The Legend (2 page)

"MI
ND YOUR FUCKIN’ BUSINESS BOY!" 
He barked while aiming his pistol at me.  His voice was aged and raspy.  Without hesitation, I spun around and exerted much effort into unlocking my door with unsteadied hands.  After several fumbling attempts I opened it and darted inside.
 

I can't even notify the police because I'm so petrified.  I sat on my bed trying to turn a deaf ear to the
young girl’s cries but even with the blaring music I can still hear her.  Or is it my imagination?   I was filled with guilt and remorse.  I tried to reassure myself by assuming she incited the rape; hoping to find contentment.  But, that was an egotistical way of thinking.  It made me feel even more shameful of myself. 

While sulking on my bed a sudden
"BANG"
resonated over the blaring music.  I sprang to the peephole and caught glimpse of the assailant bustling down the stairs with his flailing trench coat trailing him.  I noticed the female staggering down the hallway with one hand using the wall to stay balanced and the other clenching her chest.  At second glance I recognized her.  She's the seventeen year old prostitute that lives in the apartment beneath me.  She was nearing my front door.  I timidly gaited away from the peephole.  Seconds later there was a languid knock on my door.  That weaken knock epitomized her moribund state.  It was unsettling and I didn't know what to do.  So I just stood by my door and stared at it.

"HELLO, HELLO! IS ANYONE HOME?" 
A female detective barked while pounding on my apartment door. 
"MY NAME IS DETECTIVE WU.  I WORK FOR THE CAPITOL CITY HOMICIDE UNIT. I NEED TO TALK TO YOU!" 
I sat on my bed while clasping my ears with both hands. 
"I don't want to get involved!  I don't want to be bothered!  Please, just go away!" 
I kept crying to myself.  The guilt I felt was oppressive.  The teenage prostitute died right by my door from a single gunshot wound to the chest after being brutally raped.  I could’ve saved her.  I could’ve called the police.  I was too frightened.

After hours of probing, the police concluded their preliminary investigation.  I peeked out my bedroom window and caught glimpse of an
attractive Asian female detective departing from the crime scene in an unmarked maroon colored 1995 Crown Victoria.  How much more can I endure?  I was convinced moving to Capitol City would be a personal betterment; establishing my own identity while no longer under the watchful eyes of my parents and taking the initial steps towards my lucrative career.  Lately I've been coming to the harsh realization that I was a terribly mistaken. 

I sauntered into my
closet sized bathroom and stood over the small wall mounted basin.  The blaring music ceased and was superseded with vehement cries and hollers from her mourning family.  I peered into the cracked medicine cabinet door mirror.  This person I’m staring at is a complete stranger to me.  My once wide and rounded face is narrow and bony.  My nose, however, has kept its broadness.  My dark brown eyes were underlined with hefty black circles.  They used to be semicircular but now drooping.  I found the faintest strands of gray in my bristling eyebrows.  I also found some along the wide hairline on my Caesar haircut.  My mustache is cut too low to notice any.  My beard is cleanly shaved off.  My dark complexion is no longer as dark as it used to be.  I no longer smile as much as I used to either.  Bearing the stress from this city has changed me.

After a warm shower I sulked in my bed.  The violent assault appears when I try to sleep.  Reading
the novel I’ve been caught up in didn't hinder the thoughts either.  I just kept going over the same sentences.   Maybe I needed something light like the daily newspaper.  I grabbed it off my nightstand and suddenly a comic book, sheathed in a sealed plastic sleeve, slipped out from the pages. 
"The Urban Legend!" 
A caped-crusader I remember reading as a child.  It’s the ceremonial edition from its 50th anniversary.  A free issue was put inside the paper.  I decided to read that instead.

The lack of sleep I've gotten last night is causing me to be weary at work.  Two hours to endure before I trek back to the cesspool I dwell in.  Thursdays are the worst days.  The overly zealous patrons drop off their weekend nightlife attires to have them dry cleaned in time for the Friday and Saturday night parties.  They barge in with their entourages and embellished stories about how popular they are. 
"When I walk in the club, all of the women start looking at me.  I get at least seven phone numbers a night.  No bullshit, they love me."
 
