The Human Game

ONE:

JUST ANOTHER DAY



The coffee shop, called Jakart's, was Paul Stankowzi's everyday place.  Moreso than to secure a feeling of regularity, he came to the tiny pastry-joint off of Mainstreet to prepare himself for work.  He had found out nearly two years ago when he began his career as a songwriter, that the trade required a heck of a lot of self motivation.  It also demanded a unique, ritual-like peace of mind.  Along with those two requisits, the process of contriving radio material from the thin fabric of nothingness called for high doses of caffiene.  Paul found all those things each morning at the little coffee shop in Downtown Saint Petersburg, Florida.

It was a lazy Monday afternoon.  The wind was up and all the palms rising from the concrete were being whipped around violently by a sharp Southwestern tempest.  In contrast to the wind, city traffic was light and all pedestrians trotted down the sidewalks without haste or worry.  Through the wide glass panes of Jakart's coffee shop, Paul observed the palms as they were blown around like rag dolls.  He also noted some scattered sea gulls hovering above the city streets, fighting the turbulence, gawking in the benign sort of way that seagulls gawked.  He sighed, trying to allow the surroundings to clear his mind for the work he would soon face later in his apartment. 

Inside the cove-like coffee shop off of Mainstreet, which ran through the heart of downtown, Paul was sitting in a tan leather sofa-chair.  He was enjoying a hazelnut frappucino and reading the follow up coverage of the seventy-fifth Masters.  As the fluffy whipped cream touched the tip of his upper lip, he consciously thought to himself that his day had truly began.  Paul grinned, and shook his head, disliking what the critics had to say about the outcome of the golf tournament. 

They 'ought to be ashamed of themselves.  He thought playfully.  Paul was still grieving for the twenty-one year old Irishman Rory McIllroy, who had led the event for sixty-three holes before coming unwound.  Paul really felt the kid's pain, and had truly been rooting for the Olsterman.  Paul had known of course, that the golf analysts were going to hop on the youngster and twist things around and call him a choker.  Paul hated that, but maybe the gossip  made the whole circus act a bit more interesting.  And in the end, maybe it made it a little more entertaining.  If that weren't true, then Paul supposed he wouldn't be reading the coverage at all to see what they had to say about it.  It was a sick world, he guessed, but some things never changed about human nature.  Gossip and drama sold.  Even to Paul. 

It was, of course, just a regular day for Paul.  Taking in the gulf air on his way to Jakart's.  Enjoying the surroundings.  Sucking down his daily frappucino.  Savoring the frozen ice as it slid down his throat.  The feel of his blood vessels expanding when the caffiene hit his brain for the first time that day.  It was, a regular day without a doubt. 

That was until a manilla envelope fell into his lap out of nowhere. 

Paul didn't look up at first.  The bold letters were written in thick, black permanent on the envelope, fresh enough to deliver some remnants of the half-intoxicating, half-nauseauting smell of the marker.  The words were large and caught Paul's eye immediately. 

He found his heart suddenly quickening.

"PAUL- LIFE OR DEATH- OPEN IMMEDIATELY"

Paul looked up.  His eyes caught hold of a woman in high-heels pacing fast through the line of people towards the front door.  She had a striking physique.

The woman was tall, voluptous and her rear bobbed side to side as she strutted like one of those boxing-girls holding out a 'round-one' sign along the ring.  She wore a pin-stiped grey dress that hugged her curves and accentuated her hour-glass figure.  Her hair was wavy and jet black, like dark, shiny coal. 

She made it out the coffee shop and headed across the street with her back turned the whole way.  Paul was frozen, just staring at her, not knowing what to think. 

He never saw her face.