I pull into the parking lot at work with the gnawing feeling/knowledge
I should be doing something better with my life. College grad
returns home, becomes convenience store clerk. The stuff dreams are
made of, straight out of a brochure promising debt and nothing. I
step out of my car and gawk for the nearest distraction before suicide
solves all of my problems.
The McDonald’s connected to Signal Convenience Store owns
a spotlight that beams into the Buffalo, MO, night sky. This baffles
me. Why does a fast food restaurant in a town of 2,500 people need
a spotlight? We don’t live in a post-apocalyptic world. No roving
bands of starving survivors seek rescue from death by cannibal. Perhaps
rural folk become entranced with the big ‘ole light in the sky. Ad
execs probably picture the Clampetts strolling inside a McDonald’s,
Jed taking off his cap, placing it over his heart and saying, “We saw
a strange ray of light up there in that big black empty thingy, and
by god if it didn’t point us right where we needed to be. Bless these
golden arches.” Or maybe somebody got a great deal on a spotlight
and couldn’t pass it up.
“Jesus Christ, you’re finally here,” Rachel says as I walk into the
annoyingly bright convenience store. I recently added her to my roster
of imaginary sexual conquests. Half-Filipino and half-Mexican,
trim figure, thick black hair, and dark skin.
“JC is pissed, Rachel. Why the hell am I working tonight?”
“I had to fire Patti today.”
“For what?”
“Bouncing personal checks at work. She’d have Mike come in
and—”
“Yeah, I don’t care how she did it,” I say. “I mean, I knew she was
retarded, but damn, how long do you really expect to get away with
cashing bad checks at work?”
“Took us almost two months to figure it out,” Rachel says.
“I already knew this place was retarded,” I say.
“Most people fake being nice to their boss,” she says.
I look around. No one’s paying attention. People stand in line at
McDonald’s, but that’s across the building, past the chain link barrier
separating the two businesses from eleven p.m. to five in the morning.
“Those people don’t sell weed to their boss,” I say.
“Shit,” she says. “You’re gonna go to that well one too many times
and end up getting your ass fired.”
“Whatever will I do without all this?” I ask.
“Spare me,” she says. “One of these days poverty will erase that
too good for this job attitude you got.”
“I am too good for this job.”
“No, no,” Rachel says, “tell me how you really feel.” She grabs her
purse from underneath the counter and walks out.
Alone. Standing at register one. The chewing tobacco to my right,
the cigarette racks behind me. Pint and half-pint bottles below the
smokes. To my left, trucker speed and different variations of fake
Viagra that promise erections but only succeed in making you giggle
at funny names like Jackhammer and Bonez.
I pull my portable CD player out of my bookbag and place it on
a shelf underneath the pill display. Mini-speakers are the only thing
between me and the silence of fluorescent tube lighting. Work forbids
music, but without my CDs to carry me through the abyss that
is one to five a.m., I might be tempted to get my conceal and carry
permit, shout inventive threats toward surly customers.
The door chimes. A girl I went to high school with walks in. I
sigh.
“Milford, is that you?” she asks, handing me $20.00 for $18.38 in
gas. “Pump one.”
“Hey, Kelly, how you doing?” I ask, opening the register.
“Doing good, doing good. When’d you start working here?”
“Couple of weeks ago,” I say, pulling out her change. “Doing the
year off thing, saving some money, living back home, applying for
law school.”
“What’s it been, five years now? Can you believe it? Seems like
just yesterday we were sitting in Beckner’s class.” She pauses, reaches
into her purse. “I’ve got a couple kiddos now and—”
“I don’t need to see any—” I try to say, closing the register, clutching
her change.
“That’s Cody. He’s three. And this little angel is Madison. She’s
one.”
“Cute,” I say, politely glancing at her ugly children.
“Thank you,” she says. “They’re pretty great. Me and Ronnie’s still
together. He works over at Wil-Drill.”
“Great,” I say.
“Well,” she says, laying a hand on the countertop separating us,
“I gotta run, but it was nice catching up with you. We should get together
some time.”
