Tourmaline

Walking to the bus stop, I saw a kitten trying to cross the street. People say cats can see spirits. I am pretty sure it is true. I don’t spend enough time around cats to know for sure. I don’t like cats. Especially white cats. Like Doctor Evils cat in the Austin Powers movie. Not that the cat was any better bald. Both are just wrong.

This was a small, striped kitten standing on the yellow lines in the middle of the road as traffic kept passing by on either side. I don’t like cats but it is still a living creature. There was a break in traffic so I rushed across the lanes, scooping up the kitten as I crossed the center of the road.

The kitten sank its tiny, sharp claws into my hand. That is the thanks I get for possibly saving its life. Any questions as to why I don’t like cats. I put my injured hand on the ground and let the kitten go. The kitten stepped out of my hand and then turned back to my hand. It stepped on my hand with a sheathed paw and went to lick at one of the wounds it had made. I jerked my hand away. No way was I allowing the kitten to taste my blood. Creatures could control you that way. Just because the thing looked like a kitten does not mean it was one.

The kitten looked up at me and gave a soft meow. “Yes. Pitiful. Now go try that trick on someone else.” I scoffed. I turned and continued to the bus stop. A change in plans on the destination. I needed more protection, just in case, after all the thing did draw blood.

I had two ideas where to go to get the Schrol to balance and protect myself from negative energies. Both were in downtown Troy, just a simple bus ride on the CDTA Route 85 to River Street and Front Street. The large bus stop with the where all the CDTA routs intersect. Alright not all but it is the main intersection point for my use. Both shops are just a walk down River Street, across the street from each other.

I do not want to see ghosts so an orb would be counterproductive. Just a simple, rough-cut black tourmaline to carry as a psychic shield. It shouldn’t be too expensive.

I started out at River Rocks. It was a nice shop, well lit, with one employee. There was a long folding table with beads for jewelry making. She had more beads made from gemstones in bowls on a class counter. I found a bowl of small black tourmaline beads for seven an a half dollars each. Expensive. She also had chrome tourmaline crystals. I will need to look those up when I get home.

“I have larger pieces in the cabinet behind you.” She suggested.

I looked. On the top shelf were two crystal chunks of Schrol, labeled as such. Black tourmaline and white crystals too. The large one was priced at sixty-eight dollars. The smaller at forty could fit in my fist. “Interesting and I might be back. They are not exactly what I am looking for.” I said honestly.

I left the store and walked across the brick cobblestone crosswalk to Hippies, Witches, and Gypsies. The store was smaller and darker but stronger in the metaphysical sense. There were two customers, one looking at books and another looking at jewelry. The woman behind the counter greeted me warmly “Welcome. Is there anything we can help you with?”

“I am looking for black tourmaline.”

“Well we have some in our loose stones. I think Olivia made a pendant of one or two. Of course, there Is the bowl here on the counter with raw black tourmaline.” She continued as I walked straight to the counter. “Did you know that 2017 is the year of black tourmaline? There are shaped black tourmaline in the glass case behind you too.”

I looked at the bowl on the counter. One of the stones sang to me. I circled my hand above the bowl. Trying to figure out which stone it was. I waved it side to side still unable to tell which stone it was. Still unable to tell which one it was I decided to just blindly pick it out. I closed my eyes and reached into the bowl. I found the right one, hidden below the others, and extracted it from the bowl. The price tag on the edge of the bowl said three dollars and ninety-five cents. I smiled at the woman behind the counter. “This is perfect.”

She smiled back. “That will be four dollars and twenty-seven cents.”

I put my mini backpack on the counter, took out my arc, and pulled out a five dollar bill. She put the stone in a small, brown paper bag and handed it to me with my change. I put the arc back into the mini backpack, the change and stone in the bag in my right pocket with the house key.

“Thank you and have a great day.” She said with a smile.

“You have a blessed day too.” I replied smiling.

