I forgot to mention: this Syracuse is not in New York or anywhere. The setting is completely fictional. And once again, the length is atrocious, but any brave reviewers would not go unthanked!
This part I like to call: the Sting.
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Worse than silently suffering is doing so while being near someone who prefers to vocalize their own pain. William Bull was not going through perpetual relationship withdrawal like John (most people who knew him were convinced he was much too self-involved to ever endure such a thing), but the weather was certainly giving him an individual grief, which he felt warranted vocal outcry. And like any innately stubborn man, he refused to let up.
By minute 45, the container of John's resilience had been filled, and, flicking his cigarette to the icy ground, turned to the man with impatience.
"Bill, no situation ever gets better when you just carp about it."
Bull's eyes went down to the ground to see John's grinding foot on the cigarette. On his face spread a game smirk.
"Well, the same could be said for wallowing in silent pity over it," he countered smoothly, taking out his wallet suddenly.
"But I get your drift. Why don't you make yourself useful with a little distraction?"
John chuckled darkly, his misty breath spouting like a train's whistle. He spread his arms wide and gestured to their surroundings.
"This isn't enough?"
"Get me some beef jerky. It might just lighten up my apparently insufferable ranting," Bull ordered quietly, ignoring Dougall's last comment. John put his arms down.
"You want me to get you food to distract myself?" His tone might have sounded disbelieving if it hadn't been so dull.
Bull nodded, seeing no quirk in the request, "It would certainly keep my mouth busy."
This was justification enough for the errand. Also, John thought it would be better to make some distance between himself and Bill when Jack Faradine emerged. Of the few things Bill found sacred and serious, he was the most bellicose about money. Plus, getting the blood running couldn't hurt.
Snatching the cluster of bills from Bull's hand, he walked to the sidewalk and veered right, where a thin but long alley pierced into Fielding Street (where he was) and spilled into Greenbay Avenue (where a tiny convenience store lay). Securing Bill's money in his pocket, he took a long look at the alley and started through it.
Years ago, when he had just moved to Syracuse and his sole focus was work, John would never have been caught in the act of entering a lowly lit alleyway, and certainly not unaccompanied. To think of, even the idea of walking farther than a few blocks sans the use of a taxi would have been curious to him. How naïve he was, he thought, to believe half of the rumors purported by his friends and family back home. Somehow, in Ducson County, beliefs swirled viciously that the worst threats to be found in large cities like Syracuse were thieves and heartless murderers and the like. Apparently a favorite dwelling of these types were darkened streets and narrow alleys.
"Kind of like you see on Gunslinger," his sister Della had said when warning him. Before he had thought nothing of the comparison, but now it never failed to make John chuckle.
As he neared the store, with little attention paid to rest of his surroundings, he played with a small thought: if there was a cruel entity in the city John should have worried about, it was no robber with a gun. In fact, the actual creature itself had appeared much less threatening, and took much more time to snare its victim.
John made no delay in his purchase, and was out within seconds, so that not much change had occurred within his body over the warmer temperature inside. Nevertheless, he pulled up his collar a little before starting down the same way back, walking a touch quicker, the two rods of jerky swinging lazily in his hands. He might have gotten through easily with such a beat, no problem, had it not been for the next few seconds.
Cutting straight through the middle of the block is a wide space, reserved for trash and mostly the garbage truck that comes weekly to collect its gross. Naturally it is also the location of back exits of most of the businesses on the block, as well as a parking lot for employees. John, supposing himself alone, passed through it easily enough until a noise from his left caused him (God knows why) to scoot back a few steps to see what it was.
Looking to the origin, three objects caught his eye. First was a lonely but clear street light next to some building's back door. The other was the column of ice on the roof, dripping despite the cold in front of it (thus a little magnified in effect). And last was grounded and certainly alive: a large but wiry black labrador.
More correctly was its backside, as the animal was ravaging through the building's paltry waste, its attention away from the man observing it.
Chuckling, John prepared to turn back, but stopped when the lab did so instead and approached him, sniffing curiously.
He looked sideways, as though anyone might see, and snapped his fingers. To his surprise, though, the canine took a leap and went for his hand.
John retreated so the animal's teeth barely missed his skin, but at the price of the two sticks of jerky. For a split second, he watched the dog tear at the two pieces, then kicked in anger.
Thinking this was his cue, the dog dropped the sticks and ran forward, knocking Dougall to the ground before loudly bombarding a trash bin on his way to Fielding Street.
This blow would not have been so nasty to John if not for the awful fact that a freezing puddle broke his fall. He groaned, gritting his teeth.
"Lousy little--!"
Without thinking, he launched up and in the direction of the mutt, only getting as far as the middle of the street before slipping hard on the ice and tumbling for a second time.
A brief glimpse ahead told him the dog was long gone, and that he was a damned fool.
Once again, he hoisted himself up quick, taking one step forward with intent of returning to the theatre, but figured that walking down the middle of the street perhaps wasn't a bright idea, and set for the sidewalk. On his mind too was the wariness over facing everyone in his state, which wouldn't make for much outward appearance of intelligence.
But on turning left for his destination, he found that humiliation could come with both greater swiftness and singularity, without a drop of help from his friends, as exemplified by the female pair of eyes that had no doubt seen the bulk of his temporary lunacy.
***
Elizabeth Canabar.
The name was turned over in John's head a good deal as he scrutinized the young lady up close, finding that she was suspiciously relaxed in his presence.
