In which a young woman walks briskly around a corner, catches the heel of a shoe between uneven sidewalk paving slabs, and is sent sprawling to the ground, spilling the contents of her purse. None of this goes unobserved …
If that annoying damn kid would just move along the sidewalk I’d be able to see a whole lot better. Pretending to be fighting against the wind is no fun when there’s not even a slight breeze. Smart-ass kids know just what to say to get you all worked up. He’s peering so close I can’t even risk moving my eyes to see what all the fuss is about. Spotted her coming around the corner fast, too fast for those shoes. Suddenly she was outta sight, tumbling to the ground. Then the irritating kid is there, jabbing away at a fella’s confidence. “Leave the funny man alone, Clarence”, whines a voice that must belong to his sorry excuse of a mother. Who the hell calls a kid ‘Clarence’ anyways? And less of the ‘funny man’, thanks. Just push off and let me see what’s going on. That's the trouble. You’re the street entertainer but there is always something more entertaining to see just along the sidewalk. The brat isn’t interested in the woman in the fancy shoes. He’s too busy tugging at my coat and blowing my cover. “Mom, mom, he ain’t real … the funny man ain’t real”.
Shop assistant … window dresser … this was not what she’d written in her yearbook. Fashion Designer. That was it. They had laughed at her. All the cool girls, the ones that dated quarterbacks and giggled conspiratorially behind their hands. They would be laughing louder, even more spitefully, if they could see her now. That is precisely why she is using the mannequin as a shield, fussing around behind it making adjustments to its drab outfit. After about the gazillionth tweak it was probably exactly how she’d had it 20 minutes ago. Miss Blenkinsopp, the proprietor - who speaks with a faux English accent to emphasize how upmarket she would like her atelier to be - insists on drabness. “And don’t go getting ideas about flamboyant scarves and any of your accessorizing, Ms. Adams”, the old bully had hissed, cold eyes peering over the top of hornrimmed spectacles. Even as Faith Adams watched the young woman tumble on the sidewalk, it was the shoes that caught her attention. Flamboyant. Yes, that was the word. The simplicity of the 1950s-inspired dress needed those shoes to make it remotely wearable. “Ms. Adams, are you finished in there yet?”.
Every single one. Red light. Pause. Red light. Stop. A cursing taxi driver. Green, go go. “Fucking Hell”, vile blasphemy punctuates every stop, the harsh guttural accent rasping against the rough edge of his hangover. Red lights spell danger. {Walk}{Don’t Walk}. Give me a break. Half a dozen blocks, not even half a mile. The church where he’d be preaching was only a mile from the seedy hotel. No one there had cared one jot what he was in town for. The man in the grubby string vest who manned reception had affected a ‘what you do in your own time, buddy, is entirely your own business’ look that offered disinterested anonymity. When you rent rooms by the hour, another guilty-looking punter isn’t worth a dime. Right now, that guilty-looking punter is stuck in the back of a yellow cab trying to block out the wailing Islamic music on the radio, wondering if the Lord will forgive him his trespasses. As the lights finally switch to green, he stares to the right, lascivious eyes taking in the exposed thighs of the young woman sprawled on the sidewalk. The Lord sure knows how to put temptation in a churchman’s path.
He is resting a meaty arm on the cold metal of the scaffolding, flexing to impress as the girl falls. Two floors up is plenty close enough to take in all the details if that fucking taxi would just drive on. Yeah, how do they write it in the skin mags? ‘Creamy white flesh’. Yes, sir, that’s it. From where he’s standing waiting for someone to tell him to start hauling, he’s got a prime view, from the shoeless foot all the way up those stockings to the ‘creamy white flesh’ of her slim thighs. Damn, she’s hot. Clumsy as fuck, but hot. He starts to blush at the thoughts racing from his brain to just below the waistband of his low-slung blue jeans. “Hey, Dick-for-Brains, are you working today”. His uncle is hard on him but he pays well. The shout of “haul away” tightens his biceps and empties his brain. What girl?
