Alaska Calling

Literary fiction about Seattle. All events, characters, and organizations are products of my inflamed imagination and happened in Minecraft

I pick up my order from ‘Skalka’ and go to the waterfront. Spiced up by pickles and backed up by savory beef, the warm cheese of Stroganoff khachapuri boat tantalizes me. I’ll be missing that for sure. I check my phone.

6:15 pm.

I hurry to the rooftop of the convention center for some privacy. At pier 62, a dense crowd blocks my way. A bitter stench hits me.

“Look, Mom, a dead seal.”

At pier 66 I take the elevator up to the top floor and wait. From my vantage point I see Seattle as it is - a school of glass herring pointed at the sky, beneath which old buildings rot in silent urban decay. As long as there is money for makeup, the aging face can be kept presentable.

Speaking of money, right here in front of me - the main pump to suck the funds out of the tourists pockets. Aquarium, goofy restaurants located on the old piers.

I turn my head - a bulky homeless guy stands near me. No smell. Clothing old, out of fashion. Since when Ivar’s got a mascot to roam the streets?

“Have you seen the dead seal? That is the whole city summarized, ” I say.

“You don’t like it here?”

“No. Got an offer elsewhere.”

“Where are you going?”

“Alaska.”

He looks past me, “Many departed from these piers to Alaska. You know who got rich and never risked their lives?”

“Who?”

“The folks who sold miners all that gear at the piers.”

I hang my head to think and when I raise it, the homeless is gone. Indifferent breeze brings the memories of salt and seaweed diluting the smell of my food going cold. On the horizon the great Rainier blocks a heavy cloud full of rain, a bulwark that keeps the local climate mild. Always did.

Among the clouds, gaps of bright blue peek through. The sun hits my face and I smile, pulling my sunglasses out. I’ve lived here long enough to know I need them more than an umbrella.

On the Salish Sea, a solitary white sail struggles against the wavy steel. In the distance, behind it, lies Bainbridge, enveloped in a pocket of clouds. They push over the Olympic Peninsula, scratching the mountains and dropping water on the moss-overgrown forest as they move east.

The rain will come here soon. Then the sun will come out again. The glass towers dominating the city reflect the patchwork of the sky above, each side telling its own story.

6:30.

The phone rings.