by S R Savell
The door opens. It’s the girls and their father.
“My kids said something about a man—” He looks at Nathaniel, and his voice rises. “Oh, so you’re the guy, huh?” He paces toward Nathaniel, who’s a good foot taller and fifty pounds heavier. “What kind of freak are you, giving my kids candy, huh? You some kind of child molester or something? Because I have people who would love to tear your ass up in prison, you prick.”
Nathaniel stammers and shakes his head.
The odd feeling I had earlier amid the liquid rage begins to rise. It’s mirrored in his red face, and now I know what it was.
Fear.
The little girls plead with their father, who’s now face-to-chest with the panicked Nathaniel. He pushes Nathaniel, which doesn’t do squat.
Nathaniel steps back anyway, knocking into the bucket and splashing water down his pants.
“What the hell were you doing?”
A drop of spit flies out and Velcros to Nathaniel’s black shirt.
“I . . . I wasn’t . . . Just wanted—”
“Wanted what, you son of a bitch?” He rams his hands onto Nathaniel’s chest.
Nathaniel’s backed against the wall.
The girls cry.
“Shut up,” their father yells.
“Hey, asshole,” I shout, “get outta here before I call the cops.”
He whirls, shaking his cell phone in my direction.
“Go ahead. Call ’em, I’m gonna need someone to pick up the pieces when I’m done.”
“Oh, you wanna be cute, huh?” I round the counter, force myself between them. I snatch his phone and start to dial 911.
He yanks the phone from my hand and crams it in his pocket, nearly dropping it in the bucket. “Fine. Have it your way. Girls, come on.” He grabs their hands and pulls them out the door.
The car roars off, slinging exhaust and rocks at the gas pump.
I run outside and watch the Cadillac chew through the dim. It cuts off an old car, squealing on the next turn.
“Yeah, I’m reporting a driving hazard on Fourth and Main. It’s a black Cadillac. Don’t know the plates, but there’s two girls with him. No, little girls, not women. He’s a white guy. I think he went toward Cherrybrook Road. Don’t know where from there. You better get him before he wrecks.”
I hate Cadillacs.
Back in the store, Nathaniel looks like he’s been Tased. Knuckles bulge, faint scars streaking the surface like condensation on a glass.
I want to ask him where he got those scars. Why do I care?
I make it back to my seat and flop into the creaky plastic cradle. “You must be an idiot. Any other guy would have ripped him apart.”
“Yeah.” The voice sounds smaller than it should from such a beast-like body. He’s still holding the mop, looking at me like someone just offed himself in front of him.
Somewhere in my head, between points A and B, anger has died. Suspicion lingers, but then again, it never really leaves. Not for me, anyhow. And as I watch him, the word I’ve never found to describe him falls in my lap.
Innocent. That’s what he is.
And something in me, a wall in me, pushes out a pebble and lets a thread of light in.
“Or.”
“Or?” he says softly, like loudness will break him apart.
“Or you’re just nice. Creepy nice, but nice.”
“Nice?” His gaze flops onto the mop water. Thick veins twitch in his hands.
“Yeah, nice.” I tuck a foot under the opposite kneecap and lean back, hands in my hoodie. “Still don’t trust you, though.”
He nods, somehow mechanical and sad at the same time, a cyborg in all the wrong ways.
“Does that bother you? That I don’t trust you?”
A small shrug. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because we’re friends.”
I laugh. “Boy, I’m no one’s friend. What makes you think I care for you?”
Words seem to hang on his teeth. He shrugs again, and I can’t look away from the hurt wrapping him up. Fluorescent lights brighten the gap of skin showing through his torn sleeve, sliding back and forth beneath the fabric as he mops. I keep looking until he leaves my sight, half hidden behind the shelves.
When he’s headed to the bathroom, I speak again. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I have no real friends. You’re now the closest I’ve got.”
He looks at me. “But you said you don’t like me.”
“I don’t like anyone. But now that I know you’re actually a . . . nice, happy, whatever kind of guy, I find you pretty tolerable.”
“That was all a test, then?”
“No. I just think you might be almost a decent person. Maybe.”
For the first time, I get the notion that I’m the one under scrutiny. I put one earbud in and click the Next button on my dead iPod.
“It’s not true, you know . . . what he said.” He whispers this, deep voice broken at the edges.
It takes me a second to realize what he means, and I roll my eyes. “If I thought he was right, I would have called the cops on both of you.”
A weak laugh breaks the last bit of tension between us. I put the iPod away, and he goes to dump the mop water.
It soothes some of the bitterness inside—his laugh.
And so I smile.
“Closing time.”
“All right.”
He straightens one last bag of chips on the shelf, then walks over.
“Tell me, why are you so cheerful all the time?” I grumble.
“I just am, I guess.” He rubs the back of his head, messing up his hair.
“I don’t mind happy in small doses, but you? You are just insane with the smiley-all-the-timey deal.”
He’s at the door, hand propping open the glass. The smile wanes.
Another feeling bubbles up. Guilt? “Oh, for Christ’s sake.” I glance around one last time.
He ducks out the door.
