NYC Midnight 1,000-Word Flash Fiction Challenge
Prompts:

Genre: Action and/or Adventure

Location: tropical island

Object: cutting board

Timeline: 48 hours

More good takeaways from the experience. I definitely need to work on getting into the story more quickly with these sprints. This one had me frantic right up to the end and I could have used some more time to go through it properly. I’m going to use the feedback I receive from both the judges and my critique group, along with some of the ideas that were culled to hit the deadline, to give it a rewrite. I’ll post the revised version for comparison.

The Apprenticeship

I should have known from the minute the burly, one-eyed barman had rolled the ladder in front of the shelves filled with bottle after bottle of tequila and mezcal that rose to the ceiling that there was going to be a problem.

“Have you seen El Cultivador?” I’d asked, a turn of phrase that in retrospect didn’t likely endear me to the bartender. An older man in a white suit waved for me to join him at the bar.

“What is it that I can do for you?”

I laid a fat envelope on the bar in front of him. He tucked the packet into his jacket without giving it a look.

“I have not seen you before. You are not from the island, I think.”

It was true. I had recently left behind a life in Chicago when remaining became a risk. I hoped to disappear to a place where mafiosos wouldn’t likely vacation and the chance of extradition was low. The palm trees and bikinis certainly helped with the decision too.

“What can I say. I came for the beaches but stayed for the cuisine. El Cocinero is training me, teaching me the business,” I said.

“A drink then, in celebration of your apprenticeship,” he said, calling for a bottle. That’s when the bartender had climbed the ladder and retrieved a blue and white decanter that looked better suited to housing a genie than liquor. He placed the bottle and two glasses in front of us.

“Lime,” El Cultivador said, and the bartender placed the green orb on a cutting board in front of the man in white. He then reached beneath the bar and withdrew a long sharp knife and laid it beside the lime.

El Cultivador picked up the knife, touching the tip of it to his finger while deftly giving it a twirl with his other hand.

“Tool of the trade,” he said, pointing the blade at me. 

“I think I just need to get the parcel and be on my way,” I said.

“This tequila is for sipping,” he said, ignoring my request. “I find the lime unnecessary but though we may try to change we are often bound to our past so take it if you must.” With that he quartered the lime and lay the knife on the cutting board.

“The package,” I said again, more insistently.

The man in white nodded at the bartender who reached under the bar again, but this time came back up with a small package wrapped in burlap. I tucked it into a pocket.

The man in white raised his glass to me in salute. I shrugged and tossed back the drink then sucked on the lime. I had never been a fan of tequila, but he had been right – I could have skipped the lime.

That’s when things went sideways. Firstly, this was a glass of tequila, not a shot. Next came the bill. That was when I learned that the expression top shelf actually had a basis in reality. Don’t get me wrong, it was really good tequila. But I’ve spent less on a month’s rent than that one drink. Also, El Cultivador had ditched when the bill arrived.

I did the only thing I could do under the circumstances. I ran.

Out the back and into the alley then around the front to where I had parked. But it seemed things weren’t going my way because there were some rough looking locals hanging about my car. 

So, I started to hoof it. I didn’t quite know where I was now that I was off the main road, but I kept moving, heading down alleys and side streets. I could still hear shouting from back in the direction I had come from so I didn’t dare stop.

I heard some more shouting, and the rev of an engine so ducked off of the street at a place where the terrain sloped down and was dense with foliage. Though I was now out of the direct sunlight, the air felt thick and oppressive. I kept moving, heading in the direction I thought seemed right. The light grew dimmer as I travelled, the jungle dense. I swatted at insects that buzzed about my head and more than once was startled by something in the bushes. They’re in a bigger hurry to get away from you than you are from them, my dad had always said. Not sure if that was always true.

I saw a break ahead and pushed toward it, finding an opening to a wide field. I stepped into it and began to run along the rows of plants then stopped and looked around. Marijuana. I was standing in a field of marijuana. I heard shouts and a shotgun blast. I sprinted down a row, faster than I had ever run in my life. I crashed back into more thick undergrowth and continued running until the only thing I could hear was my own breath.

“I’m going to die on this stupid island,” I said aloud.

“We’re all going to die,” came a voice. “Probably worse places to do it than here.”

I turned to see a young woman. She smiled at me and gave me a wink.

“You’re lost,” she offered.

“More than you know,” I told her.

I explained where I was headed, and she laughed and pointed.

“Just up there,” she said. “You’ve made it.”

And the package, you ask? I presented it to the boss, who unwrapped it lovingly and laid it out before me.

“The best hot peppers on the island,” he said. “Now put on your chef’s whites. The first dinner seating is in an hour, and I have much to show you.”