Puzzling Pieces

The world, to me, is pretty much snails and clammed up oysters that don't want to share a pearl or two as I navigate through the big apple with my mind on the puzzle. It's not a complicated 1000 – piece set. It's more of a desire to complete the easy-Joe enigma, and then figure out what exactly is the finishing picture. The idea was to come here and find more work. That was like … 10 – pieces of the puzzle that took me a few weeks to jot down on my smorgasbord of notes. It works this way, all hands re-routing mechanically until I come up with a eureka of fried peppers. I love food when it's affordable. No point in thinking about food now though. Times the cost of paying my rent. "It's a blasted mess though, Jesus!" I insult the welcome that I get from the landlord's apartment. He left the key under the mat. Unheard of. But the guy took the cheap and cheerful and said he'll be round to collect the deposit tomorrow. I simply replied with; Uh huh.”And then hung up and made my way. I paid over the phone. Had a glimpse of it from his recorded video on the internet. He gave it a full outlook and I danced with no jazz. It was a legitimate box with no candy. All floorboards and no wooden shine. No carpet; no hangings; barely any sunlight coming through the high window; dust was highly likely; the bed was like a single coffin-box with some hard sheets, and a spider or 2 would be reigning on their cobwebs in the corners of the ceilings. I admired the honesty as he vocalized that what you see is what you're going to be paying for. And in my line of work, this would be the perfect place to hide-away for a few weeks and keep a low profile. Of course, there was more to me coming to the apple for a juicy bite. It was more to do with keeping my head down because I was so good … well, was so good that work became stagnant. More to it, of course. Had to fly away and catch some air without telling anybody of my whereabouts. See a friend or 2. I had a couple out here, and to find them was a mystery. Savour one man who wouldn't be too hard to track with my knowledge that he came out here to be at peace with himself and what he had done in his lifetime. New York wasn't the smartest option to catch the hippie peace sign. But he was a wily old man with a mind full of sawdust that would turn into stardust. That would be my first point of contact on the puzzle that I wished to get started with. … Y.O.M!” I exit the apartment with runny red-eyes and the aroma of the reefer. I had a few puff-puff -gives with myself. And literally passed the spliff back to oneself without f*****g up the rotation of the fingers. A relaxant on a day off when I can afford to indulge. I get out and hear a man banging: 2 - doors down in the well-lit hallway that's like a brown paper bag titled over with the white ceiling that hangs above it all. There are 3 light bulbs out. I give the 4 switches a flicker that's not far from the stairway to the bottom level. But no use. "You going to open this door!? Y.O.M." I give the man a quick glance, it's hard to see when the one light is directly in the center and everything else beyond it is basked in a darkened shade. I make out the features of a gangly dude with a nose like the front of a Bentley; and a body like a candy cane with no shape. He bangs again … boom – boom – boom! I think he's an arsehole, others could be sleeping. "You should tone it down.”I begin to make my way down the stairs, realizing that I'm not as high as I thought I was. That's a bummer. I get to the 3rd step and hear … "I got a f*****g gun! If you don't open this door. I'll blast my way into your future.”I sigh; here we go again. Then I walk up with my laid-back swagger and stop on the top of the stairs fumbling for my swiss blade that I usually tuck inside of my favorite leather jacket. It's like a penknife and is a vintage gift given to me by the very woman who remains nameless with a passion to kill. I give my palm a forceful fling-back and the blade slides-out - all nice and shiny looking. I check my teeth in the reflection … white and alright. Then I turn to the man whose banging has stopped and is now facing me: moving a few inches away with a faint voice that can be heard behind the door yelling; I'm not opening this door!" He ignores the voice. "Nice knife." "You think so?” I give it a look … and let the blade hang by my left thigh. "I'm glad you like it because I was about to unleash this on you with a clear message to remove yourself from room number 5." "But you're not going to do that, are you?" "Says who?” – “Says me.” “Why so confident, Mr.?” He dashes his right-hand inside his decayed cotton khaki jacket that's fit for the spring but not summer. No longer beige and rich in smoothness. The guy's dry washed this at the wrong temperature and pulls out a thin wallet. I quietly say; "flip," to myself … he un-flips the wallet and it opens: automatically revealing a white card with a passport-ugly photograph and 4 – lines of text that from where I stand I can't make out because I