Ying-Yang

The sandwich,not up to the man's standards, sat hardly touched on the glossy white plate amongst the remainder of un-eaten French-fries. Unsatisfied, the man tapped his foot anxiously and waited for his brother to arrive 'why is he late?'. The man began to rack his brain for a satisfying answer, but was interrupted before finding one by an over worked waiter who shuffled over carefully to avoid the loss of his sagging pants and refilled the half empty coffee mug with a wince of annoyance.
"Are you twitching because of me or the coffee?" A familiar voice spoke from behind the anxious mans seat with poorly hidden enjoyment.
"Jesus! What in the hell took you so long? We said to meet at 11-" The mans head strained to turn behind him, his foot momentarily resting in a ready position.
"Answer my question; me or the coffee?" The interruption was spoken with a mocking smile revealing falsely white teeth.
"Jim you know good-god-damn-well its because of you! Now sit down-please." His voice was nasally and hardly audible over the noise being created by the clinks and clicks of the restaurant.
Lazily, Jimmy sat down across from the nasally man, and scanned over the aging figure in front of him from behind the shield of his dark glasses, snickering with disapproval as he did so. The man who had been on time wore an exhausted brown sports coat over a green polo, one size to small to comfortably cover his rapid weight gain. Jim was dressed well in a fitted black suit with a striped blue shirt, open collar, and square ray-bands snuggly pressed against his nose covering his confident, brown eyes.
"I think its the coffee. How've you been Stan?" Jim asked with a casual breath, It was a question he enjoyed asking when he knew the answer could only lower the person answering.
With a heavy breath Stan spoke. "I've been good-well, I wouldn't need a favor from you if everything was ok. No, no the truth is-it's dad."
"I don't understand why you insist on burdening yourself and me with the problems of that man." Jimmy's voice was dense with resentment as he spoke, his body tensed against his neat black jacket. "Excuse me," With a wave as terse as his call Jimmy summoned the sweaty waiter. A few moments later the waiter was hunched over and waiting.
"Sorry sir, are you ready-"
"I'll have the BLT, judging by my brothers plate he didn't like his, but I’m going to give it a chance. I'll also have a tall glass of water with no lemon." he handed over the menu he hadn't opened dismissing the waiter and turned back to his brother,his face hardened slightly.
"Hows mom?" Jimmy asked
"If you managed to make it over to see her more than once a decade maybe you could answer that question; but she's lost without dad-as always I guess."
"Don't give me that shit, I send money when she calls, I'm extremely busy. I barely have time to eat this lunch, let alone take a day to travel out to that house to sit through a life lecture from people who I surpassed! And that includes you, Stan." His voice was harsh, steady, controlled by the temperament that had procured him wealth. After a breath Jim spoke again in a sympathetic tone. "Now, ask me what you refused to ask me over the phone." Jimmy's feet stayed planted on the scuffed wood floor, his hands loosely on the table and his jaw firm. Stan's foot began tapping at a faster rate clicking repeatedly as his heal made contact with the wood, his shoulders sulked downward with his eyes.
"Do you have any pull with the police?" Stan's eyes looked up and then began to flick rapidly around the room stopping only once for a brief moment on Jimmy's, only to see his refection in the polished lenses. His voice was lowered to slightly above audible and carried with it all the shame of his father.
"How would my pull with the police help with YOUR father, or you?" Jimmy's question was one of curiosity more than concern, his head was turned to follow the waiters pale hand down to the table leavening a sweating glass of water with a lemon sloppily placed on it's rim. With discussed Jimmy watched the waiter quickly retreat into the crowded restaurant before turning back to his brother. "look at this, can you believe this?" He held the lemon pinched gently between his thumb and ring finger careful not to squeeze its juices free.
"Dad pissed off the warden so he's in the hole. He isn't going to make parole. I-he deserves to-"
"DESERVE!? He deserves what he's getting, mom is better off without him and So is the rest of the world. That warden just took the blight-of-your-life off your shoulders, you should enjoy it while it last." Jim's condescending voice crackled with anger. His foot began to tap across from Stan's with a harder and slower tempo.
"Your a selfish bastard! You know that! Can't you for once think-" Stan's words jumbled together as they rushed out of his mouth, his worn eyes steady, his plump body stiff at the edge of his chair, and his mind racing.
"Bastard!? If I was a bastard I might have had a childhood! This is our time! My time! If you want to waist the last part of your life like he waisted the first part of our life, fine! But not me. Mom stuck with him thats her fault and if you stick with him that's yours! But not me I am somebody now! And that man can rot in that prison until he dies and I'll deliver his eulogy in a red tuxedo and grin!"
Jimmy stood abruptly sending his chair tumbling back with a metallic screech before it crashed down adding to the scuffs on the floor. His silver college ring glimmered as it trembled on his finger while he forced a billfold to the surface of his pocket and scrambled into its open slit. "Here" he fumbled with his wallet until he pulled out a neat stack of bills and dropped them on the table. In the center of a silent room, more than 60 eyes were on Jimmy as he turned to leave, his back to his brother and his chin level. "I'll make one phone call" Not looking at his brother he walked away, past silent tables.
Not long after Jimmy left, the room returned to its normal activity, the light clinks on the thick porcelain blended into a loud hum of voices that filled the room. Stan finished his coffee before leaving, attempting to comprehend whether he should be how his lunch went. Taking the excess cash off the table with him he walked the same path as his brother. Outside he shaded his eyes from the hot white sun with his hand until his eyes adjusted to the blinding light and he began the two block walk to the bus stop were he would wait to be taken home.

