Waiting, Just Waiting

Turning on his cell phone, Bronson saw that he had two calls, both from the Bender Police Department.

'Will you accept the charges from...Honey, please I didn't do nothing, you got to come get me...please press five...' the mechanical voice intoned.

"Thought you couldn't get calls on your cell phone from the jail," Bronson said aloud as he deleted both pleas from Becky.

But he just didn't feel like going home. So he drove to Jitters coffee shop in Bender, Louisiana. It was a few blocks from his house, a few blocks from the meeting.

"Hi!" a cute little blonde chirped when he entered.

"Hi!" he said back, letting a tired smile crease his face.

"Looks like you could really use some coffee," the girl suggested.

"Yeah, well, I'll settle for what y'all have here," Bronson joked,

The girl smirked.

"Give me a Superior, soy milk," Bronson ordered.

He swiped his debit card and took the hot mug to a seat.

Then he sat and stared into the dark brown liquid.

A few more people came in and Bronson jerked out of his reverie.

"Thanks," the cute blonde said when Bronson brought the ceramic mug back to the counter, rather than just leaving it on the table.

"Welcome," he said and left.

He felt hollow, felt cold. Laying in the bed, the bed he shared with Becky, he pulled a pair of socks onto his feet.

That did help alleviate some of the chill he felt, but sleep still would not come for Bronson.

Chapter 5

Because Becky had given him permission to take the television set, because Becky was the owner of the television set, Demarcus was released at his arraignment.

Demarcus had failed the drug test, had tested positive for meth and should have been detained for parole violation. But Ethel Yaks, the overworked clerk of court missed that fact and Demarcus was released.

Becky was also cleared of the theft; it was her television. But she was charged with falsifying a police report and was given a trial date.

Just before Bronson left work, to head to his Thursday night NA meeting, he heard his cloned phone chime. Pulling it out, his eyes widened.

Demarcus declared to Becky that he was going 'kill that cracker ass mother fucker, got me popped ain't done shit.'

And Becky agreed; even mentioned that with King Sanitation, Bronson had a good life insurance policy.

Donald Pellichet listened to Bronson's call and advised Bronson to call the police.

"Are there any weapons? Any firearms in your home?' Elise Richards asked Bronson.

"Twelve gauge shotgun, but honestly? I don't even remember if there's any shells for that gun," Bronson said. "I mean, last time I went hunting was with my dad and he's been gone what? Ten, yeah, ten years now."

Bronson was too late to make it to his Thursday night NA meeting by the time he got out of the Police Department. So Bronson drove to the coffee shop again.

"Hi, came back?" the blonde cheerfully greeted him.

"Yeah, last cup's just about worn off by now," Bronson joked and she smiled.

"Um, Superior, and, and, soy, right?" the girl asked.

"Got it," he smiled.

The place was packed but Bronson managed to find a booth.

The blonde saw that it was time for her break and grabbed her bologna and American cheese sandwich and her banana and went into the rear of the shop.

But Rikki, the manager, had the small table covered in last week's receipts. David Torres, the owner of Jitters was threatening to fire Rikki, and the entire staff of Jitters.

"Just start off fresh, money's running out the back door and someone's doing it," David had snarled.

Stepping into the main room, there wasn't an empty booth to be found.

Then Morgan saw the customer with the sad eyes sitting at a booth by himself.

"Hey, um, mind if I sit here?" she asked.

"Sure," he nodded with his head toward the bench across from him.

"I'm Morgan, by the way," she said as she unwrapped her sandwich.

"Bronson," Bronson said as he continued to play Scrabble on his phone.

"So what you doing?" Morgan asked, nodding toward his phone as she stuffed a mouthful of sandwich.

"Waiting. Just waiting," Bronson said tiredly. "For my wife to kill me."

Morgan froze, blue eyes wide.

"I uh, I meant, on your phone," she finally said, swallowing the mouthful of sandwich.

"Oh," he smiled, shaking his head. "Playing Scrabble. But the computer's cheating."

"Oh, I love that game," Morgan said.

"Yeah?" Bronson said. "Well, here..."

He started up a new game for two people.

"Hmm," Morgan mused for a long moment, then started with 'Array.'

"Ooh, good word," Bronson praised.

"Hey, uh, Morgan, you about finished your lunch?" a coworker called out nearly thirty minutes later.

"Damn!" Morgan smiled.

"Here, I'll save it; we'll pick up next time," Bronson said.

He showed her that he was saving it under 'Morgan' and she nodded approval.

"Bye, Bronson. Hope your wife doesn't kill you," Morgan said.

