Copywritten material from the first chapter of Rant.

by James Peter Hadzess

CHAPTER ONE

Thursday mornings are terrible where I live. Perplexed commuters scream curses while buses reply with choking fumes. Frantic shoppers drag-race to parking spaces demanding priority with loud horns. Garbage men compound the bedlam by pounding sheet-metal drums. I tried ear plugs but got skin infections from lack of circulation. Today I rose early to check the dumpsters for discarded food or to wash dishes in exchange for a meal.

The only furniture in the basement was a sleeping mat and a folding chair. Pieces of shower curtain covered the broken windows. I limited my clothing to an extra pair of track shoes for rainy days and a spare baseball cap in case of wind. In the past I collected toasters, the automatic kind that rich professionals always leave in paper bags when they move. But after five piled up and without bread, it seemed only a bad habit. I have a phone, but it’s a decade out of date and the screen was cracked. A c-note, leftover from last month’s welfare allocation, was hidden in my pocket. I kept the place tidy. Mom would be proud of me if she were alive. Even my meager art supplies were clean and orderly. All my salvaged books had mites, but I squish the bugs when reading them.

As I left my building, I saw a semiconscious guy lying in the doorway. He flipped the finger at me and screamed without opening his eyes. Druggies never see the dawn. I pitied them for that.

*          *          *

 Demeter’s Mexican Lunch was a short jog down the street. I expected a big plate of beans and rice, fresh from the stove, and a slap on the back in exchange for a promise to be back at night to scrape and wash pots. What I got was the overpowering smell of petrol outside by the stacks of dry cardboard, then screams in Spanish. I pushed open the door. The perfume of gasoline became overpowering. A gallon can with a red X on it was sideways and glugs of fuel poured out. The sodden floor mops were altered into medieval torches. Stunned workers stood knee-deep in flames watching the world ignite. The shift leader was tugging at a tottering ware rack that hid the fire alarm. Rusted wheels made it impossible to budge. Charles aimed a small portable fire extinguisher from behind the proofing cabinet. Idiots, we will all be roasted. Mary, her grey hair flying, was swatting madly with a wet towel. She knows my secret and sends a pleading look.

The gloves come off. This was my turf. I control the disasters here.

Too far from the beach for sand, water would only spread the conflagration. We already had a surplus of fire. Of the elementals, only air was left. I prayed to the gods for pity, spread out my hands, and voiced the primal mantras. Energy gathered bidden from cyberspace, and a hurricane was unleashed on the holocaust. Like blowing out candles on a birthday cake, my whoosh of magic quenched the flames.

My shoes squeaked on the greaseless ceramic as I sprinted across the kitchen, seized the leaking can of fuel, and smashed through the rear screen door. Embers followed me and ignited my greasy clothes. Outside, I threw the can into the ornamental fountain decorating the parking lot. It was the nearest safe repose for burning fuel. Gasoline bubbled out and up. Instantly a pyre was floating on the water.

A gigantic koi disappeared into the depths and a billow of oily smoke ascended skyward. Tourists took selfies while I rolled on the ground beating out flames and sparks. Powerless after the discharge, I could only hope. In a minute, success! We’re all still alive, not glowing charcoal. Depleted but not resigned, I returned for round two in the restaurant trade.

 At the backdoor a burly woman brushed past me carrying a mop dripping solvent. A skinny man followed with buckets of cleaning cloth sopping with unleaded gasoline. Inside was convoluted madness but safe enough with the stoves thickly covered with yellow dust. A hiss continued from stove tops and unlit ovens. Shit. Forgot about that. I felt dizzy from running and lack of oxygen. In my dimming vision, Mr. Gonzales appeared and pulled the emergency shutoff on the propane line. People opened all the windows. Done at last, I leaned against the smoke blackened wall and breathed deeply the clean air pouring in. The floor tile was immaculate from the toxic bath but faintly gritty underfoot.

“What the hell is going on here?” asked Mr. Gonzales pushing between the swinging doors and into the kitchen.

“We were cleaning the floor, and it caught fire. A gust of wind blew it out. Joey carried the solvent outside so it wouldn’t explode,” said the new chopper.

Mr. Gonzales reached under the sink and pulled out a gallon of nonflammable degreaser. “This is what we use.”

He wasn’t angry. Never is. And I hope never to be near if he did lose his temper. He was once a general. The bottom line was, they like me here even if I can’t speak the language.

“Good job Joseph. Let’s see those hands,” said Mr. Gonzales. He removed his sunglasses, something rarely done even indoors. I showed him my charred fingertips.

“Visit the herbalist one street over. She’s from the same village as my grandparents.” He gave me a large squarish silver coin.

“I’ll be back at sundown,” I said, assessing the situation.

“No problem. We can cover for you,” said Mr. Gonzales and gives out orders for cleaning the kitchen while arranging the cut list for the evening’s menu.

I had arrived in the nick of time. The dining room was untouched. There was some minor damage to the kitchen ceiling, but it needed scrubbing anyway. I put on gloves and used the shop vac from the janitor’s closet to suck the ABC powder off the stovetops and floor. Cooks began wiping down counters and walls.

“We’re staying closed until 5 PM. Now everybody hustle,” said Mr. Gonzales loudly clapping his hands.

We relighted the stoves and started a stock pot boiling. I helped by hauling boxes of fresh produce and sorting out the walk-in fridge. All the garbage cans were overflowing. Three grueling trips later the receptacles waited empty.

Blanch cornered me and handed over a bacon and cheese sandwich. “Your favorite. Thanks again. Nobody even noticed the magic!”

“No Problem,” I said. “All in a day’s work.” Grown use to my delusions of earth, air, fire, and water; I never mentioned them to anybody. * * *