8Day sixteen, and Jungle Karma's first and only semi-regular customer had failed to return after the new submarine sandwich shop down the road had started selling 5 meatball subs starting at 3pm. RJ, while determined to give the customer the most pizza bang for his pizza buck, was unable, and, when it came down to it, unwilling to try and match Sublime Sandwiches' bargain lunch rates. There was little he could do but keep preparing his pizzas fresh and made to order, as few and far between as they may have been.
When he closed up shop that night and realized as he was wiping down the counter that there was nothing on the counter to wipe, he began to wonder, for the first time in years, if perhaps Dad Had Been Right All Along.
As he retired to his loft, which was looking as sparse and bare as any place he had ever lived; furnished only with a hammock, a small refrigerator and his clothing, scattered about in haphazard piles across the floor, he sighed. Keeping his head up and soldiering on down this road was turning out to be much harder than he had expected it would be, and even if his father had not been right all along, the horizon was not looking especially rosy for his little slice of the food service industry.
Monday, the seventeenth day, was a peculiar day. He opened at 7am, like always. Also like always, he opened the doors hours before there was so much as a bird in the sky, let alone any potential human customers. An early riser from childhood, he had long been instilled with the desire to chase the sun out of hiding and meet the day head on, because you just never knew, did you?
Yeah, well, I have a feeling I do, in fact, "know", he thought dismally.
He turned around the "Closed" sign and smiled wryly, out at the empty street.
Welcome to Jungle Karma, I'll be your waiter, who apparently committed some unpardonable sin in a past life and is now paying quite dearly for it.
TV would help to pass the time. It always did. Out of the hundreds and hundreds of satellite television stations available, there had to be something out there to take his mind off the empty restaurant, the cold ovens, the pristine bags of ice, the still sealed exotic spice jars, and the fact that he had already received the bill for his first month's rent and he couldn't think of any feasible way of raising that kind of money short of selling a kidney.
But TV was there for him. Constant as the morning star was television, and it could always be counted upon as a friendly, accommodating companion in times of extremity.
He reached across the counter to his small, vintage black and white set, switched it on, and leaned back on his stool, arms crossed across his chest.
Entertain me, he thought. Justify my existence.
The set powered on, and a moment later, the small screen flickered a few times and lit up. The screen was entirely blank, save for a tiny text-only inset in the bottom left corner.
"Unable to retrieve satellite signal. Error code 834. Please call 555-888-9000 for assistance."
"Existence? Officially justified," RJ said irritably.
The CorrecTV customer service representative was friendly, courteous, cheerful and entirely useless. She manually reset the receiver box, to no avail. She asked RJ to unplug the box, wait 15 seconds, replace the plug, hit reset, wait 15 seconds, and power the box back on, to no avail. She asked RJ to verify his address, verify his account number, verify his programming package, and verify his four digit PIN, and when she had the information, she asked him to hold.
And he did. And it was the one time he found himself relieved to have no customers, because she kept him on hold for forty five minutes. He had never actually heard the instrumental, light jazz version of "I Know What Boys Like" by The Waitresses, and now that he had, absolutely nothing had changed.
CorrecTV sent a technician later that afternoon, to come out and check the wiring and rotate the satellite dish, if necessary. RJ attempted to make small talk, asking the technician, Stan his name was, whether or not he liked pizza.
"Yeah, I like pizza. Kind you put in the microwave. Little cardboard wrapper, gets the crust all hard and crunchy and burned."
Burned! Crunchy! Bingo!
"Ah, then, if I may make a suggestion-"
"I gotta go on your roof."
"Uh, of course. The stairs are around back. Stan, maybe, when you're through here, you might like to try one of my specialties? On the house. I have one that I think might be right up your alley; fire-roasted-"
"Yeah, I don't think so. Pizza gives me the shits. That ain't no good while I'm working."
RJ grimaced a bit, trying to block out the mental image.
Okay, focus, RJ. Focus. Think about something else. La da da da da, "I know what boys like, I know what guys want. I know what boys like, I know what boys like, boys like, boys like me..." Do do do do do... Sucker.
"Well, maybe a salad, then?" he said, smiling.
"Maybe this is gonna come to 299 plus labor."
