BACKSTORY

BACKSTORY

BY

DALE W TICE  

It was one of those muggy southern nights that clung to you like a bad habit, the kind where the air hung heavy with regret and the streets whispered secrets nobody wanted to hear. The small city was deader than a doornail, nothing stirring but a crumpled newspaper tumbling down the gutter like a drunk chasing his last bottle, or a mangy alley cat rooting through the shadows for scraps. Folks were tucked away in their sweatbox apartments, lights out, dreaming whatever dreams the heat hadn't boiled out of 'em. Maybe a flicker of blue from a late-night tube here and there, some insomniac glued to the glow of old reruns, nursing a bottle or a broken heart.

But the hum was always there—the low, relentless drone of the modern grind, neon buzzing like angry hornets, cars hissing on distant asphalt, the whole rotten machine grinding on without a care for who it chewed up.

One window bucked the trend, spilling warm yellow light into the gloom like a cheap shot of bourbon. Up on the fourth floor of a rundown walk-up, a kid with big dreams and bigger delusions hunched over his desk by that window, staring out at the sleeping beast of a city. He called himself a writer, though the rejection slips piling up said otherwise. Night was his beat, when the world shut up and let him chase the ghosts in his head. Right now, Chet Baker was crooning "My Foolish Heart" from the turntable, that trumpet slicing through the haze like a knife through silk—cool, melancholy, full of unspoken sins.

He nursed a pot of black coffee, bitter as yesterday's regrets, brewed strong to keep the demons at bay. Third cup down, maybe one more sloshing in the bottom, but who was counting? If it ran dry, he'd grind through till dawn on sheer grit. His notebook was a battlefield: words scrawled like casualties, circled like suspects, lined up like alibis. Some pages bled sentences, paragraphs clotting into half-formed tales. "She's a wannabe writer," he muttered to the empty room, sipping the sludge. "Runs an independent bookshop."

He glanced up from the page, and there she was—perched on the windowsill like a dame out of a pulp cover, short, sharp brown hair framing those piercing blue eyes, staring him down with a look that could curdle milk. She wasn't happy, and she let him know it. "Is that the best you got, scribbler? I'm always the writer with the dusty shelves. Never the star of the show—just the sidekick tagging along on some sap's big adventure."

"That's your gig, sweetheart," he shot back, tapping his pen like a trigger.

"Can't I get the spotlight for once? The thrills, the chills?"

"No dice. That's for the leading man."

She crossed her arms, those blue eyes narrowing to slits. "Let me guess—I'm short, brown hair, blue eyes, body like a dream, right? Your type, through and through."

He met her gaze, didn't flinch. "Yeah."

She shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping. "You're hung up on that look, aren't you? Some ghost from your past? Ex-flame? Starlet on the silver screen?"

Before he could fire back, a shadow peeled from the wall—a tall drink of water, dark as midnight, leaning on the desk like he owned the joint. "You gonna scribble this yarn or jaw with her all night about her lousy part?"

The writer nodded, the spell breaking. "You're right. Back to the grind." The dame and the shadow faded like smoke in the wind, slipping back into the ink-stained pages. But her gripe lingered, a thorn in his side. Wannabe writer, bookshop dame—it painted her smart, artsy, the kind of broad who'd quote Hemingway over cocktails. The guy? Anthropologist, Viking specialist, fresh off a dig in Iceland's frozen guts. He strolls into her shop, sparks fly, dinner date sealed. Coffee after, the real heat starts.

He drummed the pen, mind racing. "Coffee joint, the kiss, the tumble, then the caper." The rhythm synced with Chet's tune, the beat echoing in his skull. He scrawled: "There was an echo of a song in their heads, its steady beat in their feet as they stumbled drunkenly through the pouring rain..." He circled "raining," added "two a.m.," then "the man carried a blue umbrella." Leaned back, satisfied. "That's the ticket." Closed his eyes, saw it all: the pair sloshing through the downpour, city shrouded in black, neon bleeding into puddles like fresh wounds.

"Two lovers walked along the sidewalk in the pouring rain."

He eyed the line, dissatisfaction creeping in like fog off the river. Leaned back, the chair creaking under him. Maybe pack it in, hit the sack. But her voice nagged, clanging like a loose manhole cover. The phonograph spun on, Chet's horn wailing dry and desolate, filling the joint with blue notes.

