“Dishwasher, get your brand new dishwasher”. I shot a sideways glance as I walked past and suddenly recognised this ruffian.
 
It had been a couple of nights ago and, in another one of my black moods, I was sitting in the pub drinking. The people were annoying me – too smug and extrovert – and I needed some peace and tranquillity. I left the pub and headed down to the old cemetery. There used to be unlimited access to this place but, after a series of recent grave robberies, they had fenced it off. I scaled the barrier and zig-zagged between the lines of gravestones looking for a quiet spot… and that’s when I saw him with a lantern in one hand standing over a coffin.
 
I ran, that night, away from his cruel smile and now, selling his stolen dishwasher, he was smiling at me again. I couldn’t help it this time, a wave of involuntary arousal swept through my body. I smiled back and invited him to my house. One thing led to another and… well lets just say I acted most unladylike.
 
 

One thing leads to another, I thought. I should have taken a taxi instead of walking. This part of Haiti is not even on the tourist maps, and from the looks of it the earthquake clean-up crews haven’t been here yet.

The tranquility of life I have enjoyed may well end tonight in a coffin. Or on a plate, which might be more fitting.

I’m a dishwasher, you see. A quiet, respectable profession with straightforward execution. No need to read between the lines, only occasional need to deal with ruffians, and unlimited access to leftovers. I saved for this vacation for ten years. This was not in the brochures.

I’ve never been an extrovert, I’ve never been one to hold a lantern to my face and shout ‘look at me!’. I’ve never been a hero. It’s been a good life. Today I had to be my own hero.

I have six, and they were only five. That’s better odds than the last tourists lost here probably had.

I fired point-blank at the closest one, remembering to aim for the head.

Shedding the ruffian look he’d worn for the last six months, his return was like an old pair of jeans – worn around the edges but more comfortable than anything else.

He spent 25 years as a detective in San Francisco, a city always controversial, like the extrovert sibling caught between tranquility and chaos.

Too much isolation with unlimited access to the ugly side of life was the perfect recipe for collapse. That had been Brett’s life. It all came crashing around him with the death of an innocent child.

He left San Francisco. He left the force, and he nearly left his life. He moved back to the place of his childhood home, back to Encinitas, California. He regretted the changes, especially the loss of his grandmother, Nana Connors. He really could use the comfort of one who always loved him.

Nana had been his lantern in the dark feelings of an abandoned child. He never knew his father. His mother’s drug-filled world barely slowed to give him birth and she paid the ultimate price of abuse.

“God, get over yourself,” Brett grumbled.

His slide down the dark corridors of despair had kicked Brett into action. He made the call back to his life. The Encinitas homicide division was glad to have him and Brett hoped it was the right thing to do. So far, he skirted any suggestions of a meeting with the precinct’s shrink.

Placing his beer mug in the top rack, Brett pressed the “On” button, releasing the soft, and strangely comforting sound of the dishwasher. Peering out the kitchen window, he watched the stealthy movement of a slinking cat. Crouching, waiting, the cat pounced. With a wild flap of wings, the bird barely escaped the coffin trap of the feline felon.

“Another win for the good guys,” Brett reflected.
 
Maybe it was a sign. God had removed the barrier, as if to say, “Read between the lines.” Life goes on.