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The Joker

Sue Franco

People were everywhere. Cautiously dodging pointed umbrella tips as though they were caught in the middle of a fencing championship. Thunder rolled through the stormy sky, carrying its threatening sound for miles, and dark clouds loomed menacingly over the concrete giants.

“Oh, for God's sake …” Catherine Blake cursed when a thoughtless taxi driver came to a screeching stop opposite her, spraying a sheet of cold water. Pointlessly wiping the dripping water from her soaking clothes, she frowned gravely.

“I'm sorry lady.”

Catherine rejected his apology by throwing him a look of annoyance as the unrelenting rain poured down, hitting the ground before quickly blending into the stream of water flowing down the busy street. She stepped back from the edge of the pavement in an attempt to wave down a more competent driver; she yelled “taxi … taxi!” to the cabs that sped past.

The driver opposite Catherine turned to his two passengers and from the corner of her eye she watched as he spoke to them. In reply, the passengers nodded in agreement before the driver turned to Catherine.

“Lady, where ya headin'?”

Catherine rolled her eyes. Of all the taxi drivers in this overpopulated city she should end up with an idiot! Before answering, she peered at the passengers through the dripping water on the window. The two men returned her impromptu inspection with welcoming smiles. Catherine cleared the droplets of water from her watch and shook her head. Silently settling now, the darkness of the night had crept up on her. There was no choice. She had to leave now. Catherine stepped out from the shadows of the tall buildings and opened the cab door. Her long, slender legs were first to enter the vehicle. Such graceful movement, such poise surely could never be taught. After relaxing back into the dry leather seat, Catherine shook her head gently, releasing the water from her golden hair, allowing her curls to flow naturally. After acknowledging the two male passengers with a lopsided smile, Catherine faced forward.

“Where ya headin' lady?”

“Cabot's Bush.”

The driver silently tried to locate Cabot's Bush in his mind.

“That's no problem,” Bradley Scotte remarked, leaning over the man sitting between him and Catherine, who turned to match the husky voice to a face.

“We're headin' out that way,” Bradley announced, flashing Catherine a warm, broad smile. “We'll pass that way first.”

Alan eased back the faded black lever into first gear and the cab moved forward. “We had better get a move on then,” he said, his boyish body almost invisible from the back seat.

Fifteen minutes or so passed without a single word, each passenger gazing aimlessly out the window, so all welcomed the constant hum of the engine as it broke the uneasy silence.

“I am Bradley Scotte,” the man from the far left of the seat announced eventually. He reached over his friend in the middle and gently shook Catherine's hand.

“Catherine Blake,” she replied politely, easing her hand from his grip.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, such a beautiful young lady.”

“Thank you, Bradley,” Catherine muttered reluctantly.

“Hey, call me Brad … all my friends do,” he grinned. “Sitting here between us is, Dave …” he added, assuming the role of master of ceremonies.

“Hello,” Dave greeted politely.

“Hi Dave,” Catherine smiled. She liked him instantly and could tell there was no facade with him. She liked him for that.

“And our navigator for today is Alan,” Bradley made known in a loud voice that seemed to bounce around the cab. “One of the best cabbies around,” he added with conviction.

Bradley's self-assurance amused Catherine. With a slight flicker of an eyebrow she returned her gaze to outside the window. His efforts to make small talk were fruitless as her answers consisted of merely a “yes” or “no” to his onslaught of icebreakers. His eventual irritation showed as he spoke with all his syllables standing strongly together like armed soldiers in defence of his faltering ego. Catherine looked at her watch; the delicate hands inside its gold casing silently told her that is was now 11.30 p.m. A sinking feeling circled in her stomach.

The busy road ahead snaked around a number of bends. It had taken them nearly half an hour to move a short distance forward, as gaps in the road appeared and then, just as quickly, disappeared. Alan continued to press the accelerator, then the brake, whichever was needed. He endured many two-fingered salutes from frustrated motorists as he narrowly slipped in front of them.

Flashing speed restriction lights told of certain trouble ahead. The rainstorm had developed into its full potential now, enough to warrant Alan changing the wiper speed from intermittent to fast. Fed up, he jabbed the radio's “on” button with his finger and brought it to life.