"Well, Miss Canabar, I apologize for my little display. I can see how that might be frightening to a young lady."
She nodded, sizing him up with what looked to be an increasingly critical eye. At least, John could see that most of her initial (and obvious) caution was dissolved, in its place the coming together of a first impression.
"I don't know if frightening's the right word, sir, but I accept your apology nonetheless."
Smooth voice, he thought. Like running over melting ice.
She waited. He cleared his throat.
"Yes, well...have a good evening, then."
"Oh, I will. And thank you for the hand." She put her one of her own on her hip in a way that looked habitual, but the rest of her body language looked dismissive.
John backed up a few steps, gave a nod, then turned and started forward, his lips pursed.
Cold as ice, too, by the looks of it...
"Oh, wait, you dropped...oh."
He looked back to see her bending up from the concrete, eyeing with less curiosity and more surprise two pamphlets that had fallen from his coat pocket. Her eyes (which he would call sharp) darted to him, an entirely new expression on her face.
She held out the papers at chest's height and arm's length, apparently refusing to go forward.
He snatched them quietly, knowing that look quite well. Would Miss Canabar be the type that spat on him for going "against his country", he wondered?
"So you're one of those...um, protesters."
"Yes. Would you like to hear about what I'm protesting?"
Elizabeth Canabar struggled to keep her set smile, "Not...really."
"Would you like a pamphlet, then? They're very informative, I can tell you."
"Ha ha ha, I'm sure they are, sir, but I think I'll pass." She held up a restraining hand, swathed in a silk white glove.
Why not push the luck and get a rise? John stepped close to her, a teasing smirk on his lips.
"Are you sure?"
Elizabeth wanted to shove the propaganda sheets in his face.
"Oh, very." She waved a hand like she had done when he'd asked if she needed help, then turned to walk away, not minding that she was supposed to be waiting there for Jack, who was taking quite a while...
"I have an engagement, you see. Don't really have the time."
"But you had," he pointed his finger to her back, "enough time to sit on the street."
Her fist clenched; she whirled back.
"Did you forget? I told you I fell." Elizabeth came closer, hands folded behind her back.
"Most people might find the image of a grown man chasing a dog a little unusual, you know. I tripped when I watched is all."
John scoffed. "Dog-catchers don't startle so easily."
"Oh! You dog-catchers certainly keep such funny hours, Mr. Blah-blah."
"Dougall, actually." He put his hand out accordingly, but she deferred slickly.
"And your apparel." She flicked at his disordered collar, the jumbled blue tie.
"Is it in the manual somewhere for you all to look unkempt? And where's the net?"
"Net?"
"Your trademark?" Elizabeth forwarded her face a little.
"The net to get the strays. Or are you a rogue that believes you can use your hands?"
Before he could answer, she snatched a pamphlet from his grasp.
"Fine, I'll look. Let's see," she walked a little in her skimming of the material with a professor-like stance, flipping through the document in seconds.
"So, you're an activist dog-catcher pushing forth equally each cause. You must be a rare breed, no pun intended."
"No. I'm actually worse," John stepped close, supposing that if he was right about her, this would certainly be more annoying a profession.
"I'm a writer, news mostly."
John couldn't tell what she thought; the girl was either passive or adept at the appearance of it, but he thought she was bothered.
After a moment, she asked, "Technically, if you're supposed to be a writer, wouldn't that mean that you embellish the news to your perspective?"
She paused.
"I'd call that a misnomer."
Before he could speak, though, a horn sounded out from behind him, surely from an automobile. Elizabeth leaned on tiptoe slightly and listed right to see that the call was for her. She looked back to John, now expressionless.
"That's...my engagement. As you can see, he's pressing."
She has a little boyfriend. Lovely.
Elizabeth avoided Jack's curious looks and turned back to the dog-chaser.
"Here," she smoothed out his collar, straightened his tie with speed and precision, and (he had to admit) a little elegance, at least as much as there could be in such actions. Last she eyed his hair, which was most likely ruffled. Her hand still gloved, she fixed it gently.
"Now no one'll doubt you're a dog-chaser. Except you need one of their hats."
"I'm a reporter, remember?" He said with a smile.
"Still, you need a hat. Not a cap, just a bowler or something, to look more the part." She shrugged her shoulders, then swept past him to the car, which was slowly inching forward as they talked. Had he looked at the driver instead of her as she walked, he would have noticed sooner exactly who the little boyfriend was. Additionally, he would have seen that the driver recognized him.
Jack eyed Elizabeth somewhat nervously as she came in, his hands tight on the wheel.
"Was he giving you trouble?"
"Hmm? No, not at all. We were just talking about something." Elizabeth answered vaguely, neither noticing that John was walking near the car.
"Let me guess: his political garbage?"
"Hardl--how do you know he was--?"
Jack nodded his head in John's direction, "I know him and some of his friends. They were outside and--" His eyes widened slightly; he turned back to the wheel.
"Nevermind."
As he shifted the gear, Elizabeth finally looked outside and jumped when she noticed John had migrated over. Shaking her head with a smile, she waved specifically as he inclined his head. Just as Jack prepared to turn, John finally eyed him, and kept his reaction low, settling for a short wave in his direction as the two drove off. He could see that it had at least irritated him, and was a little satisfied.
Still, as he made his way back to the theatre, he couldn't help but scoff at the idea that that was her date: of all people, the generic Jack Faradine.
The fool didn't even get out to open the door, he said to himself. If I was her date, I certainly wouldn't forget...