I walked out and back towards the bus stop to go back home. I nearly stepped on the same kitten. “Unless you want me to kill you and sell your body to a Chinese food place you will leave me alone.” The kitten yowled at me. “Go find some sucker to twist.” I said walking away. I stopped at Market Block Books, looking in the window. I saw the kitten still following me. I looked at its reflection in the store window. Nothing, no kitten, no entity, just empty space. Unsure if that was better or worse I hurried to the bus stop. I made it just in time to catch the Route 85 bus.

Ghost

I had never thought about it before. I mean, they inhabit me for a while to write their good-bye letters but I have never had any spirit do something like what happened this afternoon.

I was in downtown Troy. I was just wandering, shopping, trying to find a spirit to help. I was in a helpful mood. I wasn’t paying attention to the living, or apparently not enough attention.

The guy grabbed me from behind and forced me into a short, tight alleyway. I was frightened. Then I felt the familiar feeling of a spirit entering me. My eyes clouded over then they cleared some. It happens when the spirit possessing me wants me to help with or experience their actions.

I had never taken any self-defense classes. I spent most of my time at home or in Waterford where I was comfortable. I never saw the reason to spend the money. Now I realized my mistake.

The spirit that inhabited me had some sort of training. It didn’t even hesitate. It slammed my head back into the face of the guy holding me. Jammed my right elbow into his stomach. Then we turned counter clockwise and kicked the black man right between his legs. He fell. I ran.

I got winded easily. I was not in the best shape but I do walk everywhere so I have some endurance. It is hard to run with a spirit inhabiting your body trying to force it the other way. I stopped. With an effort similar to forcing out bowel blockage I forced the spirit out of my body.

“I saved you.” She complained.

“I am grateful.” I responded truthfully.

“We can go back and kill that rat bastard who killed me.” She demanded.

“When did you die?” I hadn’t read of any female deaths recently in the library newspapers.

“Nineteen ninety-three.”

“That was twenty-four years ago.” I explained softly. Sometimes spirits lose track of time.

“It wasn’t him then.” She said sounding confused.

“No it wasn’t him.” I agreed. “What is your name?”

“Why does it matter?” She asked forlornly.

“I need to know what to call you. Even if you are ready to move on I need to know the name of the woman who saved me, who made me rethink the cost of self-defense classes.”

She laughed. “I don’t know if I have anything to move on to.”

“Spirits stay for unfinished business. I am guessing yours is revenge.”

“I don’t know. Twenty-four years he might be dead by now or at least an old man.” She paused then added curiously “I have never entered a person before.”

“I have an affinity with the noncorporeal.” I said trying to sound technical.

“What like Whoopi Goldberg in Ghost?”

I laughed. “That is the best comparison I have heard.”

“So you milk people out of money by pretending to contact their departed loved ones?”

“No.” I exclaimed. “It is the best comparison for my abilities. I make my living writing.”

“Writing?”

“I tell the stories of those spirits who want their stories told.” I said.

“How do you make money with that?”

“I write a lot of novels, sometimes articles or short stories. I publish them all under the name of the spirit that tells me the story. They are not my stories but theirs. I just facilitate the telling and collect a sort of finder’s fee.” I tried to explain. Sometimes explaining my profession to spirits made me feel guilty. Sometimes the spirits thought I was taking advantage of the situation.

“That is a much better way to earn a living with such an ability.” She sounded relieved.

“Thank you.”

“You can call me Jane. My full name is Janet Marshall but I prefer Jane.”

“Thank you Jane. My name is Tiffany Sibyl Tien.”

“With a last name like Tien I would expect you to be oriental.”

“Most people would. Makes it easier when they come looking for a psychic to contact their loved ones. I can just say “nope, not me, I sublet” when they come to the door and they go away.”

“You don’t like the living?”

“I don’t like most people. I prefer to interact with them as little as possible, especially in person.” I paused thinking of the girl from the other day. “Sometimes it is true for spirits too but you and I seem to be getting along rather well.”

“I was not a people person in life.” She said and I could hear her smile. “I liked movies. Preferred them over television because it took too long for an ending and I hated the cliffhangers. I wanted the full story in one sitting.”

