“Morning, Savannah!”
“Good morning, Mr. Tanaka!” I wave as I jog by my sweet old landlord sweeping the sidewalk.
He does that every day, even though he doesn’t need to, but he takes pride in keeping the sidewalk in front of his restaurant, Taki Yuki, clean. Mr. Tanaka and his wife actually own the whole building, and multiple times a week, Mrs. Tanaka brings me the leftover food from their restaurant at the end of the night. I’ve survived many months because of them. Add in the fact that they’ve never raised my rent in all the years I’ve lived here, and I’ll be in their debt forever.
I ignore the way my skin prickles from the biting cold and jog to the Parkside Ave Station, my purse bouncing on my hip with every step. Thankfully, it hasn’t snowed yet, or else I’d be skating over the sidewalk from the ice. Seeing as how I don’t actually know how to skate, I’d really be screwed.
“Would you like to help me feed my flock?” Pastor Alan asks me as I rush by. He motions to the pigeons surrounding him. A few are on the bench with him, he even has one resting on his head. He’s wrapped up in multiple layers of jackets and blankets to keep him warm.
“No, thanks. I’m in a hurry today.” I barely get the words out. Running is taking all the breath out of me.
“See me later for confession,” he calls after me, but I don’t reply.
Pastor Alan isn’t actually a pastor. He’s an elderly homeless man who hangs out on that bench all day. I spoke with him a few times and learned that he used to work on Wall Street, but made some life choices that ultimately cost him.
The thumping of my combat boots on the cement bounces off the walls as I zoom down the stairs of the station and pull my MetroCard out of my back pocket. I get my card scanned and slide through the turnstile just as the train pulls up to the platform. I don’t slow my pace until I’m on the train and plop down in the closest seat.
An announcement comes over the PA system. “Next stop, Prospect Park.”
I sink back into the large window behind me, settling in for the thirty-minute trip to Midtown. Looking around the train car, I find the usual early morning commuters. We don’t talk or anything, but we all share the same misery at being awake at this ungodly hour. We even collectively ignore Napkin King as he starts in on his usual diatribe.
He stands in the middle, addressing the few people here. “Bow before me, my subjects. Your monarch is here.”
Napkin King isn’t his name. It’s just something I call him in my head due to the fact that he always has napkins folded into the shape of a crown on his head. One time, it was a newspaper instead of a napkin, and it threw off my whole day.
He drones on and on about how we all should kneel at his feet because he’s the ruler of the nine realms and he protects us from the chimordians.
Whatever those are.
Across from me, Fanny Pack Jack, again, just my name for him in my head, unzips one of the six fanny packs strapped to his body and pulls out a half-eaten burrito. I think he’s a bike messenger because he always dresses like he’s about to work out outside, and I can’t think of another job that would require his attire.
Bored with the routine of the morning, I reach into my purse and pull out my book, diving into the tension between Charlie and Jax. I’m nearly finished when the train arrives at Canal Street, my stop.
There’s nothing quite like being interrupted while reading.
I scurry past the taxis, cars, and other people on their way to work as I dash for Lucky Dragon Repairs.
My steps slow as I approach the familiar red and green storefront. The name of the shop is written in both Englishand Chinese characters above the door. The display windows showcase old computers and monitor models that are in perfect working order.
Slinking into the alley on the side, I step up to the rickety door. With a raised fist, I tap the door in a specific rhythm. The door opens ominously, granting me entry.
When I step through, I find the owner. “Morning, Mrs. Wei,” I greet.
“Morning, dear,” she returns as she shuts the door behind me. She’s a whole head shorter than my own five feet nine inches. The long sleeves of her shirt hide the ink I know covers her arms. Her obsidian hair has one gray streak in the middle.
If I had to guess her age, I know I’d get it wrong. The way she walks makes me think she’s in her sixties, but her skin is youthful.
“Anyone else here yet?” I ask as I trail behind her, letting her lead the way even though I could walk this path with my eyes closed.
“Slicer never left,” Mrs. Wei answers, and I internally roll my eyes.
We pass computers in various stages of repair, and the smell of dust and ozone adds to the routine of the situation.
Mrs. Wei leads me to a closet, pushing aside a few boxes and revealing a large steel door. Mrs. Wei once told me that it could withstand a bomb blast. I’m not sure if that’s true, and I don’t care to find out.
“Why do you look like you ran here?” Mrs. Wei questions over her shoulder when she glances at me. Her dark brows raise in question, tugging the faintest outline of crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes.
“I didn’t run here.” My claim is proven false as it comes out in a pant.