“Yeah,” I say with a grimace, “let’s do that.”
“Umm, I think you forgot my change,” she says.
I drop the crumbled dollar bill and the loose change on the counter,
then turn around and pretend to stock chewing tobacco until I
hear the door chime.
Alone again. I brew coffee and refill the cappuccino machines
with flavored powder before midnight. Fill the bins of free condiments
people take out of need or because they can. Fake sugar constantly
runs low. I head back behind the counter, stock cigarettes until
a steady stream of tired workers from the chicken plant huddles
inside. It’s the biggest employer of poor people in town, which also
makes it the shittiest job around and the easiest one to get. Each tired
face is like looking into a mirror and seeing what would’ve happened
if I’d never left . . . so I try to be nice.
Three ex-classmates straggle in for Dr Pepper and Snickers after
the initial rush ends. Pero, Wallum, and Slag, all decked out in
black, knee-high rubber boots, hair nets, and vinyl company jackets.
They’re as fat as they were five years ago, which is an accomplishment
I suppose, or maybe they just fat-plateaued.
“What ya hear, Milf?” Pero asks.
“Rumors about the chicken plant closing down,” I say.
“Those rumors are spread by skittish white men,” Wallum replies.
“At least we’ll get rid of all the wetbacks when the plant closes
down,” Slag says. “These two white devils on the other hand . . . ”
“I hear all this bullshit about the Mexican takeover of Buffalo,” I
say, “except when Rachel’s working. I guess a pretty face and nice tits
trump race.”
“No one would dare insult that molasses goddess,” Pero says.
“Just cause they don’t say it to her face,” Slag says, “don’t mean
they aren’t saying it behind her back.”
“I don’t get it,” I say. “White-trash tweekers scare me way more
than a bunch of Mexicans, who, coincidentally, all have jobs.”
“But we know those tweekers,” Slag says. “What do we know
about these Mexicans except their refusal to buy auto insurance?”
“I know they come in here on Friday nights, buy beer, cigarettes,
and food, same as you fools do.”
“This coming from the man who couldn’t last two hours cutting
chicken without throwing up,” Slag says.
“Yeah, I’m a shitty worker, and you’re a racist,” I say. “Both of us
do the Ozarks proud.”
“White power,” Pero says, putting his hands in the air for a double
high-five.
After the chicken plant rush, I insert my combo Doolittle/Surfer
Rosa CD, whip out the dust mop. I half-ass sweep floors, weave between
aisles made up of overpriced grocery store staples like bread,
mayo, aluminum foil, light bulbs, and salt, the latter three items very
popular with users of methamphetamines. The other aisles contain
more junk food than a store should be allowed to carry.
What necessity do I sell besides gas? Water? You can get that for
free in the bathroom, just take your own cup in there. Can’t come
up with an answer either, can you? Work typifies the leviathan we
call the American economy; useless shit made by underpaid foreign
workers, sold by companies employing thousands of people who sell
it to as many middle-men and women as possible to squeeze every
penny of obtainable profit, sometimes four or five layers of sticky
middle before it reaches the consumer, where I sell it to someone
who needs it. Or, to put it in simpler terms: magic.
The problem with duties like sweeping, mopping, picking up
the parking lot, stocking the cooler, and cleaning the bathroom is
that my brain does no actual work. When the customers stop I’m
left with regrets and drudgery. Futile attempts to pinpoint where I
fucked up and ended up back in Buffalo, like knowing after the fact
makes all the difference. Imaginary conversations with the girl who
wanted, then rejected me, conversations where words change outcomes,
where promises of future action secure momentary basks of
happiness. What happens tomorrow when I wake up and feel mediocre,
everything dull and sober like rounded edges, inside, where I’m
supposed to feel . . . I remember something, something sharp and
wicked like serrated hope.
