The River 1.0
Though the Johnny Reb cap shielded my face from unwelcomed contact with the chilled rain, this close to the rivers, the moisture-saturated air clung to any exposed skin. I tugged the zipper of my worn leather jacket a little higher, causing it to hug my curves. Shoved into my jacket pocket, my thumb traced endless abstract designs into the side of my lighter as I waited. The weight of the metal felt comfortable in my palm – solid, real. Sighing, I removed my hand and tapped a crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds against my palm, sliding out a cigarette. Sticking to the wetness, the filter balanced precariously between my slightly parted lips. With a flick, I raised the lighter to my mouth and inhaled. The familiar burn of the tobacco scorched the back of my throat and drifted up filling my sinuses with a pleasant tickle. I rocked onto the balls of my feet as I raised my face to the rain.
Normally so crowded, 21st Street seemed abandoned in the quiet emptiness of the night. Imagining the daytime bustle of the street, I tucked the pack into the back pocket of my faded jeans. The pocket’s seams had begun to tear and tattered white threads blossomed at their edges. Like much of the Strip District, these warehouses across the plaza housed wholesale shops. This row specialized in the freshest produce found in the Three Rivers area. Over one hundred years ago, however, any produce from beyond the Alleghenies made its way to Pittsburgh through these docks and these shops.
That was quite a different time, though, in my experience, people remained much the same. While the objects and circumstances that engendered their affection or their fear may continue changing, the basis for that love or that insecurity seemed immune to the passage of time. Resting the cigarette between my index and middle fingers, I crossed my arms and looked down at the water slowly creeping up the hems of my jeans as I stood under a street lamp that hummed tunelessly. Slowly, exhaling through my nose, I relished the harsh, blunt, yet sweet scent of the tobacco blended with the clean rain.
“Haven’t you heard, ma chère?” a disembodied voice, that always reminded me of mandolins, inquired. “Those things will kill you.”
A snort of laughter escaped my throat unbidden at our private joke. I raised my eyes from the glare of the neon lights reflecting off the water on the uneven pavement to the petite woman standing in the street in front of me. My eyes fell to the package clutched in her hand. "Took bloody long enough."
Blithely ignoring that had I spoken, she said, “Ahh, that will never not be funny.” Tossing the package in the air, she caught it effortlessly without jarring its contents. She commanded, "Hold your applause.” Raised like a shield, her delicate hand floated in front of her face, as if to ward off a mob of adoring fans.
“At least, you find yourself funny, Cerise,” I observed, flicking the filter of my cigarette with my thumb causing orange ash to explode into the air. "Someone has to."
“I know that I’m hilarious,” Cerise stated confidently as she tossed her wavy platinum mane over her shoulder, showering me in the process. "Besides, you wouldn't know what to do without me."
Wiping the moisture off my face, I narrowed my eyes at her unrepentant grin and returned the cigarette to my lips taking a drag. “Well, I guess someone has to be the comic relief.”
Wrinkling her nose, she stuck out her tongue like an irate four year old and grabbed my free hand. “C’mon, Olivia, you might be able to stand in the rain brooding like a shrine to all that is emo, but I have plans.” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively like the most clichéd villain from the era of silent film.
Unable to resist her infectious humor, an unguarded and open laugh bubbled to the surface as I allowed her to lead me down Smallman Street away from my vigil.
“The best laid plans of mice and men…” I let the quote hang in the air as stole a final glance at the rose window of St. Stanislaus Kostka Catholic Church.
© 2008 Elizabeth Mock
Normally so crowded, 21st Street seemed abandoned in the quiet emptiness of the night. Imagining the daytime bustle of the street, I tucked the pack into the back pocket of my faded jeans. The pocket’s seams had begun to tear and tattered white threads blossomed at their edges. Like much of the Strip District, these warehouses across the plaza housed wholesale shops. This row specialized in the freshest produce found in the Three Rivers area. Over one hundred years ago, however, any produce from beyond the Alleghenies made its way to Pittsburgh through these docks and these shops.
That was quite a different time, though, in my experience, people remained much the same. While the objects and circumstances that engendered their affection or their fear may continue changing, the basis for that love or that insecurity seemed immune to the passage of time. Resting the cigarette between my index and middle fingers, I crossed my arms and looked down at the water slowly creeping up the hems of my jeans as I stood under a street lamp that hummed tunelessly. Slowly, exhaling through my nose, I relished the harsh, blunt, yet sweet scent of the tobacco blended with the clean rain.
“Haven’t you heard, ma chère?” a disembodied voice, that always reminded me of mandolins, inquired. “Those things will kill you.”
A snort of laughter escaped my throat unbidden at our private joke. I raised my eyes from the glare of the neon lights reflecting off the water on the uneven pavement to the petite woman standing in the street in front of me. My eyes fell to the package clutched in her hand. "Took bloody long enough."
Blithely ignoring that had I spoken, she said, “Ahh, that will never not be funny.” Tossing the package in the air, she caught it effortlessly without jarring its contents. She commanded, "Hold your applause.” Raised like a shield, her delicate hand floated in front of her face, as if to ward off a mob of adoring fans.
“At least, you find yourself funny, Cerise,” I observed, flicking the filter of my cigarette with my thumb causing orange ash to explode into the air. "Someone has to."
“I know that I’m hilarious,” Cerise stated confidently as she tossed her wavy platinum mane over her shoulder, showering me in the process. "Besides, you wouldn't know what to do without me."
Wiping the moisture off my face, I narrowed my eyes at her unrepentant grin and returned the cigarette to my lips taking a drag. “Well, I guess someone has to be the comic relief.”
Wrinkling her nose, she stuck out her tongue like an irate four year old and grabbed my free hand. “C’mon, Olivia, you might be able to stand in the rain brooding like a shrine to all that is emo, but I have plans.” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively like the most clichéd villain from the era of silent film.
Unable to resist her infectious humor, an unguarded and open laugh bubbled to the surface as I allowed her to lead me down Smallman Street away from my vigil.
“The best laid plans of mice and men…” I let the quote hang in the air as stole a final glance at the rose window of St. Stanislaus Kostka Catholic Church.
© 2008 Elizabeth Mock
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