Pay It Forward

by Catherine Ryan Hyde

  When I got off the phone things began to look clearer.

  WHEN HE FINALLY FOUND IT, the ring he knew was the right ring, he saw he would have to all but drain his savings, which he hated to do. Rainy-day money. It made him feel good just knowing it was there. But he knew it wouldn’t be there for long.

  The ring wasn’t big enough to be flashy, but it was big enough, set in white gold with smaller diamonds halfway around the band. A little old-fashioned, but he liked that about it. A little like his mother’s, but not enough to be significant. It was just the right one because he knew it was.

  He left the ring sitting in the store, went home, and obsessed about it. Decided to sleep on it, but he didn’t sleep well. In the morning he went by the jeweler’s again, afraid it would be gone. When it wasn’t, he put it on layaway, knowing he could still change his mind.

  But on his next breakfast-table encounter with Trevor, he knew he had to do it. He looked at Trevor and knew. He couldn’t buy a cheaper ring, or cheapen their relationship by buying none at all. To do right by Arlene was to do right by Trevor. And of course, himself.

  HE HAD IT IN HIS POCKET the next night when he took her out to dinner.

  She wore a rose-colored silk blouse and smiled openly, looking for all the world like someone he’d always known and always wanted, with no doubts in between. He stuck his hand in his jacket pocket and grasped the little velvet-covered box. He was sure. He almost brought it up but missed the moment. But he would. It was only a matter of timing. He was sure.

  And she might not be.

  He’d been so busy with his own doubts, he’d forgotten to consider the very real possibility that she might say no. He took his hand back from his pocket and tried to forget the box was there.

  When he walked her to her door later that evening, they both claimed exhaustion. Reuben gave her a small, chaste kiss.

  The moment made him nervous and reminded him of the night she’d come into his arms unexpectedly, with an offer of herself, right around the time he’d expected the kiss-off. He’d loved her for that. Even as he ran away. Everything else had been a game to avoid this very moment, when he knew damn well she was what he wanted, and knew also that something was wrong.

  “You okay?” she said. Her voice sounded faint. Scared. Or he was scared enough himself to hear it that way.

  “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I dunno. You seem kind of funny tonight.”

  “Just tired.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  He called himself a coward on the way to the car.

  Halfway home it hit him, like waking from a dream. He could not imagine what he had been thinking, or why. He could not believe he’d almost said it out loud. He thought about Arlene, tried to bring her picture to mind, but she looked like a stranger. When he got home he found the receipt for the ring in his drawer, right where he’d left it.

  Miss Liza jumped on the bed with him and rubbed against his chin. He told her everything. Described the cliff from which he’d almost jumped. She agreed that humans were impulsive and strange. At best. He told her he’d return the ring in the morning, but he never quite got around to that.

  Chapter Sixteen

  SIDNEY G.

  For their benefit, he injected a little swagger into his walk. He knew they were behind him, his senses said so. His simple good sense said so. He knew as he left the bar that they would follow. The beers had gone to his head, affecting his gait and balance, a dislocation that needed to be thoughtfully overcome.

  He turned into the alley anyway. To do otherwise would have made him someone else entirely. Which he would never allow. Sidney G. until the end, but this was not the end. It would take a bigger army than this. Besides, he could feel the cold steel against his side. Consider things equal.

  “Hey, big man.” A sharp call from behind him, in a voice he knew. A voice that had been in his face earlier tonight.

  Hey, she’d been sitting at the bar alone; how was he to know she was with this guy? And also if it had worked, why should he have cared?

  But this was a small town, nothing like the real world, and this big, stiff redneck behind him had some other big stiff rednecks on his small-town, small-time team. These fools thought fists would tell the final tale.

  Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.

  “I’m talking to you, stupid.”

  Sidney G. stopped, wavered slightly, and turned around. There were four of them at the mouth of the alley, backlit by the streetlight, breathing clouds of steam into air left cold and clear by yesterday’s rain.

