The Bodyguard ("Reception" -- story #64)

RECEPTION
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard has still not eaten. But this isn’t what’s bothering him. Something else is. After what happened last night, he can’t go near the restaurant again. He knows this. The thing of it is, his wire seems to work best there. And, above all else, he knows he must receive his message. Must find out what is being transmitted. The owner of the restaurant spoke of serious consequences if the bodyguard returned. The bodyguard had listened to the words. They were the words of someone trying to be fair. The bodyguard knew this. But he also knew he had no choice. Duty was duty.

From where he stands across the street, he can see inside the restaurant, into its windows where its owner is busy at a blackboard erasing the daily special. There won’t be any more cream of broccoli soup tonight. This is no big concern for the bodyguard. He doesn’t like cream of broccoli. He never has. It’s something else he wants. He touches his dark glasses thinking about it. He won’t cross his fingers anymore. The time for that is past. The city keeps changing sizes. Streets disappear. He needs something he can hold onto. Something solid. Not cream of broccoli.

He marches from the curb onto the street. When he does, the owner there in the window doesn’t see. The owner is watering a plant beside the sign which tells people to wait to be seated. But there are no people there. No one is waiting. They must already all be at their tables. Eating. Chewing. Sucking on their food. But the bodyguard cannot permit images of their meals into his mind. Such thoughts must be stopped. They must be chained to the ground. He must remember this mission is about his message. He must keep his eyes on the owner. So he stops to do so. When he does, he hears something in the distance. The people’s teeth clacking on their meals? No. Too loud. Can’t be that. And, even if it is, he can’t let himself think of it. Food is food. Duty is duty. And he is an army of one. He must remain united within himself. Invincible. He must receive his signal. Thinking this, he puts their teeth and food out of his mind and keeps creeping closer across the street, dodging between cars. But, suddenly, there, the owner—he’s in the doorway. Yelling. And the words have nothing to do with broccoli. They are the ones you say to an animal right before you shoot it.