The bus had hit traffic and extended the two hour journey to closer to three leaving Stan ready to end his long day. His home was an apartment five blocks from where his mother and father had raised him and where his mother still lived. He opened the door that led to his one bedroom apartment on the second floor of a once crisp red brick building. He had referred to his apartment as his 'pad', but as the years of minimum wages continued his 'pad' became nothing more than a collection of dyeing ambitions that others seemed to know as ‘Stan's home’. Stan slowly let his tired feet guide him to his cramped kitchen consisting of a refrigerator running with a loud hum that competed with an air conditioner in his bedroom. Next to the tired fridge was a simple medal sink free standing with a black curtain temporarily hung to cover the pipes when he first moved in. Last in his kitchen was a four burner stove slightly under a small pass-through counter facing a table, a love seat, and a small t.v.
Stan stood, his shoulders slumped and eyes closed letting the sounds of his apartment fill his mind. When he finely opened his eyes he was nervous to find his answering machine flashing; it was an antiquated hunk of plastic that sat on the table seconding as Stan's desk. After a moment of hesitation Stan finally walked to the table to press the reluctant play button. The machine clicked on and announced the wrong time and that it contained one new message; soon after a the familiar voice delivered one last curt statement.
"I made a call-he'll make parole." Jimmy's annoyed voice clicked off with no good bye, no call me, just a frustrated sigh followed by nothing. After a long moment of deafening silence the machine read through its automated menu and clicked off with a pair of electronic beeps. Relieved, Stan drew a deep breath 'I knew he would be able help.’Stan lunged for the phone, muscle memory dialing the ten digits, his ear impatiently pressed against the receiver, after two rings he decided that calling was not what he need or wanted to do. He went to the fridge and got a small bottle of Korbel that he had saved for a special day, and he knew this day counted. This night was going be his night. Stan changed, checked his pocket, and then last before leaving he grabbed the small bottle off the counter.
He made it to the entrance of the building he was raised in, as the street lamps slowly flickered on casting their dim light into the world. Stan could feel his cheeks cramping from holding his smile. The building was just as he had left it yesterday and every other day, three stories nine units. Not poor, but farther from wealthy than from destitute. The pale yellow of the street lights cast small shadows under each dark brick; and the double door, being held in place by sagging hinges, loomed over the cracking sidewalk in it's dark red frame.
In the building he marched with pride up the crumbling stairs, through the paint chipped walls, under the dim lights and down the halls of his past till he stopped to compose himself in front of the apartment. 'she's going to be so happy' he thought. After three dry breaths his heart settled as much as he thought it was going to. So he checked his tie and old black sports coat, then raised his hand in a fist to the hard, faded door. After five knocks, each one more excited than the next, it was opened slowly with caution.
"Hello" her voice was light and nervous, her left arm tense on the handle, her right held tightly to her chest, 'I want a peep hole' repeating its self in her head for a moment but then quickly vanishing when she realized who it was at the door. Her soft face grew a big smile and her blue eyes brightened. "Stan!" it was more of a yelp of excitement from the front of her throat than a yell. Looking up from his knees, his cheap black suit blending in with the old dark floors, Stan held with one hand out in front of him a modest ring trembling slightly with nerves, his smile still wide on his face displaying his yellowed teeth.
"My father will make parole-mom will give her blessing-"
"O'Stan" she sobbed out the words with a trembling smile. Her vision began to blur, leaving her to swat at the tears, trying desperately to hold her self together for what she knew was coming.
"Jenny, I love you, have loved you all my life-will-will-" Stan's words began catching in his throat, and his bottom lip began to tremble with his hands. He had rehearsed this moments countless times in his mind but not once did he for see that his emotions would over power him. He gasped a breath and tried again. "will you-" his tears began to flow down his plumb cheeks and his jaw clamped shut to fight the trembling. Jenny fell to her knees her white house dress sticking to the grime on the floor. She wrapped her slim arms around his neck crying into his shoulder and kissing whatever she could of him. Her small white body pressed into his large olive skinned arms bringing a ying-yang to Stan's mind accompanied by a much needed breath to his lips.
With a sharp exhale of the little air she had gathered in her lungs "Yes" escaped her shaking pink lips a fraction of a syllable at a time and for a moment they held each other unsure if they were laughing or crying or both.
"Here" Stan's voice still shaking, and his hand only as steady as the soft hands that held it. Together they placed the small ring on her slender finger.
"Shall we go tell mom?" Stan’s relieved sobbed stuck in his throat until a small chuckle forced it out.
Jenny looked up brushing a strand of her auburn hair out of her watering eyes and once more let "Yes" escape as she pressed her warm lips to his.

-THE END-