By Timothy Lantz
Prologue
On Sunday mornings I sleep late. After that, I take a nice, long, hot shower. I skip on
the shaving and throw myself into a set of comfortable clothes. No tie. Ties are for business
and the only business I got on Sunday is a couple of scrambled eggs down at the coffee house
on Third.
As I leave my apartment building. I throw Jimmy a nickel for the paper. He shakes his head
and tells me his name isn’t “Jimmy.” I smile and say, “See you later
Jimmy.”
Tucking the paper under my arm, I walk the two blocks to the coffee house. The usual crowd
of church goers is there making life miserable for the waitresses. The line at the counter
is never too long though, and I don’t mind the wait. It’s Sunday.
Once I get seated, I give the waitress my order. I don’t need a menu. Two eggs, scrambled,
a strip of bacon, white toast with strawberry jelly and a cup of coffee, black with two sugars.
As she hurries off to place the order, I break out the paper. First I check the funnies,
then sports. By the time I get to the literary reviews, my waitress has returned with breakfast.
They put something in the eggs at that coffee house, something I haven’t been able
to identify. Some kind of spice I guess but it gives the eggs just a hint of flavor that
makes them better than any eggs in the city. “Someday,” I tell myself, “I’m
gonna ask em for the secret.”
I take my time, eating slowly, still glancing at the paper. Sometimes I watch as people
hurry about, all trying to get to the next point of their lives. I’m guessing that’s
what I look like the rest of the week. It’s a little sad, actually, but that just makes
Sunday all the more special.
After breakfast, I stroll back to the apartment taking the long way around. It’s a
nice walk that takes me past a small neighborhood park. It’s a quaint little park,
full of quaint little people. Even the neighborhood kids tend to operate on their best behavior
in that park. Something about the landscape seems almost reverential. I like to think of
that park as my church. Not in a Holy Roller kind of way. I never did go in much
for that heaven and hell nonsense, but this place just seemed to have a quiet spirituality.
I once heard that a Chinaman had designed that park. Something to do with the balance of
nature in an urban landscape, and while I don’t know anything about that, it is the
perfect place to sit and read the rest of the morning paper.
When the weather is nice, I like to find myself an empty bench close to the pond. From there,
the trees block the view of the surrounding buildings. With a little imagination, I can almost
pretend I’m somewhere in the country, somewhere far away from the routine of daily
life.
I read the paper. I doze off a little in the warm sun. Occasionally, I even politely smile,
if a pretty girl walks by. I guess that’s why I love Sunday more than any other day
of the week.
Looking around the darkened alleyway, I absently wipe the blood from my broken nose on the
sleeve of my jacket. Thankfully, I'm alone. I try clawing myself to my knees, but there is
a sudden explosion of pain in my ribs. “Nuts,” I cry.
It's only Tuesday.
On to
Chapter 1: The Drop-Dead Samaritan!
chapter index
|