The girl. Friends first. Long walks. Platonic coffee. Animated
talks about various boys and girls we’d fucked. Two years later I said,
“I’m in love with you.” She said, “Took you long enough, puss,” and
we kissed. Plans were made. Apartment hunting, rugs, coffee tables,
pots and pans, drunk internet searches for the perfect abandoned
dog or cat. Saving up for a security deposit and first month’s rent.
Five weeks before the big move-in she said, “You’re distant and boring.
Why can’t you open up?” I whispered, “This is as good as I get.”
She said, “I liked us better as friends, when your lack of depth wasn’t
so glaring.” I strung together well placed obscenities, yelled in outrage,
the violent poetry of the betrayed. “You sound like a wounded
little boy,” she said.
Three in the morning and I’m done with my chores for the night,
ready to get high in my car when a red El Camino pulls up and the
youngest homeless couple I’ve ever seen hops out of the truck bed.
The girl stands tall, built like a skinny, large bird. Sharp beak
and blond hair, scissor-shorn short. Face smudged with grime, solid
green army jacket patched with Vietnam insignia. Maybe she stole
it off a passed-out vet or bought it at a thrift store somewhere. She
looks late 20s, but who knows. Doesn’t homelessness add ten years?
The man wears a black skullcap despite the sixty-degree weather.
Patchy beard, bald spots underneath his chin and on his left cheek.
Softer features than his traveling companion. Round face, tiny pug
nose. Probably cleans up alright with a shower, something he hasn’t
had in a while. Wears an army jacket like bird girl, no patches. His
white shirt looks gray, proclaims Happy Earth Day 1992. They both
carry Army-issued duffel bags.
Man and woman light cigarettes, heads turned, looking out
toward the highway. Pavement and street light shine. How do the
homeless size up a town, determine whether it’s safe to stick around
for a few days or skeedaddle before they get “handled” like the former
tenants of Times Square?
I step out from behind the counter and walk outside, stand to
the left of the door, homeless couple to the right, and light my own
cigarette.
“Okay if we hang out here for a little bit?” the woman asks, tossing
her cigarette butt on the ground, watching it roll back toward a
puddle and extinguish itself. I sigh and silently bitch about the wet
broom I’ll have later.
“You’re not bothering me,” I say. “The cops will probably swing
by at some point. They usually do for free coffee, but you shouldn’t
have anything to worry about. Barney’s alright.”
“Appreciate it,” the man says, “but we could really use some food.
Haven’t had a bite in a few days now, just trying to make it up.”
“You are in luck my good man. I’ve got one of those big cans of
chunky soup. It’s baked potato, which is my favorite, but you can
have it.”
“You sure?” the woman asks.
“Yeah. It’s cool. Just a can of soup.”
The man and woman exchange glances as we walk inside, a sort
of worked out street language where talk ceases and body language
conveys coded messages.
“Are you sure about this guy?” she asks with a scratch of her nose.
“He seems alright, looks kinda weak,” he relays back with the
power of an arched eyebrow. “I could take him if he tried anything.”
“Make sure you see him open the can of soup and pour it in the
bowl,” she replies with a sniff of her nose, a wipe of her chin.
The man props their duffel bags against the side of the Krispy
Kreme case. If I knew the couple better, or if surveillance cameras
were blind to dirty hobos, I’d beg them to lick each and every Krispy
Kreme so I could laugh maniacally as people I went to school with,
worked for, slept with, or otherwise despised, ate hobo-tainted pastries.
I step behind the counter, grab the can of soup, a plastic bowl,
and the spoon I brought from home. “Here,” I say, handing the items
over, “I’ll let you guys do the rest. Put it on for about two-and-a-half
minutes in the microwave.”
“This is a good move for you,” the girl says, wagging a finger at
me.
“What?” I ask.
“Karma,” she says.
“I bet you say that to all the strangers who give you food.”
“Kinda,” she says, laughing.
“Is that one of the tricks you pick up begging for food, the karma
con?” I ask. “Could you teach me how to get sympathy from strangers?”