“That's right folks … I swear …” the DJ commented, “... a flour truck and a molasses tanker have collided, spewing their entire contents across all four lanes! I can't wait to see the newssheet later: holiday traffic backed up for miles … by the largest pancake in history!” the voice burst out into a fit of laughter. “At least no one will go hungry stuck in traffic!” he wailed with laughter. After a moment, he continued in his usual on air voice … “Did I ever tell you about the time …?”

“Isn't there a quicker route to Cabot's Bush?” Catherine interjected anxiously. “I'm never going to get there in time.”

“Now. Just let me think.” Alan consulted the imaginary map book in his mind. “I reckon …” He scratched his head.

Catherine tapped her foot nervously as she leant a little forward.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. If we take the old back road … you know … the one that runs through the hills?”

“Livingston Road!” Bradley and Dave announced in unison.

“That's it!” Alan agreed, “that old road hasn't been used for years. I mean, I'm not even sure if we can use it.”

“Oh come on, man. Whatsa matter with you?” Bradley asked, offering Catherine a comforting smile. “The lady needs to get to where she's going … so … let's get her there.”

Alan exited the busy highway at the next off-ramp. The car slowed and he fed the steering wheel through his bony fingers, forcing the car to turn right. The road was dark and deserted and after a while the dim street lamps ceased to exist in the awesome blackness of the night. The road began to wind as the vehicle climbed through the narrow hills. The angry sky refused to halt its onslaught on all beneath it. A torrent of water pounded the windscreen, rendering the wipers useless.

“It's been a hell of a long time since I've seen a storm like this!” Bradley announced.

“Yeah, it looks like it's not gonna let up either,” Dave commented.

“Hmm,” Bradley replied with an edge of irritation. Although they had been good friends since college, Dave's eternal sense of pessimism annoyed him and he failed to fathom Dave's macabre ability to paint every situation with such dark colours.

The car's suspension struggled to absorb the bumpy road beneath it, and all three passengers were thrown about as it swerved dangerously. Catherine grabbed the headrest tightly.

“What the hell?” Dave shouted, rubbing his head as it bounced off the side panel.

“I'm tryin' … I'm tryin'!” Alan called back. “I've just gotta get this baby under control.”

A small avalanche of pebbles fell from the side of the hill, halting any further conversation. Catherine sank back into her seat and winced as the car bounced off the uneven road. Out of nowhere, a basketball sized rock crashed into the windscreen, sending shattered glass flying.

“Oh, my God!” screamed Catherine, her voice high and shrill as she cried out with pain.

Alan yanked the steering wheel, but it spun out of his hands, as though possessing a force of its own. “Come on! Come on!” he cried. His strength was no match for the sudden burst of power that swung the vehicle as though it were a toy. Despite his valiant efforts the car skidded off the road, plunging into a ditch, where it came to a dead stop. The car creaked and moaned until the mass of metal spluttered its final sound.

“Ohhh …” Alan moaned. Tears of pain quivered in his eyes as he eased his bruised body around. By degrees, he turned and stared with naked fear at his passengers.

Bradley's limp body lay across the seat. He turned to Dave, who was slumped against his friend. “My fingers!” Dave cried.

Blinking rapidly, Alan lowered his stare. “It's gonna be okay,” he whispered, his words somewhat slurred. His mouth became as dry as ash as he turned to his lady passenger. A jagged piece of glass had deposited itself in her wrist, lying only an inch from her main artery. Alan's trembling fingers scrambled over his seatbelt as he desperately tried to loosen it, and after what seemed an eternity he finally flicked the buckle loose and threw the strap that restrained him over his shoulder. He rushed to open the back door.

“What happened?” Catherine muttered, her voice dangerously quiet.

“Shush, don't talk, Catherine.”

Alan raised her up and tied his soft leather belt from his trousers around the middle of her arm to halt the flowing blood. He turned his attention to Bradley and pressed two fingers against his wrist, sighing heavily when at last he felt a faint pulse.

“Is he dead?” Dave asked, tears rolling down his cheeks.

“No ... but he's pretty bad.”

“What are we gonna do?” Dave's panic-stricken voice accelerated quickly from his lips.

Alan backed out of the car and surveyed the area. Nothing but wasteland surrounded them.

“Okay … that's it. I've gotta go for help.”

“Man, you're crazy. We're in the middle of nowhere.”

