Mellow Yellow
by Trevor Tomko
Streams of perspiration rolled down Ronald G. Jaune's head like tiny gushing rivers as he neared the exits of La Guardia. The business meeting was in the Financial District, many city blocks away. The impending meeting had not bothered him, although he had tried to get someone else to go in his place; it was getting there that had his newest cream-colored suit drenched in a sticky sweat.
With the recent economic downturn, the company couldn't afford to send one of their newest executives in a limo. They told him to arrange his own transportation, something cheap and public. Being stingy, and left with no choice other than quitting, Ronald forced himself to contact his step-brother, Steve, who would drive him into the city on his way to work. From there, Ronald decided that although he did not like the stench of rats mating in piles of rotten garbage, he could handle taking the subway the rest of the way.
He took deep breaths walking through the airport, being careful to stay away from the windows so as not to be tempted to glance outside at the cars on the street. He stopped to look down at his Rolex; an hour until the meeting. Masses of people bumped into him and kept moving, like waves crashing against a lone rock on the beach. Ronald looked through the faceless hordes for Steve; he was late. Ronald stood off to the side and loosened his tie before checking his watch again.
After an agonizing two minutes, Ronald put on his sunglasses and exited the airport, bags in hand, face down. He stared at the ground, glancing up only once to see where he was walking. The blood in his brain pounded at his temples with a slow dull thud like the dribbling of a basketball. Ronald's knuckles grew white as he clutched his computer bag to his chest. He was about to run back inside the airport, but someone stopped and stood right in front of him.
He greeted Steve with a handshake, and they exchanged small, curt head nods. They walked through the crosswalk to Steve's car, but were stopped short. A taxicab flew by, its horn blaring, a warning sign delivered almost too late. Ronald froze, as rigid as a corpse. Steve grabbed Ronald's arm, causing him to drop the computer bag. Another car drove by like a rolling boulder. It lumbered over the electronics, crushing every component under its mighty weight. Steve grunted, picked up Ronald's bag, and managed to get both the useless computer and his stunned step-brother into the car without further incident. He slammed the doors shut.
"You got your meds, Ron?" asked Steve.
"Ronald . . . p . . . please . . . call me Ronald. I d . . . don't like taking the pills. They make me d-depressed."
"Well shit. How the hell are you supposed to get around with your xantha . . . xantho—"
"Xanthophobia," said Ronald.
"Whatever. Just don't get yourself killed," said Steve. "I don't have time to go to a funeral this week."
Neither man spoke the rest of the time in the car. They were holiday relatives, seeing each other only during major family events. Like most holiday families, they managed to avoid talking to one another even then.
Ronald sat in the passenger seat with his head buried in business reports. He went over his speech in his head about twenty times, checked his investments on his phone, and texted his assistant to confirm his arrival. He also rechecked the meeting time as Steve pulled up to the curb at the nearest subway entrance before driving off the in the opposite direction without saying goodbye, leaving Ronald to fend for himself. He thought about the subway as he held his bag of computer pieces, staring straight ahead at the nearby stairs. Once underground, he would be off the streets, away from the yellow monsters patrolling the roads of New York. He ran down the steps into the darkness, away from the unsympathetic, apathetic sun.
Down in the tunnel, knocking people out of the way, no one would have known Ronald was from out of town. He became acclimated to the city's atmosphere in an instant. That was one reason why Ronald was so successful; he was like a chameleon in the jungle. If confronted by a more aggressive and dangerous businessman, Ronald would mirror that man's mannerisms, neutralizing any hostilities. He closed in on the turnstiles ready to purchase his ticket, but a crowd of policemen blocked his way. They were turning everyone away. He asked an officer what the problem was and discovered that there had been an accident in the subway tunnel. An impaired train was blocking the tracks, preventing others from passing through.
He'd have to go back up to the surface. Back out on to those streets where the four-wheeled golden behemoths rolled along. He'd have to walk a couple of city blocks to the next subway station in order to make it to the meeting on time.
Ronald wiped sweat from his brow with his silk handkerchief. With his sunglasses, he'd make it.
