Page 2 of Ignite

Bomber123: :-p~ Pbbbbbbt!

Jazzyhands: Wuv U 2. Anyhoo, I gotta go. The working class needs their morning cuppa cuppa.

Bomber123: Fine. Go be a part of capitalistic society.

Jazz didn’t reply, just shut down the computer and stood up from her desk. She tapped the Starship Enterprise hanging from the ceiling with her finger before stretching her arms high overhead. Her spine popped and cracked as the bones aligned themselves. Freya meowed in protest at being dislodged from her happy perch.

“Sorry, baby. I gotta go make the donuts, as they say,” Jazz informed the cat as she sauntered into the bathroom in her sleep tank and panties.

The old house was built in the early 1900s and not much more than livable when Jazz found it and fell in love. The biggest reason she wanted this house showed in the greenway just outside the front that faced the Allegheny River. She got to view the slow-moving water every morning when she woke up and peered out her bedroom window. The old plumbing had been updated sometime during the 1970s based on the gold-colored tub and tiles in the bathroom. As long as the water was hot, Jazz didn’t care about the outdated look. She had bigger issues to handle. Some paint, area rugs over the worn linoleum, and lots of her favorite sci-fi knickknacks scattered around fit her decor theme. Nothing else was needed.

The shower streamed over her black-and-blue hair. She did the bright ombre as a dare in college and liked the contrast against her dark roots enough to keep it. Ten years later, her parents still gave her disapproving looks when she made time to visit. Her younger sister flat-out hated it.

“You’re almost thirty years old, Jasmine. Don’cha think it’s time for you to get serious about your life?” Liz had criticized on more than one occasion.

Yeah, likeshegot serious abouthers? Three kids by two men and one pending divorce had Jazz’s younger sister moving back in with their parents, and she showed no signs of making any progress on her own. Her sour attitude toward anything and everything gave Jazz all the more reason to keep the different color.

The youngest sibling, her brother, Hugo, loved her hair and made a point of telling everyone as much at the forced family gatherings. The next one would be on Easter Sunday in a few weeks. Jazz dreaded it already and was trying to figure a way out. No doubt Hugo was doing the same.

She ran a hand through the thick locks. “I should totally do a touch-up. Do I dare add some purple or pink?”

Freya jumped up and sat in the sink on the small vanity, since there was no room anywhere else for her. Jazz towel-dried her waves and ran a comb through the wet strands. “Don’t judge. You get free room and board, yeah?”

Fifteen minutes later, she finished dressing and was set to go. “Love you, Frey-Frey.”

The cat meowed in protest.

“Shit, I forgot. Hold on.”

Jazz ripped open a cat food pouch and dumped it into a small bowl. “Later, tater.”

The house sat in a dip, and the back faced the narrow street with a short bridge from the road to a second-floor entrance. There was no yard to mow, just the occasional trimming of the brush that grew right up to the outer walls of her house. The only place for her to park her car was a recess spot off the street some yards away. Living alone in this tiny Pittsburgh suburb had never bothered her. Since she didn’t have to cross any of the river bridges, most of the time, she simply biked the half mile to work.

The sun peeked over the horizon, sending pale rays of color across the black sky. Frequent insomnia made early mornings her thing throughout her twenties. She loved being awake before the sun to watch it rise as she started a new day. It wasn’t odd for her to take catnaps during the day or just after dinner so she’d be up when most people were still dreaming.

She pedaled down the empty streets, pausing only to tuck the scarf over her mouth and nose. The cold, crisp air blew against her face. It was that time of year between winter and spring where it was anyone’s guess what the weather would be. By the afternoon, the sun might raise the temperature to summer levels. She hoped the chilly mornings were on their way out as she coasted across Baker Ave and into the back lot of the coffee and cake shop.

This older neighborhood held no appeal for the tourists. A scattered mix of tightly placed row houses and industrial businesses dotted the long stretches that gave off a “keep driving” vibe. It also helped that a big steel plant stood just a few miles down the road. Workers often came in between shifts to grab coffees and cakes or just sit for a little while in a place with cleaner air to breathe.

Bill and Madge Comer owned the bakery and coffee shop, simply named Coffee and Cakes. Madge was already in the building, mixing ingredients in a large bowl. “Grab those sheets, eh?” she said when Jazz entered.

The yeasty smell hit Jazz’s nose as she brought the long baking pans of risen flat dough to Madge’s workstation. Moravian sugar cakes were a specialty of hers, and some people drove miles out of their way to pick up the traditional European treat.

A tray of twisted square soft pretzels lay on the table ready to go in the display case next to an assortment of miniature shoofly pies, whoopie pies, bagels, and other Pittsburgh treats.

Jazz grabbed a plain apron. “You stay up all night again?”

Madge shrugged. “Someone’s got to get the work done.” The large woman’s face had long bags under the eyes and a worn-down demeanor. She started jabbing her fingers into the flattened dough to make the surface bumpy with lots of divots.

“Do you ever sleep?”

Another shrug from Madge as she carefully poured the butter, cinnamon, and brown sugar mixture over the raw cake, watching it fill the holes. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

Jazz wanted to hug the woman but knew better. She lifted the heavy baking sheets and slid them into the oven. Madge would stay there until the morning rush died down, then walk two streets over to the row house she and Bill owned. She’d cook the local favorite of dippy eggs and scrapple for Bill, then help him get dressed and wheel him over to sit in the bakery for the afternoon. The man’s lungs were shot from breathing toxic air while working in the steel mill for over forty years, and now the coffee shop was the only income they had outside the pitiful settlement pension and meager social security. At one time, they had a nice-sized savings account, but that was stolen from them.

It was one of the major reasons Jazz had joined up with the online group of scammer hunters and shielders.

Madge shuffled her bulk to the front counter. “Just about time.”

---