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elm-lawrence · 3 years

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MUTANT: THE BEGINNING // Chapter One: The News

Stephanie stifled a yawn as a customer walked to her register. This was her first customer in hours which, she mused, was the side-effect of working at a twenty-four-hour corner shop. As she rung up the sale and exchanged pleasantries with the middle-aged women, she glanced at the clock and groaned inwardly when it only read 2:23am. Only an hour and a half left

she thought to herself in an effort to lift her own spirits, but only succeeded in driving them lower than they were before.

She handed the lady her change, bid her a good night and then watched her wander slowly out the door. A blast of chilled wind snuck its way into the shop, for the brief moment the door was open. Stephanie shivered, and tried not the think about her walk home. Having had enough of standing still, and seeing no more customers, she decided to go for a stroll around the isles. As she walked, she made mental notes of what needed restocking, all while very conscious of the fact she would never remember them all.

She heard movement behind her and turned. Jed, the only other staff member working this late on a Thursday, was struggling with a heavy box at the door to the stock room. She ran to help him.

“I’ve told you before, J, it’s bad for your back to lift these on your own!” Jed was a 40-something year old man with tanned skin, dark hair and the bushiest eye-brows Stephanie had ever seen. He had been off with a bad back no less than 6 months ago and had come back with strict instructions from his doctor to take it easy but seemed to take this more as a suggestion than an order.

“I’m fine, Steph! It’s not even that heavy!” He said, huffing slightly, once they’d set it down.

“Really? So, the hyperventilating is just, what, your normal reaction to movement?” She said, fixing him with her best withering stare. She got a playful glare in response.

“You ought to learn to respect your elders, young lady. You’re, what, 20? 21?”

“23.”

“23! That’s still a baby, if you ask me. Far too young to have such an attitude.”

“And you’re far too old to be lifting heavy boxes by yourself, clearly.” She teased back, enjoying the only source of entertainment she had.

“Why, you cheeky-” He cut himself off when the bell over the door rang out, signalling someone entering the shop.

“Go on, run along now.” He gestured at her dismissively as he pulled out his box cutter and began stocking cans onto the shelves beside him. She sighed and hurried back to her post, smiling as she passed the customer but got no acknowledgement in response. Stephanie frowned as she moved to her counter and continued to keep an eye on the man. He was around 25-ish, dressed in black jeans, a dark blue sweater and a grey beanie. He seemed dazed and unfocused as he searched the shelves. As she inspected him, she could see sweat on his skin despite the cool March night temperatures and the shops general lack of insulation. Stephanie almost classed him as suspicious but having worked the night shift so many times over her year and a half of employment, it took a lot more than knitted headwear and unseasonal sweat to peak her interested. Afterall, most who did their shopping at corner shops at 3am where not what one would consider ‘average.’

He approached the counter with a few bags of crisps, a fizzy drink and some painkillers. She rung him up, keeping an eye on his. For his part, his own eyes were rapidly darting back and forth, seemingly unable to focus on any one thing for more than a few seconds.

“That’ll be £5.40, please.” She said, watching him warily now. The neighbourhood the shop was based in had a bad reputation which, in her opinion, was not completely true, but the occasionally unsavoury character found their way through. The man did not seem to hear her, his eyes fixated now on something just over her left shoulder. She fought the urge to turn and remained her composure.

“Sir?” His eyes focused on her now, seeming to realise for the first time that she was there, waiting for his response.

“Huh?” He asked, and even from this she could tell he would slur his words if he was able for form any sort of coherent sentence.

“That will be £5.40, please.” She repeated, gesturing to the items on the counter.

“Oh! Yeah, yeah.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled £10 note and dropped it on the counter. “Keep the change.” He said and gathered his things in his arms before unsteadily stumbled out into the street, the bell chiming his exit. Stephanie put the money in the till and glanced up as Jed walked over.

“He was a strange one.”

“Looked like he was high on something. And he got sweat on my counter.” She grimaced at the droplets and fished around under the desk for the disinfectant and cloth she kept there. She was no stranger to strange people, and she did not particularly mind most of them so long as they kept their strange off her counter.

“What time you here till?” Jed asked her as she swept the cloth over the counter.