“Yeah, it’s called being dirt poor and hungry,” the man says, pulling
back the lid of the soup can, pouring the contents into the plastic
bowl and setting it in the microwave. The woman touches his arm
and smiles. “He’s just kidding,” she says. “Was that your way of trying
to find out if we’re homeless?”
“I already assumed you were homeless,” I say.
“Everyone wants to know,” she says. “It’s okay if you’re curious.
Seems we should come right out and say it.”
The bell dings. Man pulls out soup. I suggest they grab a Styrofoam
cup and a plastic spoon so they don’t have to share the only
bowl. She thanks me, takes their food and sits on a duffel bag. The
man sits down next to her. They eat slowly, use napkins, and chew
with their mouths closed. The soup is not slurped. He rinses out the
soup bowl and spoon in the bathroom. Hands the items to me over
the counter and I put them in my backpack next to a CD holder and
a notebook full of song lyrics I’ll never use.
“You mind if we stick around here until morning, try to catch a
ride?” the man asks.
“It’s cool with me,” I say. “This place picks up around five or so.
Surely someone will give you guys a ride.”
“We don’t want to get you in trouble,” she says.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “I hate this job anyways.”
Does it bother the jobless when people complain about work?
Maybe the unemployed enjoy the lack of responsibility, the spontaneity
that comes from a lack of forced purpose. Maybe they feel
sorry for me, see my snarky unhappiness and think their lives could
be worse. I tell myself I’m better off snuggled inside the structures of
job, free rent, and debt repayment. The days of voluntary homelessness
are over. Living outside the structure leads to nothing but stabbings
and anal rape.
Man and woman smile. I think I’m making them nervous. The
woman says, “We’re going to smoke, be right back.” They heft duffel
bags onto shoulders, head out. Not even the homeless trust me with
their shit.
The newspaper guys usually show up around three-thirty. Terry
and Barry Garvin. Brothers. Paper delivery men. Lottery enthusiasts.
Serious lottery enthusiasts. The kind who keep the Missouri
educational system afloat.
“How we doing this morning?” Terry asks, not wanting an answer.
Darkly tinged with dirt and car grease, several missing teeth,
buzz-cut hair-do, and well mannered. Stares intently at the clear
plastic case housing the lottery tickets, especially the ten-dollar ones.
Ten-dollar scratchers are your big dogs, the ones with the largest
payoff. Each one named differently, but they all come with $100,000
stamped across the top in faux-gold lettering.
“Doing fine, Terry, doing just fine. Where’s Barry?” I ask with a
twang.
“That son-of-a-bitch called me this morning saying he was sicker
than shit. Sounded like a bunch of malarkey. Come next Sunday I’m
gonna leave his ass high and dry, see how he likes it.”
I nod in agreement. At this hour my patience knows no bounds.
“Now, let’s see here,” Terry says, putting on his glasses. “Let me
get one of them Rags to Riches, a Diamond Dog, and a Big Bucks
Count ‘Em Up.” He points to each ticket in case I don’t know how to
read yet.
I tear out the scratchers and Terry hands me a debit card. Removes
his keys from the right pocket of faded black jeans. Leans on
the counter, left arm propping himself up, bulbous stomach smashed
against my work station. Mumbling to himself, he scrapes with his
right hand, moving the key left to right, hunting for treasure. Filthy
hands and tanned skin contrasted against the white and beige countertop.
Normally it irritates me when customers scratch at the register,
but Terry’s the only one here and it doesn’t matter. This is what
maturity must feel like.
Terry sports a familiar face: disappointment followed by the rationalization
of one more ticket. When that one craps out he’ll shake
his head twice and say, “Well, damn. Better get out of here before I
spend all my money.” But not tonight.
Terry scratches off another Diamond Dog and says, “Looky here,
one hundred dollars. I had a feeling about this one.”
“I bet you did,” I say.
First rule of the lottery, never trust the customer. Scan the bar
code on the back of the ticket and a computer will tell you the scientific
truth. Nothing’s worse than scanning lottery tickets for people
who think they’ve won but really haven’t. A winner never wants to
hear they’re a loser and the ignorant always blame the messenger.