  They moved up, the lady’s sorry boyfriend in front, with his three stooges standing just to the rear, smiling in a sickening chorus.

  Gotcha now, trash-talking city boy.

  That’s what you think.

  “So, big man. Tell me again what you said about my momma.”

  Sidney G. smiled. Breathed deeply, expanding his belly against his waistband and its bulge of cold metal. “Hey, you know, dude, that wasn’t really true, what I said about your momma. I didn’t really do her.”

  The four men sneered, heavy with their own imagined power.

  Got you on the run now, city boy.

  That’s what you think.

  “I mean, big ugly lady like that? I don’t care how much she begged. Just not into it.” Sidney smiled and pulled the gun out from under his coat. He was drunk, full-on drunk. Drunk enough to make a mistake. A really stupid mistake, like facing four men in an alley, never stopping to look behind his back.

  He tried to clear his head too late.

  A strong hand grabbed his right wrist from behind, another wrapped around his upper arm. A victim of his own slowed reflexes, Sidney G. sank to his knees under the pressure, felt the sickening, cracking give in his elbow. Thought he was going to throw up from the pain. Thank God he was oiled. Man, that would hurt like a son of a bitch in the morning. If there was a morning.

  Bent double with the pain, gun skittering over the pavement out of his reach, he felt the heavy boot dig into his gut, lifting him slightly off the ground. But he didn’t cry, or apologize, or beg for mercy; he just spit on the man’s shoes. Sidney G. to the end, which this seemed to be.

  When he first heard the sound, he was too drunk and in too much shock to know what it was. A bee buzzing near his ear, maybe. But the legs turned, all those legs he’d been staring through. And his head came up slightly and he saw it, like a mirage, haloed from behind in the night through all those legs, a little dude on a little scooter, revving the throttle like he thought he had a Harley underneath him.

  The little guy popped the clutch, the bike jumped and almost sprang a wheelie, then tore down the alley into the fray. The legs jumped to safety.

  Goddamn, Sidney. The cavalry.

  The little dude stopped beside Sidney G. and reached a hand down, and he took it, almost pulling the kid off the bike, like a drowning swimmer who nearly pulls down the lifeguard.

  Kid let go in order to pop the clutch again. Then, holding strong to the left hand Sidney gave him, he pulled Sidney to his feet. Sidney jumped for the seat, missed by a mile. Fell to the pavement and was being half dragged. Kid tore along out of reach of their pursuers, bouncing Sidney G. behind him. Sidney didn’t take offense, though—worse stuff waiting in that alley.

  Then the kid hit the brakes, spun the bike halfway around, nearly dumped it. Pulled hard, and Sidney got a leg over the back of the seat, grabbed a piece of the kid’s jacket with his left, trailing his twisted right arm.

  They sat that way for a protracted second, listening to the rev of the engine, noticing that the five men had positioned themselves on both sides, blocking the alley in each direction. Three on one side, two on the other. A no-brainer.

  “Hold on,” the kid said.

  Dammit, I’ll try.

  Kid shot the bike forward and whipped it around, hard to do in that little space, dabbing and correcting with his feet for balance, headed for the side that
held only two.

  Hit the gas and went right at them.

  Sidney wondered how long it would take them to get smart and pick up the gun.

  One of the men caught the kid’s sleeve and yanked. Pulled him over sideways, trying to lay the bike down. Hit him in the eye, Sidney told himself, but he had only one hand and he needed it to stay with the crusader. The bike lurched over to the left. Sidney G. put his foot down and so did the kid, fighting against the weight and crazy angle of the bike.

  It’ll never work, he thought. We’re going over.

  But then, Sidney G. rode bigger bikes. This one was light.

  One good push from each of them brought the machine half upright. The kid hit the gas and the bike lurched forward, wrenching his sleeve loose from the last redneck’s grasp.

  They tore out of the alley, cornering right, toward the freeway. Sidney heard a popping sound behind him, which he recognized as gunfire from his own weapon. But no impact or pain to go with it, other than the pain of leaving that gun behind; he’d miss it.