"Maybe we'll wait on the salad," RJ sighed, paling. For that kind of money, he could have gone on the roof himself. For that kind of money, he'd watch broadcast, for crying out loud! He'd still get to see his reality shows, at least most of them.
He toyed with the idea of asking Stan to leave, but in all likelihood, he would still owe a fee for the technician coming out at all. He may as well let the man finish his work. He would regret it, but there was not much he could do at this point but wait to hear what the problem was and go from there.
And still no customers.
And what was there to do? What was there to do but go outside and see if Stan needed any help? There was certainly no one inside who did.
The satellite dish was on the west side of the building, facing the street. Stan was inching his way across the sloped glass roof, spitting out expletives here and there as he made his way up one side and down the other.
"Uh, hey, man, you want me to come up?" RJ called.
"What the hell for? It ain't your job!"
"Well, I, uh, happen to know a thing or two about satellite technology. Actually built one once, to tap into the-"
"Well, we don't tap into things at CorrecTV! And if I find out you been using this dish to tap into shit you ain't supposed to be tappin' inta, it'll be your ass, valued customer or not!"
RJ smiled weakly.
"Just... talk shows and wrestling."
Stan grumbled an ornery reply and RJ sighed. Alright, apparently Stan doesn't need any help, either. He's the professional; I guess he knows what he's doing.
RJ returned, rather forlornly, he realized, to the empty restaurant. The mood music he had specially picked out for his establishment almost seemed to mock him as he walked across the virgin floor, ran his hand along the back of an empty chair, and wondered what on earth he was going to do.
And then, all at once, he heard it.
Footsteps?
Footsteps.
Footsteps.
In there? In his restaurant? On his floor?
He whirled around, and found himself staring across the restaurant at the most beautiful thing he had seen in the time since he had gotten up that morning.
A potential customer.
She was young, he could tell. Tallish, with unkempt brunette hair. Big, square glasses. She was dressed in pink; a baggy cardigan, faded jeans, dirty sneakers. She had a bag with her, a floral print messenger bag with a few books and some rolled up papers sticking out the top. She was lingering in the doorway shyly, peeking around the corner, giving the place the once and twice over.
"Hi!" RJ burst out. "Welcome to Jungle Karma! Table for... one? Two? Expecting someone to join you? The more the merrier, as I always say!"
The girl noticed him for the first time, and her eyes widened. She took a step backward.
"Oh, uh..." she stammered, "S-sorry. I... I thought... I was just... I was just looking f-for some... s-sorry..."
RJ looked at her, puzzled.
"Uh... a booth, maybe?" he asked. "Or, or the counter, you can sit at the-"
"Sorry..." the girl mumbled, turning around abruptly. "I was just... I'll just..."
She bumped into the doorframe and let out a little peep of surprise.
"Uh, wait!" RJ called, jogging toward her, "I mean... can't I even get you a soda? On the house?!"
The girl was gone, taking off out the door and down the sidewalk. RJ made it to the door with a defeated grunt. She was gone. She was gone.
How did he do it? How did he manage to do it? He had scared off a customer! What had he done wrong? Too much enthusiasm? Not enough enthusiasm? Was the floor dirty? Did she not like the music? Was it his hair? His clothes? Should he have shaved that morning? Would it have even made any difference? What was the problem?!
He heard Stan up on the roof, banging rhythmically. Well, he certainly wasn't helping matters. RJ could hear him pounding, banging, stomping, pulling, and spitting with irritation and rage.
"You know what? This... isn't really working out," he said to himself.
He walked outside, preparing to go around back to confront Stan. At that point, he was not sure exactly what he would end up doing, but the option of cancelling his CorrecTV affordable home service plan was not entirely outside the realm of possibility. He would most likely not get his initial deposit back, but if business was going to go this miserably, could he really afford the monthly fee for 500 channels of overpriced, premium quality entertainment? Not likely. Not likely. At this rate, he would be lucky if he could afford to buy a new pair of socks before the turn of the next millennium.
The sun was bright, almost unusually bright, and it was quite warm for February. He backed up a few feet and looked up at the roof, shielding his eyes from the sun. Stan was standing behind the satellite dish, attempting to rotate it. He grunted, snarled, huffed and puffed, all but unable to budge the dish from its position.
"Uh, hey, listen, Stan?" RJ called up to him. "Listen, uh... I think I changed my mind about the dish. I'll be happy to pay you for your time, but, uh..."
