Author: Justin Lee Parker

There were 26 of them. They showed up in the middle of the day—a warm afternoon with clear skies, where couples young and old took leisurely promenades in the square. Where ladies walked in pairs, chatting, carrying their shopping. While the two trams stood paralyzed on the south side of the city, a playful dog was cooling off in a fountain, and high schoolers on the bench surrounding it were eating ice cream. Mothers and daughters were having coffee. The four brasseries sat half-full, several customers taking a late lunch.

It was Saturday in La Place du Ralliement, and, despite the sustained heat, many were dressed in their Sunday best for a time of relaxation with family, with friends. A gentleman in his early thirties drifted by—in conversation with his mom, while his dad trailed silently behind. A nine year old boy dutifully led his blind mother by the arm. Two gray-headed fat men sat talking on a concrete bench in the shade, one gesticulating to the air. The whole community of Angers had come to life right there in the sunny plaza.

During the week, everyone who had passed through had noticed the construction—and especially the repeating noise of the jackhammer. Yet, most of them seemed only mildly disturbed by it. Customers at the Ralliement brasseries may have been a little more put out. A few ended their long coffee-and-smoke breaks prematurely. One couple joked with their waiter about the disturbance, and perhaps its effect on lunch traffic. An short, elderly woman actually stopped by to check on the progress of the work, to see what was being done. The men chatted with her politely, making the obligatory small talk as naturally as possible.

The construction workers appeared rather industrious and focused to the denizens of the square—not idling or gregarious at all. They were a well-organized team: one man on the bulldozer jack, making big holes in the ground, one man working the hand-held pneumatic, and another behind him operating the shovel. They worked perilously close together, but without giving the sense that they would ever get in each other’s way.

That Saturday, a persistent noise could yet be heard in the square. But, it was the organic, refreshing sound of the three fountains of La Place. And in the burning midday, they were drawing a fair bit of attention. A fit bald man in a tank top rubbed cool water over his head, face and arms, and then reseated his Yankees cap and sauntered off. Two girlfriends reached into the fountain and splashed a third playfully. The third looked back and smiled, searching for where the water had hit her. A young girl and a four year old boy both bathed their arms—the girl leaning over into the fountain, lifting her feet; and the boy carefully mounting the bench to approach the upper part, where even with his short reach, he could touch the falling water.

It was almost time to start.

They had already cut the power to the tracks—that was simple enough. It would take Irigo at least three-and-a-half hours to get the trams moving again. Blockading the passages would take a little more ingenuity. There were eight routes leading into and out of the square. One side was almost a entire wall of cafés: three of the four, plus a bank and a shoe store. Those were probably the most difficult areas to secure, so they would enter there first, emerging on scooters and taking up their positions quickly.

They ultimately decided on two men per route, one with a mini-gun on a tripod, another with an assault rifle and rpg attachment, for police deterrence. They also locked the vehicle barricades in place. But the two outside entrances to the parking lot would have to be blown. And a team in a maintenance truck would already be on site with the mini-guns. Once the passages were secured, the remaining eight man squad would sweep the square, with two men reserved for special duty.

There was also the bomb. The city had provided the necessary cover: the installation of a new traffic pylon. It hadn’t been difficult to get the contract. What had been difficult was the waiting, and the pretending. But the three men from Paris finished the work, erected the pylon, sealed up the ground, and signed the necessary documents. Then they had a Leffe with some locals to celebrate. No snags in the plan thus far.

15h30. They rolled up brandishing assault rifles. One of them immediately kicked over a small table, knocking three chairs out of the way. The waiter looked extremely miffed and started cursing, until the short, thin man with beady eyes put a rifle in his face. The waiter had just spent the last 12 minutes carefully rearranging things for dinner service, with a meticulous and exacting (yet casual) sense of where everything belonged.

The team quickly made its way into position, covering the exits, while the leader, a stocky man with a patchy beard, fired a volley of warning shots into the air. Most of the other waiters were stoic, handling the situation much like a customer who argued with them over the bill. They either reticently put their hands in the air, or found a place on the ground, cold annoyance painted on their faces. Some people screamed and ran for the passages, only to find their way blocked. Some ran down the stairs into the underground parking garage.

Some ducked under tables and lit up fresh cigarettes, fumbling blindly to retrieve their coffees from above. One man even attempted to pay the waiter under the table next to him. He kept whispering “here” insistently and proffering the small plastic disc. Finally, the waiter took it, only to see that the customer needed change. He looked up, and the man had an expectant gaze in his eyes. The waiter muttered “shit” under his breath and reached into his pocket to retrieve a one euro piece.