"There was an echo of a song in their heads, its steady beat in their feet as they stumbled drunkenly through the pouring rain along the wet, broken sidewalk, laughing. He held a blue umbrella in his hand, trying to keep it over her head to keep her dry, yet the rain was pushed sideways by a blowing wind, soaking them both."

Better. He drained the cup, rose for a refill, but the pot was bone dry. Strode to the window, peered down into the empty artery of the street. A block away, the coffee joint's sign flickered like a bad neon promise. He snatched the notebook, shoved it in his pocket, and hit the pavement for a fresh jolt.

Outside, the night wrapped around him like a cheap trench coat. He dodged across the deserted avenue, shoes slapping wet concrete. Neon hummed, lamps cast long shadows that stretched like fingers groping for secrets. One pool of light caught his eye—a halo on the asphalt, perfect for a clinch in the rain. He filed it away, imagining his pair locked in embrace under it.

The joint was a dive, sterile as a morgue, but in his head, it transformed: "Picasso's Coffee Shop," crackling fire, candles dancing shadows on walls splashed with cubist knockoffs. The grizzled barista morphed into a sultry Jamaican number, curves like a dangerous curve. He claimed his corner booth, shadows swallowing him whole, pad open, pen poised. Sipped the brew, black as his mood, and let the words spill.

The couple materialized in his mind's eye, drenched, stepping in from the storm. He shook the umbrella, hung the coats. Cohen crooned "Famous Blue Raincoat," the air thick with java and jazz. No threats in the room—just an old timer buried in a book, a pair whispering sweet nothings, the barista scrolling her phone, and him, the scribe in the gloom.

They claimed a window table, rain sheeting the glass like tears. He fetched the coffees, black for him, cappuccino for her. She sipped, lips red as sin against the white china. "Is it good?"

"Perfect."

He gazed into those blue pools, seeing the storm raging inside. Sadness lurked there, deep and unspoken. "If her eyes were windows to her soul, then her soul was a house on fire." What hid behind that pretty facade? He probed, but she parried, a dame with secrets.

The writer paused, glanced around the real joint—barista hacking a cough, kids glued to screens, no romance, no fire. "Why no friends?" he mused. Writing was a lone wolf's game, chasing shadows in the dark. Shake it off, back to the page.

At the table, she eyed him across the steam. "You're the perfect man, but I'm flat, a shadow in your tale."

"That's your role, doll. You whine, I swoop in, problems vanish in the night."

"Don't I get more? Dreams, demons of my own?"

He shrugged. "You're smart, beautiful, own that bookshop. What more do you want?"

She faded, leaving him with the echo. Coffee gone cold, he hit the john. In the mirror, his hero stared back—chiseled jaw, olive skin, the works. "Handsome devil, ain't ya?"

The reflection grinned. "Thanks. Smart too, right?"

"Top drawer. Viking digger, globe-trotter."

The hero preened. "How'd I snag her?"

"Book hunt in her shop. Sparks, dinner, drinks, now this."

"Bed next?"

"Not yet. Build the heat."

Hero nodded, but the table was empty when they returned. "Where'd she go?"

"Damned if I know. Stay put, I'll track her."

Out into the night, the writer hunted. Park bench, two blocks down—scenic, cinematic. There she was, huddled, tears mixing with rain.

"Sorry I bolted," she said.

"What's eating you?"

"My backstory's a joke. Always the same—short, brown hair, blue eyes, bookworm. Never blonde, never bold, never nothing but white bread."

"I never dig into family. Action's the game."

"Never gay, never different."

"Gotta have romance for the hero."

"Who's always a he."

"That's my beat."

"Switch it up. Make me the guy, him the dame."

"Ain't selling gay heroes. Wayne, Eastwood—straight arrows."

"Might if you try."

"Breakthrough first, statements later. Need the dough."

She hung her head, defeated. "Fine. Back to the script."

He trailed her to the joint, guilt gnawing like cheap whiskey. His characters were cardboard cutouts. Time to add layers, but the sale came first.

Back at the table, they rose, coats on. Out the door, into the deluge. He followed, pen flying, capturing the kiss under the lamp—perfect, scripted, empty as his pockets.

The rain quit, dawn creeping. Notebook shut, he trudged home, crashed into bed, the lovers tumbling in his dreams as he drifted off, story sealed, soul sold cheap.

But in the gray light, he woke with a start. Perfection was a lie. Grabbed the pad, ripped pages, started fresh. Messy lives, real hearts— that's the ticket. For the first time, the words felt alive.