Winston Wins: Tuesday Writing Essential

The skies opened up as soon as Winston left the terminal, soaking him instantly to the skin.  Puddles forming on the sidewalk splashing his trousers as he slogged through to the parking garage.

The chill of the rain was a bitter reminder of the crappy week he'd had already.  Delays, surly passengers, bitter gate personnel, and inevitable nasty remarks from macho mechanics swirled across Winston's rapidly cooling pate.  His jaws hurt from gritting his teeth, and he was sure that the pain in his gut was going to ruin his night.

A parking shuttle van swerved to avoid a suddenly stopped car, running through a rain-fed stream at the curbside and sent a wave of water across Winston's back.  Uncharacteristically, Winston stopped in his tracks, his normal cool demeanor shattered momentarily.  He shook his fist at the apologetic driver, who simply shrugged and continued on, Winston disappearing quickly in his rear view mirror.

The parking garage seemed lit like a hospital basement, the sodium lights casting pinkish light across the sea of cars parked there.  Approaching his Honda, Winston noticed a man sitting casually on the trunk, as if the car belonged to him.  Fury fueled by the week's injuries bloomed dangerously in Winston's face, and he took a deep breath to launch into a scathing tirade aimed at this cretin.

"Is this your car?" the man asked, sliding casually off of it to the ground.

Winston suddenly felt fear worm into his guts.  He looked around for other passengers or employees in the lot.  Seeing no one, he squared his rounded shoulders and said "Yes, it is."

"You don't know me, but I've been looking all over for you," the man said.

Winston looked at the stranger carefully.  Mid-thirties, hair coiffed just so, a stylish suit and good shoes (which Winston found more interesting than the rest of him).  The man's face was passive, relaxed with a natural confidence that said he was used to having his way.

"Yes?  Why would you be looking for me?" Winston asked, less nervous but now curious.

"I have something of yours," he said, reaching into his pocket.

With a crash, Winston's rollerbag hit the ground, as he let go of it to backpedal rapidly.  The man froze, his hand still in his pocket.  A smile lit his face and he said carefully, "No worries, sir.  If this belongs to you, only good things are in store."

His hand came out of his pocket slowly, and Winston flinched.  It was a cassette tape.

"Does this belong to you?" the man asked, holding the tape out to Winston.

Winston cautiously took a step, and then another.  It was indeed his tape.  The unlabeled one he had sent to the agent so many months ago.

"Yes, I think it is."

"Sir, you have an army of private detectives searching for you.  My name is Eli Sarkovsky, and I've been hired to find the person who sent this tape to our client at Mephisto Publishing."

"Yes?" Winston asked stupidly, his heart filling his chest.

"Indeed.  I have to ask one thing of you.  Sing me a bar of 'Don Giavanni'.  Any aria.  Your choice."

Winston's mouth dried.  His voice was a wreck from coffee and cigarettes, yet here was redemption.

"Sir?" Eli asked.

Winston took a breath and sang.  He sang his heart out.  He sang for every slight, every rudeness, every indecent thing done to him.  He sang for every nobody everywhere working for a deadend job and despairing of the long nights.  He sang for his music teacher who told him he could sing well enough to be noticed.  He sang for every dream that faded into the darkness upon waking in the morning light.

Eli's mouth dropped open, watching this little flight attendant sing like a bird, his eyes closed, tears streaming down his face as if his life were in mortal danger.

When Winston finally stopped, the silence of the parking lot was even deeper than before.  Drips of rain striking the pavement were audible, as was the sound of cars.  Passengers dumbstruck by the spectacle of the singing man in the parking lot broke out of their revelry and clapped loudly with the joy of it.

Eli smiled broadly at Winston.  He reached into his coat and pulled out an envelope.  "I don't even know your name, but I think I'm a fan" he said simply.

He held the envelope out to Winston, just out of his reach.  "Sir, I've been instructed to give you this envelope.  It has the name and private number of a very, very desparate music publisher who wishes you to call him right away, day or night."

Eli waved the envelope, and Winston, his mouth dry, his lungs burning, took it carefully.

"Also, you'll find $500, which is this distraught publisher's way of saying this is serious business."

Eli took a mobile phone from his coat. He opened it, dialed a number and held the phone out to Winston.  "Sir?"

Winston took the phone, held it to his ear and said "Hello?"