First Shift
"No one owns a problem."
-
Jerk
Bus Stop. Ilium, New York. October 1985.
“Hey!”
A commuter yells. He’s looking at Commuter’s shoes. They are light brown. Have pointier toes than he likes. Broken in, so they are probably—
“Buddy, can you hear me? Hey!”
—comfortable. He hates being called that. The song’s almost over. His eyes start to move up. Commuter’s slacks are brand new. Probably going to—
“Hey, jerk!”
—an interview. Fade to Black trails off in crashing drums and guitar riffs. Dead air mixtape hiss. Endless cicada whine fills his right ear.
He needs a new name. Jerk has a certain ring to it. Better than ‘Buddy.’
Jerk pulls the headphone off his left ear and pushes up his glasses. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”
He stares through the Commuter’s factory-wrinkled button-down shirt. Jerk hates when people interrupt music.
“Yeah, whatever.” Commuter looks anxious. “I need to take the 40 to—”
“The 40? 40 doesn’t stop here.” It was this Jerk’s first lie.
The synths from All Day start in his right ear, covering the phantom cicada.
“But-” Commuter’s upset. “The sign.”
“It lies. Vonnegut and 3rd, I’d hurry.”
Rapid footfalls. No thanks muttered. Gone.
Jerk puts his headphone back on and waits for his bus, synths and drum machines filling his ears before Jorgensen begins his droning delivery.
Time to go.
-
Tiny
The News. Ilium, New York. Early July 1995.
Door opens, bell rings.
“Jerk, where the hell have you been?” barks the enormous man behind the counter. He has the brow of a caveman hosting two bushy caterpillars and deep-set eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. A mass of flesh, tall as a bookcase, and probably twice as heavy.
“Screw you, Tiny, you know where I’ve been.” Jerk barks back, waving a bag of used cassettes at him.
“Hey! Is that any way to talk to your father?” Tiny bellows.
Jerk sees a scrawny kid at the comic rack wincing, bracing for a hit. The kid has heard that tone before.
“Father? The only time your fat ass ever ran was from the paternity test.”
This routine again. Jerk hears the kid laugh and looks back. They’d put the comic rack between themselves and the counter.
“Ha! Good one, Jerk.” Tiny’s laugh has the mirthless bass of the passing trucks on Vonnegut.
He puts a key ring on the glass counter. “Welby quit.”
Tiny picked at something in his teeth with a thumbnail.
“Your mother needs me. Can’t stay, need you to watch The News until Late gets here.”
Welby didn’t pull his weight, no big loss, but that left him at the mercy of…
“Late? He took the car, probably lost, and won’t show back up until 3am!” Jerk groaned.
“I told Late to be early,” Tiny says solemnly, a ward against ill fortune.
“3am at the earliest, Tiny.” Jerk begins to chew on the side of his thumb. “Don’t expect me to pay for my cokes.”
“You pay for them?” Tiny knows the score.
“Go, Tiny.” Jerk takes the key ring off the counter. “I’ll watch The News until Late gets here, whenever it is.”
It was a vow.
With a grunt of approval, Tiny extracts his mass from behind the counter, making his way to the exit. He looks back as he holds the door open to the corner and the threatening clouds. “Don’t burn the place down, OK?”
“No promises.”
-
Reduced Price
Three items are placed on the counter: a bottle of orange juice, a bag of chips, and a stretch-wrapped sandwich—the lettuce stubbornly refusing to turn brown despite a bright orange REDUCED PRICE sticker covering the “Best By” date.
Jerk begins to ring them up.
“So when’s Norma coming back?”
The customer is a regular. Sandy blonde hair, a handlebar mustache with a hint of red. Jerk reckons he was more of a strawberry blonde as a kid. Sad Eyes.
“Norma had surgery again. She’ll be back when she’s feeling better.”
Jerk points at the price on the register’s readout.
Norma made the sandwich. Norma and Tiny made Jerk.
“It’s just… I was thinking about it last night, and even three days old—” Sad Eyes holds up the sandwich as evidence. “—even three days old, her sandwiches remind me of sitting in my Gram’s kitchen.”
“Uh-huh.” Jerk accepts the cash offered and rings it in. Seventy-seven cents in change. “Just sitting in a kitchen, eating a sandwich?”
“No, it’s more.” Sad Eyes puts his lunch in his backpack. “It’s like a happy memory. I’m sitting at the kitchen table. I’m small. My feet don’t even reach the floor when I sit. It’s sunny. She’s there, humming as she makes her afternoon tea. I feel warm. Safe. Happy.”
“Huh.” Jerk hands Sad Eyes his change. “Sounds like you’re getting a lot of value for your money, then.”
Sad Eyes nods, looking wistful. He turns to leave without another word.
“Enjoy the sandwich.”
-
Original Sin
There was a time when Jerk didn’t know hate in his heart.
