Satyrday Morning

Satyrday Morning

Part One of the Satyr Saga

* * * * *

All characters in this book are 18 or over.

* * * * *

Owen Howard pulled into the parking lot and turned off his engine. Looking through the large front window of Mama Juliana's, he sighed gratefully as he saw the large pizza oven was shut down.

No more deliveries tonight,

he thought, and got tiredly out of the car.

It was after 1 AM.

Fourteen hours straight. I can't keep this up for much longer. The money's decent, but I need a real job.

Like what?

his mind jeered.

No one's going to hire you full-time if you're still going to community college and they know you're going to quit when the semester starts. And you need a degree. Do you want to be like the rest of these losers? Or your dad? Working sixty hours a week just to make ends meet until he dropped dead?

Owen walked into the restaurant and tossed the warming bags into the bin. "All done for the night?" he asked Jimmy Clark, one of the other two late-shift drivers.

"Yup," Jimmy replied, wiping down the counter. The inside crew was already gone."Me and Bob have already cashed out. Let's get this place cleaned up and get the hell out of here."

Along with Bob Stanley, Owen and Jimmy hauled the leftover dough into the cooler, swept and mopped the floor, and washed the ingredient trays, stacking the plastic holders neatly for the day-shift to set out tomorrow.

He was just collecting his money from his lock-box to cash out when the phone rang.

"God damn it," said a tired voice from the manager's office. "Which one of you forgot to put the night service on?"

Anaya Ansari stalked out of the office toward the phone bank, long black hair trailing behind her, her dark Indian skin contrasting beautifully with her crisp white shirt, which she somehow managed to keep clean despite the mess of a pizza prep line.

She snatched up a phone. "Mama Juliana's, we're closed," she said in a tone that was only marginally polite. Her brows pinched in a frown.

"Hi, Darren, what's up?" she said to one of her daytime drivers.

Owen started counting out his money, separating checks from cash, a jingling pile of silver to one side.

"You

what?

No. No no no," she said, her voice rising. "I have you scheduled from eleven to seven tomorrow. You can't call in now. I can't replace you.

"No,

you

listen to

me.

I've been patient with you and this Scientology crap. But if you don't show up for work tomorrow, you're fired."

Darren apparently said something that made Anaya even madder.

"Freedom of religion does

not

mean you can blow off work and not have any consequences, Darren. Either show up or find another job."

A small pause, and then her voice grew quiet.

"You're right, Darren. I have a very negative attitude and you're probably better off without us. Enjoy your life." She slammed the phone down and punched in the code for the night service. The "not-available" light immediately started blinking. "Freaking

idiot,"

she exclaimed, and took off her visor to run a hand through her long black hair.

She turned and faced Owen. "You want some more hours tomorrow? Darren just quit on us."

"What about Bob or Jimmy?" Owen asked, then spun slowly, looking for them. They were nowhere around. "Oh."

Anaya smiled grimly and nodded. "They snuck out as soon as they heard me yelling at Darren. I guess they don't need any extra money." Her eyes fastened on his.

Owen closed his eyes. Eight more hours could mean well over a hundred bucks in tips, especially when there were graduation parties going on, now that the high schools were out.

"OK. But I get to go home at seven on the dot," he said. "I was scheduled for five to nine, even though I asked for the evening off for a family meal with my mom and sister and her boyfriend, remember? And I get to pick up some of Darren's shifts next week. Evening shifts, so I can make some decent money"

Anaya nodded. "Deal. Let's get you cashed out so you can go home."

Inside the cramped office, Anaya pulled up a list of his dispatches, and then started counting the money he had brought in, plus the credit card receipts. After that, she added the standard delivery fee for drivers. The remaining pile was pushed over to him. "How much?"

He counted it and sighed. "One twenty-seven and change. Well, we're one step further away from the poorhouse," he said, and pocketed his cash. "Want to come back to my place tonight?"

She shook her head.

Is he ever going to stop asking?

"You know I'd love to, Owen, but your mother is there."

"How about your place, then?"

"My mother

and

my father are there. Owen, you're a good guy. But I'm not getting involved with anyone I work with."

