Corner Of Washington And Fifth Corner of Washington and Fifth Mike Foster I woke up, got ready for work, and walked out the front door of my house like any other day, not knowing that by the end of the hour, my life wouldn’t be the same. As I zipped up my jacket, I felt my pockets – my wallet wasn’t inside. I mumbled a cuss word, and when the words left my mouth they became a smoky cloud in the cold New Jersey air. My watch read 8:56 AM; four minutes until I had to open the store four blocks down the road. I tried to run across the snow-covered ground when I realized that I couldn’t do that anymore: I was too old. After I opened the door, and slowly walked toward the kitchen table, I rolled my eyes when I didn’t see my wallet there. I moved into my living room, spitting out more cuss words. I looked as if I were an Olympic athlete anchored and in slow motion. My wallet was on the mantel above the ?replace, right next to the boxing gloves I used to knock out the best of the best heavyweight champions in ’57. My ?sts tightened, and I clenched my teeth. No time for thinking; it was 8:58 AM. I left my house on Fifth Street and drove down to the Peterson and Sons’ Drugstore. On the way, every house looked like the one beside it. They were all white and most were only one story tall. Broken glass was shattered on the side of the street and cigarette butts littered the curbs. Fifth Street is the last road of the bad part of town. It intersects with Washington Avenue where the rich folks lived. Every house was brick, and they all stood like castles. I worked at the corner of Washington Avenue and Fifth Street. A few stores were coming up like the pet shop and the candy store. I saw Peterson and Sons’ Drugstore and turned on the right turn signal. It was 9:05 AM. I remembered my father telling me how there was a time when this part of town was once all white and how it was a fancy suburban town. Everyone knew each other, and the kids would come to our drugstore and buy baseball cards and soda. He told me that he thought he had died and was in heaven. Everything fell apart during the ‘70’s, as people ?ed to the suburbs and big chain drugstores moved in. He began to lose money. The town became hushed. When many whites left, blacks came to attend our public schools. This town had become littered, trashy, and nothing like it used to be. My dad passed the store to me after he died and my grandpa did the same for him. There were still white folks in town but only further down Washington Avenue and rarely at the corner of Washington and Fifth. Except for me, that is. After I parked, I rested my head on the steering wheel and savored the last few minutes before I had to spend yet another day working in that store. Even though I knew I was late, nothing would make me move. I turned on the radio dial and switched through the stations. ‘I am getting too old for this,’ I tried to convince myself. Music wasn’t like it once was. It was always those young people’s music with loud noises and obnoxious screaming. I put a Frank Sinatra cassette into the tape player. The ?re hydrant in front of my store was broken, so water was shooting up like a fountain into the cold winter air and cut through the snow as it landed. I saw the bum that the whole town knew and loved in the vacant lot across the street. I sighed at the thought of how he had more friends and a more ful?lling life than I did. He was bundled up in a jacket and a dirty blanket and stood in front of a ?ery trashcan breathing into his bare hands, shivering. I noticed three black kids about the age of 12 or 13 taking turns pulling each other on sleds along the curb, spoiled and living like they would never die. I remembered that their school was off for winter break. I loved my childhood, but in my teen years, life got hard. Now, I am just a guy with few friends, no family, and nothing to live for. I looked at my watch. It read 9:07 AM. I hit the steering wheel like I did in the old days before I realized how weak I had become. It was time to go into the store. I stuck the key into the ?rst metal lock on the front door that had bars over the glass like a prison cell. After I unlocked each of the three locks, slowly savoring my time, the bells above the door greeted me. I turned around the sign on the window so the word “OPEN” was shown to the town. Peterson and Sons’ Drugstore sells everything you’d expect to ?nd at a gas station except gas. We sell medicine and supplies for school and business such as notebooks, pencils, folders, and so forth. It was once a place where the customers were like a family to us, and it was the glue keeping us together. The ?rst customer came in at 9:12 AM. He was one of the regulars and was white. He wore a tie and a black suit. His blonde hair was neatly combed forward and looked wet from some kind of hair gel he put on it. He placed a glazed donut on the counter and I assumed he wanted a cup of coffee, so I brewed up a pot with the coffee maker. “How are you today?” I greeted. “Fine, how ‘bout you?” “Same. Is this all you want?” I asked as I pressed the buttons of the cash register. The man nodded. He was one of those people who was a stranger you always see. I wasn’t sure if he was still a stranger since we talked every weekday morning when he was on his way to work. I gave him the change. “Thank you, Mr. Peterson,” he smiled and took the change. “No, thank you.” The bells marked his departure. I was alone again. I sat on a wooden chair and stared past the frostcovered window. Kids got up early to play in the snow and I didn’t even know that many kids lived around here. The snow was an alarm clock that woke up the whole town. An occasional car passing would break the silence of the quiet store. All I could hear was the muf?ed sound of the children’s laughter. My thoughts were interrupted by the jingle of the bell above the door, and I came back to reality. There was a heavy trucker who wore a plaid shirt underneath his leather jacket with the Harley-Davidson logo on the back. He looked around. I looked at my watch. It was 9:26 AM My employee Matt was supposed to come in later because he had a bad cold the previous night. The burly trucker placed a six-pack of beer on the counter. I was hoping he wouldn’t drink and drive, but if he did, it would be his fault. Whatever. “Marlboro Reds.” His deep raspy voice