Matt Lee

THREE OMENS

Halfway through making a pot of coffee, the cheap grounds spilling off the spoon’s edge with my clumsy movements, body still aching from the lack of natural aspirin being produced, unseen stores of salicylic acid depleted from the abuse of a day prior, the illusion of consciousness not quite yet fully restored, a chorus of xylophones still reverberating through my head from the school band diligently drilling scales before the sun had even risen, a vivid dream already forgotten, a house already empty, an hour to get ready before work, that was when I saw the pair loitering in the back alleyway.  

They couldn’t have been more than fourteen, fifteen, crimson acne and pitifully wispy facial hair visible even from a dozen yards away on the light skinned boy, whose frame looked particularly scrawny hidden inside an oversize bright orange sweater, which clashed with his deep blue baggy gym shorts, back bowing under the weight of a fully stuffed knapsack, whereas the girl was darker, a bit overweight, especially compared to the boy, but unlike him her skin was clear and healthy, hair neatly styled in a sort of bob, clothes form fitting but stretchy, a gray tank top and black tights, proper posture, no backpack.  They must have been walking to the high school, only two blocks away from my home, the first class was due to start in twenty minutes.

Through the uncovered glass door in my kitchen, I stared out past the backyard and studied the teenagers, who glanced nervously about, before the boy dropped his shorts and started to pull down the girl’s tights, a pale bony pelvis driving into a brown moon, and I stood there paralyzed in fright, stunned, the glass coffee pot growing heavy in my hand, until the fear turned into astonishment, anger, indignation, and I moved to the door and gripped the knob, brandishing the coffee pot like a weapon in my other hand, and then they noticed me, grinding to a sudden halt before quickly separating, running awkwardly as they pulled up their bottoms, fleeing the scene of the public tryst, heads lowered to hide their faces, their embarrassment, and myself suddenly curious what might have happened had they not seen me watching.

Later, when my work was finished, I drove back home the usual way, traffic trickling slowly in each direction on the pike, and I caught sight of some black smoke, shimmering with heat, rapidly pluming its way up into the atmosphere, as the traffic started to stall up even more than usual, finally inching forward enough so the flashing blue and red lights became visible, the men in uniform making a cautious ring around the old four door coupe, which was totally engulfed in flames.

I slowed down and rubbernecked, I was looking for a body, of course, and although I noted an ambulance nearby, I could see no charred remains inside the car’s gutted and scorched interior, while the flames grew taller still, as if to egg on those firefighters with their swollen hoses.  I turned down a side street and parked, then got out and walked up the block towards the scene of the blaze, where I joined a modest crowd of slack-jawed onlookers, their phones outstretched, recording the firemen as they blasted the automotive inferno with high powered extinguishers, the flames relinquishing at last to the efforts of the first responders, but where, oh where was that body?

I asked an older woman with short hair if she knew anything, to which she replied that she had only heard that no one was hurt. Closing in on the police cordon for a better look at the damage, a group of teenage boys went running past us, one of whom I instantly recognized as the pale young fellow in mismatched clothes whom I had interrupted earlier that very morning.  Overhead, a spotted hawk circled us, another curious bystander, another hungry soul.

Having lost interest, I walked home, and then removed my clothes.  I started to run some water for a shower, when a fast and loud knock rapped against my front door.  I shut off the water and fixed a towel around my nude waist before going downstairs to answer.  I swung open the door and was greeted by a smartly dressed black woman, wearing a well-pressed plaid shirt, accompanied by a sleek vest, pristine khakis, spotless name brand sneakers, two diamond studded earrings, and bleached hair buzzed flat.  She was immaculate, except for the tarnished and dog-eared laminated pamphlet that she clutched in her hands.

She wished me a good afternoon, addressing me as “sir” before asking my name, which I thoughtlessly gave, and then she formally introduced herself, Karina.  She wanted to know what was going on at the end of the street, so I told her everything that I knew, no one was hurt, and she asked if I thought it was an accident, I figured probably, yes, and Karina said she wasn’t so sure, that it seemed awfully suspicious, especially considering last night’s attack, the latest in a steady streak of mass shootings, this one the deadliest on record, all those people dead down south and then all of a sudden this car explodes in the middle of a busy intersection in broad daylight, could be coincidental, sure, but who knows?  

I agreed with Karina that the timing was odd, but commented no further, giving her a perfect opening to launch her sales pitch, she offered a deluxe cleaning service, no stain was too stubborn for Karina, she wanted to help me, she asked what was the worst stain I had ever encountered, and I answered truthfully that it was blood, my own, then I politely cut her off, explaining that I had no need of her services at the moment, but assured her that she would be hearing from me in the very near future, for I was certain that I would soon require her expertise.