Surrender 01 - Surrender

heart as she began to think over what he’d just said.
    “Thanks, Mr. Sherman, I’ll think about that. Have a good day.” Monica waved as she pushed the door open with her back and squared her shoulders for the upcoming soaking she was about to receive.
    She stepped out the door onto the sidewalk, which was already pooling with water from the broken gutters. She knew that she had to just go for it, as there was no way she could get to work without getting drenched, so holding her purse above her head in a weak attempt to stay dry, she stepped into the tempestuous weather.
    “Taxi!” she shouted while waving her arm, trying to get the attention of one of the nearby cab drivers. The cab pulled up promptly, which wasn’t that common in her part of town. Flinging the door open she, plopped into the seat. The driver glanced in his rearview mirror, and seemed to smirk as he noticed her already tousled appearance. She knew by just her short time in the humid rain she’d be soaked, and her unruly hair had to be slowly starting to frizz-up and pull away from her hasty bun.
    “Where to, Miss?” the cabbie asked as he straightened out his expression.
    “SeaTac airport, and please hurry,” she responded in an urgent tone.
    "You got it," The taxi pulled away from the curb to the sound of splashing water, chirping tires, and honking horns.

    ***

    As he watched Monica's cab drive off in the torrential rain, Mr. Sherman pondered life, and in particular, this curious case of a young woman finding her way. He’d always felt she was a nice girl, always willing to give him a hand, even at the end of a long day, when he could see she was barely able to stand up.
    It was such a shame that she was living all alone. His hopes for her were to find a nice young lad who she could live happily-ever-after with. After all, he’d spent sixty years with his beautiful wife before the Lord had decided she was needed elsewhere. He’d missed her every single moment since. He only wanted Monica to have the same kind of blissful love he’d been privileged enough to enjoy.
    With a bit of a sad heart, he continued gazing out at the heavy rain, leaning heavily on his cane, thinking his old body just wouldn’t do what he needed it to, anymore.
    Mr. Sherman was the quintessential image of an old grandpa. A stout man, bent over a cane, his body withered with age, a square jaw, big nose, and even bigger ears. Yet, bright blue eyes magnified through his thick framed bifocals, showing a depth of knowledge and wisdom that could only be learned through many years of trial and error.
    He always wore one of two cardigans; brown or forest green. The only thing that varied in his wardrobe was his variety of multi-colored plaid shirts, and polyester pants. His outfit, no matter what he chose, was always accompanied with the same pair of rusty brown walking shoes.
    He was downstairs for his daily walk to check his mail, people watch and to get some fresh air. He used to be a pilot, soaring high above the clouds, leaving all his cares on the ground as he sat behind the controls of a powerful jet. He’d give just about anything to be up there again, trying to beat the morning sun as he jetted down a runway.
    His thoughts continued as he reminisced more and more of his earlier, accomplished life. Being retired, he reflected frequently on his long career that had brought him so much joy.
    The older he became, the more sentimental he seemed to get. He turned and shuffled toward the wall of mailboxes. Reaching in the pocket of his polyester pants, he retrieved a gold key affixed to an old blue keychain with the faded letters Pan American printed on the face. He opened his box, pulling out his mail, and with true loyalty to his ritual, shuffled to his bench and sat quietly, continuing his people watching.

    ***

    The taxi pulled up in front of the terminal after a nauseating ride, swerving in and out of traffic and around single minded travelers. Monica tossed the driver his money and leapt from the cab, running straight for the front entrance.
    She was all set to begin her average day with its monotonous routine. She was one of the baristas at the small latte shop, Republic Coffee, located in the Seattle Tacoma International Airport — more commonly known as SeaTac.
    The small and quaint café was nestled in-between the food court and the local gift shop that was filled with native knickknacks, souvenirs and reading material. Monica had been at her job for