Snobs with jobs, cluttering up the sidewalk with their little lives, chasing state-sponsored dreams that dead-end nowhere. Went to college for what? To stare at a computer and collect a paycheck? Trained monkeys could do it better and they work for peanuts. Hah. Peanuts. Pretty funny. Or use that degree to wait tables or sell skirts or serve overpriced coffee. That’s right, I’m talking about you barista boy—tattooed up to the armpits and he can’t remember to leave room for cream. What a bright future you have.
And check out this piece of trash, thumbs pumping away on her phone like her little life depended on it. That’s right honey, you take your time on the order, the whole world waits for a nice piece of ass. Triple mocha with raspberry syrup? Jesus, just hearing it is making me sick. Probably the only thing she’ll eat all day, gotta keep it trim. Skinny little piece of something, wobbling around on those high heels, skirt so short I can see her religion. Little twig arms and I don’t know how her noodle neck is holding up that skull. So vulnerable, and she’s clueless. Like a new-born fawn plopped in the grass, staggering around, blinking it’s eyes against the sun. Stupid Bambi. Could be her real name. Not her fault, I guess. She’s as dumb as the rest. Just doing what she’s told, trying to fit in. Better make use of that tight little rear while you can sweetheart, because you’ll be just another piece of furniture like me soon enough.
Hey, what do you know? Tattoo Tommy pries he eyes off little Miss Thing long enough to get my order.
“Drip coffee, with room for cream,” Helen said.
No way he gets this right. Not today. Can’t blame him for checking her out. That dress is tighter than a balloon about to pop. Looks like every dick in the line has noticed her too. Looking while trying hard not to look. For what? You think by staring she’ll somehow decide to ask you out? And what are you women looking at? Jealous? She can’t help how she looks, and she’s just using what she’s got. Not her fault. All these bitches giving her the stink eye. Jesus, what now? I’m defending her? Old broads like me need the help, not this one. So long as her looks hold out she’ll be fine.
What is all this shit on the counter? Piles of gubbins, impulse-purchase knickknacks and wacky gewgaws to pull a few more bucks from the suckers. Everything is a goddamn con or a come-on anymore. Nothing just straight and clean. Gimme a cup of coffee, keep the change, I’m out the door and on with my life. Not anymore, everything’s corrupted.
“Americano,” the barista called out.
Look at that smile. I ain’t getting a smile like that, I guarantee. And did he—yeah, there’s his phone number on the cup. How many of those must she get in a day? Ten? Twenty? What’s his line going to be?
“Your smile just made my day,” the barista said.
Tattoo Tommy you sad son of a bitch. Staring at her like a sex predator improved your day, is that your line? Drooling over little Miss Tail, just like all the other cocks in line behind me, somehow makes you, what? Special? A creep? A stalker? Her smile made your day? What are you going to do for her, you moron? No wonder you work in a coffee shop with thousands of dollars of ink crawling up your arms. I should break your kneecap just on principle. Maybe castrate you too, because God knows you’re gonna get some poor girl knocked up and keep your crappy genes in the pool. I’d be doing a public service.
“Drip coffee,” the barista called out.
Filled right to the brim. Motherfucker. Maybe he thinks he’s doing me a favor, like he’s giving me extra bonus coffee. I’m actually asking him to do less, not more, so he should be a master. Well no tip for you Tommy. Now I gotta pour this scalding coffee into the trash without splashing myself when all you had to do was leave me a little room. Maybe I’ll break both kneecaps.
Raw sugar, brown sugar, Truvia, Splenda, cinnamon, chocolate—where’s the goddamn sugar? Are you kidding me? Good old fashioned American sugar. Maybe I should start getting one of the froufrou drinks that come pre-sweetened. Nah, then the pricks win. Ah, here we go, hidden behind the napkins. That makes sense. Now what do we have … soy milk, goat milk, raw milk, whole cream, two percent, skim, vegan creamer, where’s the—ah, there we go, half and half.
A young man in skinny jeans walked behind Helen, bumper her elbow and she spilled coffee on her shoes.
What the hell? Are you kiddin’ me? All over my shoes! And they’re suede! That little shit is gonna—Jesus how much body wash did he use? My eyes are burning. Goddamn fog of poison gas follows him like a bad feeling. And out the door he goes. No apology, didn’t even slow him down. We’ll see about that. Where’s that lid? You are gonna wish you’d stopped to apologize you stinky little son of a bitch.
Helen headed out the door after him.
This has got to be the easiest tail I’ve ever done. He never takes his eyes off the phone and the fumes from his body wash lingers for blocks. A blind hobo could follow this guy. Aha, into the building he goes. I love this bit. The elevator gag. Used be harder before people had their face glued to their phones. Easy pickings now.
