West Kingston Road

 Today I received a visit from the Messenger.

It all began with an ad on Craigslist about a stroller for sale. The post had been up for some time* when I received the email:

I WANT TO BUY YOUR STROLLER
CAN I PICK IT UP TOMORROW?
818-XXX-XXXX
CALL ME
MEZZ

*The word time used as an abstract amount of space.

I wrote back and we set a date. There was a false start and a failed attempt and the meeting was rescheduled for this afternoon at noon — texts were exchanged:

WHAT’S YOUR ADDRESS?
XXX KINGSTON ROAD

Still no one at 1 and then a text:

I’M OUT FRONT

I looked out the window onto the front porch with a view of the street but no one was outside — a wave of premonition hit me like a crow’s call — and then the phone rang.

818-xxx-xxxx

“Hello?”

“Yo I’m in front of your house,” a voice said.

“Hmm,” I looked up and down the street, “I don’t see you.”

“XXX West Kingston road?”

“Here you are.”

I watched a car make a U-turn at the top of the hill.

“Did you just turn around?”

“Yeah gold Benz that’s me.”

“I’ll stand outside where you can see me.”

I locked the metal gate behind me and walked down the stairs to the sidewalk. An older model yellow gold Mercedes from the 80s rolled down the hill and stopped at the curb. I saw two passengers – both young men who were both wearing white-collared shirts, khaki shorts, tattoos, gold and diamonds.

The passenger-side door opened and one of the men got out. His hair was
braided and he had an XL diamond stud in each ear but that was not the
noteworthy thing about him. It was the tattoos that covered his entire face – all words, phrases and sentences written in wide-ranging point sizes of looping script font. I introduced myself with an alias.

“They call me the Messenger — my friends call me Mezz.”

I read the word “PEACE” on his face.

“Where do you come from?” I searched for clues.

The Messenger said he was from Long Beach.

“What do you do in Long Beach?”

“I am a lyricist.”

PAUSE
“Is the stroller for your baby?”

He laughed, “nah, it’s for a friend of mine who got himself into trouble.” He didn’t offer any other details.

“Do you want to check it out?

I noticed the word “PEACE” was part of “REST IN PEACE”.

The Messenger followed me up the concrete stairs to the porch, which curved around a corner of the house. The details of his story did not make sense — the gold Benz, the tattooed face and his name. I wondered, what’s the message?

“Here it is,” I pointed to the stroller.

The Messenger barely glanced.

“This stroller belonged to Judah Lion.” I hoped to seal the deal but Mezz did not know the reference.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

“The lion of Judah.”

“I like the sound of that,” he nodded his head and smiled sideways. I tried to read his face. Was was it scripture or poetry or rap?

“It kinda makes you wonder — what’s in a name?”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” he said.

I read the word “revelations” on his temple.

I knew the visit was an omen but what did it mean?

“The stroller folds up too.”

I demonstrated the one-handed maneuver to close the stroller — push in the button, hold down the handle, kick up the brake — I opened the stroller with one fluid movement.

The Messenger seemed unimpressed.

“How much you want?”

“The post said $108.”

“$108 for real?” He acted surprised.

“I guess this is the part where we bargain.”

Something about a visit from the Messenger had foreshadowed an eventual
reckoning. I tilted my head to the side to show off a crescent moon-shaped scar on my cheek. This was not my first battle.

Mezz said, “yes I guess,” slowly retrieving a narrow wallet from his back pocket that was in stark contrast to the gold Benz and the diamonds. He opened the billfold to show me.

“I have three $20s but I usually pay less.”

“You buy a lot of strollers?” I asked.

“Yeah, its not really for a friend.”

I was searching for the question.

He pulled four $20s from his wallet and handed them to me and then he held out his arms and we hugged, which was a strange twist ending for a Craigslist encounter.

The Messenger said, “you have my number.”

I folded up the stroller with a one-handed wrist flip and kick. The Messenger carried it down to the car and stashed it in the trunk. He slammed the door. I stood on the porch with my heart pounding until the gold Benz drove out of sight.

I went inside and searched “the Messenger” and “Long Beach” and “lyricist” and other words for clues but the Messenger had left no trail.

by Lea Lion