“Four am, almost home time. You?” Jed scowled at the glass window looking out onto the dark empty streets, as if blaming his work life on the night-time sky.

“Six. Josh said he couldn’t start any earlier so Bossman's got me pulling his weight.” Stephanie shook her head.

“Typical.” She sighed.

The clock struck 4:00 as she clocked out, yelling her goodbye and good luck to Jed, she shrugged her coat on and shivered when she stepped into the cool night air. Stephanie lived relatively close to her work which, when her boss seemed to have sealed her fate to work until stupid hours of the morning until her death, was a blessing.

Pulling the coat tighter around her and shoving her hands in her pockets, she walked quickly through the streets, which already had the beginnings of a frost settling upon them. She turned the corner, sped up the streets and reached her apartment building in no more than ten minutes. She took her keys from her pocket, freezing night air immediately seizing her skin in its icy grip, unlocked the door, shut it heavily behind her and climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. She stopped outside apartment 130 and unlocked the door before hurrying inside.

Once safely inside her home, she shed her coat and jumper, cranked up the heating a tad, and sat heavily on her sofa with a sigh of relief.

“God this sofa has never felt so good,” she murmured, flicking the TV onto the late-night news channel. After allowing the news to sufficiently scare her about the current state of the world, Stephanie decided food would make her feel better again and muted the TV as she moved to her kitchen. Unfortunately, she discovered, for someone who worked somewhere people buy food from, she was horrendously understocked.

“What a terrible excuse for an adult I am.” She scolded herself, slipping some partially stale bread in the toaster and plunging it down as she rooted the butter out of the fridge. She quickly got changed, slipping her pyjama shorts on just as the toaster popped. She sat back down, having completed her gourmet meal, and glanced back at the TV. The presenter was the same as before; a middle-age white man with greying hair, slicked back to give the illusion of volume. This time, however, he looked worried. His eyes held uncertainty as they moved across the page, and his mouth was moving quickly. Stephanie frowned, then unmuted the TV while she ate and his words flooded the room, like a tidal wave of bad news.

“-urging people to stay in their homes. The illness seems to spread via contact with body fluids, however nothing is confirmed. As of yet, the illness seems to be confined to Russia, with their borders being shut down and any and all British personnel of importance transported via private airways back to the safety of the United Kingdom. These officials are being closely monitored and quarantined for clinical signs. Any updates will be broadcast as soon as we have them.” With that, the broadcast cut off abruptly and adverts began rolling across her screen.

Stephanie muted the TV again and sat back, crunching into her last slice of toast. Just then, a clattering from her bedroom, and movement towards her sofa.

“Bout time you woke up!” She called light-heartedly, as her Siamese cat hopped up onto the back of her sofa, mewing and purring. She moved the plate on her lap to the coffee table and picked him up, cuddling him into her body.

“Good morning handsome boy, I take it you enjoyed your time alone? No parties while I was gone?” Her purred in response, rubbing up against her. Technically speaking, Sye was not her cat per say, rather one that seemed to invade her home every few days for a nap while she was at work. Stephanie assumed he lived somewhere in the building, probably a loud apartment with annoying kids, and her bed was more his nap pad than anything else. When she first saw him in the halls, he’d followed her back to her flat and even since then Sye would show up, completely randomly and out-of-the-blue like the terrible house guest he was.

“You hungry?” She asked him, and he meowed loudly at her, jumping onto the arm of the chair and flicking his tail.

“An enthusiastic yes, then!” She pushed herself up, shoved some cat food onto a plate and put it on the kitchen floor. While Sye inhaled his food, she went to her bedroom and flicked the lights on, sighing at the phone charger that was now on the floor.

“I invite you into my home, feed you, keep you warm, let you nap… and this is how you repay me?” She muttered, picking it up and placing it back on her nightstand. “Typical.”

She grabbed her laptop, plopped down on her bed and opened it up. She noted dully that it was nearly 5am.

As she settled into her nightly routine of aimless scrolling, she heard a loud meow followed by the faint sounds of claws on her rug.

“Hey!” She yelled as she cast her laptop aside and ran to her front door. “We will have none of that in this home, sir.” She scolded Sye, as he sat down in front of her doors, eyes wide and expecting.

