"The Day I Chose to Die"
There were two separate demonstrations scheduled in the city that day, but it was Alejandro Trabuco, a migrant fruit picker, who caused a massive traffic jam that muggy June morning. He was hit, and instantly killed, by a 1983 Honda Civic, in desperate need of a tune-up, driven by a 57-year old retired corporate lawyer turned soup kitchen worker, Florence Bedaub.
Yet again, Florence was running late and today was her day to open the soup kitchen at St. Anthony's Roman Catholic Church. Her friends and family always laughed about how slow she drove. This morning was different; she knew, despite her late start, she needed to be at St. Anthony's on time. Florence was fearful that one of her soup kitchen clients, who most were due to board the 5:03 express to the big city-some 1 1/2 hours away, would miss breakfast.
Ana Tempt was among the fifty odd "regulars" at St. Anthony's. Every morning Ana and the others-mostly illegal immigrants-would great Florence with a bright yet weary smile at 4:30 am. Ana, a petite blonde from Columbia, worked a 12-hour shift as a maid at the home of retired NY Spirits quarterback turned car dealer entrepreneur, Dickey Forrest.
Dickey was forced to retire early from the NFL after being on the receiving end of one to many offensive tackles. With his pension and the little sponsorship money he had left over, he founded Dickey's Auto World. His dealership dealt mostly in "American" cars which were 95% made and manufactured in Latin America.
His number's man, Bob Johnston, had been analyzing the market place for sometime. Due to the overwhelming Union presence in the city, "American" was the only option if Dickey wanted to keep up the payments in his Motoryacht: an impressive 50 feet of pure luxury-at a price.
The Local 785 was headquatered in the industrual park within the walls of the AFC Paper Mill whose slogan was "quality over quantity". AFC was owned and operated by the Composite family for over five generations. It was the home of 2,342 loyal men and women, but times were tough in the paper business and Bert Composite was in the middle of a family board meeting when the phone call from his office girl, Sandra O'Grady came in; it went right to voice mail.
Sandra O'Grady was 37, overweight, but still retained her affinity to stretch pants. She had bought three pairs the night before at the local mega discount store that happened to be the biggest distributor of AFC's papers. Her car, a 1991 Oldsmobile, had been on its last leg for years now and today just happened to be its last stand. The phone call to Mr. Composite, which had gone directly to voicemail, was to inform him that she was sick with the flu, had been vomiting all night and morning and wouldn't be in today and maybe not tomorrow. After the phone call she put on one of her new pairs of back stretch pants along with a large straw hat and dark sunglasses-lest she should be spotted walking the streets while she was "sick"--and begin the 15-minute walk to Dickey's; she arrived at 8:10 am. She was hoping to catch the tail end of the big "Labor Day Blow Out" which Dickey had made famous by his over-the-top TV ads; every year he would wear the same white linen suit with matching Crocodile shoes. Technically his was a big fashion "no-no", but since the prices were so good-no one seemed to care.
Dickey, himself, greeted Sandra at the door. He was usually at work by 7:30, but today he was late by 17-minutes because his maid, Ana, was 13 1/2 minutes late in arriving for her usual 6:30 start. He would have left home without eating and perhaps would have even considered firing her, but he was addicted to her cooking and enjoyed having her make him breakfast, lunch and dinner seven-days a week. Besides, Dickey had already seen the news story about the poor man who had been hit on the expressway - the same route the express bus took. The pretty blonde newscaster relayed that the presumed illegal's body so badly mangled that if identification were to be possible it might take weeks in her usual "oddly cheery for 5am voice" which Dickey was used to by now. Alejandro, the dead immigrant, never carried identification with him. Besides, the only person who could possibly care that he was dead, his mother, was some 3,000 miles away and the closest available phone to her village was over 5-miles away.
Dickey had seen, through the power of a live satellite feed, the arrest of Florence; she was wearing a blue jumper and white Keds. Dickey saw as a tow truck ended the era of the beat up and now totaled Honda Civic; it was covered in blood and "what appeared to be skull fragments", the blonde reported with a smile on her face.
"God damn Jap cars", Dickey muttered as he drank his morning coffee.
So it goes.
To KV.