Don’t laugh. Lots of people laugh when Jerk says that. They sneer. But Jerk’s studied human nature. Jerk’s read Rousseau and Camus. What have they read? He’s cashed them out. The Star? Hello!? The—rolls eyes—New York Times and The Washington Post? Jerk’s just happy to meet someone who reads at all, honest.
So little Jerk’s an innocent, right? The sweetest, purest boy you ever wanted to meet. A smile filled with joy. Even if he’d seen Norma bounce cans off Tiny’s head after she caught him with a girlfriend, there was still this sweet innocence, a radiance to the boy.
It took true villainy to destroy it.
It was the August before Jerk turned 10. Tiny treated The News like the albatross it was, slung around his neck by his father like his father before him. But Norma loved the Coast and took Jerk there every summer for a week while Tiny tended The News with the hired help.
One of Jerk’s favorite things about the Coast was fried dough. Such a simple treat—literally just a chunk of dough stretched out, thrown in hot oil, and covered in powdered sugar or dipped in marinara. Jerk could go either way. It was a candidate for the manna of the gods. Especially in little Jerk’s eyes.
It was afternoon—one-thirty, maybe two. Norma had dragged Jerk to her favorite flea market, promising him lunch before they headed back to the motel for a siesta, resting up for her usual nightly ritual: the pier’s buffet and casino, while Jerk haunted the carnival rides and arcades, lingering until they rolled up the streets for families at eleven.
They spotted a prime street-side parking space, and Jerk jumped out to hold it while Norma pulled around. Drivers tried to nose in, but Jerk stood firm. What were they going to do, hit a kid?
The sky smelled burnt. That gray afternoon haze you get on the East Coast, before the sun begins to set in the west and the wind turns, the land exhaling heat and stink back into the sea. Gulls circled above, their cries full of menace, but they stayed aloft.
It was Jerk’s favorite spot for fried dough, right by the beach. He got his with extra powdered sugar—messy, but little Jerk didn’t care. He was starving. Norma got a slice of cheese pizza, like always. They shared his coke. They always did. Norma’s idea.
They sat outside. Jerk had just taken his first bite when Norma sighed.
“You didn’t grab me any napkins.”
Jerk jumped up reflexively. He didn’t need another lecture about being raised by wolves.
He took his time chewing that heavenly bite as he ran to get the napkins—a wise call, considering the atrocity he was about to witness.
A single seagull—wings spread—descended from the heavens and snatched Jerk’s fried dough right off the plate. Norma cowered, clutching her pizza, a Jurassic rodent protecting its child from a dinosaur.
“No!” Jerk raced over, but it was too late. He could chase it, sure—but would he have wanted the seagull’s prize if he caught it?
“Buddy, you should have kept an eye on your fried dough.”
Her single slice of pizza was nearly gone. Jerk watched as she tidied up the table, gathering the trash onto her tray. Her ritual. The signal that it was time to go.
Jerk looked at the napkins in his hands. At the sky. At Norma.
“I HATE SEAGULLS!” Jerk screamed, hurling the napkins to the ground.
Heads turned. People stared. Tears welled up and he bolted for the car.
Norma would catch up. She always did.
And that’s why Jerk hates seagulls.
-
Kid
The News. Ilium, New York. Early July 1995.
A thunderstorm blew into downtown just as the last of the commuters blew out.
It was hours after Tiny had abdicated the keys and hours before Jerk expected Late to even begin crafting excuses. Rain cleared out downtown faster than any vice raid, especially on a weeknight.
Jerk was alone in The News.
Except the kid.
The kid was still there.
Jerk went back to the cooler and grabbed his second coke of the day, a truly magnanimous gesture toward Tiny—he’d normally drunk three or four by this time. Today was different. Today he was watching the kid.
He’d thought they were a shoplifter, but they hadn’t stolen anything. Hadn’t even tried. The longer Jerk watched, the more curious he became. When the rain emptied everyone else out of downtown, Jerk really began to wonder.
Jerk sipped his coke and sized up the kid. The work boots were beat up, the hem of their jeans dirty and shredded in spots. They had a rucksack with them. Their cheekbones hinted at missed meals, both recent and historic.
It hit Jerk like Brother James at Academy.
The Kid.
The Kid didn’t have anywhere else to go in the rain.
“Oh hell.”
They looked over at Jerk. Bright eyes that for a split second saw straight through him. Jerk looked away, fumbled for his wallet.
“Dropped my wallet.” He held it up like proof.
Kid gave him a bland look, then went back to the comic and turned a page.
Minutes passed while Jerk waited for the moment to present itself. His stomach growled—loudly.
“Hey, Kid.”
Kid paused, as if recognizing the christening, before putting the comic back and coming over to the counter. They were taller than Jerk realized. Ghost of Adam’s apple and peach fuzz, some turning darker. Baggy clothes, mended in spots. Bright eyes—the color of freshly minted pennies.