“I do hope you behave better for your real family. Go on, shoo.” She opened her door and he meowed once before strolling slowing down the hallway towards the stairs. Shaking her head, she flicked the sound back up on the TV.

“A press release from Government officials has been released.” Stated the white-haired news caster. “Much like earlier, people are being urged to stay in their homes, however those in the centre of heavily populated areas are being urged to find refuge in less densely populated areas if it is safe to do so. Public transport may be affected. It has been released that this new pandemic can turn people violent. There have been reports of random attacks on strangers, wives attacking husbands, even children attacking parents. I will reiterate at this point to stay inside. The virus is spread through contact with those already infected. Research into this new virus is being conducted, but due to the large number of people reporting symptoms the work is moving slowly. Please, if anyone near you is presenting symptoms, restrain them for their own safety, until medical officials can reach you. Do not take them to the hospitals yourself, for your own safety. Be safe.”

And with that, the broadcaster disappeared off screen and was replaced not by the usual music, by but a black screen. Stephanie stood still, staring at the dark TV screen, giving herself a few more moments to properly absorb the story.

Suddenly, from outside there came the sound of squealing tires and metal scraping.

She ran to the window, broken from her fear by the thundering noise, peering outside into the streets. This early in the morning, the run-down area was relatively quiet, with the occasional noise of traffic from the nearby main roads. With the sun rising over the city, casting it in an eerie early morning shadow, Stephanie saw a car on the pavement, a lamppost bent over the dented bonnet. She watched for any movement, reaching blindly for her phone to dial for an ambulance, when someone stepped out from the wreckage.

As she called for an ambulance, someone emerged from the building opposite hers, rushing towards the accident. The driver was leaning against their car, head slumped with a hand over their chest. The concerned stranger reached them, reached out a hand, before the driver’s head snapped up. Stephanie could not see the expression on either face from her vantage point, however she got a bad feeling about the exchange by the way the stranger froze a few feet from the driver. She fought the irrational urge to go outside and see if he was okay.

The phone was still ringing. She had been so wrapped up in watching the scene unfold she’d forgotten she was calling the ambulance. Why was it still ringing? She’d dialled minutes ago, how long did the emergency services take to answer the phone?

Then the ringing stopped, and she took her eyes off the scene before her to frown at her phone, checking if she still had power. She did. The call had dropped, her signal had dropped. She heard a scream and looked back to see the driver running after the stranger, arms outstretched and movements wild like a starved predator. Even from her room, she heard his growling, like a rabid animal. Eyes wide, heart racing, she drew the curtains.

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elm-lawrence · 5 years

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What one experience made you completely rethink how you viewed a certain individual or group of people, either in a positive or negative light?

I used to be absolutely terrified of homeless people. When I was little, a homeless man set up camp behind the office of our Church. The parents saw him just lying there in his blankets, and decided they wanted to help him (not call the cops). However, a few kids and I decided to be little jackasses, and dared eachother to touch the only part of him sticking out of the blanket; his bare feet.

Now the thing is, it's not necessarily *bad advice* to tell a kid not to poke the bare feet of a homeless guy. But it was certainly bad advice to take it to a much greater level, and say homeless people were dangerous, disease-ridden, and wanted to hurt us. Because for years afterwards, I couldn't go close to a homeless person, not even in my teens. I'd see them just sitting nonchalantly in front of a convenience store, and I wouldn't make eye contact.

In my senior year of high school, I decided to do a human interest piece for the school paper. It was a common addition, usually documenting the history and lifestyle of well-known local restaurants, former star athletes retiring in our quiet slice of suburbia, or up and coming entrepreneurs.

But there was one guy everybody knew, a man we called "Santa Bum." He was a homeless man who would share the waves with the school's surf team, and he existed mostly down at the beach. He was easy to spot with his very long pearly-white beard, which was his pride and joy.

I decided to do a piece on him. The journalism teacher thought I was joking, but I polled the class. Show of hands. How many of you guys know who Santa Bum is? Boom, all hands. Of course everyone knows this guy. You can't spend a week in that community without seeing him patrolling the beach or traversing the main boulevard in his bright red trunks.

