Lavender Glass

Cinco de Mayo 2023

Traffic Signals

Roger sighed and made a low noise in the back of his throat, his right hand on the steering wheel. The left hand was balled into a fist, his head resting on it. His elbow had found a little comfort in the seamlike spot between the window and the door upholstery. “I’m gonna really appreciate this new freeway myself,” he said to the radio. There were a few who had called in on the radio show he was listening to, with complaints about how diverting the highway wasn’t the answer. Nobody was fond of super long traffic signals, but many were worried that people not slowing down would cause more accidents. “These lights get really old,” he complained.

Traffic had gotten absolutely terrible in the city center. With a population nearing four million, the intersections at certain points had traffic lighting delaying directions for as long as ten minutes. You could easily bypass a lot of the longer lights, if not all of them, but it was expensive. Routes that had fewer delays were usually considerably longer, many with toll bridges and the like. Roger switched the radio away from the station to a song by Halsey. “Not my thing,” he complained, “but for the moment music is better than these nitwits saying traffic will get worse with the freeway extension.”

China was at the laundromat talking to a regular, wondering where Roger was this morning. For that matter, she wondered where Sara was. For some time now, both Roger and Sara had come in same day. Sara had been doing quite well, and had recently gotten a job. Roger was Roger. He could sell anything to anyone, and was a marketing executive at the other end of town. Forgetful was defined by a short description of him in the dictionary, but he wasn’t known for being late or forgetting appointments. It was more things, like his cell phone. It made China a bit on edge, since obviously something must have happened.

The bell rang as a tall woman with long, dark hair, and very large sunglasses, walked in the door. It was something of a novelty, the bell, more than actually needed or useful. The laundromat had cameras, and the convenience store next door was privately owned by two large men, either of whom were always handy. The store owners kept on eye on China, and vice versa, but generally the neighborhood was quiet. Little if any crime was heard of, and China kept no money of any magnitude on hand. Her assistants made regular deposits daily at the bank. Still, perhaps partly because of the edge from worry, China had a bad feeling about the woman who walked in.

On the other hand, Roger had finally gotten through two of the four exceptionally long lights, including the one with the ultimate wait. The beady green teased him in the distance, saying “hi there, you could go if you were here already.” He knew better, that light would almost certainly delay him at least a few minutes. Rarely did he skate through more than one, and usually hit all four at some point red. “I should invest in a washing machine,” Roger said out loud to himself. “I’d rather watch clothes dry than traffic.” Sure enough, as he approached the third light, the green winked out and the yellow came on. He applied the brakes as the car slowed on its approach to the next intersection.

After a rather long couple of delays, Roger was back on his way to the laundromat, and shortly routed his vehicle towards the suburbs on the way. “I’d take this way from farther south if it weren’t for the toll bridges,” he thought to himself. Adding ten dollars to avoid skating around the overhead highway wasn’t something he could afford, at least not every day. Laundry would have to wait, and as it was, he would only be a few minutes late. He rounded the corner on Lake, already a block from the busy hustle, and began humming to himself.

Roger turned back to his radio show, grateful when he did for the next topic. While he had little opinion on mascara (or interest), the show’s cast had a sense of humor he lived for, and so far the topic earlier was the only one he’d ever had any issue with. He approached a four way stop sign, a car reaching the intersection on the opposite side just as he did. Roger looked both directions, and seeing no cars started to pass through. One second later, he slammed on the brakes. A bright orange basketball had rolled into the street, and a boy looked on as it rolled past Roger’s car. The radio show droned on in the background, as a tremendous crashing of metal jolted him further.

“Wow I just dodged a bullet,” Roger said out loud. The intersection was now a mess of two tangled cars, a speeding black truck not paying the stop signs any mind. It had nailed the driver opposite Roger, who appeared to be okay and was yanking on his door from the inside, trying to free himself. Roger got out to help, grateful he wasn’t part of the incident.

Both drivers were okay, and the one at fault seriously apologetic. “I didn’t see the sign,” he claimed, “I thought it was a two way only.” Indeed, there was a tree whose branches and leaves fairly covered the stop sign, but it was still visible on approach. The driver at fault was new to the area, and the other driver had nearly hit a car the first time he came that way himself. “Nobody’s cut that tree away or pruned it in forever,” the other driver claimed. Since both were fine, and Roger had other things to do that day, he tried to excuse himself and head on to the laundromat.

Unfortunately, a police car had pulled up, and the officer waved to Roger as he got out of his vehicle. “You a witness?” he asked, the one question Roger didn’t want to hear. “Yeah,” he replied, “but it’s pretty much what you see, and nobody’s hurt.” He hoped that would be enough, since neither driver involved was being argumentative or claiming anything against the other. “Well stay put one moment,” the officer told him. Roger sighed, knowing it would take longer than a moment. The officer pulled a folder from his car, and took a witness statement form out.

