Ricochet

A feeling (not) so good

With sleep-deprived eyes and memory of the past day foggy, Jaimie was greeted with a familiar sight. He surveyed the same bar he always found himself in during a time like this – the one on the outskirts of the bustling city that no one goes to, except for the bartenders doing their dance laden routine of filling the glasses with the false hopes of making it big.

Other than the odd excited tones from a middle-aged couple a few tables to the left – which wasn't helping his irritable mood – Jaimie had the room all to himself. It could've been the amber lighting or the half-consumed bottle on the table or a permutation of both. Whatever it was, Jaimie couldn't help but contemplate the mess he found himself in. The eerie void was broken by the bartender approaching him, issuing a reminder about the closing time while lamenting that he would be lucky to find the place in a week's time. While this was an assessment that he agreed with, he was going to miss this more than what he'd like to admit. Jaimie's schedule had been like this for the past two weeks. He bade goodbye and started walking off into the dawn.

Jaimie knew that the stroll from the bar wouldn't last long – especially in his state. He stumbled his way onto a park bench where he would pass out for the day unless some suspicious bystander called the cops on him. It was not likely. At least not at this time. It would take some more time for joggers to arrive. Jaimie was amused at the thought of them prancing around merrily, with absolute certainty, when they could be mugged anytime, especially with a man like him around. Jaimie wondered whether burning calories was worth the effort.

 As Jaimie struggled to balance himself, he took stock of his situation. The inexperienced lawyer probably wasn't savvy enough to get him out of this. It was not the regular old petty scuffle nor the usual road rage. If it had not gotten over in time, no lawyer could've saved him from a lifetime in prison. The doctors had told Jaimie on that eventful day when he woke up in the hospital, that he had been unconscious for an hour in the middle of the road by the time they received the distress call and got to him. The more Jaimie tried to remember, the wearier he became. 

Blood was gushing out from an open wound on his head. It must've been a metal object. Jaimie remembered vague, masked faces, one of which he managed to severely injure. A black sedan slid past him just a few meters away from where doctors eventually found him. He couldn't remember anything else. He contacted one of the few friends he had – if you could call that friendship – who helped him reach out to a lawyer that he could afford, just as a preemptive measure. He was expecting to be locked-up anytime. So far, nothing had happened which would indicate that. Jaimie hoped that things stayed that way.

Jaimie didn't even have a convincing story. Every night since then has been unpleasant for him - to put it kindly.  He woke up in cold sweat from unspeakable horrors as nightmares every other day, cobbling up all the excitement of club music and the fine women. Judy, his favorite lady in the club, lamented that he was not in his element before abruptly ending the lap dance for him yesterday. But she, out of her kindness, had offered him a contact – a masseur – hoping that it would fix him.

Early morning was still a good time and Jaimie was the most sober he has been in days, so he decided to pay this masseur a visit. A knock on the door would yield no response. Invoking Judy's name did the trick. A voice from the inside asked him to get ready and lay on his back. Jaimie felt somewhat ominous about the place. He could take a masseur down in an instant if need be. Jaime had the police records to show for it. Some people in the streets will vouch for it. Some were attracted by it.

 As Jaimie laid down the voice called:  "Just close your eyes and relax." 

A white cloth covered his eyes as the massage started from the legs upward. Jaimie was beginning to feel strain relieving from the knee joint and muscles of his back. The masseur continued to work upwards towards the biceps and shoulder. Jaimie thought this was the best idea he had in days. After a couple of minutes, the hand took the white cloth away. 

The man had a red mask on. The voice was calm, sounding elderly. "Judy talked about you."

 "I should fucking thank her." Jaimie replied. He was cut short while he was about to thank the man for a relaxing time.

Jaimie froze. He felt as if those brown eyes were peering into his consciousness. The elderly voice rose, "Jaimie, the pleasure is mine. In fact, you could even be useful." 

Jaimie couldn't move a muscle. Then as if a switch was flipped, everything came back to him. Like a connected jigsaw puzzle. He was covered in cold sweat. 

"What do you want with me?" Jaimie asked. 

The man replied, "You just have to work for me."

Jaimie nodded. He had a purpose.

***

"Happy Birthday," read a yellow sticky note on her refrigerator top door. Clara read the sign, suppressing a yawn and smiled. She sent a text back, reciprocating the greeting and squinted her way lazily towards the work room: her favorite.

In the room, there were two enormous but meticulously organized bookshelves with one more on the way for which she had placed an order last week. Clara wasn't sure if there was room for it. No amount of space could possibly accommodate her aspirations.

The books were arranged based on their genre, which in turn were sorted according to series chronology. Sci-fi, Crime, Mystery, Thriller, Horror, Romance and the usual stuff were there. Reading them wasn't fun for her as before. Consuming content to review them took a toll on her. It was becoming difficult to lose herself in the magical worlds envisioned by the author, or to marvel at their sense of scale and beauty. Readers wanted a score. They wanted to see a bulleted list of pros and cons, and a one-line verdict. Clara refused to let the numbers go to her head as much as possible, reminding herself that the goal was to find an audience who would frequent her website, even if the posts didn't have a flashy headline. "A disastrous deadpan" or "Swashbuckling thrill ride" would generally get more clicks than "A so-so story with decent characters" even though the latter was more often her experience.

Clara was getting ready for the day's work, booting up her new laptop she had saved up for so long. She was working on translating a niche web comic into English which had won the poll she had put up on the website. Reviews bought her clicks and money while translating was her passion.

The wallpaper hadn't been changed since Clara bought the laptop. Showing the picture of herself and the person she's been living with – Mike. It was a matter of technicalities that gave her a lot of stress. She's been so happy with him. The cake that Mike had bought was in the fridge and he had left for important work, promising to spend time with her in the evening.

Her website was fairly successful even if the title was a bad pun on her name. "Art Clarified". She kept it for sentimental reasons even though Mike insisted on changing it. Clara also made sure that it was the only piece of her that she'll ever put into it. Clara was proud of the fact that she was able to gather a readership without social media promotions or even a real name. Mildly irritated with her inability to finish a piece on a mediocre novel after trying for hours, Clara decided to take a break, turning to her expanding collection of what she would call – Spicy material - and indulged.

***

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