was so unusual that I almost didn’t pay attention to what he said. The man used a voice that was supposed to make him sound angry and tough. I wasn’t afraid. I turned around and got a pack of Marlboro Reds from the shelf. He gave me a ten-dollar bill and I gave him his change. “Drive safely,” I told him. The brute nodded and walked out. I checked my watch and the time was 9:29 AM The kids outside were having another snowball ?ght. Snow started to fall again and the street was more alive than ever. I just leaned back and watched with amusement. The bum fueled his ?re with a newspaper that he saw on the ground. He peeled off the soggy paper and put the dry in. The ?ames danced with the black smoke that ?oated into the falling snow. The kids stuck out their tongues and caught snow?akes. One of them was laying on the parking lot making a snow angel. I vaguely remember those days, but when I tried to I could only think about how my life could have had so many possibilities, all of them now gone. I saw a rusted silver van suspiciously parked on the other side of the street. I watched, but no one came out of the van. I wondered why it was there. Past the van, kids went into that candy store across the street instead of my store. I couldn’t believe that a chain store could replace what was the town’s best store for generations. Peterson and Sons’ Drugstore, once the best place in town, would come to an end. I didn’t have any kids to continue the business and chain companies would someday take over and everything that ever happened at small town businesses would just become memories. I too, would be forgotten and fade away. Still, no one left the van. It was like it was waiting for something to happen. A boy launched a snowball and his friend ducked. The snowball pelted the window of my store. I stood up furiously and began speed walking for the front door. As I was about to yell, I stopped. Would they even listen? Besides, what gives me the right to parent them? Anyway, I was lonely enough. Making enemies is the last thing I wanted to do. It was 9:36 AM. I saw a boy wearing a hooded sweatshirt walking towards my store. He was smiling and said something to the kids having the snowball ?ght across the street by the van. He was about thirteen years old and black. As he got closer, I went behind the counter and sat down. My grasp tightened on the counter when I heard the bells. The boy smiled. “Hey, Mr. Peterson! What’s up?” he waved happily. I knew what he was up to. I gave a single nod and stayed silent. The boy put on headphones and listened to his Walkman. This boy wasn’t a stranger. He came in at least three times a week for a bottle of Coke and sometimes a hot dog. He usually came with his thug friends, but this time he was alone. His friends were outside and joined the kids having the snowball ?ght. The boy bobbed his head to the beat of the song. He went to the back of the store where it was harder for me to see him. I kept an eye on him making sure he wasn’t doing anything bad. The boy opened the glass door to the fridge. He grabbed a glass bottle of Coke. I leaned back on my feet so I could look down the aisle and see what the kid was up to. His rap music was so loud on his headphones that I could hear the noise all the way in the front of the store. Outside, I heard the sound of two car doors slamming shut and instinctively turned my head, letting the boy out of my site. I looked out the window and saw three men wearing hoods and ski masks. Their eyes and mouths were the only uncovered parts. I was speechless. I dropped the mug of coffee that I was drinking. It crashed to the ?oor, shattered, and coffee sprayed all over the ?oor. The boy in the back took off his headphones and turned around to the sound of the coffee mug breaking and the bell jingle as the three men burst into the store. He saw the three robbers, too. He reached into his pocket to grab something and ran into the bathroom. When the men approached the counter, my eyes followed the black handgun making everything blurry in my peripheral vision. No one can understand what it is like to be held at gunpoint until it happens and you understand that your life is in the hands of a killer. The time was 9:45 AM. “Don’t move, old man. Not an inch,” one of the robbers demanded. I could see his eyes through the ski mask. He was white and in his midthirties. “Give us everything in the cash register.” My hand was covered with beads of sweat. I was shaking. “Give me the damn money right now old man!” The robber looked behind himself and saw the two other robbers snatching food and beer. I made a ?st out of my anger, pain, and the thought of defending my neighborhood store. The man in front of me cocked his gun and a chill shook my body. I couldn’t die afraid. “Last chance, old man. Give us the money or you die.” This was where I would die. I thought about where my life went wrong. All I thought about was the beginning of my life. I never achieved anything. The only people I ever loved would never know how I died. I watched the news. I knew how it worked. There would be a three-minute piece focusing on how I died not how I lived. I saw ?ashes of when I learned to ride a bike, my ?rst girlfriend, high school graduation, college parties, and my friends. When I would die, the whole neighborhood would continue to fall apart. I looked out the window and saw the street sign. I always wanted to drive down Washington, letting my heart guide me. I wanted to drive far away and start over leaving Fifth Street behind. I never left Fifth Street, though. I was in the same store I had been in for the last forty years. And now I had a gun aimed at me at point-blank range. Suddenly, though, the familiar bell jingled at the door as two men burst in holding pistols. “Drop your weapon!” screamed one of the cops. The three robbers listened. The gun fell to the ground. I looked out the window and saw the kids jumping around in the snow. The bum smiled as a man gave him a dollar. The kids laughed as they threw snowballs at each other. I stared past Washington Avenue. The boy came out of the bathroom and put his cell phone in the pocket he took it from. I looked at my watch. It was 9:56 AM. “Are you okay, Mr. Peterson?” the boy asked. I was about to respond, but I realized that I didn’t even know the boy’s name.
Copyright © 2006 Mike Foster |