Rain, Weather Report, peas and James Gibson

Pokey’s days moved like a jazz song. People weaved in and out of his baseline theme in a seemingly random fashion. As if life moved in a specific pattern, yet each character added their own various ideas of that basic rhythm. The two fellows that ran by the garage entrance every morning as Pokey was arranging his items in their places gave Pokey a start to his day. He would see them briefly sweating in the summer or see the puffs that preceded them in winter. Everyday, they would run. Only the weather was the variation. They seemed as if in a trance. Everyday, the same. The down beat of the day started.

When he worked the Sunday shift, Pokey also witness one of the runners walking into the tavern and staying for hours. Often, if Pokey worked the Sunday shift, the guy would still be in the tavern when Pokey was relieved from his shift. His eyes still held the trance as if he was drawn by something inside the tavern.

Pokey has only been in The Tavern a few times. Each time he goes, he feels a strange, uncomfortable tingling on his skin. He feels dirty and can’t breathe very well. Once Leo made him drink “a beer for Pokey.” Mostly people drag him in so they “can talk.” Pokey can’t concentrate because his skin feels strange. He prefers the diner. The grime isn’t much better but the scent of food is much more comforting than the scent of depression, isolation, mixed with a heady shot of self-absorption.

Pokey was thinking of the tavern as he ate his dinner. Friday: fried fish, onion rings, corn and peas. His coke made him think of the beer. It fizzed that same way—that’s why Pokey was willing to try the beer. Only as he left the tavern, bumping against the chairs and the door, he couldn’t seem to control himself. Like the first time he heard Chick Corea and Weather Report, he felt dizzy. Leo only laughted at Pokey. Mr. Mamet and Harry both swore at Leo and told him to leave Pokey alone. Leo only laughed harder.

Pokey had just finished his peas. His mother always scolded him if he didn’t eat his peas. He reluctantly ate them last. He noticed the rain had started. He buttoned-up his coat and made sure he buckled his galoshes.

He started out the door to see the shadow come around the corner of the block, and stop and start. Pokey knew it was James. Pokey’s mother told him to watch-out for James. She had known his mother. What had happened to James’ mother is the reason she moved from Thallow Flats.

“He’s cursed, Pokey.” She said as she glared over her reading glasses. “Ms. Gibson knew that street like the back of her hand. There’s no reason why she should have fallen.”

Pokey could only listen.

His mom continued. “Everybody said that it’s that Barnaby ghost. That ghost did this, that ghost did that. I never listened to that foolishness until Ms. Gibson died. Now look at that son of hers. Skipping and stuttering around the building, clutching that box. Creepy. Pokey you stay away from him. He’s cursed.”

Pokey’s brows furrow as he watches James jump as if he’s trying to avoid the raindrops.

“He just needs a good raincoat and a pair of galoshes.” Pokey thinks to himself. James sees Pokey and presses himself against the wall.

Pokey pauses in front of James, “Hi James.” Pokey looks down as James seems to fold into the box he is carrying. “ I have an old raincoat in my apartment. I live in 111. If you want it come to my apartment. Apartment 111.” Pokey turns and walks home.