Rain pattered down lightly but consistently on the taxi-filled streets of New York. The dreary clouds had been hanging overhead for several days now, and the weather reports were showing no let up for at least another 4 days. Constant rain had led to the street’s gutters being awash with dirty water, scrubbing away the dirt and scum that tended to coat the city.
Things were a bit more problematic for Marco Rao, who sat in his small, shitty apartment, contemplating the day. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, Marco looked around, taking in the sites of this place he called home. The studio apartment wasn’t much, and his possessions didn’t amount to much more. His futon, folded for now in order to give him a space to sit, was slung up against one wall. Opposite that sat a postage-stamp sized CRT TV that hadn’t worked in at least 3 years. Sure, it had no problem pulling up black and white static, but getting any sort of picture was a worthless cause.
A sigh escaped Marco’s mouth, as he traced his fingers back and forth over his pack of cigarettes on the table. They were the one small luxury he allowed in his mostly Spartan life. Lucky Strike filters were not sold in stores around New York, so they had to be ordered from overseas. A carton at a time, they set him back a pretty penny once every two weeks, but it was an indulgence he allowed himself. His fingers deftly flicked the pack open, and plucked a smoke from the half empty box. Raising it to his lips, he reached for his lighter with his free hand, attempting to spark it to life. No flame would form as Marco tried again, and again, and again. Exasperated, he stood up and walked over to his small kitchen stove that clearly hadn’t been replaced in the apartment since the 40’s. Bringing a flame to life on the stove, he bent down, lighting his cigarette, pulling his face back while inhaling the sweet nicotine.
And exhale. The smoke curled out of his lips towards the low, dank ceiling. In spots, there were clear water stains from leakage. A closer inspection of the room revealed a couple pots and buckets on the floor, catching rogue water as it dripped through the ceiling.
This is what I’ve let my life be. This is what I’ve chosen, Marco thought to himself, his eyes squinted in scrutiny as he continued to take in the room; the small, barred window that in no way could pass a fire code; not only was it barred, the paint had been laid on so thick, there was no way you were opening the fucking thing in the first place. The shitty little radiator with burn marks from things dripping/falling onto it for the last 20 years.
Fuck this, he thought, standing up. The briskness in his movement was easily apparent, as was the frustration that inspired it. As he headed towards the door, he grabbed his raggedy brown leather coat with the patches he had sewn on himself for the sake of increasing the longevity of the coat. It wasn’t really water resistant, but this was Marco’s jacket, and it was the only one he’d even consider wearing.
There was no elevator in his building, and he lived on the top floor. Ten flights of stairs could be taken pretty quickly, though, two steps at a time. The stairway was in little better condition than his apartment. Pieces of rail had been knocked out here and there, and the carpet was patchier than the jacket he wore. Segments of carpet had been rubbed through, exposing the old wooden floors beneath. Electrician work proved too expensive for the landlords taste, so lights flickered faintly from old fixtures that likely hadn’t been changed since the building was erected.
Reaching the final flight of stairs, Marco went from two steps at a time, to three. As he reached the final landing, his feet hit the ground nearly silently, catlike, and he strolled out the front door without missing a step. Upon stepping outside onto the apartments stoop, he drew his hood over his head, and stepped out into the rain. As soon as rain flecked onto his cigarette, exposing the brown tobacco beneath the white paper, he flicked the cigarette into the street gutter, watching the rain carry it away towards a drain. Looking both ways before stepping onto the sidewalk, he turned left, and headed down the street. The light, but consistent downpour kept his step quick, though he wasn’t about to run. There was no avoiding the soaking he was bound to take when he had to walk three blocks for work. It was unavoidable. Fortunately, the summer months proved warm enough to keep him from freezing to go along with his soaked-to-the-bone state.
Cars continuously drove by on his right side, occasionally hitting deep puddles that wound up drenching the sidewalk alongside. A sort of game had to be observed; watch for cars hitting deep puddles, then time your walk accordingly to avoid getting soaked by a later car hitting the same puddle. Easy enough for someone who had been in New York all his life, but amazingly difficult for the numerous tourists you were bound to see in the city during these months. Of course, tourists weren’t a common site in Marco’s neck of the woods. Only junkies, prostitutes and other burn-out’s such as himself, whatever their story may be. Gentrification hadn’t reached their neck of the woods, so there was none of the renovated, upper-class white’s around that so much of the grittier sides of New York has fallen victim to. No, Marco’s neighborhood was New York City in true 70’s/80’s fashion. Gritty, dirty, desperate.
Brick buildings lined the street, running together as they went. They all looked the same. Tenements gave way to rows of shops, then tenements rose again. This area of town had a foreboding look about it that matched the lifestyle Marco was already living in his own apartment. As he neared his place of business, 23 ½ Hour Locksmith, he slowed his pace, stopping in his usual morning mom and pop shop. As he pushed the door open, he stepped into the dank little shop. The bell tinkled behind him, announcing his arrival to any who cared to notice.