“Yeah?” Kid’s voice cracked.
“You know where Pizza, Paul, and Mary’s is?” Jerk fished a twenty out of his wallet.
“’Course I do. Just down the block.” They looked at him like they were asking his face a question.
The next part was as delicate as it was nonchalant. Jerk folded the twenty lengthwise, placing it on the glass counter like a tent.
“I get pizza and wings there almost every night. Tell ’em Jerk wants the usual—and extra napkins this time.” Their pizza was notoriously greasy.
He flicked the twenty across the counter, knocking it askew before straightening it again. “You can keep the change, and a slice and some wings for you.” Kid’s eyes lit up—then narrowed, questioning.
“You trust me?” Kid asked. Jerk hadn’t let his face give them the answer they were looking for.
“No reason not to. You’ve read every comic in that rack twice and haven’t bent a single corner. Could’ve stolen a dozen cokes.”
Kid pinched the twenty, pocketed it, and put their rucksack on the counter. “Can you watch my things?”
“I’ll hold that behind the counter. Here, take an umbrella.”
Jerk took the rucksack and handed Kid Tiny’s umbrella over the counter.
“Thanks?” Kid fumbled with the umbrella like an alien artifact, trying to pry it open.
“No! That’s bad luck! Were you raised by wolves?”
Jerk came around the counter. He didn’t need the bad luck, or a broken umbrella. He brought Kid out the door, under the awning, and showed them how to open and close it.
“Don’t open an umbrella indoors, or bring an open one in, OK?” Jerk pointed at the awning over them. “That’s what this is here for, so you don’t curse us.”
With that, Kid headed down the block with Jerk’s twenty and Tiny’s umbrella. Jerk went back inside and made fresh coffee.
Someone would need it. Probably him.
-
Late
Phone rings, Jerk answers.
“The News.” click
Phone rings, Jerk answers.
“The News.” click
Phone Rings, Jerk answers.
“Tiny ain’t here, Late.”
“Crap.” That was Late’s voice all right. “Jerk…”
“What’s the story, this time, Late?” Jerk could hear cars in the background. Highway traffic? He swore he could hear a truck’s engine brake, a sound like Tiny blowing his nose.
“I overslept.” He had something in his mouth. Chewing. French fries? Late subsisted on sodium and caffeine.
“Late, you live upstairs, in The Squat.”
“But…”
“I heard you snoring, not 12 hours ago, Late.”
“I’m past Syracuse.” It was a fact. Jerk could tell. Late was at a rest stop. Jerk knew the one. Jerk could see the wallpaper just thinking about it.
“Snoring in the bedroom next to mi– FUCKING SYRACUSE?” It hit Jerk. Late wasn’t just going to simply be Late. “Start driving, Late!”
“So about that.” Jerk’s stomach dropped. Late’s explanations were always matryoshka dolls—one excuse nested inside another. “I came out from getting food and noticed I had a flat.”
“So you called the auto club?”
“Yeah. And you know what?”
“What, Late?”
“They can’t come onto the parkway! You have to use an authorized contractor!”
“So you called them?”
“Yeah. They got here 30 minutes ago.”
Jerk breathed a sigh of relief. “So you’re on your way.”
“About that.”
“About what, Late?”
“The lug nuts are rusted on. Fused. They need to tow my car.”
“They’re towing you here? Down the street, to Danny’s?” Danny was a crook, but he was the best mechanic downtown.
“I can’t afford that, Jerk. They don’t take the auto club.”
“Tell me they’re 24 hour service…”
Silence. They’d reached the last doll.
“Late.” Jerk was calm. So calm. Jerk had never been so calm. “Tiny skipped out, Norma’s recovering, and you’re the only other backup I have right now.”
“Jerk, I… I’ll try. I’m sorry.” Line went dead. No more discussion, but no more excuses either. Late wasn’t just late. He was Late. No ETA.
“I KNEW IT!” Jerk yelled at the empty store.
-
Extra Napkins
Door opens, bell rings.
Kid came through, umbrella loosely closed and hooked over one arm, with a pizza box held perfectly parallel to the Earth’s gravitational plane. A bag with wings and napkins balanced on top. Perfect execution by an amateur.
“So,” Kid said, looking thoughtful as they slid the pizza and wings onto the counter. “What did ‘Extra Napkins’ mean?”
Jerk stood, opened the bag, and looked down. “It meant extra napkins, and you got plenty.” He began digging for the stack of paper plates.
“It meant something, Jerk.”
“It meant get extra napkins.”
“Paul looked at me after I said it, Jerk.” Kid put their hand on top of the napkins, wings, and pizza, blocking Jerk’s access. “He stared at me, then went back to give the order to Mary in the kitchen. She stared too. Felt like a job interview.”
