FOUND Series: Cleveland

FOUND: Cleveland

S. R. Gabriels

She asked me to go.

Unlike most who hailed from Sacramento, I was perpetually shy. She, on the other hand, was not. I moved eight months ago and was just now starting my second job since relocating to Cleveland. First, I was a bank secretary. But the phone's ringtone pierced my ears, and the businessmen stopping by on their lunchbreaks to deposit checks twisted my stomach. I'm not a bank secretary anymore.

Gretta was a new hire like me, though she said she was fresh out of college, and I never went. We were nighttime janitors at a local grade school, and I admired the quiet. She did not.

She asked me to go again.

"Let's get coffee tomorrow before our shift," she begged me. "Get us up and awake!"

"I...don't like coffee," I whispered. It was too bitter.

"C'mon, Carly," she whined. "It'll be fun—get you outta your shell." She reached to nudge my shoulder, but I backed away. I could see this confused her, but she persisted.

"Well, there's this place downtown that just opened up," she said. "A couple of my friends went last weekend, and they said the place has tea, too. You like tea, right?" I did.

"I guess..." I started.

"Great! Let's swing by real quick tomorrow—we don't have to stay long. It's off East Fourth Street...called Fuyez Café, I think. Must be French or something. I hear it's so good. Great customer service too!"

I hid in my big gray jacket and looked at my boots.

"You gotta car?" she asked me.

I looked up, confused. "No."

"Great. I'll save you the bus fees. I'll pick you up at your place, we'll go to the coffee shop, then to work, and I'll drive you home. Sound good?"

My gaze wandered as I tried to think of an excuse.

"Great!" she exclaimed without my answer. "See ya tomorrow. I'll pick you up at five."

She did not pick me up at five. It was half past four when I heard my door begin to rattle; the soft rap startled me off my sofa.

The knocking paused but then quickly returned with intensified vigor just seconds later. With each pound, my shoulders jutted inward, and my eyes squeezed shut. I stood up quietly and watched my door with a pale face.

The security chain wobbled back and forth from the residual hammering. My palms itched, and my heartbeat synchronized to each deep thump at the door.

I eyed the coatrack just inches from the entryway and studied the correct peg—the top metal hook was loose. When unscrewed, a sharp, unpolished edge would unsheathe from the thick oak stand. My concealed savior.

The battering sounded again and freed me from my imagination.

"Carly!" a voice shouted. It was Gretta's. My heart slowed. Approaching the door, I glanced again at the coatrack and checked my peephole twice. My door had four locks.

"Were you sleeping or something?" she asked as I let her in. "Gosh! Must've been some dream!" she laughed and looked around my small apartment.