"All of the guys always try to talk to me.  I can't even walk to the bar without someone in my ear.  It gets annoying sometimes but I guess that's what happens when you look this good." 
I'll admit rooted inside I am a little envious.  Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to mingle and dance but my minimum wage salary doesn't allow for expendable activities.  Besides, it can't be as fun as these actors make it out to be. 

In these bleak times, a ray of sunshine emerges in a white spring dress patterned with orange sun
flowers.  Her name is Lolani.  She’s a routine patron and also the most attractive female I’ve seen in Capitol City.  Her name was picked by her mother who is a native Hawaiian.  It also explains Lolani’s comely Polynesian features; her high cheekbones, her slightly slant sandy color eyes that disappears when she smiles, her narrow face and pointy chin, her long nose that curves at the nostrils and her full heart-shaped lips that she keeps coated with orange lip gloss.  Her bronze complexion and long deep brown curly natural hair comes from her Barbadian father.  Her scent is always pleasing.  It lingers around even after she leaves.  She stands at a noticeable five feet nine.  She’s slim but not skinny; all of her weight falls in her hips, butt and breasts.  She’s complained about her curves to me before.  She says it draws too much unwanted attention from both men and women.  I, however, have never found anything wrong with it. 

"Hey Duane!" 
She greeted with her perpetual smile.  For the past two years since I’ve been working at the dry cleaners, she’s been dropping off her business attires to have them cleaned and pressed for the succeeding work week. 

"Lolani, how have you been?" 
I asked. 

"Fine.  So, have you gotten any job interviews yet?" 
She inquired while resting her laundry on the counter.

"Nope, still no calls back
.  The college recruiter told me ninety percent of graduates find work in their field within a year.  It's going on two years for me." 

"Hang in there Duane.  You'll find something."

It's the norm for us to reacquaint ourselves with a brief conversation every time she enters the cleaners.  I've been longing to ask her out but I'd be embarrassed if she saw the sub-standard apartment building I dwell in.  It's the best I can do with a measly twelve hundred bucks a month salary.

After locking the rolling steel storefront shutter doors, I quickly treaded home in the thick of the thunderstorm.  While scampering towards the subway station with my head slightly slouched down, I noticed three males standing on the corner ahead of me.  I thought it was odd to be outside in this weather.  As I approached the individuals, I suddenly noticed the black leather vests they were wearing.  Then I caught sight of the black knitted ski masks concealing their identities.  A sudden jittery wave of butterflies rushed from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet.  I’m almost certain it was the same three ruffians that mugged me.

I decided to sneak past them by discreetly crossing the street.  I slowed my pace and waited for the opportunity.  When I noticed they weren't paying me any mind I darted across.  Once on the other side I hurried towards the train station. 

When I reached the corner, I had to make a mad dash across another street.  I didn't even bother looking for oncoming traffic.  With my luck, however, an approaching city bus driver sounded his deafening horn while I bustled across.  I was so nervous I didn't even notice it nearing.  I was startled but continued my hasty sidestepping.  I hoped I didn't bring any attention to myself.  I was too afraid to look back.  I just continued towards the subway station.  Suddenly, I heard hasty wet footsteps nearing me from behind.  My plan failed. 

"EY!"
  One of the hooligans hollered while yanking on the back of my shirt.  The other two quickly confined me and blocked my path. 
"What you got in your pockets?" 
He demanded.

"Nothing."
  I responded after reluctantly turning towards him. 

"Wait a minute.  I remember you!" 
He said tormenting me. 
“You’re the guy from the cleaners.  You got any more cash?”