It was at that moment that he noticed her.
Her. The girl. His would-be customer. She was standing, alone, at the east edge of the building, tapping her feet nervously, staring off into space.
Waiting, RJ realized at last, for a bus.
"Harsh," RJ muttered. "Uh, yo, Stan? You hear me, man? I kinda-"
Stan suddenly let out a piercing yelp; a rather unusual and jarring sound to hear coming from a tough guy such as himself. From where RJ was standing, he could only see the top of Stan's head, which all at once vanished from sight, accompanied by a loud crash.
"Uh, Stan? Buddy? Everything okay up-"
The satellite dish.
He had absolutely no idea what Stan had done to the dish, which had previously been bolted to the roof, securely bolted down, immobile, in accordance with all known safety regulations. Now, as RJ watched, horrified, the dish all at once came loose from its foundation, dramatically listing to one side, then the other, then tumbling bow over stern and rolling along the slope of the roof.
Stan was screaming, and a series of rapid scuffling sounds punctuated his horrified cries. He was trying to escape, to avoid being run over by the wayward satellite dish, and fate was not on his side at the moment.
More unfortunate, RJ realized, was his sudden realization that his prodigal customer just so happened to be standing in the exact spot that the dish would land, should it continue on its path of trajectory. And was there any reason why it shouldn't?
Over Stan's pathetic, whimpering shrieks, RJ could hear nothing. The girl glanced up at the roof with startled confusion.
Move! Move! No! Don't just stand there- Oh, naturally, she's just going to stand there.
RJ took off like a shot. No, indeed, she wasn't going to move out of the path of the falling death trap. Did they ever? Not in his experience, and he had some experience indeed.
"Hey! Get out of the way!" he screamed. Needlessly, he supposed. He would make it to her side in plenty of time, of this he was certain. He would make it, just in time to save the girl from certain doom. And maybe then-
Their eyes met. Her face paled.
She stepped aside.
But his heroic instinct was strong, and though his mind was screaming at his body to stop, stop, Oh, man, stop, come on, dude, she moved, she actually moved, he could not stop. Directly into the path of the falling satellite dish, he launched himself into midair, arms outstretched. The girl screamed, threw her bag into the air, and covered her face.
Good idea, Miss. This is probably going to hurt.
The two unfortunate victims of circumstance collided with one another, and the force of his body against hers sent the poor girl careening into the road, helpless to do anything but scream and crumple. He landed directly on top of her, elbows jutting out, scraping the ground. Sharp, stinging pain surged through his body, and an oncoming vehicle screeched to a halt directly in front of them.
But they had stopped.
And somewhere behind them, the satellite dish crashed to the ground. A 99.99 installation fee, up in flames.
The driver of the vehicle threw open his door and immediately ran to their side, concern etched on his face.
"Oh, my god! What happened? Are you okay?!"
RJ did not realize until that moment that his eyes had been closed, and he now tentatively opened them, only to find himself staring directly upward at the underside of a parked car.
"Uh... oh, wow. Uh... yeah. I'm, uh, I'm good. See if she's okay," he said to the car's left rear tire. Everything was spinning. Had he even spoken out loud? The tire was being awfully forward with a complete stranger, that much was certain.
The girl was hyperventilating, and as RJ slowly pushed himself out from under the car and into a half-seated, half-sprawled position, he got a better look at the situation. A mess if ever there was one, but everyone was alive. The girl had not been horribly crushed by an expensive piece of television equipment, and they had both miraculously managed to avoid being creamed by reckless mid rush hour traffic.
The Good Samaritan was helping the girl to her feet and out of the road, and a moment later, another decent law abiding compassionate citizen approached RJ.
"Come on, mister, we better get you out of the street," she said. She was an older woman, a teacher, maybe? A kind smile, a rounded figure, graying hair pulled back in a neat braid. "Oh, careful, there's blood."
"Oh, careful, there's blood."
RJ couldn't help but admire the lady's matter-of-factness. Indeed, oh, my, there truly was blood. RJ's shirt sleeves had been torn to shreds and he had paved the road with the skin on his forearms. It should have hurt. Oh, boy, it was going to hurt, though. Not much longer before it started to hurt. He could almost count the seconds before it started to- THERE WE GO! Oh, and it was even worse than he was expecting.