Helen followed the smelly man into the elevator.
“What floor?” she asked.
“Seven,” he said, not looking up.
Guess what boy-o, we’re going all the way to twelve! Let’s see how things look from the roof. Damn, some of that coffee got into my shoe. Feels sticky. I hate that. Reba is going to have some fun today.
Reba was Helen’s favorite weapon—a twelve-inch-long piece of rebar as thick as a rolling pin.
Seven, eight, nine—he hasn’t noticed, what a jackass. Ten, eleven, twelve. And out he goes. This is too easy. Will he even notice—aha, there we go. Time to reorient stinky boy.
“This isn’t my floor,” the man said.
“It’s such a nice day, I thought we’d enjoy the view,” Helen said.
“What?” he said.
Punch the windpipe, smack the phone out of his hands, grab his wrist and twist until the tendons start to pop.
“What the hell?” the smelly man croaked, “Let go!”
“Let’s go check out the roof, shall we?” Helen said, pushing him down the hallway.
Smack his head against the door to dim his lights. A big shove, catch his foot as he stumbles and down he goes into the gravel.
“What are you doing!?” the man wheezed.
“Manners, little one. Manners.”
One hit across the face to make him turn away, and with the kidneys exposed beat on them until a rib cracks. While he’s down there, I’m gonna show him my shoes.
“See what you did to my shoes? I paid good money for those, and you didn’t even care. They’re ruined. All you had to do was apologize. Accidents happen. People spill coffee and fall off roofs every day. But why bother? Who cares about a broad who’s a piece of furniture?”
The man started to retch.
Jump aside to dodge that puke. Internal bleeding has a funny effect on the brain—it goes into survival mode, only the most important functions matter—the latte has to go.
“So here’s the newsflash, sweetheart. Bad news, you’re going to piss blood for a week. You’re going to look like a goddamn fountain of strawberry Kool Aid.” Helen paced around him. “The good news is that you’ll still be able to piss. You won’t sleep much because of the pain—every breath is going feel like your insides are coming apart. But while you’re not sleeping, think about what a little prick you are and how an old lady reduced you to a whimpering puddle in under a minute.” Helen took the elevator back to the street.
This was more fun when dock workers couldn’t pay they’re bookies. Those guys could put up a fight. They’d last, what, probably five minutes at least. These baby men fold faster that a gypsy caravan. Don’t want to get hung up on the old days—feelin’ sorry for myself. But I wonder how Pop is doing? Better than those assholes I ratted out to save his skin. He never thanked me. I guess he couldn’t get caught being nice to a snitch.
Helen’s father was a crime boss in Boston cursed with six daughters and no sons. He loved his girls, but had hoped for a boy to help carry on the family business. Helen, daughter number four, did not have a taste for girly things. She inherited her father’s barrel chest and thick limbs. Even as a little kid she was built like a power lifter. Some of her aunts would say, “poor Helen,” when they would look at her gorilla body and rough demeanor, but Helen embraced it. She liked to hang out with her dad as much as she could and soon became one of his most trusted enforcers. She rarely killed people, since a dead mark was no longer profitable. Her talent was in punishing those who had lied, stolen, broke a promise or tried to cross her father.
She had a good life working in the family business until the Feds came for her dad. They pressured her to rat him out but instead offered them a deal—she’d tell them all she knew about the Boston crime syndicate if they kept her father out of prison. When offered a slot in the witness protection program she said, “Fuck that pussy bullshit. I’ll fight my own fights. But I’m gonna need a job. A tax job.” In exchange for her father’s freedom and a Tax Commission job Helen spilled all she knew.
Dozens of very dangerous people went to prison and they all wanted Helen dead. In order to stay alive Helen knew she’d need access to the personal and financial information of every name she dropped, not to mention their families and associates. Helen was crammed into a cubicle like all the other tax processors. As far as anyone knew, she was just another drone cranking out returns. But Helen spent her days tracking her vast network of enemies. She helped the IRS tap into the “black bank” accounts where the crime families kept their money, and in turn she could see how they spent their money and where. She could also track their movements based on their credit card use and online accounts. It wasn’t foolproof, but she’d been able to head off all the baddies that had come for her so far. She knew eventually she’d miss one, but if she didn’t see it coming then she didn’t really care.
Her life had become quiet. Go to work, go home, watch TV. She had a home gym and worked out every morning to stay in shape just in case she had to fend off an attack. And from time to time, to keep her skills sharp, she’d inflict a little justice into the world. Sometimes it was just because somebody pissed her off. Other times picked a fight with somebody she thought could beat. Nothing keeps you sharper than a fight you might actually lose.