No One Of Consequence



Scene Title No One of Consequence
Synopsis A missed connection is made.
Date March 23, 2018

Sheepshead Bay

Neon blue light spills up from over the walls of tightly-packed residential buildings. It blooms in the fog rolling in off of the water, paints the night sky shades of sapphire and turquoise. Beyond the walls of concrete and glass, beyond the high chain-link partition topped with razor wire, the southern edge of Sheepshead Bay abuts Yamagato Park with its own colorful radiance. Pools of dingy yellow light spill from old street lamps, buzzing neon signs proclaiming OPEN and BEER in equal measure reflect in the puddles of melting snow collecting on the ground. Steam bellows in thick columns from the sewer grates underfoot.

In a narrow street that’s become a cul de sac thanks to the fence barrier stretched across the road, metal awnings shield crates and baskets from the elements. What would normally be a thriving vegetable market is sparsely populated now, with just a handful of wilted heads of lettuce and skinny carrots grown in rooftop gardens. Adjacent to the vegetable kiosk, a small storefront is filled with old cathode-ray tube televisions, camcorders, radios, and other electronics. A wiry man dressed in just a dingy white tank top sits on a stool, working a screwdriver at the innards of one of the busted televisions.

One booted foot comes to splash into a puddle of meltwater out front of his store where the asphalt dips down. Then another. In the water, a young woman in a thigh-length fur coat is reflected. She threads a lock of brown hair behind one ear, then steps through the doorway and looks toward one of the televisions resting on a shelf showing only static. The man on his stool looks up, brows raised expectantly. “Hey,” he eyes her up and down, notes the shaggy brown fur coat with a lingering stare. “Got some nice watches, gold, go good wit’ your coat.”

She slips one hand inside the coat, withdraws a photograph printed on crinkled 8x10 paper. It’s a portrait, blurry for all that it’s been blown up. It’s another brunette woman, slightly shorter hair, the same age. “Does she look familiar to you?” She asks, nudging the photo closer to the man on the stool. He shakes his head without looking at it, returning his attention to the innards of an old television spilled out in his lap.

“Nah, I ain’t seen— ”

The young woman angles the paper into his field of vision, insinuating it between he and his project. “She’s my sister,” She explains. “Could you look more carefully?”

His dark eyes sweep the picture again, lips part as though he were going to dismiss her, but then stops. He looks at the picture again, then up to the woman holding it. “Actually, yeah, seen her before. She was down in Staten though.” He gives the young woman an expectant look, as if to say is that enough; it isn’t.

Where in Staten, specifically?” She rocks forward onto the pointed toes of her boots, then drops back down onto her heels. The shopkeeper sighs and looks aside, then back up to her.

“Crooked Point, dive bar. I mean, it’s Staten so… you know. Shit’s like a knife there all the time.” His answer is succinct enough, but she pulls a twenty dollar bill out of her coat regardless and slips it to him. He smiles, toothily, and folds the twenty up into a pocket. “Yeah that was like almost two weeks ago. She blew half the fuckin’ place up I think. Some kinda power — you know.”

Thanks!” She chirps pleasantly, pocketing the Registration photograph again before stepping out to the street. Booted feet splash through the puddle again, carry her past the vegetable market and the jaundiced glow of old lights, around into a narrow alley between two whitewashed and crumbling brick buildings. Garbage litters the narrow alley, though she doesn’t seem to mind.

A slim black phone is slid out of her coat, no signal displayed on the screen. Regardless, composes a text message.


She waits, looking down the alley to the lambent yellow glow, threading a lock of dark hair behind one ear. There’s a chirp from her phone, a message incoming without signal.


Her face scrunches up into a consternated look, lips pursed and brows furrowed. She starts to type something, second guesses, goes back and tries typing it again.


Immediately thereafter, full bars of service appear on her phone. She closes the messaging app and pulls a folded piece of paper from her pocket, turning it over to where a phone number is hastily scrawled. She punches it in and hears the stuttering ringtone, then starts to pace through the trash-cluttered alley.

After several rings, someone picks up.

Hey, buddy. Remember me? Yeah, yeah, Violet. We got drinks the other night?” Her green eyes drift to view the starless night sky and billowing clouds of steam issuing up from inside the alley. “Yeah, I was wondering if you wanted to get together tonight?” She pauses, squinting. “No, no, how about at your place?” One brow twitches and green eyes drift to the side. “No, that’d be perfect. What’s your address?” Violet makes a few soft noses in the back of her throat, mouthing the address back to herself to commit it to memory.

“Sweet, yeah. Awesome, I’ll see you in like…. An hour?” One of Violet’s dark brows raise, and then lower. “Peachy keen. See you then!” Withdrawing the phone from her ear, she terminates the call and re-opens the messenger app, thumbing up another missive.


Violet slides the phone into her pocket without another look, and one corner of her mouth crooks up into a smirk.

"Seeya soon, Chessie."

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