Plumes of tobacco smoke wafted up around the square. Couples continued to make out, some more intensely. Women chatted in low voices, giggling. “Boom.” The ground shook, jarring knees and knocking people flat on their asses. Large chunks of paving stone leapt into the air, almost as if by magic. Then again “boom,” on the other side of the square. A patient man with a bald crown and dark blue jacket had been standing with his hands crossed in the small of his back. A fist-sized corner of jagged rock smashed into his right temple, killing him instantly.

Men, women, and children were all in various stages of disrepair: scraped hands and kneecaps, sprained wrists and ankles—especially the many ladies in heels. A few people were unconscious, a few strollers knocked over on their sides, babies locked in fathers’ arms. Sounds of screaming, moaning, running, crying. Dust in the air, shopping bags spilled over, cups and saucers and plates in fractured pieces.

Clusters of people began charging back up the stairs from the parking garage, chased up by the dust plumes emerging from underground. One young guy with headphones finally took notice of what was going on and started running around frantically, only to find no way out. He sat down on the stairs in front of the theater, chin perched in his hands, headphones still in place.

A woman in her mid 40s, who had kept her seat through all of this, finished her long cigarette, took a sip of her coffee, and got up slowly, deliberately—as if it were simply time to leave. She put on her linen jacket one arm at a time, and shrugged her shoulders forward to get a perfect fit. She tied the jacket at the front, fashionably ignoring the buttons, and began to make her way down one side of the square. Not thirty minutes earlier, that jacket had fallen off of her chair, and a neighboring diner had stopped his lunch conversation with his girlfriend to recover it for her. They had exchanged pleasantries.

The woman in linen made it within 50 feet of one of the passages, the sound of her three inch heels echoing in the near silence. One gunman fired a warning shot in the air. She paused only momentarily, and then resumed her striding gait, but without adding any speed or indicating in any other way that she even took notice of the threat. “The woman,” the one with the patchy beard said into his radio. She fell, and the sound of the splashing water was all that was left. They put her body in the fountain, which took on a slightly pinkish tinge, like a rosé. The jacket was ruined.

As the police approached, the diatonic signature of their sirens began to trumpet into Ralliement, bouncing back and forth madly off of the surfaces of the buildings. The team was ready for them. From 300 feet, one car was blasted over onto its side. Two others had their hoods blown open and caught fire. Another car stopped in its approach, the driver pointing through the windshield at a mini-gun that was cycling up its barrel. The two cops jumped out and scattered just as a torrent of bullets streamed forth, chewing their sedan into a tattered mess.

Many people in the upper floors of the plaza buildings were on the phone with the police, giving details of the positions of the terrorists, reporting injuries, and describing the situation in alternating tones of calm and shouts of frightened profanity. One gentleman, ex-military, was able to provide more specific details about their armaments and strategy. He did as well as he could from his vantage point in a corner of the square.

Ten minutes passed in a muddled stalemate. The police had stopped attempting to break into the square. One of the terrorists could be seen having a heated phone conversation, waving his free arm and shouting the words “bomb” and “hostages” into the receiver. But no demands were made—and no instructions were given—to the hostages trapped in Ralliement. The team maintained their positions, and no one else tried to leave.

Instead, the citizens of Angers were tending to the injured, calming their children, and hatching a plan. They were not going to let their beloved square be destroyed, and neither would they be taken by siege. Some began to talk about the legacy of La Place du Ralliement, where troops had once gathered and heads had rolled. For a few, this inspired even more fear. But for others, it began to strengthen their resolve. They thought to themselves, in one fashion or another, that the weight of their history stood in their favor.

PS – Once, I have been asked if this actually happened. Twice, I have been told I needed a disclaimer. I still don’t get it, but I won’t be stubborn about it. This is a work of fiction.

Thanks to kullaf.wordpress.com

    I hate pretending. Maybe it was my destiny to be something for the animals to eat, something for the naked to wear. Something to dominate, a plaything for the weak to prove their worth. But I found out I was strong. That surprised me, honestly. Maybe I wouldn’t be here if I had known.

    I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed, writing in my notebook. Tapping my pencil against my bottom lip. Looking at the position of the sun, it’s late morning. When is lunch coming? I call it a notebook, but it’s really just a sheaf of filler paper, college ruled. It’s all I could get. I folded it in half and put my name on the front. My journal.