Alan leant inside the car and said sotto voce, “Don't worry, I'll be back as soon as I can, with help. There has to be someone out there … if I stick to the road.” Facing the three stranded, desperate people, he backed away slowly.

Alan ceased his snail-like pace and ran alongside the road. The bolting rain turned into hailstones as they came down hard, stinging his body. Still, he ploughed forward. His feet sank further into the muddy ground below and his speed lost its hold. His wet clothes clung stubbornly to his skin. He had to stop, and bending from his waist down, he placed both hands down on his knees, his chest heaving as he desperately attempted to catch his breath.

Through the mist and the rain a shadow caught his eye. He ran forward in a fierce rush and his tired body was grateful when he came to a stop. Tears welled in his eyes at the possibility of finding help. Hope built up deep within him as he stood in front of a broken-down cabin. The narrow door consisted of only zigzag planks of wood. He had to get inside.

Taking a few steps back, Alan kicked a few times until the door swung open, which left him staring with disappointment. There was nothing. The cabin was empty. He stepped inside. A musty odour filled the damp dark room. Although he was confused and exhausted, Alan noticed the room was filled with items that were not from the 21st century. He glanced at his cell phone hiding away in his pocket, and fumed at its uselessness when out of range of transmitters. The wooden floorboards creaked noisily as his aching body staggered towards what was once a bar. He waved his hand above his head to clear away the many cobwebs and noticed a sign hanging lopsidedly over the bar. Alan tiptoed and wiped away the thick layer of dust. He cleared his throat, coughing out the powdery dust particles that fell, before reading out aloud, “The Jokers Inn, 1841”.

Alan shrugged his weary shoulders and collapsed his small body onto a barstool. Rainwater falling through the many gaping holes in the roof caused him to look up. A warm glowing light that came from nowhere shone down directly onto a dusty green bottle that stood alone on the bar counter. Alan nervously glanced around the cabin once more. Everything except the bottle remained hidden in the shadows. He looked back at the bottle and noticed a small glass beside it. Just then, the light from above intensified.

“What the …?” Alan questioned in an unsteady voice. He reached out and held the glass firmly between his thumb and index finger. He picked up the bottle and tilted it until its long thin neck was pointing directly into the empty glass. He raised the glass to his nose and the liquor's aroma teasingly caressed his senses. He inhaled deeply, then lowered the glass to his dry, slightly parted lips. The sensation of pure liquid enjoyment filled him as the substance slid down his parched throat.

“I should've stuck to the road.” His words were almost inaudible as they were released slowly at a measured rate.

Alan refilled the glass and the soothing liquid quickly disappeared once more the moment it touched his lips. His mind and body were numb. He folded his arms on top of the bar and lay his head on them. His eyes flicked briefly before closing. Once Alan's heavy sigh came to an end the only sound that filled the cabin was the constant dripping of water from the broken roof. Very soon, Alan could not even hear that!

“Get over here woman!”

Alan slowly opened his eyes and tilted his head off his arm.

“I said, get over here woman!” The tone was louder and filled with aggression.

Alan instantly jumped up from his sprawled-out position and stared in amazement. His eyes immediately followed the sound of the voice and fixed upon a rough-looking man. He turned to see a woman sauntering across the room. Alan gasped. The dusty old deserted cabin was now filled with noisy, boisterous, indeed, merry people. The abandoned cabin lost in time had come to life!

“Oh, for God's sake, Jimmy ... I'm a-comin' … I'm a-comin' ...” she called out. Her smile was bright and wide, yet lacked sincerity. Her striking red hair shone in the reflection of the orange light glowing from the huge fireplace. As she brushed past Alan, the sweet smell of lavender filled the air. Upon reaching her destination, the robust woman fell onto the man's lap, screeching with laughter.

The sound of tongues clinkering and many full-hearted laughs drifted around the room and the cabin was warm and cosy. Alan coughed, clearing his throat, and the woman immediately noticed him and smiled invitingly.

“You can be next, my fine sir.” She shrieked with laughter, flashing him a grotesque wink.

Alan instantly turned away and shrank back into his seat. A reddish colour crept onto his face, a blush so intense he felt it reach the roots of his hair. Raising his head, Alan read the sign over the bar once more: “The Jokers Inn, 1841” stared back at him in the oil lamp's glow beneath it.