I follow him out and lock up. “Forget I said anything.”
He starts to smile, then stops. “Okay.”
I can’t decide whether to laugh or yell, so I do both. “Smart-ass.” I pop his arm, and his grin makes its way back where it belongs. “Good night, then?”
A cold wind paws at us, and he slides his hands into his pockets. “I think I should wait until your ride gets here.”
“Mom texted she’d be here soon, so cool the testosterone.”
“Why don’t you wait until she’s here to come outside?”
“Can’t smoke inside.” I pull my last cigarette from the package and light up. The warmth is soothing, the rich smoke feeding my lungs until I exhale it into the heavy sky. Streams of cars spit their own smoke into the night, the headlights smudging false luminescence across the pavement. The noise and brightness of the city fade until I’m alone, just me in my own mind.
He lets me stay there, undisturbed. When I return, he looks stern, an expression I’ve never seen him wear.
“Don’t judge. I’m trying to quit.” My need to justify is oddly surprising.
“When did you start?”
“Smoking, you mean?” I cock an eyebrow, an impish leer. He doesn’t get it, and I just shake my head. “About a year ago.”
The icy wind is leaving claw marks beneath the fabric of my jacket. I shiver and take another warm drag just as the blue Cavvy creeps to the sidewalk.
I put out the end to save for later, think better of it, and hand it to him. “Here. Take it. No cigarette, no temptation.” I head around the back bumper and turn when I’m at the door.
He’s walking the opposite direction.
I holler, “You comin’?”
“No, thank y—”
“Get your ass in the car!”
He keeps going at an awkward pace, caught between trying to not be rude and scampering away.
I yell one last time, “Nathaniel. Car. Now!”
Mother Dear rolls down the back window. “Who is that man?”
“Nathaniel, and he’s getting a ride with us.” I neglect to say he works with me and is probably the only person on the planet who has no check marks on the Sin Tally Sheet or whatever God uses to damn us to hell.
“Michelle.” The one-word warning hisses through her teeth.
Nathaniel shuffles over, hands wrist deep in his pockets. Steam puffs from his lips, making a shroud in the streetlight. He walks through it at a minefield pace, embarrassment the undetonated bomb hiding near his feet.
I slide across the backseat and lean over to open his door for him. He balks, fidgeting like a preschooler in the lunch line. I give him the look from my sprawled position, eyelids slit and jaw cemented.
He winces, then steps over.
“All bow to the look eventually,” I tell him.
He gives me a shy smile, eases in. He shivers, the tremor nearly rocking the car. “Thank you, Mrs., uh, ma’am.”
“Just call her Mom,” I say airily, knowing that, to her, he must look like something from a Harry Potter movie, minus the umbrella and trench coat.
“Young man.” She nods toward the mirror. Concealed beneath her orangey foundation is a challenge for him to even think of calling her Mom.
“Where to?” I ask.
“The Washateria on Fifth Street, please.”
“You gonna sleep in a dryer or something?” I ask, clicking the seat belt shut. It jams halfway, and I hit the button a couple of times before it unclasps.
He’s staring at his feet.
The click of the belt is too loud; it hurts my ears.
I keep my mouth locked the rest of the drive.
Chapter 4
I’m wrenched awake.
The sound is awful, nasally and disjointed and whiny. Tear ducts fire up.
I slam the radio off on America’s newest and freakiest pop sensation. It’s an effective but repugnant wake-up call.
My stomach shudders. I realize it’s not the typical bad music nausea but a sloshing down below.
I make it to the bathroom just in time.
The shower brings me little relief, so I head for the Pepto-Bismol in the cabinet. I swallow it, brush my teeth, and slather toothpaste to kill the latest pimple on my nose.
“Hey, I’m sick,” I call through my mom’s door. I rap on the wood and hear her muffled reply.
“All right, honey.”
Another bubbling in my stomach sends me running to the toilet.
Sitting on the throne gives me lots of time to think, and think I do. I think about playgrounds and sushi and bunches of other meaningless crap, every pun intended. But most of all, I think about the big guy.
Last night, watching Nathaniel standing in front of the Washateria made me remember the early days when the only thing in my pantry was a hungry mouse or those times when I couldn’t do my homework because, as a human child, I had yet to acquire the night vision necessary to see in a house without electricity. I knew what it was like to be down, to be glued there by sticky traps, and to want nothing more than to get up or at least grab the can of hairspray for protection.
Being poor didn’t mean I was always unhappy. Kids have a way of making the best out of everything. Yeah, I always wanted a nonmoldy wall, but since I couldn’t have one, I just went and named the big green fungus Reginald.
And just like Kid Michelle, Adult Nathaniel was making the best of his situation—namely, homelessness.
Ma comes in at ten or so to check on me, then leaves for her shift. I doze on and off, blare the radio, sing karaoke till my throat hurts, chug more medicine, wipe off the toothpaste, and find that I’m left with nothing worth doing.
It keeps going back to yesterday, my mind does, and it’s stuck on scene replay. Nathaniel waving and smiling, short sleeves doing little to keep him from the midnight wind. The image cuts into my restless mind like sutures through skin.
