9 min.
A sweaty, crumpled handful of bills tumbled to the counter. The cashier stared at the filth-covered wad, shuddering from the unwashed man’s pungent odor. He stretched the money flat with his fingertips, laboring to avoid touching it. Three coins rolled into a gray dish below the register. The man retrieved his change and dropped it into a small plastic bin labeled, "employee college fund." Had he noticed the beggar’s gesture, he might have thanked him; instead, he rushed to locate the nearest bottle of hand sanitizer.
He passed his fellow barista as he migrated into the kitchen, and the shine from his manager’s balding head caught his eye. "Billy, wrap it up, your shift’s almost over. Maybe wipe the tables and you can bounce."
"It’s Bill," the young man muttered as he rubbed his hands with gel, the sterile smell stinging his nostrils. He pushed open the swinging door to the café’s dining room.
A soapy bucket sat near the wall; he pulled a washrag from it and squeezed, dripping water onto the polished concrete floor. The Junction was a retired warehouse that likely housed freshly ginned cotton but fell into disuse during the Nixon years. Against all odds, the millennial wave of hipsters lent its weathered brick and bare rafters a unique form of cultural cache, and a coffeehouse was born. None of the furniture matched, tears abounded on every piece, and most of the dated wood-grain Formica tables wobbled. The unkempt ensemble only added to its ironic, shabby charm.
He swiped the rag across each unoccupied surface, aimless in his movement. With no further plans, his meandering delayed a growing sense of futility that followed him most nights. It was no use asking to extend his shift; at sixteen, he had worked his limit of weeknight hours.
He passed by a casually dressed businessman who was sharing his private phone call with the shop’s entire clientele. He gathered his things into one messy pile behind his laptop to allow Bill to clean around him. An empty coffee cup and saucer slid across the table with a distracted gesture as the customer resumed talking.
He skipped the tables near the homeless man’s perch in the front corner, hoping to avoid risking a conversation. Further back, he overheard a couple exchanging intense whispers and likewise kept his distance. The haphazard path he took left the cafe crumb-riddled and shoddy.
His rounds led him to a table placed against a leather couch that had seen better decades. He glanced around as he wiped clean the laminate and his breath caught in his throat. A diminutive, barefooted young woman with hair curled outward in fiery-golden flames relaxed on the sofa's cracked, olive-tinged cushions. He blushed, noticing her buxom figure, and searched for a different focal point in case she turned and saw him staring. Her hands drew his attention toward a well-worn sketchpad.
Twisted, curling spires of flame formed the page's border, while an angelic female form rose above a burning sea. Beyond the fingertips of her outstretched arms spread wings that carried her into the air; their thick plumage faded into sharp tongues of fire. Her hair flowed wildly in all directions as she emerged from the flames, her upturned face bearing a single tear, another in free-fall from her cheek.
Bill's repetitive scrubbing roused the artist from her fiery world, and she turned back to pinpoint the sound with mild irritation. When their eyes met, he stopped wiping and gestured toward the drawing.
"A Phoenix?" he asked, trying to appear disinterested.
"Yeah," she answered, returning to her sketchpad in dismissal.
"It's beautiful."
"Thanks."
"Are you, like, a professional artist?"
"No, just learning," she sighed, dropping her hands from the paper to her lap.
"You're incredible," he continued. "What's she rising above?"
"Flames."
"No, I see that—I mean, really, what's she rising above?"
He tugged a ball chain necklace from around his neck and held it aloft in front of her, revealing the pendant of a flaming bird.
The youthful artist turned toward him with interest; his pulse raced. She looked back at the drawing and sighed, "She’s a dream. She’s a prisoner. The flames give her life, but are also the prison that keeps her trapped."
"What sort of dream is she?"
"Dreams of art school, for starters. It doesn't pay for itself, and neither will my parents."
"That’s a shame; you have talent."
She looked away, and Bill noticed her blushing. A heavy sigh later, she turned, gave a nod to the pendant, and asked, "So what's he rising from?"
"I don't know; it was my father's. He was a cop in Arizona." His gaze fell toward the floor.
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"It's ok," he lied. "What's your name?"
"Emily; call me Em. What about you?"
The manager appeared across the room and called, "Quitting time, Billy."
He inhaled, preparing to correct his boss, but heard Emily repeat, "Well, Billy, it was nice to meet you."
"I'll be back in a minute," He replied.
He scrambled to the kitchen, forgetting to appear nonchalant. He slid his ID card into the kiosk next to the office wall and tapped through the prompts to finish his workday, then spun on his heels.
Behind him, the manager's beckoning arrested him. "Hey, slow down. She's hot, but you gotta make her think you don’t notice. Let’s talk a minute, Billy."
He gnashed his teeth, ready to snarl at Tony’s insistence on using his boyhood name; but he reconsidered as he remembered its pleasant ringing on Emily's tongue. He replied, "Yeah, sure."
"First week in the books; you comfortable?"
"It’s okay, I guess. I mean, it's a coffee shop; not that hard, right?"
"Coffee’s easy, but school takes priority. That can’t suffer because you're here wiping tables."
"School’s same as always. I’m handling it."
"If you say so; you did solid work this week, keep it up. Are you ok at home? You know, mom still says you can stay with her whenever you want, open invitation."
"Yeah, everything's fine, Tony. The state gave grandma custody, so I’ll crash there until I find my own place. But thanks for your kind concern, Daddy Warbucks."
"Easy, cousin. I was just trying to help."
