Lemons

By Stefan Jurewicz

Without turning my head, I chanced another look at the station clock. The security guard underneath it hadn’t clocked me yet, and I wanted to keep it that way.

Any minute now he’d be pulling in. Then it’d just be a quick in, out, and I’d be on my way. Easy as pie.

But I had to make it count, too. There were no redos.

The security guard turned towards me, so I nonchalantly turned away from him, appearing to admire the station art on the far end of the platform—a smeared, abstract rendering of a commuter running for the train. Yes, I nodded solemnly, I connect with this piece. It sees me.

Only problem was, now that I was facing away from him, I couldn’t tell if he was still looking at me, and eventually it was going to draw attention that I was the only one on the platform not watching for the inbound train. Where was that damn train, anyway?

As if stretching, I twisted my abdomen as far around as it would go to my left, then to my right, each time taking a quick mental snapshot of my surroundings. The guard had taken out his phone, and was slumped over, wholly immersed in it. I also clocked the bathroom.

I stuffed my shaking hands in my pockets so they wouldn’t give away how dry I was. It was cold, but not that cold. Inside my pocket I gripped my kit, knowing full well I could fix my problems right then and there if I wanted to, and took a deep breath. First things first. Once I was out of there it would be the sweetest reward, but for now I had a job to do.

In my other pocket, my thumb toyed with the mechanism on my switchblade.

A voice came over the loudspeaker and I jumped.

“Train number fifty-four will be arriving in ten minutes. Le train numéro cinquante-quatre arrivera en dix minutes. Merci. Thank you.”

There was no way I would last another ten minutes. At this point, I needed more than just a pick-me-up if I expected to make a clean getaway. Besides, I was a pro. I could be in and out of that bathroom in no time. Lickety-split. I’d have time to spare.

I teleported to the nearest stall and shot up. I gave myself a little extra to make up for lost time and immediately regretted it. I nodded off once, twice, then remembered I had a job to do.

Alright, I told myself, you got your pick-me-up. No running from it now. It’s showtime.

I confidently strode out on stage to an audience of ushers sweeping popcorn. A family of four dawdling in the lobby deciding what snacks to get from the vending machine was the only remaining human life in sight. Through the window that led to the parking lot my eye caught movement. I darted for the door.

On the way past, I made eye contact with the security guard. It didn’t matter if he saw me now—I was too late. I had missed the train, which meant I had missed my mark. I can only imagine how wild-eyed I must have looked, cramming myself through the opening of the too slow automatic station doors.

In the parking lot, my head swivelled back and forth like a sprinkler on high, looking for my man. There were still plenty of people milling about, crying, hugging, laughing, walking one another to their vehicles with arms around each other’s shoulders, bumping hips awkwardly with every few steps, but no Eric.

Maybe some Erics, just not my Eric.

I picked at my arms absentmindedly. Then, as if he’d heard me via some cosmic walkie-talkie, there was my Eric. Driving away from me, signaling left at the main road. I knew that haircut anywhere.

I turned to make a run for the taxi stand when I saw the taxi stand had come to me. I barrelled past the open passenger side window before whirling around and pulling back.

“Whoa, pal,” laughed the cabbie, “need a lift?”

Slightly disoriented, I nodded and crawled in the back seat as quickly as I could.

“Where to?”

“I’ll direct you,” I snapped, “just go.”

He smiled and stepped on it, tearing out of the parking lot with a screech and the smell of burning rubber left lingering on the air like someone’s dirty unmentionables left in a public trash can.