“Just fill this out for me as completely as you can,” the cop told him, “and I can send you on your way.” Roger looked at the damage to the vehicles, as he took the form from the officer. The black truck had completely plowed out the smaller sedan’s front right side, and anyone in the passenger side would probably have been seriously hurt. Roger took a moment to consider this, in the middle of filling out the form. He was the one who was almost hit. He shrugged off the notion as he proceeded to finish the statement. “Officer?” Roger called out, attempting to hand the completed paperwork back.

By this time, a woman had come out to collect the boy, who had already gotten the ball back. He was making his way back across the crosswalk, his mother screaming his name. “Jerome! Are you okay?” She rushed up to collect him, just as Roger had turned back towards his car. The officer had given him no delay, and the drivers were finishing up their conversation too. Roger walked up to his car, and nodded at the lady, pointing at the boy. “He saved my life, or at least a trip to the hospital,” Roger said to the woman.

“His name’s Jerome,” the woman replied. “What exactly happened?” she asked. Roger related how he was just at the intersection, ready to take his turn across, when the boy’s basketball rolling through the crosswalk interrupted him. “I had to slam on the brakes to keep from launching or popping it,” he told her. With one eyebrow raised, she looked down briefly at the child, one hand on his shoulder, before continuing. There was a look in her eyes that said she and Jerome would be talking about the incident further, specifically the losing the ball in the street part. “He got that from his uncle Lamar,” she said, “supposed to be lucky.”

Roger’s eyes widened. “Did you say Lamar?” he asked her.

The woman proceeded to explain how yes, her brother from New York had given him the ball just before they moved here. She pointed out the white, rather old house, that stood at the corner opposite the one the black truck was blocking. Its paint was peeling in several places, and the concrete walkway to the porch looked even older than the house. A few portions of the concrete had been broken off over the years. The relatively untamed yard had a few toys in it, and the grass grew over the walkway in rounded bunches. While unkempt, the grass wasn’t extremely overgrown, and rather green. She told Roger how her brother had come into some money a while ago, and bought the house.

Roger shook his head, knowing China liked to pull the occasional stunt or two, but the entire thing boggled his mind. Timeframes didn’t exactly line up, yet there were a lot of coincidences he didn’t know how to accept. He tried to get his head around it. “Did your brother have a cousin named Alfonso?” Roger asked her.

The woman’s eyes grew this time. “How did you know about my cousin Alfonso?” she asked him. The cop was walking over to the three at this point, and pointed to a spot right behind Roger. “Would you mind moving your car, sir?” He turned to see that a few cars had lined up behind his, the horns now honking as he looked at them. “I’m sorry,” Roger apologized. He quickly jumped into his car and started the engine. “You can park in the space next to the house.” The woman raised her arm in the direction of the house, then wrapped it around Jerome, and ushered him back to the front door.

Roger pulled around the accident, and directly into the lot next to the house. The cars zoomed by behind him as he pulled in, grateful to go since most were in some of the same lights he’d been in earlier. He turned off the engine and got out, intrigued by the connections, wondering at this point where signs began, and coincidences ended. “I’m Teresa,” the woman said, introducing herself. “You care to tell me how you know about my cousin?” She was clearly not letting the matter rest either. Roger smiled sheepishly at her. “I’m Roger,” he countered, “a friend of mine owns a laundromat. She told someone a story with those names.”

After some further more detailed explanation of the story, Teresa decided there was nothing amiss. While it was strange, nothing creepy was obviously going on. Roger hadn’t heard about the wheelchair, and since he didn’t mention it, neither did she. It left the matter with a feeling easily dismissed. She decided it was one of those examples of how small the world is, and that it was even probably some entirely different Alfonso. New York was a big place, and it wasn’t a super uncommon name or anything. “I don’t know,” she told him, “but yes it’s a little weird.”

The two talked for some time, Roger gradually accepting that China might have pulled the names out of thin air. It still didn’t explain the basketball. He told her about how the ball ended up under Sara’s cart. “I’ll admit,” Teresa offered, “it’s weird too.” She wasn’t sure exactly what to tell Roger. “You should probably take it up with your friend who owns the laundromat,” Teresa added. Eventually, phone numbers were exchanged, and Roger had not only a story for China, but a date.

He left, choosing to stop at a restaurant for lunch, one he went to often. The car sputtered a little bit, somewhat beyond spark plug maintenance. Roger would need to be careful, to avoid losing his phone inside. Fortunately for the car, the spark plugs would likely be changed tomorrow, and little to worry about. The waitress he knew wasn’t working today, so nobody would see and remind him if he got up and left without something.

Roger adjusted his belt a little as he walked up to the glass door, surprised by who he saw inside. Sara, who had become a regular at the laundromat, must have had the day off. Then, he remembered that she worked as a waitress somewhere. Sara wasn’t in any sort of uniform though, and appeared to be waiting for someone. She looked around outside, not noticing Roger at first. A cup of half full coffee, cream in it, sat in front of her. She had a smile, something that happened from time to time these days, and it suited her.