“I can find a way for you to watch movies at my place if you want to come home with me.” I offered.

“I don’t know…”

“I could tell your story.”

“I have no story.” Jane stated.

“Everyone has a story.” I said.

“No. I think I will just be moving on.” She said.

“You don’t have to go.” I pleaded. There was no response. “I didn’t mean to pressure you.” I stood there for a minute before finally admitting defeat. I had scared her away. Perhaps I had moved too fast. Perhaps, like me, she just didn’t trust people. I shook my head sadly and began walking to the nearest CDTA bus stop. I was going home.

I might Google Janet Marshall. I might just try and find a local self-defense class. I might just cook a good meal and watch Ghost again, saving the computer work for another day. I would see how I felt when I got back to my apartment.

Shoe Issue

There are very few times when I want a car. Between the bus, which takes me into downtown Troy, and the Library and Hannaford, I have everything I really need. If I cannot get it between those three, I can order it online and have it delivered straight to my door.

Except for sneakers. I was walking back from Hannaford after another grocery trip when it happened. With my right foot, the stitching on the insole came away from the rubber of the shoe. I did not notice until I got back to the apartment.

Sitting on the couch after putting the groceries away I looked at the offending shoe. I could always duct tape it. That would work for a while. 

Eventually though I would need to go through the hassle of shopping for shoes. I wear a size nine and a half wide. Not many stores carry them.

I need laces in case my feet swell up. It happen sometimes.

I need slip resistant shoes too. I wear them all year round. Even in the winter with ice.

I prefer they be made of leather. Leather will provide at least some water resistance.

Ordering them online is never an option. Even if they ship the correct size, I would have to walk around in them to try them out. Then I would not be able to ship them back if they did not fit right. If they cut into my heel or pinch my toes, I am stuck with them.

I could always drop them in the clothing donation boxes I guess.

I put down the shoe and picked up my Surface. I went to google and put in shoes. Clicked shopping. Clicked 9 and a half, wide, sneaker, black, genuine leather, and women’s. The first option was a Dr. Scholl S for $49.99. Clicking on it brought me to the Dr. Scholl’s website. An interesting option but my current pair were still fixable.

I got out the duct tape. It was black like the leather of the shoe. I put it on top of the dresser so that when I went to go out next time I would not forget to tape up my shoe.

Part 6

When I got home, I thought about what to write next. Uncle Sam appeared in my mind. Most people don’t know that Uncle Sam was a real person. Sam Wilson from Troy, NY. He is buried up on Oakwood Cemetery. I have not been to Oakwood before.

Sometimes I first contact the spirits that give me their stories in cemeteries. There are closer cemeteries to me in Waterford. The Waterford Rural Cemetery, St. Josephs Cemetery, Saint Marys Cemetery, Saint Peter and Paul Cemetery, and even Saint Michaels Cemetery which are all closer than Oakwood Cemetery.

A quick Wikipedia search told me “He was originally buried in Mt. Ida Cemetery, but later transferred to Oakwood Cemetery in Troy.” Great, so even if I go to Oakwood Cemetery Uncle Sam might be at Mt. Ida Cemetery instead. A quick google search for Mt. Ida Cemetery. Get the directions. Click the bus option and I can take the Route 85 straight there. So, Mt. Ida first then if I get nothing there I will move on to Oakwood. Moreover, Oakwood has a lot of walking just to get there. Hopefully, I find a spirit in Mt. Ida Cemetery that wants their story told.

I shut down the Surface. Put it and the Arc in my mini backpack. I opened the fridge to add a bottle of water and my stomach grumbled. I looked down and said to it “Fine. I will fill you first before I go.” I pulled out the crockpot and reheated some pot roast. I added a sleeve of crackers to the mini backpack in case I got hungry later too. I sat down on the yoga ball to eat and thought about the spirits that had, with their stories, helped me obtain financial freedom.

Sometimes spirits don’t know they can leave their place of death or internment. I have spoken to many spirits in graveyards that use their grave as their new personal workspace. I find it interesting how those who were the most creative in life seem to always have unfinished business in death.

