Page 7 of A Shot in the Dark
“Sitting in this same booth five years ago wearing the same look on my face as you had a few hours ago.” She stretches out her left arm and turns her hand palm up to expose her wrist. On it is a tattoo.
“A semi-colon?”
“It means I understand now that life doesn’t have to come to a sudden and dramatic end, but instead we can pause and then continue on.” She stares down at it and a smile lights her face. “At least that’s what it means to me.”
“I’m glad you decided to continue on, Sheryl. And I bet your kids are too.”
“They are.” She beams down at me. “Are you gonna be all right?”
“Yes,” I conclude. “I need a little time to wrap my head around my new circumstances. I’m a survivor. At least that’s what I’ve been told by at least one lawyer.”
“Ah, I get it now.”
“And so should I, so do you want to give me the bill?”
“Sure.”
I pay and include a hefty tip that speaks to the quality of care I received while under Sheryl‘s watchful eye. And then I’m out the door, box in hand, and headed to find a cab. Overhead, the light is fading from the sky and street lights begin to glow. Watching the crowd drift in and out of the restaurant, I had the feeling most of the day had breezed by me; it’s sad how much I’ve let brush past.
I notice how strangely hot the day’s grown while I flag down a cab with surprising ease and give him my address. The weather has been shifty at best—some blaming climate change, some mentioning the strange solar and lunar anomalies which seem to be happening with greater frequency than ever before. I chalk it all up to the end of the world as we know it and just keep going about my day.
The cab journey is unremarkable as only the best cab rides can be, until suddenly it’s not.
Chapter 3
“Why have we stopped?”
“Some sort of craziness on the road ahead,” my cabbie grumbles over his shoulder as his dashboard radio continues spooling out words in a foreign language I have no chance of possibly understanding. He occasionally responds to the undulating chatter, giving what I can only presume is his assessment of the current traffic situation. We inch forward, the meter still running. “Do you have any idea how much longer it will be?”
His shoulders slump. “Sorry. I have no idea, lady.”
“Okay.” Unlike many in the cars honking all around us, I can be patient. Sometimes things happen that are well outside of our control and we have to roll with the punches. Leaning back in my seat, I try to get comfortable. I close my eyes so it’s easier to avoid wondering what the strange stain on the ceiling is; its outline makes me think of Australia, and suddenly I’m wondering if it would be better to make a big move. Shift gears dramatically. No. This city is my home. I open my eyes to discover a man pissing on the street corner. Yes, my home…
Ten minutes pass and we only manage to crawl forward another seven feet, at most. A slight sputtering noise comes from the front of the cab. The cabbie starts fiddling with the dials on his dash, with each turn of a knob holding one hand up to the air vents as if testing the temperature. That’s when I begin to notice that the cab is growing cozy—because of course it is.
Its air conditioner is beginning to fail.
City cabs are not generally known for their delightful aroma, and, in that, this vehicle is no different from the norm. As the temperature begins to increase, so do the myriad of lingering smells resulting from carrying hundreds—perhaps even thousands—of people in one small space every week. I shift in my seat. There is no longer any way to be comfortable. Does Australia get this hot? I glance at the stain. Would I even know if I only read temperatures followed by a capital c?
I briefly toy with the idea of opening a window, but that seems ridiculous. I shouldn’t have to suffer in the increasingly cozy and smelly car. Haven’t I already suffered enough today?
Normally I wouldn’t have a problem with sitting still and biding my time in a cab—isn’t that really what doomscrolling social media is for—but I’ve just been fired, I have a crazy expensive condo and lifestyle to maintain, and the cab’s faltering air conditioning system is making me even itchier to be free of my cramped environment. I don’t want to see who’s unfriended me or who’s posted announcing their move into a roomy office with a view that used to be mine.
The past is past… When we hit another ten minutes without moving forward, I decide I’ve had enough. Between the blare of horns and the increasingly agitated sound of voices on the radio, I know I need to be on my way.
I settle up with the cabbie and exit the increasingly sweltering yellow cab, determined to walk the last block and a half to my building, carrying the heavy box with me the wholeway. Leaving the traffic jam behind—other than the much more human traffic jamming up the sidewalk as everyone gawks at the madness—I make good progress for the first half block.
For someone with such exacting taste, it’s amazing how many uninspired items are weighing down the box in my arms, and my feet start to ache. As beautiful as my brightly soled shoes may be, they are not designed for a serious walk. The moment I catch the first glimpse of my building ahead of me and hope leaps in my heart, it happens.
There’s a sharppopand the box in my hands shifts as something impacts it, sending a poof of shredded cardboard into the air.
Suddenly everyone’s screaming, crying, someone shouts “He’s got a gun!” and there’s anotherpop— Before I truly realize what's going on, my to-go bag has exploded as part of the collateral damage of gunfire.
Gunfire aimed atme.
Dropping the box, I race for cover, tugging my cell phone free as I go. I can't see the person shooting, but this must be the work of my stalker. This time I don’t hesitate to call 911—this is absolutely an emergency. All around me people drop to the ground or run to find shelter, as more shots slice through the air.
All I know is that I and a handful of strangers huddle behind the dumpster near the last remaining restaurant on my building’s block. Someone’s sobbing, another person hyperventilates. Between them a small child asks every question possible that can start with the word “why.” And me? I’m vacillating between rage, terror, and serious guilt.