“What the hell is going on?” Alan questioned silently.

The cabin was alive as the joyful crowd danced and sang, rejoicing in their celebration of life. Alan rubbed his eyes as he witnessed an old man in the far corner playing a somewhat familiar tune on his mouth organ. A young woman pulled her woollen shawl tighter around her shoulders as she turned the wick in the oil lamp higher. The sound of men spitting chewed tobacco into a spittoon registered in Alan's confused mind. He rose from the barstool and felt an alien feeling of straw underneath his feet. He had entered another place in time, another world.

Suddenly, a man's voice called out from behind. The stranger's words were instantly swallowed up by the females' incessant screeching laughter as they danced and played teasingly with the men.

“Hey ... mister,” the voice repeated.

Alan turned around nervously.

“Yeah … you,” the man confirmed.

Alan's heart beat fiercely, pounding with a will of its own against his chest.

“Do you wanna join us for a game of poker?” the man asked. “Hell, we're short of one player.”

Alan did not answer. He couldn't, as the three serious-looking card players fixed their stare on him.

“I ... er ...” Alan muttered. “Okay, I'll play,” he stuttered, knowing he really did not have a choice.

“All right then, get your sorry behind over here!”

Alan inched forward, as though heavy metal chains weighed down his legs. With each step, his heart beat faster and his stomach twisted deeper into knots. He stopped an inch or so away and looked down. Catherine, Bradley and Dave sat around the small oval table, waiting patiently. All three looked the same, yet were dressed according to fashion of the year 1841.

“Why the hell don't they recognise me?” Alan asked himself, yet without uttering a single word, lowered his trembling body onto the wooden chair.

“Get out your cash, stranger,” Bradley ordered, “that's if you're not too chicken to lose it.” Completing his last word he released a loud growl of laughter.

Alan moulded his reply carefully in his mind before speaking. However, such caution netted him nothing. “I ... I … I don't have any money.”
Reclining back into his chair, Bradley puffed out a large ring of strong-smelling cigar smoke. “So, ya don't have notes, heh? Well, then …” he continued, turning to face his companions, “we'll play for whatever else ya have, stranger.”

Before Alan could reason with himself, he nodded dismally.

“Yeah, we sure don't mind playing for whatever else ya have,” Catherine interjected.

“With a bit of luck you'll soon be down to your underwear.”

Dave slid a green bottle across the table and immediately followed it with an empty glass. “Get that stuff down ya.”

Come on, man!” Bradley urged, “pick up the goddamn cards and deal.” His voice was brimful with irritation.

Bradley leant over and snapped up the pack and dealt five cards to each player. Alan picked up each card, one by one, and faced his opponents. Their stern faces told him nothing.

“Twenty for me,” Catherine announced in a confident tone, shoving her money into the middle.

Immediately Bradley placed his grubby fingers on top of his stack of coins and did the same.

“Hmm, I'll raise ya twenty,” Bradley sneered, staring at Alan.

Being deep in shock at his modern-day passengers in this past-day cabin, Alan had not even thought of betting. He remained silent. “Yeah, that'll do nicely,” Bradley roared. “That there … gold chain around ya scrawny little neck will do.”

Alan instinctively raised his hand to his chain and fingered the medallion.

“Come on … lob it in the kitty.” The arrogant man derived a great sense of satisfaction from this. “Or ya will lose more than ya think,” he added. His thick lips curled into a smirk and his dark intruding eyes glared.

Alan hesitated, looked at all three, then reluctantly released the clasp holding his gold chain together and dropped it into the kitty. Catherine sighed and threw her cards down, leaving Bradley and Alan to battle it out.

“So, big fella, what have ya got?” Bradley teased. “Come on, flip 'em over,” he added drily.

Alan placed his five cards picture side up on the table. “Two of a kind … kings and queens,” he said, reaching out his cupped palm over the kitty.

“Not so fast!” Bradley shouted.

The cabin fell silent and all eyes fixed upon the small oval table. Bradley slapped his heavy hand down on top of Alan's.

“Aces and kings.”

Alan eased his hand out from underneath the heavy weight.

“Remember the golden rule,” Bradley smiled, “he who has the gold makes the rule!”