“Good morning, Marco,” came a frail, small voice from the direction of the counter. He already knew it was Ms. Patel. This was their routine.
“Looking good this morning, Ms. Patel. How are we?” Marco responded, stepping off to the side to grab an orange juice from the small stocked fridge off to the side. Even though the small was small, dark, and not in the best area, everyone knew it was the Patel’s pride. Everything was immaculately cleaned, and kept in the best condition that their meager income could afford.
“Well enough one could say. And how are you?” she replied.
Marco nodded, knowing she could see him well enough from where she sat. His next steps in the routine took him over to the old coffee counter. The counter was stained from years of coffee spills, but you could tell it was cleaned daily. The stains were long soaked in, and they weren’t coming out of the laminate counters until the counters themselves were removed and replaced. As Marco poured the last of 3 sugar packets into his steaming coffee, he shrugged a bit.
“As well as one can do in rain like this.”
He put a cap on the coffee, exhaled audibly, and took his purchases to the counter. As Ms. Patel rung up the orange juice in coffee, he rooted around in his pockets, dropping a few crinkled up one dollar bills next to the register with a little bit of loose change to make up the difference. Ms. Patel took the money, and put it in the cash drawer. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Marco,” she said as Marco turned around, and headed to the door.
Back out into the wet streets, three more buildings down, and Marco stood before 23 ½ Hour Locksmith; his place of business. He had gotten a job here nearly 4 years ago, and had been learning the art of lock smithing from his boss, Joseph Lancaster, during that time. Lancaster liked to call him a natural. Marco always figured if he was a natural, he’d be doing a hell of a lot better than $13.00 an hour. But, he couldn’t complain. Lancaster took him on with zero experience, which was unheard of in this line of work, let alone Marco’s criminal record. Joseph had agreed to keep quiet about it, as long as Marco was ok with the lower income, and agreed to stick around for awhile. Joseph was getting old, and his son was just another deadbeat, so Marco filled a void for him. Gave him a prodigy of sorts that he could teach his craft to, and potentially sell his business to.
He stooped down, setting his coffee cup down next to the gate, getting his keys from his pocket to unlock the metal security gate that covered the front windows and the heavy metal door. With a light grunt, he lifted the gate, sliding it into place. Being a locksmith shop, there was also a half dozen different locks on the door. Mr. Lancaster wasn’t one for electronic security of any type. If he couldn’t lock it, gate it, or otherwise physically interact with it, he wasn’t interested. No motion alarms, no cameras. Instead, Marco went through the process of unlocking the six locks, one by one. As the final lock came unlatched, he pulled the heavy door open and stepped inside the shop, reaching for the light switches by the door.
As the lights came on, the entire shop could be seen. It wasn’t large, but it was large enough. Directly in front of Marco was the counter with an old-fashioned cash register sitting on top of it. Behind the counter were two work benches that showed their age, but what really gave the shop character was the dozens of assembled and disassembled locks. Some had the tumblers removed, others were stripped down so the entire lock was completely exposed. There were tons of lock picks, some custom made, others the more common types you buy from a supplier. There was an office door off to the left side, though it was covered in an obscene number of locks. Most of these locks were unused, and more set-up for practice than for any practical reason. The light was soft, but ample and pervaded the whole of the building.
Marco went about the usual routine, turning on the open sign, then heading back and dropping off his coffee and drink on his workbench. After that, he went about setting up a cash drawer for the day. The money was kept in the office, so he opened the door, stepped in and went to the safe. The safe was a point of pride for Mr. Lancaster. He was never willing to share the story, but it was the only safe Marco had ever seen come into the store that didn’t leave, even though there were far better safes that he could’ve used to replace it. But Mr. Lancaster never did; he kept this one, and continued to use it.
Dialing in the code for this particular safe was second nature to Marco at this point. He could nearly dial the combination in without looking entirely by feel alone, he had become so acquainted with it. In no time, he had the safe open, ready to count bills. Mr. Lancaster didn’t keep much cash on hand; Marco suspected he didn’t have enough money and too much debt to keep much on hand in the first place. Nonetheless, Marco counted out a drawer and took it out to the cash register. The register made the old fashioned, CLICK-CLANK – BING! sound as it popped opened. Sliding it into the drawer, Marco stepped away and started looking at work tickets. There wasn’t much. There hadn’t been much for a few weeks now. Frankly, business had been tapering off for months – years – but the slowdown was noticeable now.