That is what lingering spirits are. Not everyone who dies stays behind as a spirit. Think of how crowded it would be if they did. A very few who die choose to stay. Mostly it’s due to unfinished business. When their business is done, they go on to whatever is waiting for them next. I hope that Joan the Jumper will move on after taking a little time to haunt her baby daddy.

Some creative types just never have unfinished business. The poets and writers keep writing. The inventors keep inventing. The scientists and mathematicians, the real ones who can never take a break from their work, just never stop. By the time they finish one thing they have another idea they must explore before they can move on. To them that is Heaven.

I think that’s where the muses come from. Everyone has some sensitivity to spirits. Sometimes a creative spirit will latch on to a likeminded person and teach or influence them.

I looked around my studio apartment. I could get a bigger place. My checks from the books I put out nearly monthly would allow for that. Historical Fiction and Creative Nonfiction seemed to be nice genres. It all depended upon the publisher for which one my work ended up slotted. If the spirits asked, I would tell them the partial truth, historical or nonfiction. I used the spirits name as my nom de plume or if the spirit did not want that, I would say anonymous. They were never my stories so I never felt right putting my name on them.

Perhaps someday I will write my own stories. I looked on the dresser at the piles of books I had there. Books on writing, that said to write what you like to read. Books on the Vietnam War, I wanted to find a soldier or more than one preferably, to write about their experiences. The other piles consisted of research for my current projects in editing to confirm some of the spirits recollections for my publishers.

Publishers always want proof of the possibility of everything I write in my books. Luckily, in middle school I learned how to cheat for research papers. Step one, Wikipedia and other encyclopedias, back then there were still the printed variety in some libraries. Step two, summarize based upon the subject from those research locations. Step three, build a bibliography from books found in the library on the subject you are writing about. Wikipedia having the references at the bottom of every article made that easier. Step four, using the bibliography books, find portions in the report that can be footnoted to them, at least one to each book. Now I just take the stories the spirits tell me and do steps three and four for the publishers.

Right now, I was just waiting for publishers to get back to me about projects I had sent out. The spirits usually did not wait around for the revision phase thankfully. Ordering books on the subjects from the libraries beforehand made the job a little easier. Mostly I went to the Waterford Library and used the Mohawk Valley and Southern Adirondack Library System. If they did not have enough information about the subject for the publishers or myself then I went over the Lansingburgh Library and the Upper Hudson Library System, which included the city of Albany. Ordering the books ahead of time saved time when the publishers emailed me with their questions, which I thought made the research more believable.

Right now, I needed to find another spirit to start another project. I put my bowl and fork into the dishwasher, which I will have to run tomorrow. Tomorrow might be a housecleaning day if I cannot find a spirit at Mt. Ida Cemetery to write a story with. I hate housecleaning. I locked the door behind me, being thankful I didn’t have much of a house to clean. It was why I never moved into anything bigger.

 

Jumper

Since I have the warning on day one and Terrible Minds has given an intriguing challenge this week I will start with number four since this is day four of NaBoBloMo and Camp NaNoWriMo. The challenge pick one of ten single word titles and write an approximately 1000 word flash fiction story based upon it.

Jumper!

“I saw you here the other day on the bridge talking to another ghost.” A female voice said as I stepped onto the Troy-Waterford Bridge.

“Who are you?” I asked the disembodied female voice.

“My name is Joan.”

“Where did you die?”

“Down there.” She said.

I couldn’t see her but I could guess where she was pointing. “You are the girl that jumped off the bridge about a month ago?” I asked just to make sure.

“Yes, can you help me with my unfinished business so that I can move on like that kid in that movie?”

“You committed suicide. You chose to take your own life and knew when you were going to do it?” I asked appalled. A spirit had never approached me from a suicide.

“You can see the dead. Will you help me cross over to the other side?”

“I am not a grim reaper or a portal.” I snarled.

“You can see me. You can help me.” She shouted.

“I can hear you. I can’t see you.” I said walking quicker across the bridge.

