"Ak gün ağartır, kara gün karartır" - A white day sheds light, a black day sheds darkness.

Altan was having a tough day and he didn't always manage "tough" well. He hardly had enough time to sell his coffee between the sputtering showers that had left puddle-filled potholes and slippery sidewalks, making it difficult to plod up and down the street after customers who were only too eager to get out of this bitter drizzle. Altan almost got a sale out of a very drunk Dave Gorlomi, but Dave seemed to realize that the strong Turkish coffee would help to alleviate his intoxication, so he stumbled off in the other direction.

"But Mr. Gorlomi! It's good for you!"
"No! I don't - coffee! You can't makemedrink!" Dave was quite inebriated and uncooperative, so Altan gave up - he disliked stubborn drunks anyway.

Every time it started to rain, Altan would go back to Wilshire Tower and drag his cart up five flights of stairs to his apartment (little Braxton, standing guard in front of the elevator, informed Altan that the elevator was broken). After the third time he'd made this trek, Altan's knees were began to throb and his back started to ache. The next time it started to rain, Altan asked the doorman if he would please watch the cart if Altan left it by the stairs - Altan assured the man that he would get some small compensation. The doorman replied with a reluctant, "Sure." Altan thanked him and padded slowly up to his room, worn out.

Around four in the afternoon, the rain eased up again and Altan took his coat and gloves and headed downstairs. The doorman was no longer at his post though his jacket lay across the chair behind the desk. Altan thanked Allah that his cart was still in its place despite the doorman's inexcusable absence. As he pushed it toward the door, he halted. Why was it so quiet? Where was the bell? Altan looked anxiously all around the cart, felt in the drawers, peered into the multiple bags and jars, but it was gone. The metal hook that usually held the little trinket in place was bent out straight as if someone had yanked the bell from the cart spontaneously in passing. Altan huffed in annoyance - what was the point of a doorman if he didn't guard the entrance from thieves and hoodlums? Altan grabbed the doorman's jacket, found his wallet, and snatched a couple bills. Altan threw the jacket and wallet back onto the floor - that should teach the doorman keep watch more closely.

No one was out this afternoon and no one ever came out though Altan continued to roam up and down the block until well into the evening. The rain started to come down again around suppertime, so Altan decided to head in for the night. As he ate his dinner, back in his apartment, he counted his days earnings: $2.50, plus the $10 he filched from the doorman's wallet, just enough to pay for utilities this month. The mosque's speaker squeaked as the muezzin prepared for isha. Altan rolled out his mat and participated dutifully, and continued to pray long after the required ritual had ended, thanking Allah for providing him with the small gift he'd received off the doorman's laziness. Just as he was preparing to put his mat away, there was a bright flash of lightening, a boom, then all was quiet and dark.

"Kahretsin!" Altan cursed under his breath. He threw the mat on the floor and shuffled, exhausted, off to bed. He had wanted to clean up and count out come cash for a new bell, but what was the point? It was dark, it was cold, and the rain that was leaking through his crooked, weathered window would have made tidying up tougher than he could handle at this moment. He decided to forget it all and went to sleep.

......................................................................................................

Altan sat bolt upright in his bed. He groped for the switch on the lamp and turned it on. He squinted around the room, a troubled look on his face. His suspicions were confirmed and he grunted, exasperated. His cart was missing and he couldn't remember where he'd left it. Knowing he had to find it (or no longer be able to sell coffee to pay for his room), Altan untangled himself from his blankets and scrambled out of bed. Grabbing his jacket and slippers, he made for the door, giving a small glance back to his little wall clock - 11:51 pm. Why did he have to think of his cart now, so late at night? He grabbed the poker he kept in the umbrella stand by the door. Just in case.

Altan scurried down the stairs and reached the lobby, hoping he'd left the cart by the doorman's desk as he had done the last time. It wasn't there, nor was it anywhere else inside, so far as he could tell. He cautiously poked his head out the building and looked up and down the street, but saw nothing. If he had left it outside, he didn't really expect it to still be sitting out in the street, untouched. What could he do now? The police couldn't and wouldn't do anything - it was just a stupid little cart, and the loss was no more than another statistic proving that this part of town was no good.

Altan groaned and made to pull himself back inside, but something red, laying in a puddle, caught the light of the streetlamp and Altan paused to fully focus on the thing. Those were his prayer beads! The same ones he hung on his cart! Altan dropped his poker and rushed out to grab them, then desperately looked around - could his cart be nearby, per chance? And there it was, tucked behind the corner of the building, out of sight to all except the one who was searching for it. For the first time that day, Altan grinned and gleefully backed his cart out of it's little niche.

A dark minivan slowly drove under the overpass and toward Altan; Altan didn't even notice, or didn't care enough to notice as it drew closer - he was too delighted with his recent find. Five feet from him, someone in the van cried out angrily and four deafening cracks punctuated the night's silence, just as Altan squatted behind his cart to rehang his prayer beads. The corner of the cart splintered violently as bullets flew through the wood, shattering Altan's glass jars of spices, and ricocheting off the concrete wall behind him. Altan had fallen, terrified and in shock, so much so that he was frozen in a shout of horror. The van's tires squealed as it zoomed away, leaving only steaming puddles behind.

Altan lay in the muck and rubble of his dismembered cart, not fully aware of his ordeal. His mind was simply taking note of the following events, not really comprehending them: a woman was shouting, someone was trying to help him up, there were sirens in the distance, his wrist hurt, he inhaled, he exhaled; there was no doubt, Altan's day had been very tough indeed.