Finished, after about two weeks of writing. Its not long, I'm just lazy. Enjoy.
A Walk Through The City In A Minor
By Luke Bowman
Somewhere beyond shows in pubs where no one enjoyed them, and dodgy PA systems that sounded like wars being fought between vocals and feedback, sits another one of those 'deadbeat' musicians. A long way past all those songs about wasted days and girls he used to know, but no longer cared about, he tells abstract stories about nothing in particular with only his fingers and the ivories.
Not right now though. For now, he shrouds himself in cigarette smoke as if trying to veil himself with it. Hiding in the darkness, like a man defeated, sitting on a storage box full of the nothing he put in there. His long black hair plunges past his shoulders like a murky cascade that dares not disturb the tranquil pond below. The stubble covering most of his face resembles a field of thorns, barbed and unreceptive. He has eyes like puddles of hardened clay, with the footprints of amazing sights imprinted in them vividly.
He took a final drag of the last cigarette in the box and put it out in the backstage part of the club he was playing in tonight. The signs outside said “Tonight: Travis Grange Live.” Though he wanted them to say, “Go Away.” He didn’t want to perform but he was in desperate need of money, and this place payed very well. They also gave him free drinks after the show, so how could he refuse? He looked at his watch. There was still an hour until the show was supposed to start. "Great," he said to himself, cynically. "Another hour to sit around doing nothing. May as well go get another pack of cigarettes then.” He thought maybe he’d kill some time on the way to the shop, and then whatever time was left he’d spend feeding his habit; or in turn, being fed by the habit.
Travis walked briskly through backstage door into the dimly lit nook that was the alley next to the club. There was random graffiti around the place that gave the place a certain quality, resembling an urban art gallery that no one had bothered to give a second thought to. Someone had written the words ‘God Bless Atheism’ in well-formed letters opposite the door. Travis thought about it for a second and decided that the artist behind that message was either incredibly wise, or incredibly stupid. It was good to see people were putting meaning behind their defacing of public property though. He didn’t stay around to admire any more of the masterpieces that might hang in the alley. He walked away with his head down, out onto the street where the darkness loses its nightly battle for control against the artificial luminosity of the city. It was not far to the petrol station that Travis was headed to for cigarettes, only about a 5 minute walk. Besides, the city at night was glorious to walk through. The emotionless streetlights shine light like unappreciated candles onto the romantic setting of the cityscape, while the sidewalks bathe in the artificial glow they are given. All the while the darkness hangs beyond acknowledgment, like a subconscious thought. Buildings stand as shepherds alongside the infinite twists and turns of the pathways and roads, making sure they complete their circle-route journey. Magnificence made of concrete. Still, Travis never stopped to take it all in. He just kept walking.
There were quite a number of people about, which was the usual for a Friday night. Some of them looked pretty gruff, but Travis knew well enough that the best thing to do was just avoid eye contact with everyone. His head down, he strolled all the way to the petrol station without incident. When he arrived in the bright, white lights of the place, he unintentionally caught the gaze of a man who was sitting in the front seat of his car, looking almost suspicious. The man gave what was most likely a surly stare to Travis, but it may not have been, as he was wearing sunglasses that wouldn’t allow anyone to see his eyes. Not seeing his eyes, added to the fact he was wearing those glasses at night didn’t make him look very honest. The engine of the car he sat in was running; he was most likely waiting for someone who was inside. Averting his eyes quickly, Travis walked on up the kerb and through the automatic doors that greeted him with a pretentiously friendly beeping sound and what almost sounded like the cocking of a gun. Wait, cocking of a gun? JESUS CHRIST!
Without a second thought, he hid quickly behind the freezer containing ice creams. No hero thoughts at the moment. A man in black was over at the counter with the cashier at gunpoint. Oh God. A man was facing death at the counter and Travis was hiding behind the freezer like a coward. How heroic. OH-GOD-OH-GOD-OH-GOD-OH-GOD-OH-GOD. His mind was freaking out along with his heartbeat, sweat glands and his bladder too. The warm liquid seeped down his leg and formed a puddle in his sock. He knew he had to either do something drastic or get the hell out of there. He went with the second option. It was much easier. He bolted for the doors, which were only a few metres away. No. He stopped suddenly when a gunshot went off and the glass in front of him shattered.
The next few moments disappeared in a blur of desperation. If Travis had been aware of his erratic actions he would have known that he dived onto the floor again without hesitation and crawled swiftly behind the closest shelf he could find. He wasn’t aware of what had happened though; he had simply gone from standing in front of the shattering glass door to hiding again. All the while head screaming wildly at him, ‘OH-GOD-OH-GOD-OH-GOD-OH-GOD-OH-GOD’ It was replaced in a few seconds by another voice, the voice of the gunman talking to himself in a frustrated tone from the other side of the shelf. It was close; too close. He had walked quickly away from the counter and over towards the shattered glass entrance, passing Travis’ hiding place in one of the aisles in his hurry. “He better be around here somewhere, ‘cause I’m screwed if he got outta here.”
