He was not the typical definition of handsome, with his tall, overtly lithe frame, more intimidating than inviting, and an angular, sharp face shadowed by a thick flurry of silvery white hair. His skin was very pale, like he avoided sunlight as completely as possible, and it sharply contrasted with his dark clothing. I felt myself shuddering under the weight of his pale blue eyes, as they bore down at me from their impassive station.
Realizing that I was staring, I jerked my eyes from his face and down to the cash register.
"What can I get for you, sir?" I asked mechanically, and glanced out over the floor, at the couples chattering and thinking no one was watching when they dove in for a little private action.
Am I the only one who hates this season?
I managed to mostly smother a grimace of disgust as I watched two people lean at each other from opposite sides of the table and kiss—not just a nice kiss, but the kind you generally saw in contraband porn tapes slipped between backpacks in boy's high school locker rooms.
This is a coffee shop, not a pay-by-the-hour hotel!
"I'm sorry, sir—I didn't catch that?" I said, quickly recouping myself and trying hard to ignore the couple, who, put together, weighed as much as an economy sized car.
"Regular coffee," he said rather flatly, and for a moment my mind ceased to function. He was like someone you read about in books, saw in movies, maybe even watched on some history program about people who could shock with their eyes and render speechless with their voices.
"I—I...of course! I'm so sorry," I chattered quickly, and my fingers danced on the cashier pad. "That's two wulongs, even. Charlotte, can I have a—what size did you say?"
"Medium," the man said, and his eyes, icy and pinning, didn't blink as he regarded me with a disaffected expression.
"Of course—Charlotte! Medium regular coffee!" I waved in my friends' direction, feeling myself start to panic.
Who is this guy? Why in the world am I freaking out like this?
"Alright, alright...you don't have to yell," Charlotte said, immediately going to the coffee machine, after throwing a cautious look in the direction of the ghost-like man. A braver girl than I, Charlotte walked right up to the counter and set the coffee before him. She smiled sweetly. "Here you go, sir."
She continued to smile as he gave a short, frosty nod and walked to the back of the coffee shop, and sat down at a table around the corner, out of our sight.
"You're too easily spooked," Charlotte said quietly, rolling her eyes at me.
I bristled in offense. "He was creepy! Did you look into his eyes?" I hissed back pleadingly, in a voice that wasn't quite loud enough for the customers to hear it.
Charlotte's green eyes narrowed. "Watch yourself! The district people are supposed to be in here today, and they haven't been in yet."
A surge of fear ran through me as I realized what she meant. Every now and then, people from the district office of Chatsky's, the chain coffee shop at which I worked, would come disguised as regular customers, and see how they were treated, what kind of service they got, the atmosphere, the cleanliness, etc.
You never could guess when they'd come, sometimes there had been months or weeks in between, sometimes a day. But, sometimes, as apparently now, you'd get a little tip off.
Sometimes, according to Charlotte who had been an employee there for a good year or year and a half, they would intentionally try to cause trouble to see how the employees handled it. It was a cruel practice and not wholly good for business, but it was effective at keeping us on our toes, and that was their design.
"Maybe you should take the register?" I said, staring beseechingly at my friend. "Please?"
Charlotte, who glanced at the front doors, nodded. "Sure, you can go clean the espresso machine."
"You want something to drink?" I asked, our voices back at a regular volume, now, as I was pushing the thought of the white-haired man out of my head and quickly returning to my job.
"Sure. Make me something without coffee in it."
I nodded wordlessly, and set about pouring a shot of espresso for myself before cleaning it and making my friend a caramel hot chocolate.
A few hours later—and after a problem customer to boot, who we were convinced was the spy—we started to clean up.
I'd all but forgotten about the disturbing white-haired man, and had taken the task of putting new water in the miniature vases on all the tables, where each held a little sprig of flowers.
Since it was five until nine o'clock, I had not been expecting anyone to still be in the seating area, especially since it was otherwise deserted.
"Marie! Are you done yet?" Amanda shouted from the back room. Marie was my name and I shared it with no other current employee, so she was talking to me.
"No, not yet!"
Without thinking, and with some random tune that was stuck in my head manifesting into an off-key mutterings reminiscent of the lyrics, I walked over towards the small cluster of high tables, and rearranged the chairs; which were supposed to be four to a table, but were always displaced by the end of the day.
Something caught my eye, and I turned to it. A sudden chill came over me, and it took me a few seconds to shake the sensation.
What's he still doing here!
I'm sure my face registered utter shock; it always did tend to betray me most when I needed to watch myself.