Alan watched as Bradley proudly placed the chain around his neck. “Looks good, heh?”

Alan refused to reply, consumed with contempt for this man. He felt a flush of redness climb into his cheeks; his anger was like a rising temperature gauge as the crowd burst into a fit of cheering. Their man had won. Soon enough Alan found himself playing against Dave and lost to him too.

“Whatever ya have, stranger,” Dave said.

Alan eased his gold ring off his finger and handed it over.

“Right now, before I carry on, I wanna know what else he has to offer,” Catherine said.

“All I have left is my watch.”

“Ya what?”

“My watch.” Alan pushed up his sleeve, revealing his modern Quartz watch.

“Where's its chain?” Bradley asked.

“It doesn't have one. Where I come from, they are made to fit around your wrist.”

“Oh!” Catherine squealed with delight, “I want to play for that.”

Before long the game was over and that was lost too. Catherine clumsily secured it loosely around her wrist and jumped up to run around the cabin, showing off her new possession. The many voices joined forces, raising the volume that filled the room.

The warm glow from the fireplace caught Alan's attention. He swigged down one more glass of brandy and lay his head on the table, exhausted. After only a moment, he opened his eyes. Confusion reigned in his mind. His sore red eyes felt as though they were lined with fine sand. The sound of a wooden shutter repeatedly banging against a window caused him to raise his throbbing head. He was freezing cold, feeling as though the bitter cold had crept under his skin all the way into his bones.

“Ohhhhh,” he moaned, his shaky voice echoing across the room. The cabin was empty!

Only the thin, insipid light of dawn shone through the cracks in the wood. Everything that stood in the cabin was half hidden under a thick layer of dust. Puzzling thoughts dashed through his mind with the speed of a Formula One racing car, each as determined as the next to cross the finishing line first. Alan clamped his hand across his open mouth. “My passengers!” he cried.

He stumbled across chairs and knocked over tables as he made his way to the door, clawing his way through the hanging cobwebs. He yanked the door open and flew down the stairs, only to land in a puddle of mud below. The crisp air outside was murky with fog and cold with damp. The watered-down light from the sun told Alan that it could not have been later than 6.30 a.m.

“Oh, dear God. What have I done? I left them alone … all night …” he cried in a mournful undertone, “… to die.”

He hurried in the direction of the stranded cab, instant energy flowing freely through his veins. Nothing would stop him this time. What had seemed like an endless journey the night before was now a mere fifteen-minute sprint. Alan came to a standstill directly in front of his cab. It was deadly quiet all around. He moved inches forward. In a split second, he grabbed at the handle and tugged the car door open. It was empty.

Panting heavily, and almost out of breath, Alan climbed inside and sank into the comfort of the back seat. His passengers had disappeared. Bringing his head forward from the seat-rest, Alan opened his eyes. So many unknowns. Filled with uncertainty something seemed to will him to reach forward between the two front seats, he could not ignore this nascent force, this preternatural power drawing him closer, moving him forward.

Looking down in bafflement and feeling disorientated, Alan surveyed the contents on the seat. Understanding that he was indeed a sentient human being and fully capable of feeling, nevertheless, Alan could not believe his eyes.

In a neat bundle lay his gold chain, his ring and his watch. There was no note; only a feeling of another time lingered. He had to get out. Alan flung open the car door and clambered his way out of the car.

He walked away, taking one slow step at a time, as if his shoes were filled with lead. He stopped and reached into his pocket for his cell phone. As he pulled it out a full pack of playing cards burst out of his pocket.

The cards swayed softly in the cool breeze and Alan stared in stunned amazement until each one landed on the ground.

Alan's eyes refused to blink, as he stared. All fifty-two cards lay picture side up. Each one of them was … a Joker!



About the author:

Sue Franco
To voluntarily set oneself up for rejection is brave, yet possibly, bordering on the slightly insane. Nevertheless, each and every aspiring author sets out on such a journey into the unknown, mysterious world of the written world. My excursion into this fascinating make believe place began two years ago, when an inescapable story of two people in love during the World War II, just had to be told. Since that creation, I have written two further novels, an obvious hard copy of my love affair with the creativity of language. All this while working part time as a Contracts Manager, raising two children and living in the bustling city of Johannesburg.
  Sue Franco




LitNet: 19 August 2004

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