He struggled walking up the steps. People moved around him without bothering to ask if his labored wheezing was an immediate medical issue. A grumbling stranger pushed by, knocking his sunglasses off. Ronald winced when he heard the crunch from under his left shoe. The broken computer could be replaced without issue, but his sunglasses were another matter. His eyes were susceptible to all the shades and colors of yellow the world had to offer, not just the sun. Ronald's hand strayed to the empty pocket where his medication had once lived.
He speed-walked a few blocks away, keeping his face down, toward the next subway entrance. He was making his way without issue until a blond-haired college student with dreadlocks and a goatee blocked his way. The youth was yelling about equal rights for a species of animal indigenous only to the Arctic Circle. Ronald thought how nice it would be to live at the colorless Arctic Circle.
Ronald moved left to avoid him, but the young man was too fast. Ronald moved right, but again, the hippie blocked his way. Forced to look up, Ronald stared into the face of the hairy golden-blond terror. The young man demanded his signature for a petition that would guarantee no one would harm animals by using them in experiments for the new Mars colony, but Ronald wouldn't budge. The young man leaned in to ask Ronald if he was okay, but Ronald jumped back, swinging his arms, knocking the clipboard to the ground. When the young man bent over to pick it up, Ronald made a break for it. He never looked back, ignoring the cries of ignorance and cowardice. Ronald almost fainted when the student called him a "yellow-bellied American capitalist mongrel."
Before he could even set foot on the steps of the next subway entrance, the police had surrounded and blocked it off. Ronald, out of breath, walked over to the police and once more demanded to know why the subways were inoperable. They explained that there had been alleged threats of terrorism on all major public transportation systems, so law enforcement had shut down all the subways and buses throughout the entire city for an indefinite period of time as a precaution. Ronald digested this information like a child swallowing ipecac; he leaned over to the nearest trash can and vomited.
Again using his handkerchief, Ronald reached for his phone to call for a ride. He searched the internet, looking for anything, almost anything. Money was no longer an object; he was willing to pay for his own private limousine even if it cost him an entire paycheck. Ronald found a nearby car-renting facility and started to dial. The screen on his phone flickered. The picture became grainy and fuzzy. It beeped before going black and sending Ronald into his own personal Dark Ages. The battery was dead.
Ronald sat down on a nearby bus stop bench to cradle himself. He felt his pulse to confirm that his heart was racing faster than a fighter jet. The subways were derailed. The bus services were disrupted. His computer was destroyed. His phone was dead. He was alone in the world.
To take a taxi cab in New York City meant certain death. Ronald prayed to God that if he could make it to the meeting without having to take a cab, he'd fly back coach next to two crying babies and the bathroom. In the midst of his divine business deal, Ronald noticed a police cruiser was pulling away from the mob scene at the subway station, so he jumped up to chase after it.
"Hey! Officer! Hey!" shouted Ronald. "Wh-what is the possibility you c-could give me a ride somewhere?"
"Are you serious? Do I look like a taxi cab, pal? Get lost."
"Officer, you don't understand—"
"No, buddy, you don't. I ain't givin' youse no ride. Beat it." The cruiser drove away, leaving Ronald standing in a cloud of gray exhaust.
A taxi followed the squad car. When it crawled by and the driver asked if Ronald needed a lift, Ronald fell backwards to the ground. He found himself in the gutter. Trash and cigarette butts floated in puddles of murky water. He jumped up, aghast that his newest suit was ruined; the wet fabric reeked of gasoline. Ronald wiped his handkerchief over his clothes in vain. He rubbed the water from his face with the stinking rag, irritating his eyes, causing them to redden and burn. He sat down on the curb thinking about what to do next when a man in a khaki trench coat came over on a bike.
"You look like you need a fresh pair of shades," the stranger said. "Or maybe a nice, new watch?"
"What've you got?" asked Ronald. He stood up, looking at his watch through his panicked, bleary eyes. "How much?"
"Forty bucks, anything you want," he said.
"Wh . . . where . . . can I find . . ." Ronald reached for the bike's handlebars with both hands, hoping to wrench it free from its rightful owner. The two men struggled. Ronald pulled. The stranger pulled back. People continued to walk past them, as indifferent as the sun. Ronald strained for the bike. If he could get it, if he could pedal fast enough, he might make the meeting on time. The stranger let go and Ronald held the bike, thinking he was home free. Then a fist collided with his face, forcing him into another intimate meeting with the sidewalk. His injuries were mounting; his nose was bleeding. The stranger got back on the bike and spit on him before riding off. Ronald was going to be late for the meeting.