"I get it. If I need it, I'll ask for it. You got me the job, so thank you. Can I leave now?"
"Go ahead. See you tomorrow."
He eased open the door, remembering his cool on the return trip. He emerged, finding the couch empty. He scanned the cafe, seeing no sign of Emily. Puzzled, he looked toward Corey, whose tall figure returned his gaze from behind the espresso machine. The barista shook his head, nodding at the exit, and Billy bolted for it. As he flung himself into the darkness, he heard a hearty chuckle emerge from the counter.
The night was miserable, a soggy mess alternating between a downpour and a stale dampness. A heavy mist dimmed the streetlight’s reflection on the sidewalk outside The Junction. Like a Labrador chasing a minivan, Billy ran into the parking lot; likewise, he had no idea what to do if he managed to catch her. Rain dripped from an overwhelmed gutter, pounding a steady cadence into the narrow gravel patch. The dank air betrayed no trace of her. He cursed, stamped a puddle, took a deep breath, and walked toward his black Ford Mustang.
Here was his sanctuary, the totality of his inheritance. It was his getaway car and a constant reminder of why he needed such escape. As best he figured, his grandmother signed the paperwork expecting him to stay out more often and perhaps one day never return. The arrangement suited him.
The center console popped open to show a plastic bag that held a dozen small, white tablets, which Billy slipped into the front pocket of his jeans. He surveyed his surroundings once more before wandering back into the shop, shaking his head occasionally as he cursed his luck. He palmed it as he walked along, counting the pills like rosary beads. Reaching the entrance, he reeled backward to avoid a giggling couple stumbling from the café into the melancholy night.
"You find her?" Corey boomed from behind him.
He shrugged and pushed his way past.
"I'm sorry, dude," he added.
Billy hung his head and then his apron. The barista approached him and offered a hand, which he took after a moment’s hesitation. He felt the folded bill in Corey's palm and pressed it back towards him.
"Not tonight, man," he mumbled.
"So if you can’t score, I can’t either?"
"No, I just forgot."
"Bullshit."
"Look, I'll get you later. You’re working tomorrow, right?"
"Yeah, I’ll be here; we’ll be straight if you bring it then. And don’t hang your head, or you won’t see the next girl comin’."
Billy turned and retraced his steps to the exit. He berated himself for expecting to find Emily waiting, but still wandered over to the couch searching for answers. Where she reclined lay the phoenix, torn from the sketchpad and placed with care. He picked it up and considered crumpling it in frustration; but its beauty was undeniable, and he rebuked his instinct. He shuffled toward the door, half staring at it, recalling the ephemeral moment it brought to mind.
"She left a drawing? Damn, women be cruel sometimes," Corey said as Billy passed the counter. "Take care of yourself, B."
He returned a nod and sulked to his car. In silence, he placed the phoenix onto the passenger seat and considered his next destination. Though he loathed the prospect of returning to his so-called home, his pocketful of pills occupied the forefront of his mind. A few of them would numb him to the fact he lived in his grandmother's dumpy backwoods trailer that reeked of cat piss and whiskey. He would forget the past year, the accident, the hospital, the funeral, the court, the move, the loneliness. The entire world seemed eager to heap self-righteous pity on him, and he despised it. He would trade his nightmarish reality for a vivid, surreal dreamscape; failing that, he would at least have unconsciousness.
The Mustang approached the trailer, easing across the overgrown field that impersonated a front yard. Its tires indented the muddy ground, and Billy wondered if he would find it stuck when he tried to leave next. He sighed, resigned that it was unavoidable. The rain beat harder on the car’s roof and he slipped the drawing under his shirt for safekeeping. He fumbled with his keys before trying the doorknob; he found it unlocked and shuffled inside. Droplets of water left a trail on the linoleum as he glanced toward his grandmother. She was snoozing with an empty bottle of bourbon beside her and a Hollywood tabloid show blathering on television.
He filled a cup in the bathroom sink and settled back onto his bed. The vinyl croaked under his body; he was told the air mattress was a temporary situation, but like most others he experienced, its end was not forthcoming. He slipped on headphones to drown the distant TV’s noise and pulled out the phoenix. It had survived the rain unscathed, and he squinted in deep study.
Every detailed inch amazed him. From the fire engulfing the page’s edge to the figure’s divine aura, it had an undeniable magic. Its elegance roused within him a strange admiration for both artist and artistry. He should have envied her effortless talent, given his own lack of gifts. To his surprise, he felt no lust for her; instead, his soul radiated a wish to learn of hers. A moment later, he remembered her abrupt disappearance and winced in painful regret.
He stared harder, seeking to regain the fleeting thrill of their meeting. His fingers traced the silhouette of the phoenix, marking its shadows and contours. Glorious Henna patterns covered her whole body. The intricate swirls appeared to continue unbroken until he noticed a small mismatched spot on her right wrist. He squinted and found inscribed there, "E M 4 2 3 6 6 8 7 2 9 1 C A L L M E." He grinned, and his smile grew into a soft, giddy laughter. The vinyl groaned under him and he chuckled at the irony of his sensation of floating on air.
Still smiling, he rolled off the mattress and tiptoed into the bathroom. He opened the medicine cabinet, pulled the bag from his pocket, and retrieved his grandmother's bottle of Vicodin. The pills slid into the container, and he returned it to the shelf. He glided back to his bed, and for the first time since arriving in Tennessee, set an alarm to wake early the next morning.