“Will you at least help me?” She sounded pathetic.

“No.” I snapped.

“Why not?” she demanded.

“Because you planned your death. You should have made sure all your business was complete before you jumped.” I answered over my shoulder as I stepped off the other side of the bridge by Hannaford.

“I am stuck here.” She wailed.

I did not want to tell her that she wasn’t. She would follow me around everwhere until I did help her if I told her that. I thought about what I knew and tried to figure out what to tell her on the way back, after major grocery shopping.

When you jump off a bridge, you die one of two ways, or a combination of both.

One, you hit the water and the impact kills you. Sometimes the jumper is knocked unconscious. Other times, the jumper survives for a time. The person can be seen flailing about in the water, trying to stay afloat, only to succumb to the extensive internal bleeding. Death can take seconds or minutes.

Two, you drown. You hit the water going fast, and your body plunges in deep. Conscious or otherwise, you breathe in water and asphyxiate. This is usually if you go in vertically, feet first.

Adding winter in New York to the mix gives a third option. Ice water. Good to drink in the summer. Deadly to jump into from a bridge. Temperatures can get cold enough for the Hudson River to freeze, not solidly but for at least a good foot of thickness at times, making it hard as solid ground. The Hudson also has a current. You will not come back up where you went under and if you go through the ice, instead of going splat against it, you will be trapped beneath it and drown. Even if the ice is not solid, the water can still cause Hypothermia.

On my way back, with the full folding cart, I crossed the bridge again. Three steps on it and she asked, “Why won’t you help me?”

“You chose this path. You are choosing to stay. All you have to do is let go and you can leave for your next plane of existence.” I said.

“I don’t want to go to hell.” She wailed.

“Listen drama queen.” I snapped at her. “You made the decision to take your own life. The guy from the other day had been murdered. He did not know it was coming. He had no way to prepare for his death. You should have set your affairs in order before ending your life. You keep bothering me and I will…”

“You have no power over me.” She sounded like one of the popular girls from ninth grade.

“You sure about that?” I asked stopping and turning to where her voice was coming from.

“I need your help.” She demanded.

“With what?”

“I don’t want to go to hell. Suicide is a sin.”

“You should have thought of that before you committed.”

“I just wanted to hurt him like he hurt me.”

“Hurt who?”

“My boyfriend. I got pregnant and he wanted me to have an abortion. I couldn’t kill my child.”

I interrupted her. “So you gave birth and then committed suicide?”  

“No I was seven months along when I found out he had gotten another girl pregnant. He dumped me after I told him I was pregnant and refused the abortion. She got an engagement ring.” She started sobbing.

“So since he chose another woman he impregnated to marry you killed yourself and your unborn child?”

“Once they got married he could take the child away from me. He could provide him with a father and a mother.”

“What is your unfinished business? What is keeping you here?”

“I don’t want to go to hell.” She sobbed.

“Even if you hadn’t committed suicide you would be sinning by being pregnant and unmarried.” I stated flatly.

“Children are a gift from God.” She snapped.

“And yet you took that gift and destroyed it. You destroyed yourself too. If the baby daddy didn’t care about you when you were alive I doubt he’s caring much now that you’re dead. Move on.” I said as I stepped off the bridge on the Waterford side. “Besides if you froze to death at least hell will be warm.”

“You bitch.” She screeched at me. I felt a breeze pass on my right. “Wait, I am not trapped on the bridge?”

“Nope. Go haunt that baby daddy.” I said with false encouragement.”

“I will.” She said.

I shook my head and kept walking. She didn’t say anything else.

Part 3

I opened my apartment door and walked inside.

“Are you going to invite me in?” Andre asked.

‘I could but if you are just a human spirit you can enter without my invitation. If you are not you cannot.” I said closing the door.

“Well that is rude.” Andre said from inside the apartment.

“Perhaps but it has been the best test I can come up with so far.” I said putting the bookbag in its normal spot on the dresser. I took out the two books from the top and placed them on the bottom of their respective piles. Then I took out the surface and the arc and put them on my desk. Then I took the bookbag into the kitchen and placed it on top of the wine chiller, next to the sink. I pulled the small garbage can from the cabinet beneath the further sink. The crockpot from beneath the closer.

