Reggie, pt. 1
Okay, I actually wrote something this weekend - but it's not finished yet. Yet I didn't want to not post anything, so here's the first part of this story, and you guys can tell me what you think so far. You can leave suggestions, and maybe I can turn it into a choose your own adventure story if someone offers an interesting enough way for this story to go. So, critique away. And be gentle, like that nice cushy two-ply toilet paper you'd really like to buy, but maybe isn't exactly cost-effective for you. Wait, that makes me sound like I'm the ass in this situation, and I don't like that. My brain hurts.
Just be pleasantly constructive, folks.
And now, part 1 of the temporarily-named "Reggie."
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Reggie stood in front of the bakery, a wrapped baguette in one hand and the handle to a suitcase in the other. Inside the window display were rows of pastries and rich desserts along with an assortment of fresh-baked breads.
There he stood on a busy sidewalk, busy pedestrians brushing and bumping past him as he gazed through the window. As usual, he was in the way.
He hung his head for a moment, reflecting on some passing notion as the bakery window reflected the world behind him. When he looked up again, he saw a tired-looking man in the window and it took him a moment to realize it was his own reflection. His short dark hair was messy and his face was unshaven. His dark blue work shirt was stained and dirty, but it was just clean enough to make out the “Al” name patch above his left chest-pocket.
He sniffed quickly at the reflection and shifted his gaze elsewhere, turning to face the street.
Reggie took in the scene first-hand now. The day was beautifully bright and clear, with not a cloud in the sky. The street was full of cars, their drivers not advancing them far in late-morning rush. Everyone was going somewhere, and he thought he might want to do that now as well.
Stepping lightly and slowly, Reggie made his way down the street toward Bunker Park. Perhaps there he could find some quiet and some time to think.
In Bunker Park he found a bench near the pond, where he sat down with a heavy sigh. He hoped he could match the peaceful water scene before him. Several pairs of mallard ducks lazily swam about, taking moments to bob up and down near the sagging branches of a weeping willow that grew on the shore. Two large swans glided gracefully around.
This is peace, he thought. The previous few days were a blur for Reggie. Here it was Friday, and only four days ago he still had a girlfriend, a job, and a home. He unwrapped the baguette and ripped off a hunk to munch on. Mere seconds passed before the ducks gathered before him, looking for a hand-out.
“Aren’t we all, guys? Aren’t we all?” Reggie said with a soft chuckle to his new friends. He threw some crumbs to the ground and watched the ducks waddle and fight over the pieces.
Leaning back to look at nothing in particular, Reggie squinted into the sun.
“Beautiful day, huh?” came a voice from the beyond the blinding sunlight.
Reggie looked forward to see who was talking. A very tall, very plain woman stood before him. Once his eyes had readjusted, she was still very tall and very plain.
“Um, yes. Sure it is,” he answered, holding up one hand to block the sunlight. “I guess.”
She smiled. “You don’t sound convinced.”
“I’m not.”
Reggie looked at the woman. She was wearing a red sweater that was unbuttoned. Beneath the sweater was a screen-print t-shirt with the word “France” written in the shape of the Eiffel Tower.
Her skirt was a red and white checkered pattern he’d seen on picnic blankets. Her smile was toothy. She was neither attractive nor unattractive, but rather someone you’d walk past on the street and think about momentarily before going back to whatever it was you were thinking about before seeing her.
She spoke again. “Did you know feeding the ducks is actually really bad for them? It upsets their migratory patterns. I mean, these ducks probably don’t fly south like they should each winter. Plus, our food is totally not made for them. It’s so processed and full of gross chemicals that they’re not used to. To me, that tips the scales enough to out-balance how cool it is to have such a close interaction with one of Mother Earth’s most buoyant creatures.”
Reggie cracked an odd smile. “I’ll make note of that.”
The woman crinkled her nose and snorted. “Oh my gosh, I am so sorry – I don’t even know you and here I am lecturing you on the finer points of bird diets. Forgive me – I’m Trina.”
She extended her hand and Reggie shook it. Over by the pond, a swan attacked a small child.