"Uh huh, at least, not until you win, right?" he smiled.

Her hair was the color of honey, her face was a round one, with a slightly large nose, but a very sweet smile.

She carried about forty to fifty extra pounds on her five foot two inch frame, most of the extra weight in her rear and her thighs.

Bronson had no idea how old the girl was, but was quite sure she was much younger than his thirty three years of age.

"Bye, Bronson," Morgan cheerfully said as he placed the empty ceramic mug on the counter.

"Bye; remember, it's one nineteen to one oh two," he smiled.

"Soon as I can find where to put that 'X' it'll be game over," she taunted.

But Elise Richards advised against going home; they had no idea where Demarcus and Becky were.

"But I need to get some clothes; I mean, damn, I need to go to work, you know," Bronson argued.

"What kind of question is that? Yeah you can stay here," Bear said when Bronson called. "Shit, I'll make Kirsten sleep on the couch, you and I can cuddle in the bed."

"Fuck you Bear, this is my bed," Kirsten laughed.

Eric and Elise escorted Bronson to the small home. Bronson grabbed a suit, and his toiletries.

There were no further text messages between Becky and Demarcus on the cloned phone, which told Bronson, and Elise and Eric that the two lovers were most likely together.

The stakeout in front of his mother's house had netted nothing.

And by the time Bronson got off of work that Friday, they still had no idea where the two lovers were.

"Call her phone," Eric suggested. "Maybe we can ping her location."

And the call went straight to her cheerful voice mail.

Then Bronson called Demarcus's phone; he had the number, thanks to the cloned phone. That too went straight to voice mail.

Bear called Bronson to let him know he had a rig torn down and the driver needed it for a five am run.

"Yeah, and Kirsten's got the night shift tonight," Bear apologized.

So Bronson went to Jitters.

"Hey, Morgan tried to smile. "See your wife hasn't got you yet."

"No, not yet," Bronson agreed.

"Ally, going take a fifteen minute potty break," Morgan called out to the Asian-American woman working with her.

"Okay," the girl shrugged; there was hardly anyone in the small shop.

"Hey," Morgan said, sitting at the table with Bronson.

"Hey, let's see, yeah, it's your turn," Bronson said.

"I uh, listen, this is uh, the owner? Like about five hundred bucks is missing and since he can't figure out who's taking it, he fired everybody," Morgan said tearfully.

"Oh, damn! I'm sorry!" Bronson said.

He smiled tightly.

"Well, if my wife doesn't manage to kill me? In two weeks I'm moving to Santa Barbara; want to come?" Bronson asked. "You could sit out on the beach, get a tan while I bust my butt at work."

Morgan smiled.

"Yeah, right, could you see my fat ass in a bikini?" she asked.

"I'd like to," Bronson admitted.

"Bronson!" she shrilled.

"And I'd like to see you out of it, he said.

"I'm leaving," she said and got to her feet.

But Bronson saw that Morgan was smiling when she walked away.

His cell phone rang.

"Hello?" Bronson asked.

"Bear is such an idiot," Kirsten's cheerful voice said. "Just stop by the Dead End and I'll give you the key. Good God. Why do you men have to make everything so difficult?"

Because we know you women will fix it for us," Bronson said and emptied his cup.

"So, when we leaving for Hollywood?" Morgan asked as Bronson brought the empty cup to the counter.

"Santa Barbara; not this Tuesday but next," Bronson smiled.

He turned to walk out, then turned back again.

"All kidding aside. You want to?" he asked.

Morgan looked at him for a minute.

She was renting a room from an older woman, paying four hundred a month. She'd been trying to save up some money to go to college; Morgan was among the unfortunates that had parents that made too much money for her to qualify for assistance. But they also did not make enough to be able to afford to send her to college.

Every time it looked like she'd be able to afford a semester, another expense popped up. Last month, it had been a car repair. And already the car was making that funny sound again. And this month it had been a cavity. And Dr. LeMoine said she had a second, smaller cavity that would need to be looked at as soon as possible. And then Mr. Torres fired the staff of the coffee shop.

"Thanks but I don't even know you," she smiled.

"Damn, not only you pretty, you smart too," Bronson smiled and walked out.

"I don't think the coffee's that good," Officer Eric Miller joked as Bronson stepped out of the coffee shop with a broad smile.

"Please tell me you found Becky," Bronson said.

"Nope; but PC Nation said reason we can't pick up their 'ping' is because their cells aren't on; most likely dead batteries," Eric said.