He heard the girl crying, and whimpering, and trying to speak. She was pointing back at Jungle Karma, and stammering, and covering her mouth with her hands.
Good survival instinct, little dudette, RJ thought, nodding approvingly. I could learn a thing or two from you.
Passersby, more than he had ever seen on this street, had congregated around the scene of the accident. People were gasping, pointing, shouting into cell phones.
"I don't know what it's called, it's a... a restaurant!" one pedestrian was exclaiming into her phone.
"Jungle... something!" another person said.
"Karma. Jungle Karma! No, I don't think anyone's in there. I don't know, I've never heard of it. Have you?" a third girl said.
RJ sighed. The woman helped him sit down on the curb, and he nodded gratefully.
"Thanks a bunch. I, uh... probably couldn't have made it all the way over here under my own steam," he said shakily. "Not much... steam left, right now."
The woman squinted at him.
"Son, you don't look very well. Do you need to go to the hospital?"
RJ blinked at her, probably too slowly. He was suddenly tired, very tired.
"Uh, no. No, I, uh... I don't like hospitals. They're a little too... much like hospitals," he said ineffectually. His usual habit of speaking with his hands was causing him a great deal of misery; each movement of his wrist or his fingers sent jolts of pain through his bleeding arms, and he eventually resigned himself to folding his hands in his lap and trying not to move them. And it was hard.
The girl had finally managed to speak in complete sentences, and RJ glanced back at her as she attempted to relay what had happened to the growing crowd of onlookers.
"And, and, and, and, and I was just, I was just standing there and, and, and, and, and all of a sudden, he's, he's like, 'look out!'"
"Who? Who?" the man who had pulled her from the street asked.
"The, the, the... him! And, and..."
She pointed at RJ.
"And, and, and he's like, 'move!' And, and, and I did, but, but..."
"You have great reflexes," RJ said suddenly. He painfully shifted positions so he was facing the girl, who stared at him with enormous, unblinking eyes. "Most people would have just stood there."
"What happened then?" the man asked.
"I, I, I, I, I... I moved, but, but, he... he jumped in, and, and, and, next thing I knew, I was in the road! And, and, and, and..."
"So he pushed you out of the way?"
"I, I, I, I, I... yeah!"
"Uh, well, not exactly," RJ corrected. "She was already out of the way. I just kind of..."
"Isn't that something!" cried the older woman, "And to think, I was just telling my husband at breakfast today that we might as well burn our house down and move to Cincinnati, I said, Herb, there's not a single person in this godforsaken town worth giving the time of day to, not a single person who shouldn't just be dragged out of their homes and fed to wild dogs and left to rot in the sun. And then, here comes someone like you, jumping into the path of a falling satellite dish to save a perfect stranger who was already out of harm's way!"
"Yeah, man," the man shook his head. "That's pretty, well, pretty damn stupid."
"Uh, well, I'm in agreement with you fine folks on that point," RJ said. "Uh, maybe not the wild dogs... thing, so much... That's actually a little creepy. I, uh, I don't know if-"
"Karma! K-A-R-M-A!" a young woman was screaming into her phone. "What? I don't know, they sell pizza or something. Yeah! Yeah! Pizza!"
An OBPD squad car pulled up alongside the store, sirens ablaze. Down the block was an ambulance, and several blocks down, another siren wailed.
The girl was approached by police and paramedics, who formed a protective circle around her and led her to the back of the ambulance. All at once, she stopped, looked back and pointed at RJ.
"Take him first," she said, her voice unwavering. It was the first sentence RJ had ever heard her speak that didn't consist of disjointed stutters. "Look at his arms; he's bleeding all over the place!"
The paramedics assured her that everyone who required medical attention would receive it, and a moment later, three other paramedics came for RJ.
"Oh, uh, listen," RJ said, holding his hands up, a bit defensively. "I, uh... I don't really go in for this whole hospital, uh, thing. I've got a couple scrapes, that's about it. Nothing serious, I mean..."
He was unable to finish the sentence without wincing in pain.
"Well, Sir, you have the right to refuse medical treatment," one of the paramedics said, "Though I strongly advise against it."
"Oh, I understand. But, uh, traditional medicine and I, uh, we don't exactly get along. And, uh, trust me; she needs it more than I do. I really knocked her for a loop."