I opened the cabinet above and put the box of crackers next to the peanut butter. I put the hummus, sweet tea, and block of cheese in the fridge on the other side of the kitchen area. I pulled a knife out of the butcher block next to the range on my way back.

“Will you please just write the letter to my Mother before you start cooking?”

“Let me get this done first.” I said unpacking the bookbag. “Trust me. I have done things like this before and you haven’t. It will take you a while to figure out what to write.” I plugged in the crockpot. “Multiple drafts.” I added opening the box of crockpot bags. “You have no idea how hard it is to figure out the perfect words.” I left the box on the counter and put the bag into the porcelain. I continued explaining to him as I got out and washed the potatoes. “By the time you are done I will be weak and need to eat and sleep. If I don’t make the food first I will not have anything to eat because I will be too weak to cook or even cut up the block of cheese I just bought.” I said placing the potatoes on the counter, on the produce bag, and began cutting up the potatoes. “After all this walking in the cold I want a warm meal.”

“It will take hours for that to be ready.” Andre stated the obvious.

“I know that. You will understand.” I said as I dumped the potatoes into the crockpot. I pulled the interior porcelain out and filled it from the sink just above the potatoes. I put it back in the heater portion and turned it on high.

“My Mother always used beef stock.”

“I find stocks too salty.” I replied opening the beef roast and dumping it over the water. Then I opened the vegis while I continued to explain. “The potatoes need the water to cook properly. Then the juices from the meat soak into the water and create its own sort of stock. More of a gravy I think. I am not a professional cook. The vegis just go on top, no exact amounts really, and then put the top on and get work done.” I rinsed the knife then put it in the dishwasher. I pulled three twist ties out of the cutlery drawer. I wrapped the leftover peas, onions, and carrots then put them in the fridge and small attached freezer.

I picked up the garbage can and the bookbag. I walked across the apartment and put the bookbag back in its place before walking to the desk. “Come tell me what type of notebook you would have.” I said opening the top drawer. I had spiral wide- and college-rules as well as legal and letter sized notepads in white, yellow, blue, and pink. There were smaller notebooks and pads too.

“Spiral notebook. Wide Ruled.” He answered.

“Alright, I said grabbing a black pen from the cup on my desk. I sat down on the couch, sat the garbage can on the floor by my left leg, and opened the notebook to a blank page. “Sit as if you were sitting on my lap.” I told Andre.

“What?” He asked appalled.

“The only way for it to look as if it came from your hand is for you to have written it. You can inhabit my body for this purpose. Use my ability to interact with the corporeal world and write your final note to your Mother. All you have to do is sit as if you were sitting on my lap. You will fall right into me. Then just write your note.” I felt the cold before I finished my instructions. I finished the last sentence as everything went cloudy.

@@@@

I wasn’t sure how much time had passed when my vision came back into focus. The lights were on and it was full dark outside. On my desk were two neatly printed pages of a note and an envelope with two addresses written on it on top of the closed spiral notebook. The return address had the name Andre Martin. The mailing address had Antonia Martin. I wasn’t sure if while he was within me I had told Andre to make out the envelope and turn on the lights or if he had done so on his own accord. “Andre are you still here?” I asked as I stood. I picked up the garbage can, walked the half-full container across the room, and placed it back under the sink. I lifted the lid from the crockpot. The food was ready. At least three hours had passed. I got down a bowl, pulled out a fork and serving spoon from the drawer, a knife from the butcher block, and with shaking hands scooped out a bunch of vegis. I cut a chunk from the roast and turned off the crockpot. Then I grabbed the still hot porcelain, pulled it out, and ran it over to put it into the fridge. I pulled out the sweet tea and taking it, grabbed the bowl, and sat on the sofa to eat. Tomorrow I would clean up the rest and mail out the letter. I barely finished eating before I passed out sitting up.