Ignorant = customers. Messenger = me.
Triumphant beeps of victory. Terry’s a winner. Open the register.
Hand over a Ben Franklin. Terry buys another Big Bucks. Nothing.
A second Diamond Dog. No sir. A third Big Bucks. Nada. A second,
then third Rags to Riches. Nope. Two more Diamond Dogs. Winner:
One free ticket.
“Well, damn,” Terry says. “Guess I better get out of here before
you get the rest of my money. Broke even though.” He slaps a palm
on the countertop and raises his hand goodbye.
I hesitate to glance at the clock. 3:57 a.m. Twenty-seven minutes
since the homeless couple went for a smoke. Where are they? Casing
houses or something? Shit. The girl seemed alright, but that guy,
something about him. Maybe they go town-to-town breaking into
empty houses, squatting and plotting. I grab the Buffalo phone book
and find the number for the police department. Should I dial 911?
No. I’m being ridiculous. Maybe they went off to fuck. Maybe, maybe,
maybe.
Minutes pass before I quit thinking about it and decide to do
some work.
Masturbation sucks when you’re listening for the chime of the
front door, but I’m stressed and the homeless couple interrupted my
normal three-fifteen jerk-off in the single bathroom stall in the men’s
room.
I’m picturing the first girl who ever gave me a blow job, except
this time she’s sticking a finger in my ass while blowing me. I pretend
I don’t like it, but she could always tell when I was lying. My breath
shortens, face reddens, and then I hear the front door.
“Milford, where the hell you at?” Barney asks. “Yanking that tiny
crank again?”
I wait a second for the erection to subside, zip my pants back up
and wash my hands before leaving the bathroom.
“I was just getting ready to call you,” I say to the mustached
deputy.
“I caught two bums back behind the Woods Motel,” he says, face
lit up with joy, “toking up like a couple of dirty burnouts. You should
have seen ‘em. I come around the corner, gun out—”
“You’re gonna end up shooting another teenager armed with a fly
swatter if you keep pulling that gun on everybody,” I say.
“Not tonight, Milf. I’m trying to tell a story,” he says. “So I got the
gun pointed right at this tall ugly girl’s face and she’s got the joint in
her mouth. She starts shaking, saying, ‘Oh shit, oh shit. Hey don’t
shoot man, we’re cool, we’re cool.’ I ain’t laughed so hard in weeks.
This job’s alright sometimes.”
“Cop scares stoner. Wow. Shocker.”
“What’s up your craw?” he asks. “Out of pot?”
I’m unsure how to respond. I never pegged Barney for an actual
cop. More like a low-paid moron with an inflated sense of self worth.
So I ignore it.
“That couple you just busted came in here tonight to wait for a
ride up north. You already take them in?” I ask.
“Nope, got ‘em in the car right now.”
“You came here first?”
“I’m the only one working and dispatcher Tiffany don’t appreciate
a good drug story like you, Tommy Chong.”
“Wow, you seriously stopped here to brag about busting a homeless
couple smoking pot?”
“What?” he asks, brows furrowed, shoulders shrugged.
“Don’t take them in,” I say.
“What do you mean don’t take them in? I already arrested ‘em,
taking ‘em in’s what happens next.”
“Leave them with me.”
“Fuck you,” he says. “‘Leave ’em with me.’ What the hell’s a matter
with you? You know I can’t release a prisoner into your custody.”
“Those aren’t prisoners, Barney. You haven’t taken them to jail
yet.”
“They’re going in,” he says. “What the fuck you care anyways?”
“Barney,” I say, laying my palms flat against the countertop,
leaning closer to the pudgy officer, “you know how you like to take
naps around two a.m. out on K-159, the little gravel road about
three miles down K?”
“Your word against mine,” he says, smugly.
“And some pictures I took last week of you fully reclined, hat over
the head, straight passed the fuck out.”
“Bullshit,” he says.
I pull out of my phone, show him a picture. “I have plenty of copies,
don’t worry, funny captions and everything.”