He heard footsteps approaching and saw a pair of black high heels coming his way. He closed his eyes, wanting her to keep walking. Pity was vile. She kneeled down and spoke.
"Are you okay? Do you need help?" Her strong arms held onto him, pulling him up off the street. Ronald's eyes were shut as he clung to the woman and her unusual feeling jacket. He stopped and realized what she was wearing, and backed away from her without opening his eyes.
"N-n-no," he said glancing away, trying to keep her out of his vision. "I'm fine. J-j-just get away." When she reached with an outstretched arm he saw her horrible yellow sleeves.
He reeled backwards into a parking meter, stumbling over his own feet while shouting at the woman. The bright yellow raincoat was taunting him as it came closer with each step. The color was brighter than a neon sign in the darkest of nights. An image of the coat was branded into his brain, causing the gears in Ronald's brain to seize.
"Go! Go! Leave! Get away from me!" Ronald slapped at his sports coat, trying to rub the yellow off. He gave up, tore off the jacket, and threw it to the ground. "It's tainted! The color is getting all over it. You ruined it! You ruined my new suit with y-your atrocious, bedeviled attire!"
The woman pulled back as if Ronald had bitten her hand, but then reached out to him again. He slapped her hand away, continuing to shout, straining his vocal cords to the point of losing his voice. Ronald turned from the woman and ran across the street to get away from her. He ran down the streets, bumping into people, dogs, street signs, changing direction only when he caught a glimpse of a cab on the road. Ronald ran until he was out of breath, and then he ran some more. He ran until he was in front of the building where the meeting was taking place without him.
Ronald had left his jacket blocks away, his shoes were scuffed, his socks were soaked, his pants were streaked with dirt, and his shirt was covered in sweat. His hair was out of place and his discolored face made it look like he was having a severe allergic reaction.
Disregarding his appearance and wanting to get off the streets, Ronald strutted into the building looking for the concierge's desk. He found a young, dark-haired woman sitting there taking phone calls. Ronald leaned on top of her desk while straightening his tie in an attempt to look presentable. The woman's eyes shot open upon seeing Ronald. Her face was filled with both shock and understanding.
"You must be Ronald," she said. "Are you okay?"
"I'm f-f-fine. Which w-way to the m-m-meeting?" asked Ronald.
"The meeting was moved to our production facility, a building on the other side of town. Are you sure you're okay?" Ronald's knees buckled. His arms shook, struggling to support his weight against the desk.
"The meeting was moved … w-when?"
"About ten minutes ago. I tried reaching your phone, but only got your voicemail. We also tried your assistant. He assured us you were on your way."
"My p-phone d-died," said Ronald through clenched teeth. "I've had s-some difficulties getting here today."
"No kiddin'. Looks like you got into a fight with a mean junkyard dog." The phone rang, but she ignored it. "All the board members are moving to the other building, so you'll still be able to get to the meeting on time. I'll have an intern drive you over in the company car."
Like Atlas throwing off the world, the concierge's few words took all the weight off his burdened shoulders. As if emerging from a warm soothing bath, Ronald was restored to his former business-conscious self. He went into the restroom to clean up. By using the hand-drying machine to blow hot air on his pants and shirt, he dried his clothes. With every minute of grooming, Ronald's confidence grew.
He exited the bathroom feeling like a legendary hero who had survived countless death-defying trials and performed fantastic feats of endurance, and who was now about to receive the Golden Fleece for all his efforts. Ronald stood in front of the receptionist's desk, beaming with so much pride that he almost began flirting with her. She walked him outside to the front of the building where they stood waiting for the intern to arrive. There was a smile on his face, until the moment the intern pulled the company car up to the sidewalk. Then the flop sweat and pale discoloration returned to his face.
Ronald turned away from the vehicle and looked with pleading eyes into the young woman's absent and altogether vacant face, hoping she would understand what he lacked the courage to tell her. He couldn't speak knowing there was a yellow car parked right behind him, mocking his entire, insignificant existence.
