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Orange
Street Light
By:
Dean
Jean-Pierre
Beneath
the orange glow of the streetlight, he stood there oblivious to the cold weather
and the wind swirling around him. At
one point, a sudden gust of wind threatened to blow him away but decided
otherwise. He had been there for
almost an hour and the only movement he made was to reach into his coat for
cigarettes. He smoked the last one
and deposited the empty box onto the sidewalk.
Quickly
he disappeared into the bodega behind him, and re-emerged within seconds with a
cigarette balanced between his lips. As
he walked back to where he had been, he scanned the area for any unwanted
onlookers. Satisfied that he wasn't under surveillance, he reclaimed his
spot under the orange streetlight.
From
my window on the fifth floor, it was difficult to tell what he looked like.
The best I could probably tell the police was that he was tall, smoked
like a chimney and by the hat he was wearing, he was probably a Yankee fan.
Not too many people publicly wear Met caps anymore.
They mostly wear Yankee caps but that's only because The Bronx Bombers
have been winning. But when the
Mets start to win look how fast all those Yankee caps will disappear.
As
the night grew older, the orange streetlight seemingly dimmed.
It would briefly come back to life whenever rings of smoke from the
Yankee fan rose to meet it. Impatient that he had been kept waiting for such a
long time, he began pacing determinedly around the streetlight.
Every couple of minutes, he'd turn his watch up to the streetlight and
just stare at it. This action
perturbed him even more. He lit up another cigarette and watched the smoke from
his cigarette disappear into the cold air.
The
bodega usually stayed open all night, but on this night, the owner decided to
close up shop early. Warily he
would occasionally glance at the Yankee fan, but would cowardly look away
anytime he glanced his way. As the
shopkeeper locked up and was walking away, their eyes meet for a split second,
somehow frozen by the night-and fear kept him walking.
A smile appeared to be forming on the Yankee fan's face, but was quickly
replaced with indifference. He knew
that in his coat pocket, he had the necessary means to end the shopkeeper's
life. No one would've seen him, and
it would just be another filler story in The Post or the Daily News.
Commuters reading the early edition would probably miss the blurb about
the shopkeeper's murder and would go on to more important reading: sports,
horoscope, and the all-important comics. They
would never know that Hector had worked as a stock boy, worked his way up to
being entrusted as the manager and when the previous owner died, he had left the
business to Hector. This side of
the story would never be told, and Hector would become just another statistic in
a long line of statistics.
The
streets were deserted as they usually are at this time of night.
Every so often a fancy car would creep through the neighborhood as if to
take in the sights. The only sights
to be seen were: broken down apartment buildings which were in need of every
kind of repair, a vagrant passed out in a darkened alley breathing the stench
which is his life and the parasites situated on every corner trying to sell you
death.
They
were people I once knew as a child, went to school with most of them.
But somewhere along the line, they gave up on themselves-on life, and
took the easy way out. Now they
find themselves in the dead of night, standing on the street corner they once
played on as children and are left wondering where it all went wrong.
Believing
the Yankee fan was out shopping for a taste of death, a momentary escape from
the grips of life; one of the disciples of death tried to sell the Yankee fan
his wares. A brief angry exchange
ensued and for a moment I waited for the familiar sound of gunfire to pierce the
night air-it's always inevitable. In
this neighborhood, nothing grows. Dreams
are cut short usually in a hail of bullets, nature has taken its business
elsewhere and everyday people die here. Everyday...
The
inevitable didn't happen, but that was only a temporary reprieve.
Somewhere in a neighborhood not too far away someone was taking his last
breath. If there's anything that's
a certainty, it is that.
Unable
to peddle his wares to the Yankee fan, death's disciple faded into the night in
search of easier prey. The weather
had predicted record low temperatures and for once they were right.
Trying his best to keep warm, he walked back and forth for about half a
block, but that didn't work so he lit up another cigarette.
Down
below in the subway station, the midnight train had just pulled into the station
and tired workers trying their best to appear alert braved the streets as they
quickly made their way to their homes. Illegal cabbies vying for customers with
promises of immediate departure which always turned out not to be true. They
made sure to fill their vans to capacity before departure, unless of course the
cops came to chase them away.
As
the crowd thinned out, the Yankee fan's eyes were glued to the stairs leading up
from the subway until no one was left. Finally, he saw what he was looking for
and his once menacing face, softened into a smile as he embraced a young lady. Together they walked hand in hand and slowly disappeared into
the night until they were no more.
The
End…