don't really give a toss. "I'm a cop.” “Of course, you are.” – “My badge says it all." He flips his wallet closed. "Want me to read out all the information to settle that blade and your mind?” “I think I made out the word dirty … then I tried to make out a cop. But I couldn't really give a hoot-a-nanny about what your profession is. That guy in there is petrified, and my duty as a civic African American who wants nothing but respect for her neighbor, asks that you take your gun and shove it in your gob. Do me and him a favor.” He snickers cruelly. "Real street. From the looks of you, I'd say you've dealt with your fair share of cops after hours?" “I don't do conversations. And you're trying to ask me a question when I don't want to be talking to you.” I get distracted by the flickering and buzzing lightbulb that wants to switch off and leave the whole hall in darkness. The reoccurring bzzzzzzzt … bzzzzzzzzt … bzzzzzt ending with a popping each time reminds me of why I hate s**t-holes. And then our shadows being illuminated when it decides to switch on and off unsettles us both. So, I need to wrap this up and get rid of the prostitute lover. I hate to stereotype, but the guy's so slimy that I'm wanting to wipe off his grease just to not feel sick. "Are you moving from that door?”I let the switchblade shine its light and give him a blessing. He gives it some attention and I take a step closer to emphasize that I and this blade have a connection. “I'll answer that question actually … I have dealt with my fair share of after hour cops. And the result is always the same: they leave with a smile on their face and have a good night, Sia.” “A semi-nervous; “Hmm.” But I can see his eyes dashing from the knife to me … the knife to me … the knife to me. Then he stops on me and shouts;“we'll speak another time Trent. There's always next week to pay what's due.”No sound from behind that door so he leaves it be and wonders if walking past me is safe. He's right to wonder because I don't like the prick and I know nothing about him. “Have a good night.” He waits for me to let him pass as I'm blocking the stairwell. But I notice his eyes do the talking as he nervily wants me to put away the switchblade. I toy with it a little … jab it in my premolars and molars and try to dig out any leftover bits of that vegetable curry I had which must've got stuck. I get a few pieces out and spit … I'm unladylike as they come. And then move out of the way casually whilst speaking with the blade digging in; "ave a noice nish.”It impressed him because I've never seen a scary bloke move as fast as he did. But it worked … my conscience is clear … well, enough to know that the weed didn't impede my ability to kick him in the behind with a big-ass space between us. I like ass-kicking without moving a leg. Because it saves unnecessary energy being wasted. … But I had to use these tired mommas to catch a subway to where I needed to go. And when I reminisce about the subway system in the big apple, I remember nachos and cheese being plastered all over my head by this leery goat who was dressed as a goat because it was Halloween. He was abusive to his girlfriend. Who happened to be bleating out rubbish that only a goat with a pebble for a brain would misinterpret. He was a stinking drunk. Down on his luck. And most likely trying to get into the underwear of a vampire who didn't want him. She left the tube and the girlfriend witnessed his flirting on purpose. The whole tube sat and watched him burrow a hole deep into her ego and bring out the ashes of how often he did it in a gibber-jabber-goop. It was not in a coherent language, and that's just how it sounded to me. She cried. I flipped. He raged – and threw his sticky-processed cheese on top of my hair with the cardboard box falling onto the train's floor with bits of nacho crumbs. My retaliation came out as: let me punch him in the nose and hope to hear the sweet -sweet glory of it cracking. And I did hear it loud and clear. The bride crunching and dislocating as I gave him more than one hit and him wailing to his girlfriend to save him. She laughed. The whole train laughed. Ha … Ha … Ha … Ha … Ha … and you know what? I wanted to cry. Because in the end, it was me who took the man down. The ape from his throne. And all the observers did was find the balls to chuckle because I had the guts to act. And that's what life is always like for me. Having more balls then the bloody president does and being a damn female who has to cope with it. And sitting in-between an old lady with her pinkish wig hanging off and then a man who needs to close those legs or I'll shove them shut … is one hell of a smelling salt. I might reek of weed and the odd fruity wine. I had a cheeky sip. More than one … two … come to think of it … I had 5 glasses but I'm still Sia Twain and can tell the alphabet. I needed to medicate before seeing the old man. It's been years. And I hear he's on the last toll with a grudge. I'm necking it because I don't know what to expect. But it has to be done.