  “What the hell did I ever do for you?” he screamed into the kid’s ear, but the wind and the engine roar took his words away.

  A wave of sickness and pain washed over him. They skidded onto the freeway ramp, Sidney G. having enough to do just holding on. Just trying not to pass out.

  HE FLICKERED IN AND OUT OF THE SPACE just underneath consciousness. The pain was there, waiting patiently for him. He’d go up and face it in a minute. He always had before.

  There was something clean and victorious about waking up feeling that bad. It meant he was alive still. That he’d survived again.

  He opened his eyes.

  The ceiling spun slightly. He looked down at his right arm, the source of the worst pain. It was clearly broken at the elbow, swollen to two or three times its normal size, and pointing in an unnatural direction.

  He dug his pill container out of his jacket pocket with his left hand. Spilled the contents out into his lap. Found two Percodans and swallowed them without water.

  Then he lay there with his eyes closed, tallying up the damage. The tops of his knees felt bruised and abraded, but he didn’t want to look down. Not yet. No significant movements until the pills kicked in. And he sensed a place in his gut that might even involve a cracked rib or two. Drawing a full, deep breath was somewhere between inadvisable and impossible.

  He drifted half asleep for a few minutes and then it washed over him, the relief, like the throwing of a switch. Gradually muting the pain, pushing it so far into the background that it was practically not there at all.

  He moved to stand. Well, the pain was there, actually, but it almost felt like someone else was having it. He pulled to his feet and stood, wobbly and nauseous. Looked around, found himself in a small, barely furnished apartment. No one else around. He walked to the open window, hoping fresh air would help.

  He found the kid outside the window, sitting on the roof. He looked skinny and pale and no more than twenty, and like somebody Sidney G. would never hang with, never in a million years.

  “Hey,” the kid said.

  “Hey.” Sidney G. breathed a sigh of relief, now consciously accepting that he was alive, and doped well enough on the Percs to consider that a good thing. “You must be the guy pulled me outta there last night.”

  “Yeah. I would’ve taken you to the hospital but you passed out. I could barely keep you on the bike. I had to hold on with your left arm over my shoulder. I couldn’t work the clutch. Had to come all the way home in second. Didn’t dare try to go any further.”

  See? Sidney thought. Life had this way of being good to him. Just what he didn’t need was a trip to the hospital. Start there, end up in jail. Wouldn’t even be in this backward little whistle-stop if he could afford for his whereabouts to be a matter of record. Stupid kid wouldn’t have thought of that, but it worked out without a problem. He’d go back to L. A., quiet like, and see that doctor who kept good secrets. Then he’d slip out of town again before anyone was the wiser.

  “You know, kid. Good thing you’re not like me. Good thing for me, that is. I woulda just sat at the end of that alley and laughed. Figured that son of a bitch brought it on hisself.”

  The kid turned his eyes up to Sidney G., a dark, cold look on his face. No sense of humor, no style. A good haircut but nothing to go with it. Nothing of substance inside.

  “Funny way to say thank you.”

  Sidney G. sat on the edge of the window. He didn’t say thank you, not unless he damn well got it in his head to. Sure as hell didn’t say it on cue. He looked through the trees, down to the street, where a little snip of white from the kid’s scooter showed through. Made him feel good to see it. Somewhere down deep it made him feel good. Like it had last night.

  “Cute little scooter you got there. Ever ride a real bike?” Sidney G. took a cigarette out of his pocket. Tried to light it with his left hand. Kid grabbed the smoke and the lighter away and threw them down to the street. “Hey.”

  “Not in my place.”

  “Yeah, hell of a nice place you got here. A real palace.”

  “Bite me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. I said bite me.”

  The kid came in through the window. Sidney backed up, groggy from the pills. How could he have backed up? He never did, not even in the face of death. But that arm. He didn’t even want it touched, jostled, plus he couldn’t think straight. So he ended up with his back against a bare wall and this hopeless little punk right in his face.

