Risky Business

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A poem about a young man whose line of work and intriguement gets him into a rather sticky situation, for being nosey.

Submitted: September 27, 2011

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 27, 2011





He wanted to make an impression by doing it all alone. He planned to propose to his girlfriend, Cass, though he needed to make money fast. Cass and his chums disapproved, believing that he would be better off working for a company. Nevertheless, Dylan was too proud for that and had an appetite for success!


Dylan had an uncomplicated look but he had a fashionable sense when it came to work. He believed it was a key tool to encourage his sales. Today he had prepared as usual. He kissed Cass on the forehead and waved before leaving.


Going about his work, Dylan packed his sample case and his wad of catalogues into the car. He was a door-to-door sales man and today he chose to venture into an area where only rich people lived. He knew if he did this, he would make money.


As he usually would, he parked upon a street with attractively created vast houses. He felt like he was in a dream, as he had always believed he should have a home as elegant as these should. Then he came across the street sign, Cloudy Lane,…this brought the dream to reality.


He knocked on a door,[no comma] that was shiny and had a big brass knocker attached that looked [as though it was] polished regularly [or: "looked regularly polished"]. A mature well-presented and well-spoken woman answered. She wore a fine trouser suit and gold framed glasses. The erudite bun; a professor style [professorial?] bun enhanced the [her] radiant appearance.  As it was raining[,] the aged woman, Mrs. Simpson[,] invited him in trustingly.


He thought this was strange, but thought nothing more of it. He introduced himself and asked [whether she would] would she would be interested in viewing his catalogue. She said, “Go into the kitchen, and I'll put on the kettle.”


This did not answer his question but he never argued. He followed her to the kitchen, a large oak table stood in the middle of the room, an ornate styled work surface. A doughy aroma lingered throughout. Mrs. Simpson put in front of him a tray of cakes and the finest china tea set as though he was expected.  Wow he thought. Even though it was raining, the window was wide open and could hear the utterance[s] next door.


“Put it away before it accidently goes off.” The words enthralled him…could they be spies or gangsters?  He pushed his chair slightly closer to the window to snoop some more. “Tonight, the job gets done good and proper.” A strong northern accent emerged.


Dylan was a lover of action movies and he tried to visualize the speakers as though he was watching something like ‘The Departed.’ Mrs. Simpson was rattling away as though he was a long lost son. Through the exhilaration, he could hear her twittering faintly, “Blah, blah, blah.”


He inquired, “Do you mind if I leave you with the catalogue?”


“What about the tea dear?”


“I won't be long just, just an hour or so…”


He did not want to seem rude; after all, she had been so kind. He tried to look professional and resumed to business. He left refreshed and appreciative. He waved and smiled to Mrs. Simpson and headed for next door.


A big bald-headed man with broad shoulders popping out of the seams of his jacket and a look as though he was a bouncer opened the door. “Yes, what can I do for you?” He said quickly. Dylan was [at a loss]lost for words and thrusted a catalogue upon him. His thick, compressed fingers snatched it from him and disappeared from the door leaving it open. The lump in Dylan’s throat sunk to his stomach.


Dylan walked in, thinking it would be ok and the man came back yelling, “What do you think you are doing?” He sharply probed!


“Hmmm,” he anxiously remarked and then six other men appeared from the kitchen with guns in their hands. He realized they were not water pistols. They pointed the guns at him and sniggered, before regimented to [demanding that he] halt. Dylan’s knees knocked and rattled, like chattering teeth. The men roared with laughter. All he could think, was that these fellas were not to be upset.


A gaunt skinny man to his right asked, “Boss, can we torture him?”


“Well it depends on whether we can trust him,” the bouncer-type man bellowed.


“Please, Boss I need to practice my range.”


“Shut up Tommy, we’ll take him with us tonight. Then you may have your fun!”


“P-p-please, d-d-don’t hurt me, I-I- I’m only a door sales man,” Dylan negotiated.



 A roar of laughter filled the air. The unpleasant atmosphere made Dylan flinch. They pushed him into a small cupboard under the stairs, which startled him. Damp, squelchy, musty boots cluttered the small space. Hanging out one of the coat pockets that dangled in his face, was [were] wads of cash and a gun.


Now he knew he was in danger and he was in a gangster’s house. A nauseous feeling in his stomach occurred and he was beginning to wish he had never invited himself in. The voices started to fade and he thought he might be able to escape. He pushed the door, yet it would not budge, he tried kicking the door. Nothing helped.