“You’re gonna use this for a homeless couple?” he asks. “Really?”
“Just leave them here and I won’t say.”
“I get how blackmail works,” Barney says.
“And here I was agreeing with everyone about what a dick you
are,” I say.
“Funny,” he says, “everyone says the same thing about you.”
“Ignorant hill folk with an uncanny ability to produce high grade
meth and defraud the disability system don’t count.”
“Alright,” he says, laughing. “They’re all yours. But I’d keep an eye
peeled next time you’re toking up in that piece of shit car of yours.”
“How you gonna explain the video footage of you arresting the
homeless couple?” I ask, laughing loudly.
“Fuck you,” he says and walks outside to retrieve the newly freed.
Barney opens the back passenger door, tells the couple to get out
of the car. I assume he’s having to convince them this isn’t a trick.
They emerge, sling bags over shoulders. Barney points them inside
and takes off.
The door chimes.
“Did you do this?” the man asks, setting their bags against the
Krispy Kreme case.
“Not bad, eh?”
“Seriously. You got us off?” the woman asks.
“No thanks necessary. Maybe karma will cut me some slack,
right?” I ask, laughing by myself. “You guys just hang out here, some-
one will give you a ride.”
“That’s okay,” the man says, “we got things under control. But
thank—”
“I insist,” I say. “Sit down on your bags, chill out, and I’ll have you
guys on your way in no time.”
The couple looks at each other. Are they a couple?
“Go ahead,” I say, “sit down. You got nothing to worry about. I’m
sure there’s someone around here with some liberal guilt eating away
at their insides.”
They sit on the floor, lean against duffel bags, and avoid looking
at the customers who start pouring in around five a.m. for jolts of
sugar and caffeine. I become one with the void. Work face empty
of emotion. My voice robotic precision. My mind nimbly reads the
register, tells my hands the correct change to give back. Time becomes
measured in increments of $17.51, $9.19, $3.02, $0.57, $42.86.
Here are goods I wish to purchase. My machine will calculate cost of
goods. Here is money for goods I wish to purchase. Here is money
minus cost of goods purchased. I exchange these words with every
customer, but not one audible syllable passes between us.
I stare at the homeless couple sleeping despite the noise of early
morning coffee and McDonald’s. The customers sleep too. Dreary
eyed wanderers from home to work, work to home. No one bumps
into the homeless, no one even acknowledges the two people passed
out next to the donuts. Robots? Task. Perform. Verbal nicety. Head
nod. Back to the car, the job, the home, the mess. Is the repetitive
dance, the muscle-memory key chain, worth it? Is the sacrifice for
security or family worth it?
I blink and it’s seven a.m. Fifteen minutes until shift over. No
one’s volunteered to give the homeless a ride. I remind myself to take
midwestern politeness off my list of astute stereotypes. “Hey. Wake
up,” I yell from behind the counter. They stir momentarily, taking
seconds to stretch and yawn in my direction. “Go wait out by the
white car. My boss’ll be in soon, and she doesn’t need to meet you.”
The couple wearily grasp duffel bags to their chests and head outside.
I wait for Assistant Manager Darlene to show up so I can count
my drawer and go deal with the rest of my night. She saunters in
smiling like always, annoyingly happy. I relinquish my register while
she blathers on about Patti getting fired, how Patti never should’ve
listened to that no-good boyfriend Mike. Do you think he’s a drug
user? she asks. I can’t help but think he’d have to be to put with Patti, I
say. Milford, you’re so silly sometimes, she replies. I finish my count,
print out the paperwork, take off my name badge and work shirt.
Goodnight Darlene.
I step lightly to the car. Man and woman hoist bags again, look
ready to leave.
“Sorry no one offered a ride,” I say.
“No worries. We owe you enough already for speaking to your
cop friend,” the woman says.
“Where are we headed?” I ask.
“We can’t impose anymore—”
“Fuck that,” I say. “I’ll take you wherever you wanna go. Within
reason.”
“Seriously?” she asks.