There were two separate demonstrations scheduled in the city that day, but it was Alejandro Trabuco, a migrant fruit picker, who caused a massive traffic jam that muggy June morning. He was hit, and instantly killed, by a 1983 Honda Civic, in desperate need of a tune-up, driven by a 57-year old retired corporate lawyer turned soup kitchen worker, Florence Bedaub.
Yet again, Florence was running late and today was her day to open the soup kitchen at St. Anthony's Roman Catholic Church. Her friends and family always laughed about how slow she drove. This morning was different; she knew, despite her late start, she needed to be at St. Anthony's on time. Florence was fearful that one of her soup kitchen clients, who most were due to board the 5:03 express to the big city-some 1 1/2 hours away, would miss breakfast.
Ana Tempt was among the fifty odd "regulars" at St. Anthony's. Every morning Ana and the others-mostly illegal immigrants-would great Florence with a bright yet weary smile at 4:30 am. Ana, a petite blonde from Columbia, worked a 12-hour shift as a maid at the home of retired NY Spirits quarterback turned car dealer entrepreneur, Dickey Forrest.
Dickey was forced to retire early from the NFL after being on the receiving end of one to many offensive tackles. With his pension and the little sponsorship money he had left over, he founded Dickey's Auto World. His dealership dealt mostly in "American" cars which were 95% made and manufactured in Latin America.
His number's man, Bob Johnston, had been analyzing the market place for sometime. Due to the overwhelming Union presence in the city, "American" was the only option if Dickey wanted to keep up the payments in his Motoryacht: an impressive 50 feet of pure luxury-at a price.
The Local 785 was headquatered in the industrual park within the walls of the AFC Paper Mill whose slogan was "quality over quantity". AFC was owned and operated by the Composite family for over five generations. It was the home of 2,342 loyal men and women, but times were tough in the paper business and Bert Composite was in the middle of a family board meeting when the phone call from his office girl, Sandra O'Grady came in; it went right to voice mail.
Sandra O'Grady was 37, overweight, but still retained her affinity to stretch pants. She had bought three pairs the night before at the local mega discount store that happened to be the biggest distributor of AFC's papers. Her car, a 1991 Oldsmobile, had been on its last leg for years now and today just happened to be its last stand. The phone call to Mr. Composite, which had gone directly to voicemail, was to inform him that she was sick with the flu, had been vomiting all night and morning and wouldn't be in today and maybe not tomorrow. After the phone call she put on one of her new pairs of back stretch pants along with a large straw hat and dark sunglasses-lest she should be spotted walking the streets while she was "sick"--and begin the 15-minute walk to Dickey's; she arrived at 8:10 am. She was hoping to catch the tail end of the big "Labor Day Blow Out" which Dickey had made famous by his over-the-top TV ads; every year he would wear the same white linen suit with matching Crocodile shoes. Technically his was a big fashion "no-no", but since the prices were so good-no one seemed to care.
Dickey, himself, greeted Sandra at the door. He was usually at work by 7:30, but today he was late by 17-minutes because his maid, Ana, was 13 1/2 minutes late in arriving for her usual 6:30 start. He would have left home without eating and perhaps would have even considered firing her, but he was addicted to her cooking and enjoyed having her make him breakfast, lunch and dinner seven-days a week. Besides, Dickey had already seen the news story about the poor man who had been hit on the expressway - the same route the express bus took. The pretty blonde newscaster relayed that the presumed illegal's body so badly mangled that if identification were to be possible it might take weeks in her usual "oddly cheery for 5am voice" which Dickey was used to by now. Alejandro, the dead immigrant, never carried identification with him. Besides, the only person who could possibly care that he was dead, his mother, was some 3,000 miles away and the closest available phone to her village was over 5-miles away.
Dickey had seen, through the power of a live satellite feed, the arrest of Florence; she was wearing a blue jumper and white Keds. Dickey saw as a tow truck ended the era of the beat up and now totaled Honda Civic; it was covered in blood and "what appeared to be skull fragments", the blonde reported with a smile on her face.
"God damn Jap cars", Dickey muttered as he drank his morning coffee.
So it goes.
To KV.
posted by Aki at
12:46 PM
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