During his distraction, he seemed to have forgotten about the cashier that was having trouble standing up over at the counter. Despite the shock he was going through, it appeared that he also knew that he had to do something. He bolted, just the same as Travis had tried. The heroic idea might have been successful if he hadn’t bumped a stand full of packets of chips and knocked it over. As soon as the man in black heard the commotion of the falling stand he turned around with a delay, his gun at the ready. He fired at the would-be escapee with no thought to proper aim or taking his time, he just fired wildly. He was a terrible shot, so most of the bullets hit the display fridges that lined the wall in explosions of soft drinks and flavoured milk. However, one got lucky and hit the brave (or stupid) runner in the forearm. He fell back, the bullet having the force of a truck, into a weird kind of sitting position against one of the refrigerators, blood oozing from his left forearm profusely. He was no help to the cause anymore. “Cause?” Travis thought to himself. “This is no cause. I just wanna stay alive.” With that he realized what he had to do if he really wanted to walk out of here. He opened his mouth to speak to the gunman who was standing just a few metres away. “Okay,” he said, trying (and failing) to not sound terrified. Just go get the money out of the cash register and leave. I don’t want any more trouble and I’m guessing that other guy doesn’t either.” Bad idea. Now the enemy knew where he was.
The man with the gun strode down the aisle where Travis was cowering on the floor; his gun ready to do more damage. “I don’t care what you wan to avoid,” he said menacingly. “Sure, I’m gonna go get the money eventually, but I don’t see why I can’t have a little fun first. Stand up!” By this time it felt like Travis had very little control over most of his body. Not wanting to disobey a man with a firearm, he miraculously gained control of his wildly shaking legs and stood up, the pungent stench of urine emanating. His face was no more than a foot away from the weapon. Staring down the barrel of a gun had never been more than a figure of speech for Travis, but now he had new respect for the people who coined the phrase. “Now tell me why I shouldn’t kill you and maybe I’ll consider it briefly.”
It occurred to Travis that this guy was no simple criminal; he was truly malicious. He had to do this carefully. He began to think about the question he had been asked. “Why shouldn’t he kill me?” he though to himself. “Do I make a difference here? Do I mean anything to this world? Do I even have anything keeping me here?” If he were any more of a pessimist he would have answered no to all of these questions; but luckily, he wasn’t that cynical. He felt he had thought of a decent answer; one that was going to get him out of here. “You shouldn’t kill me,” he began warily, “because I have better reflexes than you!” Snap.
Travis noticed the delay the criminal took when the cashier had knocked over the chip stand and thought it was his only way to get out of here alive; as he knew he would have been shot no matter what he told the gunman. So, seeing his window of opportunity, he had grabbed the man’s wrist with lightning speed after giving his answer and ripped it downwards, breaking it with a sickening snap and causing the gun to fall to the ground.
He was not in the clear yet. The remaining hand was still at large. It was a short moment before it attempted anything, and it took a rather obvious swing at Travis. Once again, Travis was faster than his attacker. He plucked the fist out of the air like a well-pitched baseball (seeing as he hurt his own hand in doing so) and threw his own swing. With one broken wrist and one hand tied up by Travis’ grip, the man had no defence, or offence, left to help him. The man received three fierce blows one after the other. He took the first hit to the left side of the mouth, the second to the middle of the chest (which winded him quite badly) and the third to the temple. He fell straight to the ground and made no attempt to get up. He was knocked out cold. The danger was over for now. The man waiting outside in the car (who was obviously the getaway driver) had driven off selfishly as soon as he saw his partner fall to the ground. Maybe he would never take part in criminal activity again. Then again, maybe he didn’t learn that quickly. Who cared – Travis was breathing.
Travis walked over to where the wounded cashier was dripping blood on some bottles of Coke. He took off his jumper and gave it to the bleeding man to use as a makeshift tourniquet. The cashier thanked him profusely, though Travis was not quite sure why. All he did was show up at the wrong place at the wrong time and make things more difficult than they needed to be. Though he figured that he did stop the ‘bad guys’ from winning. Maybe this was that pride thing he heard everyone talk about so often. A quick phone call to the police station and everything was looking fine. He asked the cashier if he could manage things here until the police and ambulances showed up. He said he thought he could handle it with the smile of a soldier. It wouldn’t be long before the police got there, so Travis got out of there quickly.
He didn’t know why he didn’t want to be there when the police got there. They would hail him as the hero of the night and praise his bravery, but he was no hero, and he had no bravery. No, he was just a lucky fool who wanted a pack of cigarettes. That reminded him of why he was here in the first place, his show was starting in 5 minutes and he still didn’t have cigarettes. After grabbing two packs from behind the counter, he jogged with difficulty back to the club, still sort of weak at the knees. The signs were still out there with his name on them, and they said exactly what he wanted them to now. The excitement had come and gone, now all he wanted to do was tell about it on the ivories. So he walked in the front door of the establishment where the worried manager asked in a frustrated tone where the hell he had been. Travis’ answer was simple. “I was getting cigarettes.” He got up on the stage and sat down in front of the piano. He was welcomed with a rousing version of the chorus from ‘Piano Man’ before he began to play. “Sing us a song you’re the piano man,” the crowd sung with gusto. He liked that.
After they were done he spoke into the microphone. “Hey,” he said with a smile. “I’m Travis Grange, I’ve just had a near death experience. It was rather exciting. I also smell of urine, in case you haven’t noticed.” The crowd cheered despite the odour and he began to play. Whatever it was he was playing, it was improvisation at it’s finest. He dedicated it to the night he had had and decided to call the song ‘A Walk Through The City In A Minor.’ What a walk it was.
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