell over it. Rebecca bent over the manhole cover,
pondering its existence. In jean
shorts and a white t-shirt with a non-descript comic-looking character on it,
she paused in thought as her long hair blew in the summer breeze. Morgan came up behind her, his hands in his
black trench coat. “Something up?” he
asked. “I’ve been seeing these new manhole covers
all over town,” she remarked. “They’re
installing them near my place.” She
stood and they resumed walking towards the movie theater entrance to the
mall. “What’s the deal with them?” “A while ago, there was a shooting at this
very movie theater,” Morgan recounted.
“Someone ripped a manhole cover out of the street and used it as a shield
against the bullets.” “You’re kidding,” Rebecca laughed, lacing
her arm in Morgan’s. When he just
smiled in response, her laughter faded.
“It wasn’t a knight, per chance, was it?” “No,” Morgan answered as they neared the
huge place. “I can assure you, he
wasn’t a knight.” Amongst the featureless, faded
masses of the shopping mall, Rebecca and Morgan stood out together. “So, do you want to talk about last night?”
she asked as the two walked with the crowd over the checkered tile floor of
the mall. Overhead, an inverted,
staggered skylight descended from the ceiling, filling the mall with the
summer sun, creating a brilliant pillar of endless brightness. “Not really,” Morgan said, looking
around at the mall. “You and I just
picked a bad club to go to, or at least a bad night to go to it. Some of my friends happened to get into
trouble and I felt obligated, against my better judgment I might add, to help
them out.” “Morgan, you beat up two bouncers
and practically killed a guy,” Rebecca said, looking up at him from his arm. He stared forward, as if keeping a
vigilant eye on his surroundings, not glancing back at her. “Practically being the operative
word.” After a moment, as the two
stood on the very edge of the sunlight, he looked to her. Her apprehension was obvious. “Look,” he said with a sigh. “Everett and the guys…this is their
thing. I’m not involved.” “Are you sure?” she asked. Her questioned revealed to Morgan his lack
of certainty. “If you’re not, that’s
fine. And if you are,” she said,
smiling, turning her head to get into his line of sight, “that’s fine
too. But, just, let me know, okay?” “Trust me, I want nothing more
than to wash my hands of last night and everything that went along with it,”
he said, leading her off. “So what are you looking for?”
Rebecca asked as she sat on the edge of the wooden table of the independent
music store. The scent of incense and
ancient records filled her senses as posters of musical acts, from soon-to-bes
to has-beens, covered the walls. “I’ve finally got a few contracts
again,” Morgan said, flipping through the CDs. “I’ve got two deals with some record labels
and a couple of indie acts. I need to
figure out what’s going on with the scene.” “The music scene?” she asked. “Imagine you’ve got a big grid of
different colors,” Morgan suggested as he flipped through the CDs, the hard
plastic cases clacking against each other like a metronome. “Each color represents a style of music. But if you relax your eyes, the edges of
the colors blur and that’s where you get crossover. Music styles don’t exist in vacuums by
themselves. They’re constantly being
influenced by their stylistic neighbors if you will. Pop music is connected to dance music on
one side and rock on the other. So in
order to effectively write in a style of music, you also have to know what’s
going on in it’s stylistic neighbors’ yards.” “Ah,” Rebecca said. She kicked her feet for a minute. “So that’s a yes?” “No,” Morgan said with a laugh as
Rebecca ineffectively tugged on his arm.
“I’m not going in there.” “Why not?” she laughed, pulling
harder, making no headway in drawing him into the lingerie store. “I was brought up a certain way,”
he insisted, smiling as she tried her hardest to get him inside. “A way that insists men not shop with women
for their unmentionables.” “I just need to buy a few bras,”
she said. “Mine keep getting mangled
in the dryer.” “What part of ‘unmentionable’ did
I not pronounce right?” he asked.
“Unmentionable means that they aren’t mentioned.” “What, you don’t like women’s
underwear?” she asked, giving up on physically moving him. She brushed her hair out of her face, still
laughing. “Say ‘panties’.” Morgan turned from her, crossing
his arms. “No,” he pronounced. “If you come in, I’ll model some
things for you,” he said. “Something
lacy,” she added, sliding her arms around his waist. “Something…scandalous.” He smiled, then laughed. “I’ve got to run to the bank. I’ll meet you back her.” She playfully shoved him, but
ended up pushing herself back. “Fine,”
she pouted, playfully. “I’ll be
waiting.” He squeezed her arm
affectionately and started off.
“Inside,” she specified over the distance. “That’s fine,” he called. He turned around, walking off. “I’ll be waiting outside.” At the rear of the mall parking
lot, standing alone at the edge of the capitalistic world, the dignified bank
clashed with the neo-modern design of its commercial cohorts. Inside, several lines had formed to the tellers
while well-upholstered chairs were centered around a polished waiting table
in the lobby around several offices.
The rear-most office, with the nameplate of ‘Ralph Slatton, Bank
Manager’, was being shut. “Well, what can we do for you
today, Mr. Brandywyne?” asked the artificially fit man as he came back around
his large desk. “My lawyer contacted the bank last
week about partitioning off many of my funds,” Morgan said, “in preparation
for my financial situation to change.
I’m just here to sign that paperwork.” “Now, as I understand it, you’re
taking custody of a child?” the man asked, somewhat confused as he began to
gather papers from around his desk. “No,” Morgan gawked for a
moment. “No, I’m just…” He paused, his voice catching. “I, uh, I need to make sure my assets are
protected.” Alone, Rebecca walked towards the
food court of the mall. Staying near
the edge of the wall, she remained as small as possible in the crowded
space. The deafening noise of the endless
conversations created a wall of sound that enveloped all ambient noise. She stopped at the entrance to the
food court, lingering as she scanned the area. She ignored the open spaces in the middle
of everything, choosing instead to focus her concentration on the more
secluded areas. Teenagers sat
together, staying out of or getting into trouble. Partners from different couples connected
in elicit rendezvous. And at the far
side of the food court, staring right at her, was Alan Vick. Rebecca saw him and sighed. Standing up from the wall, moving out into
the open, she started for him. |
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