    My hair stinks of stale cigarette smoke. I can smell it on my pillow, in my mustache. That musty, stained old thing. I wish I could get a new one. The sweat from my forehead is mixing with the skin grease accumulated over two days without a shower. Without so much as looking in the mirror. My eyebrows aren’t any help. The sweat stings my eyes and is giving me a bastard of a headache. I put my pencil down and get up to wash my face in the tin sink.

    I look worn out. Not just tired, but used up. I rub my cheeks with the palms of my hands, and I wonder how much of the elasticity in my skin is leaving me each time I squint or smile. Maybe this is what it means to get old. You stand in front of the mirror and watch your face turn into something you don’t recognize anymore. I could always tell how old my father was by looking at his eyes. In the end, they were milky white cataracts, vacant—just like his mother’s father. I wonder if my eyes would have done that. I’m pretty sure they would never cloud over in here.

    “Yeah, Bart. Sun is shining.” I mime some excitement with my hands.

    I can see his face in the reflection. He pulls a little grimace.

    “I’ve got your lunch here. It’s just like you wanted.”

    “Thanks, Bart.” I smile at him in the mirror. “How’s your wife doing?”

    “Fine, I think. Yeah, she’s doing good. Baby’s due any day now, so I haven’t been sleeping very well. Thinking about becoming a father scares me.”

    “I’m sure you’ll be a great dad, Bart. You always know how to cheer me up.”

    Silence. I turn around. He’s standing there looking down at the tray of food he’s holding.    

    “I’m sorry.”

    “It’s okay.” He starts to tear up a little. “I’ll miss you, Foster.”

    I walk over to my bunk and pick up my journal. “You see this. These are just some notes I’ve been making since I’ve been here. But I want you to have them. Something to remember me by. When they come to get me, you can take them. I’m not done yet.”

    “Okay.” Sniff. “Thanks.” Sniff, sniff.

    “So, what are you gonna name your kid?”

    The tv in here is old and brown. It’s a squat little thing, sitting on a bolted platform. Sometimes I like to lay in bed and watch it reflected in the mirror above the sink. Last night, some well-manicured pundits were arguing along party lines. They seemed properly ill-tempered about the right things, as if a football coach had put them through hours of tackling drills. “Hit em low and drive, drive, drive. Don’t stop moving your feet.” Whenever that show comes on, it has a gimmick tagline that tells me to “lean forward,” as if somehow whatever they’re selling is worth paying that much attention to.

    I actually tried it a couple of nights ago. I think it was the middle of the night, judging by how quiet it was. They let me control the tv in here, which is nice. I switched it on, but kept the volume low. Didn’t want to wake Bill. I jumped around until I came to a late night news update show. I scooted to the edge of my bunk and leaned forward as much as I could, until my face hovered out over the floor and my back started to spasm. Then I turned my head towards the screen and watched intently: “In other news today, rioting in the streets of the nation’s capitol as angry protesters….”

    For a moment, I felt a little different. I’m not sure exactly what it was, but I’m guessing the experts would say it had something to do with holding the right opinions about the economy and gay people. I laid back down and had a dream that I was elected president in a country where everyone spoke in gibberish, drove old VW bugs, and mimed things with their thumbs.

     This morning the sunshine broke me out of a deep sleep. I sat up instantly and opened my eyes. I used to like to wake up slowly, to keep my eyes closed, trying to hold on to a dream for as long as I could, sometimes falling back into it. I haven’t been able to sleep much this week. Bill liked to fall asleep with the television on. I don’t remember dreaming about anything in particular last night. Strange. Maybe it caught up with me. Paying back my debt. Who collects on that? There’s something to be said for a good night’s sleep. I always seem to think more clearly when I’ve had enough rest.

    Sometimes I lay in bed, close my eyes, and think about my old house. This time it was my living room. Sunken a few feet, surrounded by white tile flooring on the outside. The carpet was a long brown shag. The glass patio door was shaded by a sliding cream-colored linen drapery. I remembered my Moroccan coffee table— forest green and open grained. A natural, flat finish. I loved the feel of that table. There was something about it that made me feel connected to nature. To history. It was engraved with all sorts of Sanskrit script on the legs, a sort of crude mandala in the center. The shop owner said it that it might have belonged to a noble Indian family.