It had taken an extra spray of her favourite Issey Miyake to counter the lingering odour of stale sweat and cheap cologne. The subway is always unpleasant but today her timing and intuition had been off. The gap opened up and, against her better judgment she’d allowed herself to be swept along with the crowd. Pressed against the window, unable to free herself, she had offered a cold invitation to the man in the budget suit with the unwelcome erection to “take your pencil dick and shove it up your own ass”. Today is not a good day. Someone in the office is going to be on the sharp end of her tongue, that’s for certain. And this silly bitch is not even looking where she’s going. She deserves to take a tumble; maybe it’ll knock some manners into her. Mm, but where did she get those shoes? Looking for an ally, she rolls her eyes at the pretty girl dressing the window in that awful shop. She certainly didn’t buy them in there.
She kind of wished she hadn’t bleached her hair now. Maybe cutting it herself wasn’t the smartest thing she’d done either. When she spotted the blond woman reflected in the dusty window of the old dress shop, it had taken a few seconds to recognise herself. God, what a drag. Life, is this it? Early starts, walking her distracted son to preschool, trying to get there before they lock the door. “Leave the funny man alone, Clarence”. That kid will be the death of her, turning her into an old maid before her time. Perhaps Mrs Maloney, the builder’s wife, will sit for him so she can get to the bar on Friday night; maybe pick up where she left off with Mr Maloney’s nephew. He might not have much conversation in him but with that body, it’s not talking she’s after. She spots the girl on the sidewalk, skirt rucked up to her butt cheeks and the contents of her purse spread around in front of her. Stockings, I wonder if he likes stockings? Her daydream dissolves as the kid bursts back into her brain. “Mom, mom, he ain’t real … the funny man ain’t real”.
His heart says to pick up the girl, help put her things back in her purse, and check she’s okay after her fall. He’s a neighbourhood cop, that’s the sort of thing he makes time for. Connecting with people. That’s why he joined the force. Twenty-seven years and counting, the last 3 in the Precinct that serves the area he grew up in. Back home. It’s not the same though. Everyone hustling. Rush, rush. Heads down peering at their screens. Especially the kids. That’s when they’re not giving you lip. It’s not like he needs to be doing this. When your wife owns a high-end jewellery shop and keeps hinting that it’s time to give his arthritic bones a break, he should probably listen. He should buy her a coffee and take it round the corner, sneak a kiss, and make crazy plans for retirement. His heart says ‘pick up the young woman’. But his head has spotted the car loitering by the kerb. The Sarge has been saying for months, move ‘em on or book ‘em. The numbers matter more than the connections. Get the stats looking good for the Commissioner who’s up for re-election. As the young woman stuffs things into her purse, he walks towards the anonymous-looking sedan.
Jeez, the simplest thing. How can she not get that right? He’d dropped her off 15 minutes ago, kept the engine ticking over. Just go around the corner and pick it up. The one they’d looked at last week, acting like a young couple picking out a love token. Look at a couple of other pieces, he told her, see them all on the counter together. He remembered that the old woman moved slowly around the shop. Ask her to get something from the other cabinet, something low down. Hurry back. Fifteen minutes tops. It’s been nearly twenty now and she’s lying about on the sidewalk. Pick the stuff up, dammit. Shit, is that cop going over to her? It’s his wife’s place, isn’t it? He was there last week, sipping coffee, making small talk. Damn, he’s coming over here, notebook ready. Sorry, gotta go, darlin’, you’re on your own.
Such a clutz. It is always the same. Whenever he’s around she loses her poise. She wants to please him so much. She wants to do her bit to raise cash for his habits; it’s an expensive lifestyle; the white powder he rubs clumsily around his nostrils does nothing to improve his poker. The more he loses, the more coke he needs to get himself up for the next all-nighter. Let’s do the jewellers, he’d said. It’ll be a soft touch. Sure, a chance to dress up fancy, act the lady. She didn’t need to pretend to be in love with him but sometimes she wondered if he only felt something for her when she handed over her earnings or the money from the pawn shop. That’s where this damn necklace is going if she can get it back in her purse. She hears the car engine revving, her eyes drawn to the screech of tyres as his crappy sedan pulls away. Her eyes turn to the cop with kind eyes - he looks kind of familiar - as he starts to walk towards her.
That was a fun read to present a seemingly simple tumble.
Fascinating!! Such a brilliant way to present!