special delivery
by Marco Etheridge
Danny Silva slinks down mean streets, heading for a midnight rendezvous at a bad crossroads. He carries a letter addressed to a dead man, an empty heart, and less hope.
Shadows mark Danny’s passage, predators and prey. Ask either to give odds on our boy making it out unbloodied. Same answer both sides: slim to none.
Still, nobody’s strung him out yet. Why yank the noose when he’s doing a fine job stretching his own neck? Naw, let’s just watch a while, see how far this goes.
The letter drives Danny. A smudged envelope addressed to Paul Boyd, a young man two weeks dead. Paulie: more than a friend. Much more.
Paulie, you’ve got to come back, or tell me how I can get to you. There’s nothing left here. The air doesn’t taste right without you breathing it. And the sun’s gone bad, like someone’s stolen the color out of it. I can’t take it anymore.
Somehow, Danny makes it to the crossroads, corner of Bleak and Dead End. No one there, just a streetlamp on the fritz, glowing, dying, glowing again. Don’t want to see what the glow might illuminate. Don’t want to know.
Danny standing dead center in the middle of the intersection, one minute to midnight, and not a clue what next. Quiet as a grave, the silence of someone trying hard not to be heard. The minute passes, and then a noise from out beyond.
Squeak—Shuffle—Squeak.
A hunched figure flickers at the edge of the glow, fades as the lamp dies, reappears. Danny’s feet frozen to the pavement. Can’t run. Throat’s too dry to scream.
Closer, the figure solidifies. Old dude, bib overalls, a flat cap low on his forehead, eyes hidden. Dude’s pulling a two-wheeled cart with one squeaky wheel. A trash can on the cart, broom and shovel rattling in a homemade rack.
Wheels his cart up to Danny. Stops. Buries his hands in the bib of his overalls, swivels his head to take in the crossroads. His voice a surprise; soft, almost friendly.
“You know, a fella could get killed standing here all alone.”
Danny don’t know whether to shit or go blind. He works up some spit and stammers out an answer.
“The sidewalks aren’t any better. Probably safer out here.”
The street cleaner nods, still checking the scene.
“That could be true, I suppose. Hard to know for certain.”
The old fella stares at Danny. Unseen eyes pin him like a butterfly to a board.
“So, midnight at the crossroads. I gather you’re wanting something.”
Danny’s hand slips inside his jacket, like it’s got a mind of its own.
“I have this letter. I was hoping to give it to, you know… at midnight… that’s how it works, right?”
The old dude snorts.
“What, you expect the big man to show up personally? Don’t make me laugh.”
Danny’s fear tilts into anger.
“My shit luck. I go looking for the devil and get stuck with a street sweeper.”
The old man doesn’t flinch. His voice is almost kind.
“Ah, you’ll be wanting to see my bona fides, then.”
One gnarled hand snakes out. A single finger-snap like a gunshot. The world goes white. No street, but an endless sunbaked desert. Danny and the old man side-by-side, staring out over a wasteland. The old man’s voice in the oven-hot air.
“All these things will I give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me. I always liked that line.”
Another snap, and they’re back at the crossroads.
“You are him!”
“No, there’s only one Boss, Danny. Think of me as a subcontractor.”
“How do you know my name?”
“Really? Right, then. Danny Silva, aged twenty-seven, distraught over the untimely death of one Paul Boyd, his beloved. Midnight, Bleak and Dead End, letter to the deceased.”
Danny stares wide-eyed.
“Take a breath, son. Look, it’s a slow night. I’ve got some extra time. I don’t normally blab about this because folks tend to get upset. More than it’s worth to set them straight, but you seem like a decent kid.
“Trade secret, just between us. There’s only one Boss. He’s not the devil, nor the other one. He’s just the Boss; no horns, no halo. All that business about heaven and hell, that’s nonsense, a human invention.”
Our boy Danny might be scared shitless, but somehow, he knows the dude ain’t lying.
“Then you’re not a demon, and not an angel. Is that right?”
The street cleaner’s face approaches something like a smile.
“I’m impressed, Danny. Got it in one. Most folks run away screaming or try to set me on fire. I hate that.”
“Uh-huh. So, what do I do now?”
“You give me the letter, son. That’s why you’re here. I’ll deliver it to your Paulie. That’s a promise.”
Danny looks at the envelope in his hand. Raises his eyes to the old man’s face. Heart beating like a drum, he offers the letter. The street cleaner takes the envelope, tucks it inside his overalls without a word.
There’s more, has to be, but Danny has no clue.
“I don’t know what to do. Will you help me?”
Nothing, just the streetlamp pulsing. Finally, the old man speaks.
“You love Paulie, yes?”
“More than I can say.”
“Use that love to help yourself. Let your love light a flame in your heart. Keep that flame alive, and it might just get you home in one piece. And then you stay alive, you hear? Rushing into the dark won’t save Paulie. I’ll see that he gets your letter. You’d best get on home now.”
Then the sweeper turns away, cart wheel squeaking, past the edge of the flickering light and gone.
Our boy alone at the crossroads. Dark shadows moving out past the edge of sight. Danny feels a twinge in his chest, a hint of warmth, of hope, just enough to set him in motion. He turns his back on the shadows and heads for home.
Photo of Marco Etheridge
BIO: Marco Etheridge is a writer of prose, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over one hundred and fifty reviews across Canada, Australia, Europe, the UK, USA, and India. Marco’s short story “Power Tools” was nominated for Best of the Web for 2023 and is the title of his latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor for a ‘Zine called Hotch Potch. In his other life, Marco travels the world with his lovely wife Sabine.