TAKE A PICTURE

Howdy. Jack Tide* here.

Best things happen when you least expect it. Worst things too, come to think of it, especially when you've a targeting dot on your chest.

I walked into this little cafe yesterday, the one called Tully's, over there the Redmond Town Center. I had a couple hours to chill so I decided to sip on a dark roast brew and work on some sketches.

She was standing behind the bar fixing a drink like she had done days prior and days prior. I'd seen her before and she was really the only reason I came here. I'd never talked to her and in the entire time I'd frequented the place she'd never waited on me. I think this is because she senses I'm a bit of an anti-hero or because she was clearly out of my league. Like Dirty Harry once said, a man's got to know his limitations.

She looked up and gave me a brief smile of recognition and I smiled back and was about to wave when she looked back at what she was doing. So I put my hand down.

"Welcome to Tully's," the blond barista said, stepping up. I'd seen her before too and though she was good looking, she was clearly the less shining of the binary stars.

"Just coffee," I told the blond.

"No," the dark haired barista said, walking over. "You always get that. Let me make something for you."

"Uhm."

"Do you trust me?" she asked. She rested her elbows on the table and looked up at me. "I know exactly what you need on a day like this."

"Er."

When I was a kid I somehow managed to catch hold of a magazine that one of my uncles left in the back shed. It was a pretty racy magazine and it stirred within me feelings of power and curiosity. There were lots of magnificent fleshy pictures stamped on those glossy pages and I memorized them all. This was when I was starting to practice my art skills. I had only one problem and that was I couldn't take the magazine with me. It was a dilemma. There was always that fear that my uncle would discover this important treasure missing from his Smaug Den. So I did the next best thing. One day I gathered my pencils and tracing  paper and traced my favorite ten pictures in sweaty detail with trembling hands. Then I ferried these riches away and secreted them under my bed where I planned to build a little nest egg for my future.

I had discovered a new dimension of happiness, one that I hadn't even suspected existed before.  This was on par with the kind of happiness Christmas Day always brought, only a little less...holy. Yeah. Even my child-like mind at the time recognized there was a fundamental difference between Christmas Day and sketches of naked women on motorcycles with goats. But I chalked it up to a 'who cares'. Trouble came when me mom discovered my cache.

"What the hell are these?" she asked.

I had just come in from playing catch with some of the neighbors and I was looking forward to some pizza rolls and lemonade. Instead I got her standing in the kitchen leafing through those sheets of paper that I recognized. I stopped and my good humor for the day was zapped dead. At first I hoped that she was looking at something else, like maybe tax returns or credit card receipts, some adult thing that had no relevance to me. Then I saw the gray outline of a breast that was struggled out in my handwriting and I knew I was doomed.

"What the hell are you drawing?"

"Er."

The moment that sexy barista said that I was instantly transported to that moment in the kitchen as all those strange and new feelings of horror and discovery came rushing back.

"It's on me," she said. "I have a feeling this is going to be your new favorite drink though." She winked and started her concoction. 

I found a table and pulled my art book out of my messenger's bag, careful not to let the Glock 37 drop out. That wouldn't make a good impression.

"Are you an artist?" the blond barista asked, walking by with a broom in her mitts.

"Why yes." Smiled. "Yes I am."

"Oh wow, hey, can I look?"

I positioned my sketchbook so she could peruse. Peruse she did and I had to give her five points for genuinely enjoying my sketches. She was a blond though and blondes have never really been my style. Kind of like Dockers.

Still, she did have nice perfume.

"How long did it take you to draw these?" she asked.

I'll admit I didn't particularly care for the wording of the question. I prefer the verb create. Ask da Vinci how long it took him to draw Vetruvian Man and see what kind of look he gives you.

"I must first find inspiration that is fueled by my passions," I told her, remembering my first foray into genuine art that was later censored by mom.

"I'm Claire," she said, extending her hand. Her handshake was warm and inviting but she had a slight flaw on one of her nails. I could overlook it though.

"Jack," I told her. I let my gaze linger a bit so that we could connect nonverbally and smiled the way that Bill Clinton or George Clooney might. "Jack Ti-"

"This one's my absolute favorite," Claire said, flipping to one of the lesser pieces. 

So she's an interrupter. This would mean that I would now have to keep my replies and questions to a bare minimum. I wondered what kinds of music she liked. She looked like a Seattle hipster pot-smoker which would put her snuggly in the Led Zeppelin/Dave Mathews/Jason Mraz category. This was fine with me. I don't smoke pot. Puts me right to sleep and-

"What's it a picture of?"

So she's not only a verbal interrupter but a thought-interrupter as well. Interesting. I could see how this was going to get tiring real fa-

"This one's pretty cool too."

"What are you guys looking at?" the dark haired barista asked. Her curiosity aroused she peeked over the steam machine and smiled at me.

"Keira! This guy's art is really awesome. You gotta come check it out."

Oh no.

It was when she walked around the corner, when I could see her fully, that things began, like a rapidly expanding universe a billionth of a second after creation. It was when she looked up at me with those blue eyes that time was born, stapled and now in tandem with space. What came before the birth of the universe? There are theories and up until that brief history of time I hadn't given the matter much thought.

She walked over and looked down at the art and the lesser of the two, the blond, naturally retreated.

"These are great," Keira said.

"Er."

She sat down across from me and then scooted her chair closer. She wore a white blouse, black slacks and just the right hint of perfume mist to never forget. She sat down and smiled while reading some of my writing, occasionally looking up at me.

I knew for a fact that my hair had seen better days and I tried casually and inconspicuously to search my pockets for my certs. Nothing.

Keira. I tasted the name. I'd never have guessed her name. Her name was beyond my imagination, beyond my galaxy. 

She stopped reading and set the book down carefully then slowly placed her whole attention on me. 

I'm a Big Game Hunter. It's what I do. I know over sixty ways to kill a man with a latte. I know how to rig a Tesla with an I-pod battery so that it'll blow the hell up once it hits 33 mph.

"I'm Keira," she said, extending her hand. 

I looked down at her hand.

I accepted her handshake and she felt as I had hoped. 

"Jack," I told her. "Jackson Wellesey Tide."

"It's good to finally meet you, Jackson," she said.

And that was how I met Keira Anastasia Mercile.




*Jack Tide's a fictional character from Michael Callinglast. For more of Jack check out his book FEROCITY to see what it's like to be a young hitman living in Seattle.