  “It is a real bike, and it’s a damn good thing for you it’s small, or we’d both be dead. That guy who was trying to kill you had it almost over on its side. If I couldn’t have held it up with one leg we’d both be dead now. Why did I even do that? Why did I risk my life to help you? You’re such an asshole.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I could take you with one hand tied behind my back.”

  “Go for it.”

  But then again, it was his good right that was tied, and besides, the stupid little brat had helped him, even if he was being a snot about it now.

  “Why did you, anyway?”

  “I didn’t know you yet. Didn’t know what an asshole you are.”

  “Why would you help somebody you don’t even know?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  The kid backed up out of Sidney’s face, and Sidney, who agreed that he probably wouldn’t understand, went downstairs and found his cigarette and lighter on the front lawn. He sat smoking for a while, wondering what to do next.

  From an interview by Chris Chandler for

  Tracking the Movement (1998)

  SIDNEY: I’m not such a bad guy. Am I such a bad guy? Just like everybody else, I guess, only they’re dead and I’m still here. Do you think I’m such a bad guy?

  CHRIS: I don’t even know you, Sidney.

  SIDNEY: Kinda hurt my feelings that he took a disliking to me. Not that I care. I mean, what a jerk. But you sorta think, somebody saves your life, it’ll be special from that point on.

  Only thing special was when he told me about the Movement. I didn’t know yet. Had to wonder if it’d hit L. A., or if I’d be the one get to bring it in. But that’s a bad way to hear it, anyway. Somebody tells you you’re not even good enough to sit on their front grass. But I’m still trying to get it, you know, why somebody’d take the time to do what he did. So he tells me about the Movement, but then he says I’m not allowed to touch it. Do you believe that shit?

  CHRIS: He was angry.

  SIDNEY: He tell you that?

  CHRIS: Yeah. He did.

  SIDNEY: I don’t believe that shit. Why? ’Cause I talked down his little scooter? Why would he take that dislike to me? Like I got some kinda disease, I’ll just destroy the whole thing. Movements are for the people. They belong to the people. I’m the people just as much as blondie with the teeny-tiny scooter.

  CHRIS: Matt. His na
me is Matt.

  SIDNEY: Yeah, whatever. Nobody tells me what I can and can’t touch.

  LATER, BACK IN THE CITY, in a run-down duplex in South Central, Sidney G. lay in bed beside her and told her he’d missed her, which was pretty much true. His right arm had been encased in a Fiberglas cast, almost from wrist to shoulder. It itched slightly in the heat, and the painkillers buzzed in his head.

  She asked how long he would stay this time.

  “Long as you want me to,” he said, even though it was nowhere close to the truth. “Stella, you don’t think I’m an asshole. Do you?”

  She snorted and rolled to face the wall. “You got your moments. Since when do you care what anybody thinks?”

  “I don’t, I guess. Ever heard of Pay It Forward?”

  “No, what the hell is it?”

  He tried to stroke her hair with his left hand but she jerked her head away. She was mad again. Still. Over something long over and done, something as basic as who and what he was, had always been to her.

  “A new movement.”

  “What kinda movement?”

  He lay on his back with his left hand behind his head and told her as much as he knew about it. As much as the kid had told him—before kicking him out without so much as a ride to the train station. He even told her that the kid only explained it as an example of something Sidney could never be trusted to do. He wasn’t sure why, maybe because it was Stella and he had missed her some, but he explained that the kid had told him to go away and have no part of it, that he’d start over with somebody else, somebody who could be counted on to pay it forward. That he didn’t even want Sidney’s fingerprints on his precious living chain letter.

  “Kinda hurt my feelings.”

  “You got no feelings.”

  “Hey.”

  “It’s true.”

  “So, you do think I’m an asshole.”

  “What the hell you even tell me about this Pay It Forward thing, anyway? Why you even still thinking about it? What a stupid idea. Think how long that’d last in L. A.”