I woke up this morning wondering if yesterday had been a dream. Some crazy man was in my house when I came home... talking about some business about being a detective. I don't know if all of it was real or if I am going insane. I just can't stand it anymore. It's just too much for me. When I moved in with Marcus (my deceased husband), everything was glorious. The street lights worked and the diner wasn't a place for lunatics. Maybe that guy, Michael I think was his name... who "investigated" my apartment yesterday was right. I must be on some sort of drug. It all seems like a blur now. How did this retroevolution of Washington Heights occur. Maybe the Jewish Homes would be better than this... well certainly not better but maybe safer? I guess it doesn't matter... let someone come in a murder me, what else is there that I need to do? I just hope Alexander doesn't get into trouble in this neighborhood.
Today I went to the butcher, to pick up some food for Alexander. He always tells me I don't give him enough food. He's eating me out of house and home. I don't mind buying him meat though because that butcher, Oscar, is one of the nicest men I've ever met. Such a nice man to have been serving that fresh meat for all these years. He's always giving me deals too. His place is always pretty full... but not with people I would think would be in a butchery. Shady looking men... with dark-colored trench coats and thick accents are usually hanging around the place... playing cards or talking about current events. Today when I went, Oscar was out of ground beef... I had to figure something else out or Alexander would be enraged.
"Well, if you don't have the beef what else do you recommend Oscar," I said.
"Aw, well the veal is great Ms. Pearl," Oscar replied.
"Veal? I don't know if Alexander would like that," I said.
"O'course he will! The meat's so tender 'cause they keep the little things in cages, so they can't use their muscle, some may call it inhumane, I say it's brilliant," he said.
"Alright Oscar, you always know what's best so I'll take your word for it," I said, admiringly. "I better get a pound and a half, Alexander can't stand not being satisfied after a meal."
I came back to the penthouse, hoping there wouldn't be another strange man eating Alexander's chocolate chip cookies in my apartment.
"Alexander I'm fixing you supper, it'll be ready in about thirty minutes or so," I said.
"Grandma, actually I'm going out to dinner with some friends tonight," He said, nonchalantly.
"Well why did you wait to tell me until now, I went to Oscar's," I said.
"I forgot Grandma, but I need 10 dollars too," he said, even more nonchalantly.
"Alexander, you're killing me," I thought in my head but not-surprisingly said outloud.
"And... can I get the car too," he asked, already knowing my answer didn't matter.
I didn't say a word. I put the veal in the freezer and handed him the key. "Call me later," I said... knowing the call would never happen. "See ya later grandma, love you!" he said.
I don't know how much longer I can take this. I just don't know what to do. This place is driving me crazy.
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Thas real tight there granny. Thank you for your acceptance.
Oscar Alcazar
The place was packed. Without the back room, his butchery wouldn't be in business. But was it worth the drama? The fights, the arguments, the deals, the tension ... Oscar chuckled. He knew the answer. Yes. It was worth every penny.
He thought back to that afternoon, when little Slick had popped in. Oscar had slipped him a few bills for something or other. It didn't really matter. Slick was a good guy. That's how things worked to Oscar. The key word was reputation. If you did good, and didn't do nothing stupid, Oscar had your back, as long as you drop in every now and then. You do Oscar a favor, he does you one. Simple, really.
He stepped out front for some fresh air, catching Mrs. Floggsbottom's eye as she trundled past. He liked her. She was quirky. Amusing. Coming the other direction was Grandma Pearl, "or Miss Pearlie to you," she would tell him. Pearl bought a week's supply of kosher meat every weekend. She was one of his most loyal customers. She even gambled a bit, "when she was feelin' frisky."
As Oscar turned to squeeze back through the door, he glanced at his shattered window. The glass itself was no biggie. He'd have Alexander fix it up. The boy needed a job. The story behind it was the real problem. It was another threat from Manuel, the pitiful crack dealer across the street. He thought his Columbian heritage earned him status in the community. Oscar knew the real meaning of status. Status was being a man, being honest, being forthright. Status meant no severed fingers on doorsteps. Manuel had a lot to learn. Oh well, Oscar thought. He wished their Columbian connection could make them brothers, not enemies. But if Manuel wanted a war, he'd get one. Oscar had Machelli on his side. They'd been exchanging favors for years.
Back inside, Oscar's grubby fingers tossed a few slices of roast beef back into the fridge. Damn, that was from Marissa's morning sandwich. He had to stop leaving food out. He chucked the slices out onto the sidewalk. A bird would get them.
