"Of course this damn bus would choose to break down on me now."
  
	Ezekiel Beauforth Keaton IV exited his broken down 1971 Volkswagen Microbus in a 
plume of earthy smoke.  He bent down to check the tires and all was in order (at least, as 
much in order as that kind of vehicle can get these days).  The treads had long ago said 
goodbye to these four pieces of well-worn rubber.  They had as much traction as four dull 
pizza cutters, and were about as sturdy.  But it was December in Savannah, much milder 
than the winter he could have travelled through "up North," as his Dad used to call it.

	Zeke shook the thought of his father out of his head like the puff of smoke that 
seemed to continually surround these past few years of his life.  Despite his efforts to 
the contrary, he still remembered the day he left the house in Erwin, his father yelling 
after him and his stepmother Judy crying, loud hitching sobs that etched their way onto 
his soul like the engraving of an anniversary watch.

	Forcing himself to come down off this plateau of memory, Zeke focused his
concentration on the matter at hand.  There was an acrid burning smell he didn't
recognize hanging in the air and gray-blue smoke ekeing its way out from beneath
the back of his bus.  He flipped up the motor cover at the rear of the old Volksie
and was momentarily blinded by the rush of steam that attacked his face.  He regained
his senses long enough to catch the stare of a woman paused in mid stride going up
the steps of the building next door.

	The marquee hung over the door read "Ballroom Dance Instruction: Frederick Flats
and Elizabeth Norwick, Instructors."  The woman with the dancer's body knew she had been
caught staring, so she scurried up the steps into the dance studio and slammed the door
behind her.  Zeke turned back to his bus, kicked the back left tire (which promptly went flat)
and scanned the neighborhood for a place to go in to use the phone.  

	"Of all the places to break down, I had to pick River Street," he muttered, "the 
most upscale fucking neighborhood in all of Savannah.  I'll be lucky if I find a place to go 
in that won't shoot me or something."

	At that point, a storefront caught his eye.  "The Octopus Garden:  Hayden Marie 
Sapinsley, proprieter."  After a quick second scan around the bistros and quiche bars, Zeke 
decided this was undoubtedly his best shot and walked up the stairs toward the Garden's front 
door.

	The silver bell mounted over the door of the shop tinkled as Zeke stepped through
into the interior.  A radio was playing softly in the background, set to a local station
that Zeke remembered from earlier that day.  The DJ spouted useless inanities over what sounded 
like sped up elevator music until a commercial break for toilet cleaner came on.

	"Hello?" Zeke ventured further into the shop, towards the huge oak staircase that was
obviously the centerpiece of the room.  "Hello, is anyone here?"  He wondered past furniture 
older than his grandparents and odd appliances that he imagined people hadn't used in a century
or longer.  "My car's broken down and I just want to use your phone, can you please answer me?"