"What exactly do you mean by that, Sir?" a police officer demanded. He had a pen and a pad in hand and an unfriendly scowl on his face.
"I, uh, well, what I mean is..."
"What he means," the girl exclaimed, striding toward the group, "Is that he saved my life."
Her sudden outburst seemed to startle her back into meekness, and she looked away and began shaking. The police officer raised an eyebrow.
"This true?"
RJ shrugged.
"You know, I mean, she actually saved herself. I just kind of... added a little extra drama to it. A little... six o'clock news padding."
"What exactly does that mean?" the officer asked.
"You know, I'm not exactly sure. But, no, trust me, I just..."
"Did you assault her?! Huh? What are you, some kind of loony?!"
"Oh, whoa, man," RJ breathed. "Where's the good cop?"
At that moment, Stan appeared. Stan, with a large bruise on his face, a slight limp in his walk, and his hands on his hips. He sought out RJ, and threw a piece of paper on a clipboard into RJ's hands.
"Sign this," he snapped. "Voluntary termination of your CorrecTV service contract. Sign it!"
"Whoa, man, I don't know if I want to cancel."
"You cancel or I lose my job. We can write it off. When did you activate the service? Has it been ninety days? If it ain't been ninety days, you're entitled to a full refund. A full refund, oh, jeez, man, what more do you want-"
"Stan, buddy, listen," RJ sighed. "You've been through a lot. I have, too. I'd be more than happy to cancel my service and let you go on your merry way."
"Yeah, yeah, oh, jeez, man, yeah-"
"Were it not for the fact that I kind of own this restaurant, Stan, and, well, you almost lost me a customer today. For good."
"Jeez, man, come on, man, come on, your roof, man! It's barely up to code, man, the dish never should have been installed, dude-"
"Then why was it?"
"Jeez, man, I'm not the one-"
"No, you aren't. Someone wanted to make a sale; of that, we can be certain. Wanted to make a sale of CorrecTV satellite television service so badly-"
"Jeez, man, look-" Stan was waving his hands now, frantically pawing at the air, eyes agape.
RJ paused, embracing his inner calm.
"Stan, pal, all I'm saying is that I think you owe us all an apology. On behalf of the entire CorrecTV corporation."
"Oh, man, sure, I hear ya-"
"And, now, you know, now might be a good time for that."
RJ and CorrecTV, Inc (a subsidiary of Commucom) agreed to settle out of court for 10,000. It was all he could really justify accepting, at least to himself, and it would help with the rent for some time.
In the intervening weeks since the satellite dish incident, he had become something of a cult figure among Ocean Bluffians. People came from all over town, nay, all over the state to see the pizza place where the girl almost got killed by a satellite dish. Word of the events spread into the mainstream media, and RJ was amused and stunned to see that his story was sardonically covered on The Colbert Report one Monday night. "Karma" had been Stephen Colbert's "The Word", and though Mr. Colbert had represented RJ as a reefer-smoking, sitar playing hippie who made the baby Jesus weep and sold pizzas made with post-consumer processed cheese flavored hemp food product, RJ counted being featured on the Report as one of the top ten coolest things that had ever happened to him in his life.
Business was up, decidedly so. He had become something of a folk hero, and at last, at long last, he had something to do!
It was the thirty third day before he saw the girl again. He was getting ready to turn around the "Open" sign that night, when he saw a figure approaching from down the road. The sun was well down and a chill wind was blowing; indeed, the weather was taking a turn for miserable.
The figure was bundled up, almost absurdly so; she wore a long, dark brown coat, a big scarf, a massive hat, and she carried an umbrella and a floral messenger bag.
She stopped just shy of the door's threshold, and she unwrapped her scarf. A nervous smile crept onto her pale little face, and RJ was startled, all but speechless. It was her.
"Um... hi," the girl said quietly.
"H-hi," RJ replied.
"Um, I... I don't know if you remember me..." the girl coughed, "Um, but..."
"Uh, I remember you," RJ said, still stunned.
"I was the girl that..."
"Dude... come... come on in!" RJ cried suddenly. "It's freezing out here."
"Oh, um... but, aren't you closed? I mean, I only... I just came by so I could-"
"What? Closed? What, no! No, well, I mean, not for you. I mean, I'm closed, but... come on in, anyway. Have- have a seat."