The freezer's chill nursed his grimy skin as he brushed past a dangling pig carcass. There was commotion in the back room. Nothing new there. Not too long ago a bounty hunter had chased his man out the front door. And before that, a nice woman by the name of Elizabeth had completely decked a guy. The fun just didn't stop.
At 3:30 Oscar closed up shop, courteously moving his guests toward the door. He'd count their money in the morning. A big guy needs his shuteye. The Kosher Carriers truck was scheduled for 7:30 in the morning.
George Jefferson - The Battle
Jefferson stood on the rooftop of Washington Heights. It was raining heavily. Lightening flashed in the distance. Jefferson had been watching Oscar's for about a week now-it hadn't stopped raining since then. It had paid off though. It seemed like every criminal in the city hung out there, to join in on the illegal gambling that took place in the back. Tonight, Jefferson thought, he would strike at the heart of this criminal enterprise. Tonight he would announce officially to the criminal underworld that he was here. He surveyed the area. Clio Ford was closing up her flower shop and walking across the street, obviously quite irritated by the rain. Jefferson waited until she had entered the building. He climbed down the fire escape. More lightening in the distance; it was getting closer.
Jefferson pulled his mask over his head and shivered - the rain was very cold. He looked across the street. It was deserted. He darted out into the open and ran behind Oscar's shop. He could barely hear the sound of the activity inside over the pounding rain. Jefferson climbed on top of a dilapidated dumpster, then pulled himself up on the roof of the building. There was a little skylight in the middle of the roof - a nice touch, thought Jefferson. A little too nice for a butcher's shop. He peered down into the illegal casino. It was full of people. He recognized a few. There was Machelli, of course, surrounded by his goons. Jefferson would have to take him out first; fortunately he was just below the skylight. There was Marcus Manuel, the small time drug dealer; there was Grandma Pearl; Elizabeth Farraday was there, yelling at some guy; Lola Fontaine, dressed like a stripper; Oscar himself, of course; and others from around the neighborhood. Jefferson had unsheathed his sword and was prepared to strike, when he felt something cold and sharp on his neck.
Jefferson turned around abruptly and held up his sword. Lightening flashed, and the figure of Holger Vollsunger appeared. "I know you," Jefferson said. "You're the guy who owns that gas station down the street."
"I know you as well," Holger said. "I know that fighting you is the only way I can gain the honor of my ancestors and clean up this dirthole of a town."
"We both want the same thing," Jefferson said. "We should be working together. We shouldn't be fighting!"
"No," said Holger, ominously. "this is the only way. Defend yourself, George Jefferson, and defend your honor!"
Holger slashed at Jefferson with his huge, serrated sword. Jefferson knew if that thing hit him it would hurt, a lot. Jefferson blocked with his own sword; the two swords collided with a loud clang as lightening flashed and thunder rumbled across the city. Maybe my sword is real after all, thought Jefferson. The two sparred and parried across Oscar's roof. Jefferson had been practicing in his spare time, but Holger was still more skilled and larger. Jefferson was on the defensive as Holger swung wildly. The pounding rain only made his job more difficult. Jefferson was blocking every one of Holger's massive blows, but he was being pushed to the edge of the roof. It's time to change the game, thought Jefferson. He ducked Holger's blade and tackled him to the ground. The two warriors rolled across the roof. Holger got up a split-second faster than Jefferson, and Jefferson only had enough time to just barely block his blow; neither of them had noticed that Oscar's skylight was just behind them. They both lost their balance and fell through.
They landed on a roulette table, breaking it in two and sending chips everywhere. Lola Fontaine screamed. Jefferson stood up with a groan, and picked up his sword. Suddenly, Holger came out of nowhere and swung at Jefferson, narrowly missing him and cleaving another table in two. People began running and screaming. Jefferson was dodging Holger's massive blade. It missed him again and almost became stuck in one unlucky soul, who Jefferson only knew as "Lowride." "What is it with these freaks with swords? Kill them!" yelled Machelli. Gunshots filled the air as Jefferson leaped behind an overturned table. I've got to get out of here, he thought. He picked up a roullette ball on the floor and threw it at a light switch. The lights went out and more people screamed and ran out of the building. Jefferson kicked down the back door and fled into the night.
