Chapter 5: Green 17
By Allen Frost
The late afternoon windows were raining. The radio song had calmed Sam and he reflected back the weather’s celery color. This was a good time for George to take a walk.
He quietly put on his big coat and the gray fedora that rode just above his eyebrows. He left the watch in front of Sam, still spinning Cornelius Barter jazz. He had a clear premonition of the watch’s fate. It would be smashed flat when he got back. So what. Time and radios weren’t built to last.
He went out the kitchen door. The rain pattered on the dark wooden stairway. The stairs tipped and showed wet chipped yellow paint. Wounded, they crawled down one floor to the alley. Clothes hung like band-aids from the ropes strung above. The air rolled smooth and cold and smelled like the ocean. George held the rail and went down.
All the usual creaks. He was used to this place, a half year after the explosion and here he stayed. Everything had been blown away that day. It was okay. He didn't need to go back to the ruins and pick up pieces. He didn't need the mob anymore either. Sam was keeping him supplied. He could lay low forever. It was best if he seemed dead.
In his black coat and slouch he moved in the rain like no one. He walked on the sidewalk along bricks and windows. A tree strained tall out of the cement. Other green smaller leaves were finding their way out of the pavement too. He remembered it was spring. And this unfreezing rain was another reminder. For a sad moment before he turned into the bodega he thought of his daughter.
Then the music and Mexican movie posters overpowered him. George nodded at the man reading a newspaper at the cash register. He drifted by the Spanish words on the cans that lined the shelves and stopped when he reached the green labeled can of cactus juice. “Cactus juice…” he thought, “what a thing to be craving.” As a doctor, he observed this phenomenon as the body signaling a specific deficiency. Perhaps, he concluded, a diagnosis is in order…So he turned the can in his hand, read the ingredients in a mumble, “Water, Agave, Saguaro Puree from Concentrate, Sugar, High Fructose Corn Syrup, Citric Acid, Beta Carotene, Green 17.”
He speculated. He knew the effects of all active ingredients except Green 17. What could it be? Why would his brain order it? And what could it do?
Anyway, he carried it to the counter and set it down next to the reader.
George had time enough there to stare into the front page as if it was a tabloid mirror. Dos Pedros was the bold headline. The words went on below with a photo he was leaning to look at when the paper snapped down.
“Fifty cents.”
George managed to find the coins in his change purse.
There was an old fashioned bell and clang of machinery and he was gone with the can.
Outside it was starting to really rain. He tucked the can under his coat and bent into getting wet.
“Hold it, doc.”
The shrill voice sapped George in the back of the head and he turned around.
“Yeah…It’s me…” the little face of Tiny Snopes sneered. “I finally caught up with you.” In a quick motion he had a pistol in the air. He snarled, “I hate talking to you!” then he pulled the trigger.
The blow hit George over the heart. A stream of green looking blood poured out the puncture in his jacket. He gasped for air to breathe.
“Martian!!” Tiny Snopes squealed. The tiny man recoiled so fast he bumped against a stack of garbage cans. They crashed all around him and knocked him down. When he got up, he was running away.
The late afternoon windows were raining. The radio song had calmed Sam and he reflected back the weather’s celery color. This was a good time for George to take a walk.
He quietly put on his big coat and the gray fedora that rode just above his eyebrows. He left the watch in front of Sam, still spinning Cornelius Barter jazz. He had a clear premonition of the watch’s fate. It would be smashed flat when he got back. So what. Time and radios weren’t built to last.
He went out the kitchen door. The rain pattered on the dark wooden stairway. The stairs tipped and showed wet chipped yellow paint. Wounded, they crawled down one floor to the alley. Clothes hung like band-aids from the ropes strung above. The air rolled smooth and cold and smelled like the ocean. George held the rail and went down.
All the usual creaks. He was used to this place, a half year after the explosion and here he stayed. Everything had been blown away that day. It was okay. He didn't need to go back to the ruins and pick up pieces. He didn't need the mob anymore either. Sam was keeping him supplied. He could lay low forever. It was best if he seemed dead.
In his black coat and slouch he moved in the rain like no one. He walked on the sidewalk along bricks and windows. A tree strained tall out of the cement. Other green smaller leaves were finding their way out of the pavement too. He remembered it was spring. And this unfreezing rain was another reminder. For a sad moment before he turned into the bodega he thought of his daughter.
Then the music and Mexican movie posters overpowered him. George nodded at the man reading a newspaper at the cash register. He drifted by the Spanish words on the cans that lined the shelves and stopped when he reached the green labeled can of cactus juice. “Cactus juice…” he thought, “what a thing to be craving.” As a doctor, he observed this phenomenon as the body signaling a specific deficiency. Perhaps, he concluded, a diagnosis is in order…So he turned the can in his hand, read the ingredients in a mumble, “Water, Agave, Saguaro Puree from Concentrate, Sugar, High Fructose Corn Syrup, Citric Acid, Beta Carotene, Green 17.”
He speculated. He knew the effects of all active ingredients except Green 17. What could it be? Why would his brain order it? And what could it do?
Anyway, he carried it to the counter and set it down next to the reader.
George had time enough there to stare into the front page as if it was a tabloid mirror. Dos Pedros was the bold headline. The words went on below with a photo he was leaning to look at when the paper snapped down.
“Fifty cents.”
George managed to find the coins in his change purse.
There was an old fashioned bell and clang of machinery and he was gone with the can.
Outside it was starting to really rain. He tucked the can under his coat and bent into getting wet.
“Hold it, doc.”
The shrill voice sapped George in the back of the head and he turned around.
“Yeah…It’s me…” the little face of Tiny Snopes sneered. “I finally caught up with you.” In a quick motion he had a pistol in the air. He snarled, “I hate talking to you!” then he pulled the trigger.
The blow hit George over the heart. A stream of green looking blood poured out the puncture in his jacket. He gasped for air to breathe.
“Martian!!” Tiny Snopes squealed. The tiny man recoiled so fast he bumped against a stack of garbage cans. They crashed all around him and knocked him down. When he got up, he was running away.
posted by Miguel at 12:23 PM
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