With a sigh, Marco sat at his desk and began messing around with a lock, waiting for Mr. Lancaster to arrive. Joseph alone assigned jobs between himself and Marco. Until he showed up to give Marco a place to head to, it was Marco’s job to sit around and wait, and prepare for the day. Mr. Lancaster used to show up at 8:00 AM on the dot daily, ready for work, but the past couple years had been rougher on the old man. You could see it in his face, and his movement. He was slowing down. His eyes looked weary and tired. Wiping these thoughts from his mind, Marco set the lock back down and stretched back, reaching his fingers towards the ceiling and working out the tiredness he felt in his own body.
Time ticked by, and Mr. Lancaster never showed up. It wasn’t until 9:30, though, that Marco attempted to call Mr. Lancaster on his home phone. The old man refused to carry a cell phone, so he had to make do with what he could use. The phone rang and rang, until a woman’s voice came on the line.
“Lancaster residence,” said the frail, feminine voice.
“Ms. Lancaster, it’s Marco. Joseph hasn’t shown up at the shop. I just wanted to check in on him.”
The silence at the other end of the line was deafening, and a clear announcement that something was wrong.
“Doris?” Marco spoke to the silence.
“Oh, Marco. I haven’t heard anything, but he left over an hour ago. He should be there,” she uttered, conveying her sadness easily with her voice.
“Doris, I’m heading your way now. I’ll keep an eye out for him along the way. Don’t worry yet, OK? Everything’s probably just fine. Probably stopped in for a coffee and to dry off along the way,” he said, but they both knew he was only speaking platitudes.
Grabbing his jacket, he headed towards the door. The rain hadn’t let up at all. He finished off his coffee, tossed it in the trash can, and walked outside. He lit another cigarette, this time carrying it between his thumb and forefinger, with the ember pointing back towards his wrist to protect it from the falling rain. Hell, even if the thing fell in a puddle, he’d probably have smoked the damn thing. His stress levels were running amok as he worried about the old man. He lived several blocks in the opposite direction, so Marco started off that way.
His pace was brisk, and it didn’t take him long to come upon the old man. He was slouched up against a wall two blocks from his locksmithing business, and the first thing Marco noticed was the old man’s face and hands; he had lost all color, and was pale to the point of nearly looking translucent. Reaching down, Marco touched the old man’s face with the back of his fingers, and knew without a doubt already that the old man was dead. Marco frowned, and leaned down next to the body of his employer. His hands were jittery. This had been his life for years now, and looking at the corpse of this old man was like looking at the corpse of his own life. He was in a mild degree of shock.
Rubbing his hand over his face, he went about showing some respect for Joseph. He put his cigarette out in a small puddle behind him; the old man had always hated the smell of the smokes anyways. Next, he slipped his jacket off, and covered the old man with it. Without his jacket, Joseph quickly began to soak through his light grey t-shirt. He pulled out his cellphone, and pressed his body up against the building as much as he could to try and get out of the rain. He dialed 911, and waited for the response from the other end.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Yeah, I found my employer. He’s unresponsive, not breathing, body is cold,” Marco said, sounding almost callous.
“Where are you located, sir?”
Marco went through the spiel, giving the dispatcher all the necessary information. They didn’t hang up, even as the sirens came into hearing distance, and seconds later, a cop car and an ambulance arrived. Their lights flickered madly off the wet asphalt, lighting up the entire street, filling the damp air with harsh sirens and flashing red and blue lights. They rushed over to Joseph’s body, but upon reaching him, you could see the rush was already over. Nothing could be done for the old man; he’d died in the streets and been sitting there dead for a while. All that was left to do was bag and tag the body. Marco shook his head as he watched the process up the point of Joseph being driven away by the ambulance, body bagged.
The hard part was yet to come. Marco knew it was his responsibility to go inform Doris of the situation. With heavy heart, and another lit cigarette, he headed towards the apartment the Lancasters shared to speak to the old woman.
The preceding couple of weeks proved difficult. Marco had helped Doris take care of all the things that were necessary with the death of a loved one. Doris had leaned on the younger man tremendously, allowing him to take care of every aspect that he could take care of with no familial connection. He planned the funeral, helped pack away the old man’s things, and had begun shutting down the business. He had no idea what he’d do next.
It was in this time of uncertainty that Doris found the letter that would turn everything around. As it turned out, Joseph had in fact left the company to Marco, with what remaining cash flow there was left to him to maintain the business. There was only one stipulation for the deal – Marco had to take care of Doris, which included 20% ownership remaining with Doris Lancaster. There were plenty of lawyer dealings, going back and forth discussing the ownership and value of the company. But after several more long weeks of figuring it out, the deal was done. Marco had ownership of 23 ½ Hour Locksmith.
Requests
[x1]Small, shitty, studio apartment
80% ownership of 23 ½ Hour Locksmith
$5,000 from inheritance from Joseph Lancaster
Statistics: Posted by Marco Rao — Mon Jun 29, 2015 9:45 am