He ran across the street, breathing heavily. The police had just arrived, thankfully. Maybe some good would come from this after all. Still, Jefferson thought, he would once again have to be more careful. Basic criminals he could deal with, but he hadn't expected anything like Holger. Fortunately, Holger at least had a sense of honor, sort of; Jefferson wouldn't have to worry about him killing him in his sleep, or anything like that. Of course, he would probably have to face him again. Next time, though, Jefferson would be more prepared. He sheathed his sword and climbed up the fire escape.
The rain continued to fall.
Several mornings had passed since the revolution. So many, in fact, that a layer of dust had begun to accumulate over Elizabeth's laptop. She hadn't touched the keys to success quite yet. She needed something — something that made it worthwhile to return to the story in which she despised her every move.
'It's like reading Jane Eyre the second time through,' she thought. 'As I watched her celebrate the life she had, I only wanted to rip my hair out for the despair I knew she was about to encounter, provoked by her companions.'
"But it makes the ending that much better," she said, reaching for her coat.
Elizabeth hadn't taken five steps from her apartment when she seemed to run into a wall — a tall and narrow wall apparently exiting from apartment 707.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Elizabeth smiled. She looked up at the man's gaunt face. He looked to be in the later half of middle age, or older. She couldn't tell. "Have we met before?" she inquired.
The man was silent.
"I'm Elizabeth Farraday," she said, extending her hand despite the chills running down her back. "It's nice to meet you."
"No," the towering man said, sternly and very matter of fact. "I'm sorry."
Elizabeth kept her smile long enough to escape the gentleman's presence, and hurried down the stairs.
Soon enough she was in the diner, and on her way to relieving a growling stomach. She'd skipped breakfast for pacing, and the night before, dinner was traded for a walk around the town. She was starving.
Sitting down, her leg began to fidget like it was dancing to Ain't That Just Like a Woman. She looked at the menu.
The waiter approached and asked if she'd seen the diner's specials. As she looked to the white board, it wasn't the specials that caught her eye — it was the quotation beneath it.
"Could you give me a minute?" Elizabeth inquired, extracting a pen from her pocket.
The waiter left.
"The man who writes about himself and his own time is the only man who writes about all people and all time," she read, copying the words onto a napkin. "George Bernard Shaw."
"Oh, you want the Shaw special?" The waiter asked, returning with a glass of water.
"No — a short stack of pancakes and a side of sausage would be great."
"Anything else to drink?"
"Tea."
The waiter began to walk away.
"Oh," Elizabeth began.
"Yes?" He returned.
"And I'd like to get a Shaw special to go."
"I'll have it ready with the check." He said, before departing.
Elizabeth had heard about Alex's encounter with some homeless guy. She knew it was bad, but she was sympathetic towards the hobo. There'd been a rumor going around that he lived in the train station. After breakfast, Elizabeth strolled over to the SMARTA station with the bag of hot breakfast in her hand and occasional raindrops falling on her head. As she viewed the station it looked to be empty ... almost.
"Hello," she called.
A man exited a train car in smoke and shadow. He appeared alone, as did the car - seemingly shoved off to the side.
"Did you have Mongolian Beef yesterday?" Elizabeth asked.
The man nodded and smiled.
"Then here," she said, handing over the Shaw special.
The man took the bag of food — astonished. He looked from Elizabeth to the bag, and then back to Elizabeth.
"Everyone deserves to eat." Elizabeth smiled, before she returned to the stairs.
As she looked down the street to her next destination, she groaned. She needed english muffins. That was it. She didn't need butter or bacon, soup or salad ingredients, or even coffee beans! No. Just english muffins - her staple breakfast food. To reach the grocery she would have to walk past Victoria Lampshade's stand - the most perturbing business with the most revolting products she had ever encountered. Elizabeth would be the first to admit she was the kind of Girl Scout who nursed wounded birds back to health. She was proud of it, too. Though the similarities between the animals she had helped and the ones ending up on Ms. Lampshade's stand were a tad too apparent. Just the thought of it made her shiver. Accordingly, Elizabeth sprinted down the sidewalk after crossing Baker Street.
She sighed as she entered the grocery store, and almost ran into a shiny show girl aiming to leave.
'Why,' Elizabeth objected in silence, as she viewed the woman's colorful attire. She paused. 'There's not even a show in Washington Heights!'
She turned away from the door.
'Today I'm writing,' she thought, 'while eating a pint of Cherry Garcia ice cream, drinking mugs upon mugs of hot tea, and maybe even watching Casablanca on the couch.' The weather made it so, not to mention her desperate need for rest.
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