“I’m Reggie,” he said.
The two stared at each other blankly for a moment before Reggie offered her a seat next to him on the bench.
“Anyway – those ducks and me feeding them – it wouldn’t be the first life I’ve ruined this week,” Reggie continued once Trina had plopped down next to him.
“Oh my god!” she gasped and turned to look at him, “You killed someone named ‘Al’ this week?!?”
Reggie started a bit and looked at her. “What?!”
“You’re wearing a shirt with ‘Al’ on it, but your name is Reggie,” Trina said slowly, pointing at his shirt. “Am I now consorting with a known felon and/or fugitive?”
“Oh, no no no no,” said Reggie with a laugh.
“ – ‘Cause if I was, that’d be totally cool. I mean – it’d suck to be Al, but otherwise it’d be cool.”
Reggie stopped and stared at her again. She smiled as if she knew something.
“No! I didn’t kill anyone named ‘Al’ this week! I had to leave my house quickly a few days ago, and this is the only shirt I could grab on my way out,” he explained. “I know a guy named ‘Al’ and this was his shirt.”
Trina’s smile diminished a little. “Oh, okay,” she said with a sigh of disappointment.
Reggie’s look of incredulity grew. “Who are you?”
“I’m Trina, silly,” she said. She poked him in the arm and said, “Got that, Al?” Trina laughed at her joke and snorted.
Just behind the bench, a loud construction crew arrived in a large truck.
“No,” Reggie answered, “I mean who are you? You show up here, tell me I’m ruining the migratory patterns of ducks and then ask if I’ve recently killed someone? Who does that?”
He had turned to fully face her, setting down the baguette and putting his left arm on the back of the bench.
“You’re totally right – who am I to do that stuff?” Trina said, looking down and smoothing her skirt with her hands. Reggie looked back toward the pond.
The two were silent again for a few moments, Reggie lost in his thoughts of who this woman was next to him and Trina staring at her skirt. Both waited for the awkwardness to disappear.
Several minutes had passed before Trina again spoke.
“Do you know you’re toting around a suitcase handle?”
“Yes,” Reggie replied, still looking straight ahead. He was absently chewing on the baguette.
Trina turned to look at him, and then at the handle resting on the bench between them.
She brought her look back up to him again. “I mean it’s just a suitcase handle – there is no longer a suitcase attached to it,” she pushed.
“I am fully aware that it is only a handle,” he answered again with little emotion, and he then took another bite of the bread.
Another minute passed. Trina’s face went through a series of expressions before trying again.
“Why?”
“Because I really loved that suitcase.”
“And this is all that’s left of it?” she pushed again.
“Yes.”
More time passed, and Trina’s face again was a list of emotions as she held an internal forum on all the possible reasons Reggie was carrying a handle and what had actually happened to the suitcase. Back near the pond, the parents of the swan-attacked child dragged the screaming and crying boy back to their picnic blanket.
Trina started to push again with a “Well then--” but Reggie cut her off.
“The suitcase was a beautiful brown leather case into which I had shoved what belongings I could before being thrown out of my house this week by my girlfriend – who had just discovered that my name was not ‘Al’ but rather Reggie.”
Trina’s eyes had grown wider by the second as Reggie quickly spewed out the terse explanation. Reggie was still looking straight ahead.
“Are you one of those guys that has multiple wives and families in multiple cities? I saw a tv show one time that talked about that, and there was this one guy who traveled a lot for his job and had a wife and kids in three different cities and she was totally pissed….”
Trina trailed off when Reggie turned and looked at her. The construction crew several ten’s of feet behind the bench had rolled out a backhoe and jackhammer and were loudly digging a trench in the sidewalk.
Reggie looked back toward the pond and continued. “No. I only had one job. I never traveled. But I did pretend to be someone I was not, and it burned me in the end.”
“And the end was this week?” Trina asked.
“Yes.”
“Who did you pretend to be? A nightclub singer? A tattoo artist? I could think up a million things I’d like to pretend to be,” Trina giggled.
Reggie laughed, softening a little.
To be continued.....