During his time imprisoned in the cupboard he recalled when he was a lad of one of the many times he’d hide in his mother’s closet to hear her screaming, and the mortified look on his face to witness her not with his father.  It went silent, the longer he was in the cupboard the more his mind began to thud.


The boots began to smell of what the cow(s) that made them, as though he were in a slaughterhouse. The strong fragrance of blood clutched his nose. He vowed that because of this, he would never eat meat again.


This troubled him as he imagined the worst was going to happen. He dreamt his funeral-right down to the style of his coffin and envisioned Cass dressed all in black crying him a river. It served him right for having his head in the clouds, hence the reason he had turned into this road. He knew his job was risky business and he should have listened to Cass and the boys.


While he was stuck in this tight spot and awkward situation, he could not help but think of the freshly baked cakes next door. A taste of sweet, silky fresh cream, he licked his lips. An hour or so later the tiny door opened, two friendlier faces came into sight. He expected to face a gun. They allowed Dylan to climb out of the cupboard.


“If you’re quick you might make it out alive.” They chorused.


 “Why, where have they gone?”


“Our Uncles have gone to get some equipment for tonight.”


“Now quick we don’t have much time.” One of the helpers said directing Dylan to the back door.


Dashing through the wind, Dylan’s legs flopped underneath him; he got into his car and pushed the accelerator hard to speed out of Cloudy Lane. His sweaty palms made it proved difficult to grip the steering wheel. The car skidded and the tyres screeched across the road, in a zigzag pattern; he had no control he just wanted to escape. Has he finally escaped the street, he turned into a cul-de-sac a few blocks down to catch a breath. His skin whitened as he tried to make sense of what had just happened, he thought to himself nobody would believe him.


Instead of continuing, he went straight home to recover. Cass sat reading a magazine,


“You’re home early love,” she calmly noted. He looked at her innocent picturesque face, his stomach hollowed as it acted hastily to the deception he was about to pursue.


“I feel peculiar.” He put his feet up on the couch and switched on the TV. His cat curled up beside him. Petting him made him feel relaxed. His eyes began to become hefty, yet, if he slept, he would have nightmares. Therefore, he forced to stay awake and watch the news.


The bald headed man in the picture gave him such a fright, flashbacks triggered in his mind. The news was showing a photograph of the man who opened the door. The headlines announced Mob leader shot!  It had been a few hours since the incident and he knew something was going to take place tonight. His heart raced and he shaded a paler white.


His honesty tried to get the better of him; he wanted to go to the police and tell them of the events and inform them of what they planned. Yet, he did not want to end up dead. He told Cass what was bothering him. “Maybe I’ll phone anonymously. T-t-that should keep us safe.”


“No, no!” Cass bawled. Her voice was as fiery as the red colour on her head. “They will still know you said something, I think it’s best to go away for a while and keep out of sight. We don’t know if you had been followed.”


She started to make plans for a quick escape and she rang her mate Deb who lived in the block facing. She had nosey characteristics and lived to pry. She asked her to look out the window to see if there was anything suspicious outside. The meddling cow she was, she demanded to know why. Cass told her there was not much time, and would inform her soon. After putting down the phone she booked a flight the on the internet to ‘get away’ that night.


He wondered how she got so bright and daring; it was definitely not the magazines she read. A quick run around the flat; picking up the essentials; rummaging around the piggy bank to make sure they had enough money. Disregarding the car instead headed for the train station off Pine Street to be safer. Cass screamed aggressively, “You and that risky business of yours, I so wish you’d be normal with a normal job!”




At the train station, the tension was high; every passing train brought the idea of ‘running from the Mob’ to reality. To witness such events is like reading a thriller or watching a movie. Cass’s hair blew in the wind but she was far from caring.


As they got further away from the happenings of the day, they began to pinch themselves as though it were a dream. Who had thought that during work, and encounter with gangsters would occurand [they would] be going into hiding at the end of the day? Although, it was the most alarming experience, they relished the thrill of the chase.


As they got closer to the airport he began to think of the time his father was on the run and tried to visualize if the same thrill had crossed his father’s mind. People on the train stared as the sweat poured, leaving a puddle on the floor as though he had peed himself.


Still paranoid and constantly looking behind them, Dylan stupidly questioned, “Do you think we will have to change our names?” Cass glared; an expressing glares, without uttering a word: if we do then I’d kill you myself! An hour later, they had reached their destination airport. As they embarked on the plane, they looked at each other in distress, could they ever come home?

© Copyright 2020 kathrine610moore. All rights reserved.

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