Owen smiled crookedly. "I understand." One hand fell briefly to her shoulder, giving it a warm squeeze. She looked up, startled. "You're a good person, too, Anaya. I'll see you tomorrow." He turned and slowly walked towards the doors.

Before he could leave, Anaya raised her voice, "Owen?"

One hand on the handle, he turned hopefully. "Yeah?"

"Be here at ten for prep work, OK?"

"Sure," he said, voice bitter, and walked out.

* * * * *

Strange,

Anaya thought, relaxing in the office at last, the only sound that of the air-conditioning in the slowly cooling store,

that two people with so much in common could have such different lives.

Owen was only a couple of years younger than her. They had gone to the same high school. They liked the same music, TV shows, and had grown up less than five miles apart. But her father was a vice-president in a multi-national corporation, and Mama Juliana's was only one of its assets. After she had graduated from Iowa State, her father had hired her, and this job was only to prove that she could work in the lower levels of the world of business. After five years she would get a desk job as an executive and start clawing her way up the corporate ladder.

Owen was the son of a man who died of a heart attack when he was just thirty-six, a big friendly guy who drank too much, worked too hard, and had hired himself out as a general laborer for nearly twenty years. His mother was the only child of a family of Cuban refugees who had fled Castro during the Mariel Boatlift back in the early eighties. He was smart enough to go to college, but with the cuts in grants and scholarships, he was trying to get an associates degree before he transferred to a four-year school.

He had been at the store for nearly five years, starting when he was just seventeen, and was practically an institution. He had helped her out when she first arrived to run the place, and she knew in her bones that she wouldn't have made it through the early days, when she was still learning the job, without his support.

Which made her rejection of him feel like a betrayal. They joked about how they were perfect for each other, but she was really joking and he really wasn't, and sometimes that made things a bit weird between them.

Her mouth tightened.

There can't be anything between us. He's been going to community college for four years, off and on, and still doesn't have a degree. It doesn't matter how much I like him, or how cute he is.

He's a loser. Just like his father.

* * * * *

Owen pulled the grocery list his mother had given him out of his pocket as he entered the store.

Not too much, this time. Milk, eggs, beans, bread, rice and detergent.

He put the items in his cart, and tossed in a six-pack of beer to keep them company.

After checking out, he still had a profit of over a hundred dollars on the night.

I'll still have to gas up in the morning, though. Shit. Thirty bucks down the drain.

He frowned as he walked out the door and into the parking lot. There was a circle of teenagers a few dozen yards away, and raised voices.

Dumb-ass kids. Probably just graduated. Even odds one of them wrecks their car on the way home tonight.

He popped the trunk of his car and was putting the groceries inside when he heard the sound of breaking glass and ripping cloth and a high, angry voice screamed, "Get your hands

off

me, you pig!"

Owen went cold. He grabbed an object out of the trunk and slammed it closed. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his cell and dialed 911, then ran over to the crowd.

"Hey!" he yelled,

"HEY! Leave her alone!"

The circle parted as he barged in, showing him a slender girl with dark brown hair, dressed in a blouse and long skirt, crouched on the ground, teeth bared. She looked wild and feral, ready to attack anyone who got too close. Beside her on the ground was a broken wine bottle, liquid puddling on the asphalt. A heavy gold necklace was around her neck, and several armbands, copper and silver, ran from her wrists to her upper arms. Her blouse was torn and her skirt was ripped, and he could see the swell of her breasts through the gaping slit where the buttons had pulled free.

Owen counted heads.

Five of them. Shit.

He stood beside the girl, who was trying to climb to her feet.

"Oh look," said one drunkenly. "It's the pizza man. Pizza Man to the rescue!"

"That's right," he said calmly. "I'm the pizza man. And you're standing at the Hy-Vee on Pleasant Avenue at two in the morning, drunk and underage, with a hurt girl on the ground. How much slack do you think you're going to get when the cops get here?"

"Cops? There ain't no cops," said the ringleader, a fat teenager in a hoodie. "There's just us and you, Pizza Man. So beat it, or get beaten." He clenched his fists and walked towards Owen, his cronies crowding in around them.

"And there's this," he said, showing them the aluminum softball bat he had pulled out of the trunk. "And this," he continued, holding up the cell phone with the green "connected" light still glowing. He hit the speaker button.