Part 2

“Alright.” I agreed, “Will a letter work for your Mother?”
“Yes, it should read…”
“We will work on it back at my apartment.” I interrupted continuing to Hannaford. “How did you even know to approach me? That I could help you?”
“I went to school with you. I was a year ahead, a senior, when the rumors started.” He said following me.
I groaned. I had been sixteen and in love. Influenced by the Ghost Whisperer I told my boyfriend, of three dates and one school dance, that I could hear and communicate with the dead. By Monday, he had told my secret to the entire school and that his taking me to the dance had been a pity date.
I walked quicker through the parking lot. My jaw started to hurt. “What side of the river are you on now?” I asked to stretch it.
“Troy. I was on my way back to see my Mother. She still lives in Waterford. You are not seriously going grocery shopping are you?” He demanded.
“The letter will wait until after. I will mail it with a post date of when you died.” I said as I pulled out a smaller, blue cart. I slung the bookbag into the cart as I pushed it through the doors.
“You still need to call the police and tell them where my body is.” He complained from behind me.
“I am about to do that.” I said walking straight to the payphone. It was opposite the door on the wall of the mens room. “I need your name, her name, and where your body is.”
“I am Andre Martin. My murderer is Sheena O’Rilley. My body is currently in the basement of her dealers’ house at 32 124th St. by a hole in the south wall.”
I dialed 911. The operator answered as they do. “I am calling on behalf of Andre Martin. Sheena O’Rilley killed him. His body is currently in the basement by a hole in the south wall at 32 124th St. in North Troy.” I said quickly then hung up.
“You know they can track those calls.” He said as I walked between the last register and the customer service counter. I ignored him. No good speaking to him in public and getting odd looks. I went and got the block of cheese first. I went down the back of the store, going into the cleaning aisle for the crock-pot bags. I picked up a small roast from the meat section. I went down the cookie and cracker aisle, grabbing a box of club crackers along the way. I went to the last aisle and picked up hummus and then carrots. Frozen carrots have no crunch and any extra carrots taste good in hummus too. I picked up four small fresh yellow potatoes. I walked back to the freezer section along the back of the store. I went down the alcohol aisle to the vegetables at the end by the register. I got a big bag of frozen peas and saw a bag of frozen chopped onions. I hate chopping onions, my eyes always cry no matter what trick I try. I put both in the cart, turned, and headed to the 14 items or less line as the police officer arrived. I grabbed a bottle of sweet tea from the cooler. The officer went to customer service, cutting in line in front of an old man. The employee used the phone to call someone. I placed my items on the conveyer belt to the cashier. When I turned back to see what was going on the manager was speaking to the officer while the customer service woman was helping the old man.
The haughty business-suit wearing male in front of me in line paid for his three items and took his plastic bag. “I will be putting in in my bookbag.” I told the cashier.
“Do you at least want this meat bagged?” He asked.
“Good idea.” I said pulling out the two library books. I put the meat on the bottom then the frozen vegis. Then in went the cheese, potatoes, carrots, and hummus. The boxes went on top of them and the books on top of it all.
He had left the tea next to the register but on my right side of it. I smiled at him pulling the arc notebook out of the front pouch of the bookbag. “How much total?” He told me and I paid him the money from my arc. The arc went back in the bookbag. I took my receipt and my tea. I glanced at where the officer and manager had been but they were out of sight. Most likely, in the office. I left the store and looked around for witnesses.
Nobody was in sight. “Andre you still with me?” I asked softly.
“Of course. I still need you to write the letter to my Mother.”
“I was just making sure. Not used to spirits being so silent.” I said walking around the edge of the parking lot along the river this time.
“I figured you wouldn’t speak to me with all those people around.” Andre said solemnly.
“You are correct. Now we can go back to my apartment. I will start the crock-pot and then we can type up your letter.”
“She will not accept a typed letter. I have no computer.” Andre said matter-of-factly.
I sighed. Rarely could I do this the easy way. “I know how we can work around that too. We just need to get back to my apartment first. Think about what you want to say in the letter while we go.”