An opportunity in South Philly Covid, story pieces

 

    The sandwich guy stood there sweating, his mouth slightly open but breathing loudly through his nose.  When he looked at me, it was never for more then a moment before his eyes darted to the next things, and then eventually back to me again.

    “Not now,” I said.

    “Why not now?”  the sandwich guy said.

    “Because I’ll get caught,” I said.

    “If anything goes wrong,” the sandwich guy said, “just go to the casino.  Do you know what that means?  I mean, if you find yourself out of fucking options, then just take what you got and go to the casino.   Why?  Because, dipshit, that’s the best you got.  At least you know Rick.  He’s not the kind of guy that’s gonna double your odds, but he’s as good as you’re gonna get tonight, know what I mean?  Look.  If you’re having second thoughts, don’t do the job, but if you’re gonna do it, we’re gonna do it right and we’re all going to make a lot of money.  But if you fuck it up, they’re going to find you, and they’re going to fucking kill you.  Slowly!  If that wasn’t already clear.  Ok?  Ok, we’re all good?  So what’s it gonna be?  You want to say yes, for once in your life, shithead?”

    I’ve been down on my luck before.  I’ve been at the tail end of a blackout night, covered in puke while my ride home was closing the door on me.  I’ve watched the guards walking towards me, while the alarm was going off, and the eyes were on my pockets.  The dogs have had my scent, the hammer was coming down, the lights were turning off.  And I made it out. Every time.  Unscathed.  I’ve made it through every single jam that seemed to be insurmountable at the time.  I’m very proud of that.  So why was I hesitant to go along with the sandwich guy’s scheme?  Because of fucking fireworks. 

    The sandwich guy knew, during lockdown in South Philly, there would be fireworks going off over all the row homes.  Every fucking night of the summer.  No one was going down the shore, no one would be congregating around the usual fireworks displays over the water.  The police had other things to worry about, and some people even thought they were responsible for some of the loudest explosions, just to scare people into staying indoors. 

 

….

Chem plant

 

    Grenada sat down on the ultra modern lobby chair at the exact moment that the chemical plant exploded.  The initial tremor made her feel like the marble floor had gone rubbery underneath her feet, but upon looking up in surprise, she could see the concern in every person around her.  A half second later, the lobby’s glass doors erupted into Grenada’s back.  She was blown all the way past the reception desk and into the elevator hallway.  The chair came with her, their posture barely changing in mid air, until the end, when it landed on her head.  Grenada’s back was on fire from shards of the building buried into her skin like shrapnel.  She couldn’t breathe.  Up until this point in her life, Grenada had never once struggled to breathe, but now, she struggled with all her might.  A sliver of air slipped past her throat and into her lungs.  She pulled for another, her hands wrapped around her throat as if to support the excruciating process.  Her legs kicked and spasmed, her back aflame with both acute and widespread pain.  She stole another sliver of a breath, this one slightly bigger then the last.  Just enough to taste the powdery air.  The alien taste of the air awakened the inside her mouth, rejuvenating her throat and helping her take another strained breath.  She was lying on the ground, but she couldn’t tell where exactly she was at first.  Her eyes reactivated and began sending information to the brain.  Dust.  Or smoke.  It was everywhere.  Someone was kneeling over a body on the ground.  There was yelling.  Yelling.  Grenada’s ears reactivated and she began to hear again.  There was a man in front of her yelling, someone behind her was groaning, and there were screams coming from every direction. 

The Threat of Thursday Night

 

    The leaves hadn’t yet changed color, but a cold breeze made the trees crinkle on a September night.  The usual sounds of motorcycle engines, police helicopters, and city urchin arguments were all there like usual, but tonight, they were all distant. The street was calm, but it was pregnant.  The air in the South Philly neighborhood held its breath, as if tonight, there was a different mayhem planned.  Something else was to disturb the south side of 5^th Street tonight and the leaves knew it.  They were agitated.  

    The fences looked fine, albeit contrasting, as always.  White picket connecting to chain link at the corner, both implying that they were the better of the two styles.  The bricks of the house stood still, the small patch of grass lay flat, and the power lines showed no sign of decay.  Even the clouds looked fluffy in the illuminated evening sky.  So why did it seem like something was hanging in the air?  Last Thursday, the entire Pagan motorcycle gang roared up 5^th Street around 11pm, so loud their engines may have been on everyone's bathroom floor.  The Thursday before that, the new casino held its grand opening long weekend and the fireworks began around 9:30pm.  The Thursday before that there was the second murder in a month in front of the local late night sandwich stand.  The fact that nothing to note as of yet had erupted over the night sky lingered like a threat.