"How long until the officers arrive, please?" he asked politely, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Less than three minutes, sir. Please stay on the line."

"Happy to." He dropped the phone to his side and raised his eyebrows. "If I were you, I'd sit down and wait until the nice policemen get here."

"Fuck you!" the fat kid screamed. He looked frantically back and forth, then ran for his car, the rest following. They had barely gotten inside and started the engine when flashing lights started to reflect off the windows of the store, and two squad cars pulled into the lot. Owen pointed them towards the fleeing car, and grinned as they roared off down Pleasant in pursuit.

"Are you all..." his voice faded as he saw that the girl had already stood and was walking away.

"Hey! Wait!" he yelled, and ran after her. He was nearly to her when she spun and faced him, the neck of the broken bottle a jagged knife in her hand, armbands jangling.

"Whoa!"

he said, raising his hands. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just wanted to see if you were all right."

"That's what they said, too," she said, spitting on the ground. She spoke English with a strange accent. Greek? Slavic? Owen couldn't make it out. "I was sitting here, drinking my wine, talking to the God, and they came to me. They talked nice to me, so I buy another bottle.

"But they became drunk," her lip curled in contempt. "Only a few sips, and they start to stagger around like baby goats. Then the fat one tries to open my shirt. He is lucky you come. I would have cut his throat," she said, waving the broken glass menacingly.

"I believe you. But I just wanted to make sure you were well, and not hurt," he said. "I'm not...I'm not like them," he finished lamely.

For the first time, she actually looked at him. Her eyes softened. "No, you aren't, are you? I am Phoebe," she said, offering her hand. Owen took it.

Her eyes widened. "Ah! It was you I was looking for." Her eyes grew thoughtful. "A very good man, indeed." She stripped a thick copper bracelet from her arm and handed it to him. It was heavy in his hand.

"This is for you. Put it on, Owen." She waited expectantly until he had fastened it around his wrist. She smiled and kissed his cheek, the scent of wine heavy on her breath. She was almost as tall as he was. "A reward from the God."

She ignored his blank stare and turned to walk away, then stopped. "Can I give you my number? For the telephone?"

"Sure," Owen replied, confused. He wasn't sure he would call this girl. There was something disturbing about Phoebe. As if the polite rules of society did not apply to her. She gave him her number and he tapped it into his contacts. "Do you want my number?" he asked.

She waved a dismissive hand. "I do not need it. When I want to talk to you, I will." Without another word she walked away into the night.

"You're welcome," Owen muttered. "It's not like I risked a beating to save you from assault or anything. No reason to thank me."

It wasn't until he was driving home that he realized he had never told her his name.

* * * * *

He pulled into the driveway of their tiny house on the east side, relieved to see his mother's car already there, concerned that the lights were still on this late.

Probably fell asleep with them on again,

he thought.

We're both always so tired.

He got out of the car, hauled out the groceries, and opened a beer. He lay on the trunk of the car, back propped against the rear windshield, and looked up at the stars. The thunderstorms which had blown through earlier in the evening were gone, and the dark sky was crystal clear. He sighed as he looked up at the heavens, just as far away as his dreams.

Owen's dad had died when he was just a sophomore in high school, and the family's financial problems, which had been critical, grew desperate. Owen had given up his faint hopes of going to a four-year college after high school, and had worked through both his junior and senior year. Somehow, between the money his mother, Isabel, brought in as a secretary, and what he contributed with his delivery job, they had managed to keep the house.

Things had gotten a little better last year, when his sister, Samara, graduated from high school and got a job in a call center for a furniture company in Cedar Rapids. She sent money home every month, and seemed content to work as a phone drone and go out with her friends every weekend. She apparently had a new boyfriend now, and was going to introduce him to Isabel and Owen tomorrow night.

Owen wanted more. He had earned enough credits that he was close to getting his associates degree. And half of his tip money, every day, was deposited into a savings account. When he finished off all his prerequisites, he was going to apply to Iowa and Iowa State and Northern Iowa, and when he was accepted...

He grinned, quoting

It's a Wonderful Life,

a movie his entire family loved.