“Seriously,” I say.
“Why?” the man asks.
“You want a ride or my intentions?” I ask.
“Your intentions,” the woman says.
“We’ll take the ride,” the man says. “You pick.”
“Weird,” I say, “but okay. Kansas City it is.”
I unlock the car, step into my fast food dump of an interior. The
homeless couple throw their canvas bags into the back seat. The
woman sits shotgun, the man behind me. I pull the white whale onto
North 65 Highway, towards Louisburg, Urbana, and Preston, where
I’ll hook up with 54 and take the back way to 13.
It takes three minutes to leave the city limits of Buffalo. No one
says anything. I turn on sports talk and ponder the land. Hills. Free
rent. Cows. Ignorance. Barbwire fences. I turn left onto 54, get bored
with listening to predictions of who’s going to win the World Series
this year.
“Going to share that pot,” I ask, “or just sit on it?”
The woman turns around and says, “Go ahead Brenden.”
I watch Brenden in the rearview digging through clothes in the
duffel bag. He pulls out a baggie half-full of pre-rolled joints. Whips
out a lighter. We’re silent until I toss the roach out my window.
“What?” Brenden asks. “No questions?”
“As in who are you really, since you’re obviously not homeless?”
“Hillary and I are kind of homeless,” Brenden says. “We don’t like,
have homes, you know, like right now. But we’re not exactly hurting
for the necessities either.”
“You’re name’s Hillary?” I ask.
“What’s wrong with my name?” she asks.
“What are you, from Connecticut?” I ask.
“How’d you know?” Brenden says. “Instead of using our graduation
money for some European excursion, we decided to see America.
Nothing but the road to guide us. You know, like Kerouac.”
“You guys are fucking with me right?” I ask. “I’d say you’re about
fifty years too late. Kerouac. That’s hilarious.” I light a cigarette, roll
my window down slightly.
“Took us a little under three weeks to get here from Hartford,”
Hillary says.
“Hotel rooms, food, and supplies must make it a little easier,” I
say.
“He’s pissed,” Brenden says to Hillary.
“That’s why you never break character,” Hillary replies back.
“I’m not pissed,” I say, “more astonished by your commitment and
stupidity. No one volunteers to be homeless. Those days are over.”
“Awww,” Hillary says, turning around, speaking to Brenden, “we
totally ruined his good deed buzz.”
“Shit,” Brenden says, “we totally did.”
“Where are you guys headed?” I ask.
“Wherever the fuck we want,” Hillary says, using index fingers as
tiny devil horns and sticking her tongue out at me.
“California sounds about right,” Brenden says. “Or wherever the
universe takes us. Like today, we’re going to Kansas City.”
I toss the cigarette out the window, turn the sports talk up and
calm my disappointment. I wanted to help, do the right thing, the
sort of bullshit that would help me forget, for at least a day, how little
I’ve changed since high school, but I can’t shake the gnawing feeling,
the serrated disappointment of being six years older but exactly the
same.
“Hey man,” Brenden asks, “you hungry? I’m fucking starved.”
“Munchies,” Hillary says.
“Let us buy you something,” he says, “and pay for your gas. When
we get to Kansas City, we’ll party. It’s on us. Really.”
“Great,” I say. “I know plenty of people I went to college with up
there, plenty of good drug connections.”
I stop at a gas station in Hermitage, Highway 54’s charming lake
community. I tell Brenden to grab me some potato wedges and a
large Mountain Dew. They exit, leave their bags behind. I wait a few
seconds. Pop outside, open the back door, take the duffel bags and
throw them on the sidewalk. Jump back inside the car, pull it into
reverse and head toward 54. I wait until the homeless couple comes
outside so I can see their surprised faces in the rearview holding
enough junk food to feed six people.
They step outside, notice their bags on the sidewalk. Look toward
the highway. I’m close enough to see their smiles. They wave goodbye
and I shake my head in disgust. Where’s the anger?
by Matt Pachmayr
*winner of the Gary William Barger Memorial Scholarship
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