    Then there was that burl wood bowl my dad gave me sitting on it, with a few apples in it. That bowl reminded me of the 70s, when people still cared about the things they made. It was wide and plain, with four small feet to stabilize it. Just a few tiny chips around the lip from age. His grandfather had given it to him. Lily always wanted to put something in it, like keys or mail or junk.

    “Where are my keys? I’m in a hurry.”

    “I put them on the counter. Look, if you’re going to put something in here, put some fruit or something.”

    The next morning, I found red delicious apples in the bowl. I hate red delicious. They always taste like pesticides to me. Something to do with the waxy coating they put on them to make them shine. I haven’t had an apple in 35 months. I wonder if I can get Bart to get me some apples. Green. Granny smith.

    I remember our blue sofa. Lily always wanted me to be honest with her, so I told her I didn’t like it. It was an old rolled arm affair, covered in this dark, scratchy wool. It was too deep for me to ever sit in comfortably. We fought about it one afternoon. She took the car and I went out on the back porch.

    “Hey pardner. It’s dark out here.”

    “Hi baby,” I say.

    “Whatcha doin?”

    “Staring at the sky. Just thinkin’ about God and destiny and stuff.”

    She combed a fistful of my hair into her hand and pulled my head gently towards her, so that I was almost looking up into her wide brown eyes. “I love you. Don’t you ever leave me.”

    She put my head back level, and I covered her soft hand with mine. I know her father left her when she was nine. I know she didn’t want to get married.

    They took Bill away yesterday. I’ve been writing in my journal a lot lately. When he saw me with it, he’d ask me about it.

    “What’s that?”

    “Just making some notes about an idea I had.”

    “Tell me about it. There’s nothing else to do in this dump.”

    “I don’t really feel like going into it right now.”

    “C’mon man, tell me your idea. I want to hear about it. You’re the only guy I’ve met in this place who bothers to have ideas, even when he knows there’s no point.”

    Ever since they put him in here with me, it seemed like he’d always want to be entertained. Now I wish I had read him some of my notes. I pull out a sheet of paper and write down, “For you, Bill, the apples were always green.” Bill had never been married. I fold the sheet of paper and place it gently on his pillow.

    The gray walls have never depressed me. I don’t mind the bareness. It’s a bit comforting not to have to look at signs or pictures if I don’t want to. It’s the hardness and the coldness that get to me. I wish there was somewhere else to sit besides the bed. It’s hard to hunch over for too long, and I can’t sit up straight because of a herniated disc. I don’t like to sit with my back against the wall. Too far back.

    They come and get me. They bring two tall men I’ve never met, and a quiet doctor and a fat nurse. “Just one moment.” I fold up my book and put it on my pillow. I scribble “for Bart Weeks.”

    We walk down a long hallway, past other empty rooms. All I can hear are the echoes of the tall men’s footsteps on the concrete and the shuffling of nylon clothing as we move slowly. No one says a word. I see a door at the end of the hall, with a small square window, grated with thin wire between the panes of glass. But we don’t go in there. The nurse jumps to the front of the pack and opens a door on our right.

    “In here.”

    I sit on a gurney. There are leather restraints for my feet, my waist, my arms, my head. They take my blood pressure, ask me to lie down. The nurse begins to strap me in, while the doctor is scribbling some notes on a clipboard in between watching the nurse closely. Another man in a brown suit jacket comes in and nods to the two tall men.  The nurse straps my arms down and then pulls forward an IV bag on a rolling stand. She presses the inside of my forearm, wipes it once with a disposable alcohol pad, and puts the line in my arm.

    There’s an elbow in the IV line. I can twist my head just enough to see a tall white box. It’s got three hypodermic plungers in it, and some glass cylinders full of clear liquids. They connect to a single line. That line is connected to my line.

    “Lean back, sir,” the nurse says.

    “What?”

    “Please lean your head back.” She starts to force me down by my shoulders. “Some help here.” The two tall men come over. I think I am screaming. Why am I screaming. Big mushy hands are all over my face, pressing down on my forehead until the back of my head hits the pillow. My back starts to spasm, and I’m arching away from the bed, but I can’t get free.

    I see the doctor rush over and he injects something into the line. My muscles start to loosen up. I feel the hands go away, and something cold and rubbery is pressing against my forehead. I feel sleepy and everything sounds muffled.

    Now Lily’s here. She’s here with me. We’re on the sofa. The Moroccan table is there. The bowl is empty. She leans over to kiss me.

    “Lean back,” she says.