"Uh...excuse me, sir?" I said rather weakly, pacing towards him deferentially, but still keeping my distance. "We're going to be closing in five minutes."
He lifted his head and stared at me with unblinking blue eyes.
"Are you done with your coffee? I can take that for you."
His motion afterwards indicated that I should, and so I did.
I went back to behind the counter and grabbed Amanda, our shift manager. I said quietly: "That white haired guy is still here."
"What white-haired guy?" Amanda asked, fixing me with a strange look. "Some old guy? What, are we going to need to call a taxi 'cause he can't drive?"
"I don't think he's old," I said, and then turned at the tinkling sounds of the bells attached to the front door. I watched a head of white hair, and a body cloaked in a midnight suit, as it faded quickly into the night. "Well...I guess, never mind then. That was him." I stared at the retreating back, inexplicably troubled.
Amanda shrugged. "Are you done yet?"
"I'm getting there," I muttered, and went back to changing out the water.
The following day was Valentine's Day, and as luck would have it, it was my day off from both classes and work.
I had no grand plans, I had no one to bring me chocolates—except of course the package from my father who gave me chocolates and candy every year, which had arrived two days earlier. It sat on my counter, waiting to be opened, like an edible, taunting Christmas present.
The clock already read noon, and I had no intentions of getting dressed. I still wore exactly what I'd slept in last night—a pair of over sized, pink flannel pants, and a black tank top which had the worn image of a coat of arms printed on the front in white. The socks on my feet were fuzzy and purple. Since I was in exactly the same state as I'd woken up in, my hair was naturally tangled and wild.
I sat on my couch, watching old war movies, sulking about my pathetic lack of a love life. Maybe that evening I'd order out for pizza and complain about all the Valentine's movies on prime time, which all seemed contrived to make me all the more moody and irritable.
It wasn't so much resentment against happy couples, so much as the fact I had to hear about it, and for a week afterwards I'd be regaled with story after story of any given friend of mine's recollection of what they and their "significant other" did. And now that most of us were old enough to get drunk over it, this also tended to include the lurid details.
My apartment was small but well appointed, if quite dirty. I wasn't the model for cleanliness, and I had dirty dishes piled high in my sink.
"What the hell is this movie again?" I muttered, and reached for the TV guide. The Guns of Navarone. I squinted at the actors, trying to 'read' the uniforms of the 'Nazi soldiers' running around. I gave that up when the phone rang, and I, with a rather put-out flourish, put the movie on mute, and went to the ugly tan thing stuck on my wall. The name on the caller ID wasn't one I recognized.
"Hello? Who is this?" I said, and glanced back at the screen. There was a lot of shooting going on. More Nazis. The image looked somewhat faded from this distance. I smiled slightly, remembering that my grandmother had always thought Gregory Peck was good looking, and I found I agreed with her.
How old is this movie, anyway?
"Hello? Marie Hammel? This is detective Norman Daniels, I'm with the Patmos City Police Department."
I blinked in surprise; whatever I'd been expecting, it hadn't been that.
"Oh, uh...okay," I said awkwardly, with no idea as to why anyone from the ISSP would be calling me. "What can I do for you, officer?"
"Detective," corrected Mr. Daniels, rather sharply, and continued before I had time to apologize for my mistake. "There's been an accident and we'd like you to come in for some questions."
A plethora of thoughts darted through my head, as I tried to figure out what in the world this might be about. "I...of course...what kind of accident? What's happened?"
"Chatsky's coffee shop burned to the ground early this morning," said Mr. Daniels, rather bluntly, "Now, I'd like to assure you that you're not held as suspect, but we'd just like to get some basic information, about what you were doing that night, what time you left, etc."
"Of course," I said, and glanced at the television. Something had blown up and the screen was filled with an orange plume. "I'd be happy to answer anything you like.
"Wonderful," said Mr. Daniels, briskly. "I would like to schedule an interview. What time would be good for you?"
I told him that, if he wanted, I was available all today (as it was my day off, and a Saturday), and then listed the times of my college classes, and almost began to tell him my work schedule—then realized that such a thing was pointless.
It settled on me that I no longer had a place to work, and I had bills to pay. I managed to suppress the panic and fear I suddenly felt, and continued.
"No, that's important as well," said Mr. Daniels. "But we can talk about things like that at the interview. If you're not busy—I'm sure you have someone to get back to—"
I was sharp in correcting him— "No, actually, that's why I said I was free all today." It was not without a touch of resentment that I said this—singles always tended to get the raw end of the deal on Valentine's—and it caught Mr. Daniels off guard.