He's Santa Bum. Of course he has bright red trunks.

I found him with the surf team, introduced myself, and he was immediately receptive to my questions. I was expecting maybe a 10 minute interview or an awkward end to it, maybe being asked for food or money or booze. Thing is, I was before one of the most well-known local celebrities in our community, but I also knew he was homeless. And man, I was a little scared too. The only thing that helped was knowing he's been a part of the community for a long time, the trusting assurance of "if he's actually dangerous, he probably would've been put away a long time ago."

The interview was amazing.

His name is Ryan. He graduated the same high school I did. He attended two years of college, but had to drop out when he lost his job at a closed pet store and couldn't pay tuition. One of his good friends started a business using a lot of his own money, and he jumped on board with him, working for free and burning through his last savings to stay afloat in the hopes of developing computer components for audio equipment and making millions. That never happened, and he ran out of money completely. He used his experience to try and find a job as an audio engineer, but ended up at a record store. He had a mental break in the 80's, decided he didn't want to work anymore, felt he gave the world enough of a chance to say he tried, and made the deliberate choice to live the rest of his life out of his van.

Ryan knows a *ton* about 70's era computer technology, audio mixing, and always has an infinite list of unknown garage bands confined to memory that he could always recommend with the fervor of a lifelong fan. I described his expansive knowledge of obscure and small local acts, writing "He knew more about opening acts than headliners."

And he just hit a wall. He proposed to his girlfriend, but she declined and left him shortly afterward. His deadend job, his inability to utilize his limited college education, and a rapid pace of computer evolution left him feeling unwanted, unmotivated, and on the brink of a nasty drinking addiction. One morning, he realized the destructive path his life was taking, decided to quit his job, and just take a meditative afternoon to recollect his thoughts at the beach.

And the beach never let him go.

He made his money collecting cans from garbage bins and turning them in to the grocery store. Most of his food came from what the local shops threw out; the greatest year of his new life was when Noah's Bagels opened a shop down there, because they would throw out several weeks worth of delicious high carb food items every evening. He was fortunate to kick his drinking habit before it got too out of control, and expressed how blessed he was that he could simply overcome the urge with a nice afternoon nap on the sand.

He wasn't just aware of the "Santa Bum" moniker. He invented it. When he realized his facial hair was turning white early in his homeless life, he grew out the beard, thinking it would make him more approachable. He believed people would be less likely to hassle him if he looked like Santa Claus, because who would call the cops on Ol' Saint Nick? With his distinct red trunks and beard, he didn't look like some homeless guy sleeping on the beach. He looked like a friggin' postcard. Kids would be delighted seeing him surf, making him a valued member of the community.

By far, this was the most enjoyable interview I ever did for that newspaper. And the article got a tremendous response from the students as well, a lot of the school surf team started greeting him by name every morning. The surf team's coach personally complimented me for the article, saying I did a great job capturing his story and assuaging the apprehensions some parents might express seeing him there. The coach used to surf with Ryan and got to know him years previous, so his approval meant a lot to me.

Since then, I'm still a little wary around the homeless. I've walked through skid row and the fashion district enough times to know there are some legitimately unstable and off-kilter individuals who aren't all there. But the thing is...I've *walked through skid row.* I wouldn't have gone anywhere close to that place before.

But Ryan undid a lot of the mental damage that one mother did in my formative years. He reminded me that there's still a human behind every one of those downtrodden faces, and they all have a story to tell. A story of dreams, attempts, successes, and failures. They all have reasons for being there. And if you lend them an ear, they can take you on a wild ride of a story that makes you appreciate who they really are, and not just the circumstance they've ended up in.

Ryan passed away from skin cancer in the mid 2000's. The local paper had a quarter-page feature for him in the front bottom fold. It described his history in working a tech start-up back when they were super rare, his aspirations to be an audio engineer for local bands, and one particular line stood out. "He knew more about opening acts than headliners."

Logically, it's most likely coincidence. But a part of me thinks my own story influenced Ryan's remembrance in a more prominent publication, giving them more to work with. It might've just been another blip in the obituaries section, but by taking a morning to just sit down and hear him out, his memory is carrying on to present day.

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