The girl hesitated, then seemed to steel herself, and she entered the restaurant.
"Sit anywhere you like. I... do... do you want anything? I mean, anything... I'll... I'll make anything. I mean, I've got-"
"What? Oh, no, no, I... I couldn't. I barely have any money, I mean-"
"Well, that doesn't matter! Anything you want, anything, it's on the house."
The girl slipped off her coat, and shot him a disbelieving look.
"That's awfully nice of you, but..."
"No, come on! Anything you want."
"I... I only came here..."
RJ shook his head.
"Never mind why you came here. I owe you a pizza, you know. Or two. Like I said, anything you want."
The girl sat down at the counter, looking around.
"You owe me?"
"Do I ever."
She let out a little giggle.
"I don't think so. I'm the one who owes you-"
RJ waved her comment off. His arms had healed over, and he was back to speaking with his hands.
"Ah, don't be silly. Now, really. Anything you want. Even if we don't have it, I'll make it. And if I don't know how, I'll learn."
"I... I don't know," the girl said, looking at her hands. "Listen, I mean... I came here because I wanted to-"
"It's... okay," RJ said, a little too quickly.
"No, no, it isn't okay," the girl said. "It's not okay." She looked up at RJ and slapped her palms down on the counter. "I always do this. I can't... I can't just say anything. I always have to... I can't ever just SAY anything!"
RJ tilted his head with curiosity.
"Well, you don't really need to say anything."
"Yes, I do! I need to, to apologize."
"For what?"
"For... leaving. For, um... that thing I did. You know, the..." she mimicked walking with two fingers across the countertop. "When I took off. I just... I got so nervous and I was the only one in here and I didn't... I just hate being the center of attention."
RJ smiled.
"Well, that's... I kind of know how you feel, there."
"I mean, I thought... I thought you'd be closed so I could just kind of duck in real quick, tonight, I mean, and just..."
"If you're not comfortable-" RJ took a step backwards. "Dude, that's not me, man. Come on-"
"But I don't! I mean, I'm not. I mean, I am! I'm comfortable, I'm just... I just... I was so nervous and I didn't know what I was going to say to you. I just, oh, man, I felt so bad. I can't even tell you how bad I felt! Running away like that, and then you... and I mean, it took me this whole time just to get up my courage to face you again. You were on all the news shows and you're this big hero and I just ran away and hid like a coward, when I should have... I should have at least come and said something!"
"You did. You're here now! And, look, Dudette, I'm no hero. I mean it, I'm really not. You did it, not me."
"But your arms, they were all... bleeding, and... And Terry Moran on Nightline said you only settled for 10,000 and you didn't want to drag it into court, and your arms and I would have died. Right then! Splat! Splat, all over the pavement, if you hadn't been there. And I couldn't even come and say thank you until two weeks later! Shame on me! Shame on me!"
RJ had lost track of what she was saying about halfway through; his head was spinning from the raw energy pouring from this girl. Her blood pressure had to be through the roof.
"Just... whoa, now. Come on, chill out a second. I can see your veins."
"I know, everyone says I'm going to give myself a heart attack."
"Well, how would it look if you had one in the middle of a restaurant? Well, actually... it probably wouldn't look that unusual. I do sell pizza. A lot of really greasy, really fatty, artery clogging... you know, you probably don't want any pizza right now. How-how about a nice smoothie instead? With fruit and... not... meat, and... you know, I should really have a defibrillator on site. Do you feel light-headed?"
The girl took a few deep breaths.
"I'm sorry-"
"Now, now, now, there's no reason for that, either. Apologizing."
"I'm s- I'm-" She gave him a frustrated look. "I don't know how not to apologize!"
"Well, it's... it's easy. You just don't apologize, because... you didn't do anything wrong. Though I am curious..."
"I know," the girl sighed.
"What's your name?"
The girl's head snapped up.
"My name? W-why do you want to know that?"
"Oh, no reason. I mean, it's cool. You wanna go kinda incognito. I can dig that. Gives you an air of mystery. Who is that masked man?"
The girl swallowed, giving RJ a sheepish grin. Her face was flushed, due to her high stress levels, but she looked rather endearing in that moment.
"I'm Fran," she said.
FIN