"Oh...well then. I would like to ask you a few small questions, just to confirm them. Your name is Marie Jane Hammel? You're 23? A graduate student? Studying History and German?"
I confirmed what questions he had and corrected some of the minor details that he had wrong, and scheduled an interview tomorrow at 2pm—I was totally free, then, too, since Chatsky's was now gone.
As I put the phone back on the hook, I turned back to my television. The credits were rolling on the screen, as I walked back to my sofa and stood in front of it, markedly more sober as the names scrolled past.
"I want a beer," I muttered suddenly, and whipped around, heading towards my small refrigerator.
My apartment, a decent sized place considering the rent, had five rooms; though technically the kitchen and the living room were the same space. This division was demarcated by a kitchen counter, which, on the living room side, had three bar stools lined up against it, and it functioned as my table. On the kitchen side were cabinets and my toaster. I had very little food. In the living room was a small entertainment center, with my television on top of it. On the opposite side of the room was my sofa.
There was also a bedroom, a bathroom, and a little laundry room.
I took a beer out of the fridge and popped it open, and only barely relished the taste. Too many other things clouded my thoughts.
What am I going to do for money? I can't borrow from my parents. I'll have to get another job. Where's the newspaper?
Newspapers, according to my late grandmother, had changed. While even in her youth they had greatly lost significance as a source of primary news, the newspapers on Mars in 2073 served little else than to supplement and entertain. Still, one element the newspaper had retained: The classifieds.
I received one as a given part of my rent, and each day I picked it up from my doorstep and chunked it into the trash.
"Where are you," I muttered irritably, with one hand (beer in the other), as I sifted through the bin. "There!"
As I was straightening up there was a knock at my door, and so I tossed the paper onto the kitchen counter and went to open it.
It was my neighbor—my psychotic Christian neighbor. I groaned inwardly, though I plastered a smile on my face.
Don't preach at me this morning, don't preach at me this morning, don't preach at me—
"Omigosh! Have you seen? On the news? Don't you work at that little coffee shop?"
"I used to," I said, inwardly quite relieved. She tended to visit for two reasons: One; to relate the message of her pastor's sermon (This type of visit tended to be on a Sunday, of course), and Two; to complain that I watched movies too loudly. It wasn't my fault that the walls were like paper and wars tended to include explosions.
This really would have freaked me out if that detective hadn't already called me.
"I just got a call from the police about it. But I didn't know about it until they did call me. How do you know?"
Oh, wait. She said it was on the news.
"It was on the morning report!" she said gleefully. "It was arson."
"Arson?" I repeated, now quite thunderstruck.
Didn't Mr. Daniels say it was an accident?
I shook my head and stared at the woman—her name was Angie Marsh—who had begun to stare at me with keen curiosity.
"Mr. Daniels told me it was an accident, and the news said it was arson?"
"An accident? Oh, no! Couldn't've been—they already know how it was started and everything."
Either Daniels doesn't know the difference between accident and arson, or he was lying about me not being a suspect.
"...Oh," I said, quite duly shocked. "That's pretty quick to confirm something like that, don't you think? Is it on still?"
"Well, they never came out and said it was arson, they just hinted a lot at it. They explained how they thought it started and everything."
I stared at her, and sighed. Stupid woman. I wasn't ever sure how to end conversations with curious neighbors, and Angie probably wouldn't leave too easily without a complete recap of my activities.
"The detective said...I shouldn't talk to anyone about it until I talk to him," I lied, privately congratulating myself, "To keep things from getting muddled up in my head. They say the more a story is told the more things get mixed up."
Angie's face was completely crestfallen, and I smiled at her—a genuine one enough, though not for the reasons she must have suspected—and shrugged. "I'm sorry. Is there anything else I can help you with?"
As usual, once the tidbit of gossip—and there would be gossip, people liked to talk too much at this apartment—got around, I wouldn't be able to go outside without having three people harass me.
It occurred to me that Angie would be the first to sulk about not being told, and that my lie was probably going to come around and bite me on the ass at some point. It might even cast suspicion where there was no guilt. My satisfied mood dropped away, leaving me rather irritated at my inadvertent stupidity.
"No...that's all," Angie said, and walked off, looking sad.
I shut the door quietly and locked it, and put the chain on.
Suddenly tired, I flopped down on my couch, my face buried in the dirty fabric, muffling my voice.
"Shit! I hate Valentine's Day!"
So, what do you think...?
I don't own Cowboy Bebop.