He
suddenly reached towards my pants pocket.  I instinctively jolted my leg back.  At that second, I was pelted with something callous on the back of my head.  I didn't catch what it was but it staggered me.  I was then battered with right hooks and jabs.  I tried to fend off the fists but was unable to.  Without warning I was bear hugged from behind, hoisted up and hammered onto the concrete sidewalk.  The impact stunned me and knocked the breath out of my lungs.  As the punches persisted to pummel me, my pockets were once again rummaged through.  The second my wallet was snatched one of the hooligans hollered
"I got it!" 
At that moment they concluded their assault and fled down the street. 

I propped
myself up on the sidewalk as the heavy rain pommeled me.  I was wet, cold and in great pain.  It took great exertion to get back on my feet.  I started sniffling to keep my nose from running.  Then I suddenly tasted the coppery flavor of blood.  I wiped my nose with my hand and noticed it all over my palms.  Without my wallet, which held my fare card, my only way home is a grueling forty five minute trek in this thunderstorm.

After fifteen minutes of walking
, my clothes were completely drenched; down to my underwear and socks.  A bus careened towards the bus stop and sent a wave of rain water six feet into the air.  I lurched just as it came my way and barely avoided it.  I glanced at the bus driver and he had a slight smirk on his face.  A group of juveniles huddled underneath a storefront awning began to cackle. 
"Ahhhh ha!  He gotta walk home in this rain!" 
They mocked while bustling onto the city bus.

During my journey
I began to wonder if I belonged here.  I grew up in a well-kempt middle class neighborhood.  Brooklyn was far from perfect but downtown Capitol City was on an entirely new level.  This is foreign to me; the unruly and brash tenants and the graffiti that tainted the neighborhood.  It's as if anything could be a canvass; from storefronts and apartment buildings to abandoned vehicles to city buses and passing cargo trucks to subway cars.  Almost every building had a decrepit fire escape and a sleazy red neon vertical sign fixed to it.  Residents tossed their snack wrappers and takeout food cartons onto the streets without regard.  Dealers crowd the entrance to the elevated train stations and hustle crack, heroin and marijuana.  Ladies of the evening post up in the many back alleys of downtown.  The piles of malodorous garbage bags are stacked along the curb while sewer rats scurrying through them.  The stench of urine frequents the breeze more than fresh air.  The police department is overwhelmed and can only do the bare minimum.  They are only a band aid to this dire issue; just a temporary fix.

My journey felt longer than it should.  Venturing through this down
pour after getting jumped by the gang members was strenuous.  But I made it.  The deafening music from my neighbor's stereo rattled the walls in my bathroom.  I noticed more wall tiles have been dislodged because of it.  I glanced at my reflection in the pulsating cracked mirror on my medicine cabinet door.  My face was slightly swollen.  A subtle stream of blood seeped out of my nose and the corner of my mouth.  I rinsed a hand towel with warm water and tended to my wounds.

My lack of sleep for the past week has continued to cause me to be weary at work.  I was steadily awakened while nodding off at the counter by an unruly customer.  One in particular was a routine patron named Bailey.  He's an infamous thug in the neighborhood and a known prick.  He stands six feet four inches tall and borders a husky three hundred pounds.  His hair is jet black and he keeps it slick.  He also has a noticeable mole beneath the corner of the right side of his mouth.  Bailey has adulation for his gold ancient tile patterned silk shirts imported from Italy.  The slightest fade will send him into a frenzy.

"YO!" 
Bailey barked while pounding the bell on the counter.  He startled me awake.

"How can I help you?"

"I need my shirts dry cleaned.  A little bit of starch.  Ya'll better not mess up my shirts either." 
He demanded.  I rang up the total and printed out his receipt.  He churlishly snatched it from my hand and bustled out to his double parked cherry red '76 Stingray.  At that moment, Lolani stumbled in with her business attires.

"You know you still owe me a birthday present right?" 
She blurted while dumping her hefty clothes on the counter.

"Birthday present?  Ahhhh... W
hat do you want?" 
I inquired.

"
Let’s go out Saturday!  To a movie."