In order to prepare for NaNoWriMo 2011, I've decided to free write for at least 30 min every day, using random songs in my iTunes as prompts. This is my first attempt, unedited except for spelling:
The Token
1,505 words, 45 min
The betting token was worth 1000 Euros. He’d won it at a secret back-room poker game, Texas Hold’em instead of Five Card Stud. The game happened often in a secret room in one of the popular tourist bars off Syntagma Square, right in plain sight.
He’d won it the night before off some green university kids, high off their liquor and lost in the sensation of the night. The next fleece was a stag and hen do from England, caught up in the women and ouzo more than the game. An easy mark.
He’d planned to use his winnings to pay off the last of his debts to the Father, the most notorious and secret boss in Athens. He’d gotten stupid cocky, macking on someone else’s turf, and needed to make amends – fast. This was the last payment, and he’d be a free man.
As he opened the door to his building, he almost missed the soft click. In fact, if it weren't for the blur of color on his periphery, he’d have missed it altogether. A soft click, and a bit of a whir as it set off down the cobbles, making its way slowly, but picking up speed as it went down the hill. He turned to give chase, knowing if he didn’t pay now he’s be a dead man.
First wending around each stone, bouncing over the gutter so quickly he almost forgot to be afraid. Next passing through the spokes of a bicycle and under the tables of the local florist, who was renowned for cheating on his girlfriend and augmenting his stock with a little something “extra”. Round the curve and through the intersection, it followed the natural curvature of the hill, going around without yet going down. He might still have a chance…
It did a quick sharp turn, passed a mother and baby buggy, through the old yiayia’s feet, and around a tree. Flip, tuck, and bounce some more, under the old Fiat Cinquecento and over trees’ roots, luckily skipping the poop on the sidewalk, a common hazard in Athens.
He’d almost caught it, grazed it with a fingertip, constantly praying, praying to God and the saints of lost causes. This was his last hope, the last hope for him and his family. Anna would be so disappointed. Disappointed that they had to continue living in this hole, scraping to make the minimum payments on bills while saving a little here and there to pay off the Father. There was never quite enough to live and pay his debts but he tried. Oh god, he tried. And now she would pay if he couldn’t catch this motherfucking pieced of plastic made in China.
He put on a burst of speed, trying to step on the chip or block it before it made it down to the bottom of Konstantinou Iatridou to Leoforos Vasilissis Sofias, one of the busiest streets in Athens, to the traffic segregated by odd or even plates. It was like dancing the Hasaposerviko with a coy partner, the almost catching with the quick dance away once he got too close. If it weren’t inanimate, he’d almost share a laugh with how devious it was. It was like it had a life of its own.
He hadn’t meant to get caught up in this kind of thing, just looking for an escape from his village for the big city lights. Wasn’t that what every village kid yearned for? The flashy new clothes, the car, paved streets, television that never grew static, constant reception for the mobile phone. Running water that wouldn’t cut off if the state workers decided to strike that day and neglected to repair the constant leaks.
It had seemed like a dream come true when he was offered the job at the port of Piraeus, only 20 minutes from Athens. “You’ll get rich quick,” they said. “Soon you’ll be living as well as the French, just better looking...” All promises made of thin air. He’d paid out the nose to get set up in the side business that all of his fellow dockworkers were involved in. It wasn’t anything much, just pick up a package here, and drop it there, or pass a note to the right party in the market. He was always contacted by mobile, never face-to-face or a voice to connect to. That was fine, it suited him to the ground. Fewer complications.
It got trickier when one of his mates turned out to be an under cover cop sniffing out local gangs. Oh, he didn’t come right out and say it, but Stavros knew the game had changed when his “friend” had started asking too many questions and becoming too interested in port procedures or the movements of the goods and other workers.
He regretted it, snitching on Nikos, as he’d thought him and easy guy to work with, but getting himself out of trouble was a little closer to home. Reporting Nikos to the Father’s people was the work of a moment – a quick text, and the next morning, one less body to help unload packages at work. Of course, no one asked any questions – they all knew, and knew it was more than their lives were worth to express interested, as they could be next.
The token was almost to the bottom of the hill, 100 meters from the absolute roadblock of traffic. It was pointless to drive a car here, other than as a status symbol, because the traffic never moved and you wasted your time and petrol just getting to work. While he just couldn’t stomach the Metro (too noticeable, limited hours), he thought his Vespa was a good compromise. Cherry red, black leather seats, chrome handlebars, and a seat big enough to carry two if it suited him, but only if the girl were skinny, which was just how he liked them. Like Maria, the waitress he’d met at The Styx a few months back.
She was a cocktail waitress slash dancer when the need arose, serving drinks and giving a cuddle when directed by the floor manager, showing some skin and giving a flirt to keep them coming back. He new it was just to make enough money to pay her way through Uni, studying archaeology of all things, but it seemed like the closer she got the higher the tuition and fees became.
They had started chatting one night over his 4th Amstel, as the guy at the next table down had become a little too friendly, poaching on territory Stavros considered his, though they hadn’t spoken except for giving his drink orders. It had been lust at first sight – he’d persuaded her to meet him after her shift was over, eventually moving it back to his place. He continued meeting her after work for a few weeks, moving on to dates during the day and then moving in, when her lease had ended and her roommate had moved back in with her loser boyfriend (again).
They’d been together some months now and had even started talking about marriage, though that was really more of their mothers’ idea than their own, but they were happy with each other, so why not?
When he’d told Maria about his work and paying off his debts, she’d understood and resolved to stand by him through thick and thin. Things had been strained lately though, with a few unannounced visits by the Father’s people, giving unfriendly “reminders” that payment was due soon and he was all out of chances.
He couldn't disappoint her like this, have it end like this with a colored bit of nothing get the best of him. Why hadn’t he done the smart thing and cashed it all in that night? Oh right, the police raid. It was normal for the police to raid bars regularly, making sure no illegal drug trading was going on. Fat lot they knew.
The token had miraculously made it through the traffic without getting stuck under a car or in between the uneven stones that still covered some streets instead of macadam. It rolled over the curb on the far side of the street, coming to a standstill next to the pole of a traffic sign.
Bolstered by this piece of good luck, Stavros wove through the cars, his eye on the prized. It would finally be over, and they would be free to live their lives as the wished. He and Maria could think about themselves for once, maybe move to a bigger flat, or get a car. He moved closer, only meters away, tuning out the blaring music and beeping horns of the traffic. He never heard the Vespa screech to a halt too late, nor did he feel the thud of impact as it came into contact with his body.
When the police documented the scene afterwards, no one gave any significance to the black and red poker chip, for it was unmarked, not a denomination or a company on it. Nor did they think anything of the apparent suicide of the young blond woman on the third floor of the block of flats at the top of Lycabettus hill.