Such a strange guy. I resented him for different reasons that didn’t make much sense once lumped together.
I hated that I thought he was worth trusting. I hated that a small part of me actually did trust him, even if it was only a little part, and I wondered how I’d become so gullible, so angry, so . . . afraid. Afraid of his intentions, afraid of him, afraid that one day he’d walk in and yell, “Surprise, bitch!” and the party would be over.
Nathaniel was unreal, something posing as human, and I was starting to accept that, no matter how scary the idea.
Peter’s number is perched on my cell’s screen, waiting for me to press the Call button. I hit it, hold the phone to my ear, listen, and shut it with a slap of plastic on plastic.
Goin 2 work—get me later
I text this on my way out the door.
“Hey.”
Nathaniel’s just bolted inside, trying to give pneumonia the slip. “Hi,” he says, teeth chattering.
I nod toward the coffee maker. “Coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
I know full well he downs the stuff like it’s liquid cocaine. I roll my chair toward his work list, retrieve it, and give it to him before walking to the coffee station.
A customer walks in.
“Be there in a sec,” I say. “Nathaniel, in the coffee condiments of life, you’re sugar and I’m cream.” I watch the white ripples blossom and drown out all the black.
“Huh?”
“Never mind.”
I head over and ring the customer up. He leaves with a newly bought Marlboro in his mouth. My own waters on impulse, and my head aches with nicotine need. Or it might be just all in my head.
Ha-ha.
Never mind.
“Here you go.” I wave it at his elbow, swishing it in a circle.
He hesitates.
I circle the cup around again, almost dousing his shoes. “Take it.”
“I’ll pay you back. And thank you.”
I ring up the coffee and settle in for the workday. Today’s been great, diarrhea aside. I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time. Having someone to relax with, to talk with, has just made everything a whole lot less shittastic.
For a while, we don’t talk, but it’s a nice quiet, undemanding and calm.
“Michelle?”
I spit out eraser bits. “Yeah?”
“I was wondering something.”
“What about?”
He falters. “How did you know that guy? You know, the one from the other day. How did you know he would leave?”
“It’s a talent, scaring men away. Just kidding. But yeah, no one likes the cops.”
“My grandpa was a cop.”
“Except other cops,” I say solemnly. “And their family. But no one else.”
“He probably would have agreed with you.” The tone is light, but the hurt is there.
I glance at my pencil pitted by teeth marks. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. He died a long time ago.”
“Mine too.”
I don’t feel bad about my grandparents, and for that I feel bad: shame because of no shame. Mother always said there was something wrong in my head, some chemical imbalance that made me so mean. This, by my reasoning, meant that everyone’s personalities depended not on their experiences but on the nice little endorphins and serotonin and all that good stuff floating in their bloodstreams. Chemical personalities: that’s us, the humans.
He says the customary “Sorry” back.
I wave it off.
“I met him only once or twice, so it’s no big deal. I mean, it is. That he died or whatever. But not because I was emotionally attached, you know?”
“I understand.”
“Does that make me a bitch?”
He makes small rearrangements to the cough drops section.
I’m glad he bothers to think it over, and so I wait, elbows on the countertop.
“I don’t think so. It’s hard to miss someone you never knew.” He stands, empty box in fist.
&n
bsp; “I appreciate that.” I cross Stock shelves off the list. “And looks like that’s all the work for the week.” I’m not surprised. He works hard; I hardly work.
“Really?” Thick eyebrows slump, and I notice a little scar beneath the right lower eyelid. It’s so small it could pass as a freckle.
I start to stare. “Yeah . . . Unless you want to ask him for more work.”
“You think he’d mind?”
“Don’t know. You can call him. And, uh, where did you get that?” I point.
“My face?” The scar gets lost in his smile wrinkles.
“That little scar.” It’s so distracting, and I just want to touch it. It’s a pale white, like a pearl fragment embedded in his skin.
“It’s a long story.” His hollow voice is followed by the crunch of folding cardboard.
I shrug. “Here if you need to talk.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey.”
He turns, receiver in hand. “Yeah?”
“Don’t quit here, okay?”
“Okay.”
He and the boss talk for some time. Peter has no more work for Nathaniel, but he does value his work ethic. In other words, I better step up my game if I want to keep getting paid.
“Guess you’re leaving, huh?”
A rush of customers has just left, and I’m eying the cigarettes again. I want to be strong, but at the moment I’d shank someone for just a whiff of nicotine.
“I, um, was hoping I could stay a bit. If you don’t mind.”
“Free country, though why you’d want to stay in this dump is a mystery to me.”
“I like it here.”
“That makes one of us.” I kick off the floor, my chair veering in circles. Greenorangebrownblackblue-redgray careens off the walls, sticking to my eyeballs.
I slow, wobbly headed.
Nathaniel’s expression is teetering on excitement, like a kid who sees something he’s not getting but wants all the same.
I nod toward the other chair.
He shakes his head.
“You know you wanna,” I say, wheeling closer to the register at a predator’s pace.
“I better not.”