Chapter 6

Bronson had an escort to the Dead End bar. Then he had a police escort to his home where he quickly packed everything he could carry in one trip.

They stepped out of the house just as Becky's Kia raced past the house, Demarcus at the wheel.

"That's them!" Bronson yelled, recognizing the white car.

But Demarcus and Becky managed to screech around the corner and out of sight before Elise and Eric could get into their cruiser.

Bronson did one more walk through and saw nothing he could not replace. Any childhood photographs and other mementoes were already at his mother's home. The pots and pans had been Becky's mother's pots and pans and the woman, a quite miserly woman, had given the couple some fairly cheap pots and pans. The plates and silverware, Bronson couldn't remember if they were his or Becky's and decided she could have them.

"Kind of sad when I think about it," Bronson commented to Elise when the police officer joined him in the living room of the home. "But this is where my drug addiction has taken me. My whole world can fit in the trunk of my car."

"Got a husband and two kids," Elise said. "So, my whole world can fit in one hug and I'm happy with that."

"Make sure to give them plenty of them, huh?" Bronson smiled as he locked the door one last time.

While Bronson was letting himself into the trailer Kirsten and Bear lived in, Demarcus ignored the fuel light as it flashed on.

"Your cracker ass boy, believe that shit? Mother fucker had the fucking po-po sitting around; what the fuck's up with that?" he yelled.

"Why you didn't shoot him?" Becky demanded, scratching at her face.

"Fucking po-po right there, I'm bust a cap?" Demarcus yelled, shoving her head into the passenger window.

"Hey, fucker!" Becky cried out.

He did it again and she quit complaining, thus ruining the fun for Demarcus.

"Call your bitch ass mother; see we can get some shit from her, huh?" Demarcus demanded.

Becky sullenly grabbed her cell phone from her purse, but it was dead. Her other cell phone, the one Bronson was paying for was also dead.

"They don't work," she whined.

"Really?" Demarcus demanded, not believing her.

"Really, see?" she snarled, showing him the dead screen.

Demarcus pulled over, grabbed her phone and checked. Sure enough, it was not working.

Again he pushed her into the passenger window of the car.

"Quit, God damn it!" Becky yelled at him.

She found the adaptor and plugged the regular PC Nation phone into the car's cigarette lighter and called her mother.

"Hi Becky what a lovely surprise no Becky I'm not giving you penny one," Becky's mother answered her phone.

"What? I can't just call my mom? I got to want something?" Becky lied.

"Uh huh," Becky's mother said, not believing her daughter.

Becky hung up and shook her head no. Demarcus again pushed her into the passenger window.

But she refused to react.

"Damn, Bronson, what the fuck, huh?" she said a moment later, noticing seven voice mail messages from her husband.

"Yeah, what kind of fucked up name your boy got anyway, huh?" Demarcus asked, sneering.

Becky listened for a few seconds to the first voice mail, then simply deleted the others without listening to them.

Demarcus drove to Elgee, to see if he could score. Failing that, he knew Becky could fuck a few of his boys, get up some scratch.

"Aw yeah, here's my boy," Demarcus said as he slowly drove through the Waters Housing Projects.

"Hey, Dog, need holler at you," Demarcus said and the fifteen year old runner walked up to the car.

"What up?" the boy asked, ignoring the sniveling white woman.

"Looking get, what, three, you got about three?" Demarcus asked.

"Three hundred?" the boy asked.

"No, pussy, three pennies, yeah three hundred, what you think, huh?" Demarcus snapped.

"Yeah, I got three, you got three?" the boy asked.

"Aw bull shit, get your fucking ass out my car, bitch, you ain't got no three,' Demarcus sneered and revved the car's engine.

"Fuck, got about seven, bitch," the boy said and pulled a few plastic bags out of his pocket.

Demarcus grabbed the packets of meth and floored the accelerator.

And less than twenty feet away, the Kia spluttered to a stop, out of gas.

The runner emptied his nine millimeter into the car, striking Becky in the throat and striking Demarcus several times. And the whole time, Demarcus kept trying to drive the disabled vehicle away.

Gun shots are a common occurrence in the Waters Street Projects. No one called the police.

Nearly two hours later, two officers performing a routine patrol of the government housing area discovered the disabled car with two victims of multiple gunshot wounds sitting in it.

An ambulance came nearly fifty minutes after the two officers radioed in for two ambulances.

"Fuck, what the fuck, Bordelon?" one of the officers snapped at the EMT. "Huh? Shift ended thirty minutes ago but had to wait on your ass."

"We told y'all there were two victims," the other officer said.