"I'll tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm shakin' the dust of this crummy little town off my feet and I'm gonna see the world! Italy, Greece, the Parthenon, the Colosseum. Then, I'm comin' back here to go to college and see what

they

know. And then I'm gonna build things. I'm gonna build airfields, I'm gonna build skyscrapers a hundred stories high, I'm gonna build bridges a mile long..."

"Boo!"

The voice was right in his ear. He squawked and twitched and nearly fell off the car. When he recovered, his mother was standing beside him, holding a glass of wine and giggling.

"Christ,

Mama! You could have killed me."

Isabel Howard laughed harder and pushed Owen's shoulder. "Move over,

mi vida

. There is room enough for two."

Owen scooched over and watched as his mother climbed onto the trunk with him and leaned back. For a few moments they simply lay together, her shoulder warm against his, sipping their drinks.

Isabel was still dressed for work, in a pair of stylish black slacks and a white blouse. Her bare feet wiggled in the breeze, and she had probably left her suit jacket inside. Owen felt a surge of old anger flow through him.

Fifteen years with that bunch of cheap bastards, and they still won't pay her a decent wage. She's wearing clothes she bought five, six years ago, because she can't afford new ones. Hell, half of what she wears to work comes from the Salvation Army.

I swear to God, Mama. When I get a good job, I'll make sure you have everything you need. Everything you've sacrificed for me and Sam.

"Did you just wake up?"

"

Si

. I fell asleep after I ate. I had a nice long nap. Then I woke up when I heard your door slam, noisy boy. So I poured a glass of wine and came out here to see my only son talking crazy to the sky." She sighed and shook her head, hair a midnight cloud about her face. "What were you thinking of,

mi tesoro?"

"Oh. Lots of things. You. Dad. Samara. How things have worked out for us." He took a deep breath, and asked a question he had wanted to voice for years. "Why did you marry him, anyway?"

Isabel sighed and took a sip of the horrible wine she was so fond of.

"Oh, it is hard to think about, now. Understand, Owen, when I came here, I knew nothing. Mama and Papa had died, and the Maldonados had promised to take care of me. I go the the high school here," she continued, faint accent deepening, as it always did when she grew excited or hurried, "and I meet your father. So handsome he was. Tall, just like you," she said, touching his face tenderly. "and he had the

rubio

hair and the blue eyes. Too bad for you he did not give those to you also," she teased. "You get your hair and eyes from me.

"And we go on the dates and we kiss. And I think I am in love. And we are done with school and he asks me to marry him. And I say yes.

"And we get a little apartment and we were very happy,

mi vida.

And then you were born, and Samara. And we get this house. But I find out my Gary is not so smart. He does not take care of his money. But by then it is too late. And I have you and your sister to think of." She sighed.

"He was a good man, Owen. Not a smart man. But a good man. I know you think badly of him sometimes, when you are angry. But he loved you very much."

"I know," Owen said softly. "It hurts, you know? And I want to blame someone. So I blame him, for going away." He took a swig of his beer, and the bracelet from Phoebe hit the trunk of the car with a

thunk

as he lowered his arm.

"What is this?" Isabel asked. She held up his arm and fingered the bracelet. "Is my man wearing jewelry now?"

"Oh, God, no," Owen laughed. He told the story of the girl at the supermarket and how he had come to her rescue.

Isabel was horrified. "Silly boy! You could have been hurt!" She fingered the thick metal of the armband. "And the one who gave you this? Was she a

bruja?

"

"A witch? Hardly. She was just a strange girl who had too much to drink."

"Hmmphh. You should stay away from girls like that anyway. Let your Mama take care of you." She took another sip of wine and sighed, then wiggled restlessly. "These pants are too tight. I think I am getting fat." she handed the glass of wine to Owen and popped the button on her slacks and unzipped them, pulling the tail of her blouse out of her pants.

"Oh,

much

better," she sighed. Owen raised his eyebrows, startled at her actions. His mother had never been a prude, and had always taught her children to be unashamed of their bodies. But this was unusual. From where he lay, he could just see the white strip of the top of her panties, contrasting strongly with her dark skin, what the Cubans called

cafe au lait,

coffee with milk.

"So what about you,

papi?"

she said. She put an arm around his shoulders and snuggled close."Any new women in your life?"