“Well look who’s here!” Roger said when he walked in the door. Sara noticed him immediately then, and waved him over. He took the spot across from her in the booth and picked up the menu. He diligently studied it, although he’d memorized it long ago. Besides, he always pretty much had the same thing, depending on what time of day it was. Morning versus evening made a difference in Roger’s choice of food fare, as did the venue sometimes. The date or day of week made zero impact, however. Roger would have the same thing forever, even if something else were suggested. “What are you doing here?” Sara asked him when he sat down.

Roger proceeded to tell her a little about the accident. “I was originally on my way to do laundry,” he said. “Did you already do yours or something?” Sara laughed a little at the question. “No,” she replied, “I was waiting to talk to someone about art.” Sara did a bunch of laundry the week before, and didn’t have a worry. Things had piled up some in her friend’s apartment, but she had money saved up. She was going somewhere, or so she hoped, with a new sculpture idea. Regardless, she wasn’t officially homeless and sometimes spent the night at the friend’s place. “Rhona has a pile of my stuff in her pad,” she told Roger, “but the accident, you didn’t get hit or anything?”

He told her how the basketball had amazing timing, and the meeting after. “Well,” Sara told him, “I think it’s probably just coincidence.” She reminded him how they’d already had this discussion, and how China had no idea where the ball had come from, or so she’d said. “People tape money or notes to food or blankets,” she added, “and they give them to you, or leave them in your stuff. It happens.” She told him a basketball was strange, but probably no more than that.

“You’re probably right,” Roger admitted. Sara laughed again. “Of course I am,” she said, “besides, I want to hear more about this date.”

The two spent the rest of the day together, and China ended up seeing neither of them. She got a text though, as it started to rain. China gazed out the windows of her laundromat across the street, at the traffic lights in the distance. Beads of rain distorted the image as they fell against the glass, turning the lights from globes into twisted blobs. She looked down at her phone as the text message from Roger came in.

“Hey Chi. Sara and I are having lunch. See you next week.”

China smiled, and turned back towards her office. She paused a moment before sending a reply, then entered the office.

“Promises promises. See you then.”

Epilogue

“We have really good results from the last surgery,” the doctor said. He looked through a few more charts, pausing on one. “Mmm hmm. These definitely look good.” Alfonso wanted to know exactly how good. The operations had left him feeling sore and tired, and the physical therapy made life exhausting. He hadn’t seen any real progress, although he’d been repeatedly told how “good” things were looking. It was time for some specific answers. “When will I start seeing improvement, do you think?”

“Well,” the doctor trailed off. He proceeded to look back through the charts, specifically the MRIs. He took one and placed it on a display mounted to the wall. The light made a brief buzzing sound as he clicked the switch on. He pointed to a small spot in the spine, a tumor clearly present. “Here,” the doctor said, “we have only this small portion here pressing on the nerve.” Dr. Reynolds himself had overseen all the procedures, including the two surgeries. He was certain Alfonso would walk again, if they could address the tumor. It had proven to be more resilient and difficult than was originally thought, but the prognosis was incredibly positive. He was certain the lump would take at most two more surgeries, possibly only one.

“I’m just tired all the time,” Alfonso complained. “Everything is a chore.” Multiple operations came with drugs, including sedatives, not to mention blood loss, transfusions, and the drain on the body. Alfonso wanted to sleep for a week, if not longer. “You don’t think it will take more than one more operation, do you?” Alfonso asked. The doctor smiled. “No,” he said hopefully, “I think we can get it in one.” Dr. Reynolds took out a prescription pad and pen. “I normally don’t prescribe this,” he said with a wink, “but it should help with your energy level. It might make you eat more though.”

Dysophin was a new drug, a form of stimulant for the metabolism itself. It had a few instances, recently in the news, of people going to the hospital from overeating. People were abusing it, because you could eat without feeling full. Sometimes, the results were ghastly.

“I’ll be careful,” Alfonso promised.

“Well, see that you do,” Dr. Reynolds told him. “Come back in a few weeks,” he added, “I want to see how you’re doing. Clara can schedule you in.” He got up, reached over the desk, and shook Alfonso’s hand. “We’re gonna see this through Alfonso,” the doctor said. He went up to the door and opened it, calling for Clara. She got up from her desk, not busy with anything at the moment, and collected Alfonso, wheeling him out as Dr. Reynolds held the door. He was still beaming, certain of success. “We’ll see you in three weeks or so buddy,” he added at the end.

Alfonso made the appointment with Clara, and his friend, Austin, took him back through the elevator to the parking garage. “You know Lamar is coming back tonight,” Austin said as he loaded Alfonso into the car. “He got Teresa and Jerome that place.” Alfonso was excited to see his cousin, but not feeling his best. “Yeah,” he said, eyes a bit droopy. Austin noticed the sleepiness. “You gonna be awake for it?” he asked. Alfonso admitted he was nearly passed out now. “Doctor gave me Dysophin though,” he continued, “assuming nobody’s thinking sushi.”

Austin laughed and loaded him into the car. “No bro,” he told him, “it’s probably bowling or something, or drinks.” Alfonso laughed. “Likely both,” he replied as buckles were clicked. Austin then got in, started the engine, and they drove back to their loft.