"They'll fit," Clay Bordelon shrugged and decided the white woman needed more help than the black man did.

There was no purse, there were no cell phones, Demarcus had no identification; passers-by had reached into the disabled car and helped themselves to whatever they could find as the two inhabitants sat, bleeding from their wounds.

Epilogue.

"They weren't joking when they said this disease kills," Dauphine said as she hugged Bronson.

"Most people spend a lot on funerals because they feel guilty," Donald Pellichet said as he looked at the flowers, the ornate casket.

My mother in law," Bronson agreed, indicating the ornate casket, the numerous floral arrangements.

He then indicated the sobbing woman. The woman looked significantly older than her fifty two years of age. Most do not wear grief well and Mrs. Trahan did not bear guilt and grief well at all.

The members of the 'Together We Stand' group decided to hold a small NA meeting at the vigil. There was some laughter, but mostly there were tears shed.

Kirsten paused for a long moment then said, "Guess it's true; you can have all kind of people wanting you get clean, but you got to want it for yourself."

"Gratitude," Dauphine opined. "Yes, gratitude. That's what I'm feeling. I'm grateful that my Higher Power didn't lead me down the same road Becky had to travel, know what I'm saying?"

She then proceeded to assassinate Becky's character, belittle Becky's recovery, thinly disguising it all as Gratitude.

"I'm grateful I'm not a self-righteous cunt," Bronson whispered to Bear and the two men chuckled.

The next day, Becky's mother was inconsolable as they closed the casket, covered her only child's face for the last time. Mrs. Trahan was still weeping inconsolably as they carried the casket out of the funeral home.

At the gravesite, the woman nearly fainted, falling heavily against her son in law.

Bronson held his mother in law while the last prayers were recited, then helped the weeping woman to her car.

Bronson then hugged Bear, hugged Kirsten, and drove to California.

x.x.x

Morgan managed to get hired on at Siegel Recycling. It was hot, sweaty, sticky work. And Siegel had reduced its work force to part time only. Eleven dollars an hour times twenty four hours a week, and no benefits.

"But I'm losing weight," Morgan told herself grimly.

She thought of the man with the sad eyes.

"Almost down to bikini weight," she thought, smiling softly.

George's Garage managed to fix what Huvall's Texaco could not; the man told her that her transmission had been damaged by Huvall's incompetence.

Mrs. Duvalier, Morgan's landlord, was unsympathetic.

"Sorry you got a couple of unexpected expenses," she said tightly. "But rent's an expected expense."

So Morgan soldiered on.

"Got a post card," Mrs. Duvalier said one afternoon when Morgan returned from Dr. Lemoine's office, mouth numb from having the second cavity filled.

The card was of a beautiful beach, several gorgeous women in bikinis lolling about. On the other side was Bronson's cell phone number.

"Score's still 119 to 102," he wrote.

She deduced that it was just after three o'clock in the afternoon in Santa Barbara. Besides that, her mouth was still too numb to talk comfortably.

When Morgan determined her mouth was back to normal enough to talk without sounding like a complete idiot, she called him.

"Hey, got the postcard," she cheerfully told him.

"Uh huh?" he cheerfully responded.

They chatted for a long time, until Mrs. Duvalier gave her 'it's time to go to sleep' rap on the wall.

"So, when's a good time call you?" she asked.

"Any time you want," he said. "But when's a good time call you?"

"Any time you want," she agreed.

She looked at the postcard again, at the sparkling water, the clean sand, the pretty bodies.

Morgan was paid every two weeks. Her last paycheck was pretty much gone and she still had five more days until her next paycheck.

A rainstorm had popped up the other day, a hard, pounding rain, making thinking in the hot metal building an impossibility.

It had still been raining when Morgan's shift had ended and she'd been soaked through by the time she'd made it to her car.

Again, Morgan looked at the bright, vibrant postcard, at the endless sunshine.

At his apartment, Bronson was sipping his scalding hot coffee when a text message chimed.

'Can I come see you?' Morgan sent.

'BYOB' he replied.

'BYOB?' she responded.

"Bring Your Own Bikini,' he sent.

'Anything else?' she responded, along with a Smiley Face.

"Nothing else,' he sent and smiled.

THE END

**Author's Note: I write these stories for my pleasure; I post them here for your enjoyment. I do thank you for reading my stories.

I especially thank those that take the time to rate my stories and those that take the time to leave comments.

About the comments though. This is 'The End.' Bronson and Morgan may or may not pop up in other stories, but most likely will not. So, please don't leave comments that you can't wait to see where they go from here.