“That’s weird.” Jerk was nonchalant. He could smell the wings. They smelled like regret. He wanted them.
“So they come out, and you know what?”
“What, Kid?”
“They asked if I wanted to wash dishes and bus tables.”
“That’s amazing for you. I hope you accepted. Can I have access to our food?” Jerk tugged on the bag. He wanted those wings.
“I accepted the offer. What does ‘Extra Napkins’ mean, Jerk?” A question Jerk didn’t want to answer.
“It means look at the bag you brought back. It’s got lots of napkins. Stop inventing secret messages sent in your favor. Prospiracy theories are a real mental illness.” Kid huffed and took their hand off the goods.
Jerk laid out paper plates for both of them, each stacked four deep to keep the grease from soaking through. Stacks of napkins for each. A packet of red pepper and Parmesan on each plate. Jerk got cokes for both of them from the rear cooler. A real supper.
Other than the sounds of hunger being sated, they ate in silence. Kid ate everything offered. Not even the rats picked wings as clean of meat as Kid did.
“Hungry, huh?”
“I—” Kid’s voice cracked, like an old automatic stuck in high gear, refusing to downshift. “It’s my first hot food in days.” The change from the vowel to a fricative-heavy start seemed practiced, making coming in lower easier. They wiped their face. “Thank you.”
“You picked it up.” Jerk stated a fact. He stared at the oil the pizza had left on his paper plate.
“You got anywhere to sleep?” It was the type of question Jerk hated asking: one he needed an honest answer to, even though he already knew it.
“Yeah, Prospect St.” Kid looked away.
“Under the bridge to Foundry.” Jerk glanced at the door and the storm outside. “Where it floods when it rains.”
“Yeah.” Few could master the way Kid refused to make eye contact at that moment.
“So, you got anywhere safe to sleep?” It was the answer Jerk needed.
“No.” Kid was now trying to stare at a focal point on Mars.
Jerk nodded, sipped his coke. He let the bubbles go flat in his mouth before he swallowed and spoke again. It gave Kid time to start making eye contact with objects inside state lines.
“Me, Late, a couple others—we squat upstairs. Fifth floor. Used to be the penthouse. Roof springs leaks. Tiny will tell you the rent’s free because we’re a good alarm system for when it happens. It’s not as fancy as it sounds, but there’s an extra room for someone who needs it.” Jerk had made the offer a dozen times before. This was the first time he felt exposed by it. He didn’t understand why.
“Do you—” Kid’s raspy voice stuck, but it was because the words got jammed rather than cracking this time. “Would I have a door that locks?”
Jerk stopped and thought. That was a question no one had asked him before. “Yeah. Bathroom does too.”
He scratched his chin, thinking. “Did you want me to re-key them for you?”
“You don’t—” Kid began to protest, then stopped. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. Can you hand me some more napkins?”
-
Hyperbolic Mirror
“Can I use the bathroom?” It was hours later—brow damp, hand clutching their abdomen—Kid was in sudden and serious distress.
“Of course you can use the bathroom.”
Kid bolted with an urgency no one should feel for The News’ bathroom. Jerk slipped on his headphones, cranked his music, and read—blocking out everything neither of them wanted overheard.
A customer. Then another. Regulars. One got the last bunch of bananas, the other bought a 6 pack. Jerk just pointed to the display to indicate price and pantomimed ‘Hello’ and ‘Goodbye’. Neither blinked. They left. Minutes dragged. He worried he’d have to send a search party, and he had no other volunteers. He was about to go in when Kid came out, shaken but standing.
“Was it the pizza? The Wings? Are you OK?”
“I’ll be fine.” Kid dropped onto the stool next to Jerk and slumped against the wall. Sweat soaked through their sweatshirt, pressing into the papers tacked behind them. Jerk stayed quiet. “Not the food. I’ve got some… gut problems.” Kid was rubbing their abdomen. “It came on faster than normal.”
Jerk did what he did. Cooler—ginger ale. Aisle B—Pepto. Saltines from D, where the ramen packets next to them were a mess. He straightened them automatically before he went back to the counter and put his foraging in Kid’s reach.
He rang everything out, punched in exact change, and wrote JERK in block letters across the receipt before putting it in the til.
“I’ll pay you back.” Kid said weakly, taking their first sip.
“You’d just be handing me the change back from the pizza.”
“But your pizza was wasted.”
“No. It wasn’t.” Jerk’s eyes flashed. He was mad, he didn’t know why. It wasn’t at Kid.
Jerk got up. He paced Aisle C, which had a great view of the door if you were pacing. In the back hung a hyperbolic security mirror, letting Jerk see the entire store from any angle. Weird thing—custom-made for Tiny’s father. The center reflected clear and clean, showing the counter and door. The rest warped into a funhouse haze.
The coolers kicked off, and the only noise in The News was the sound of ginger ale slowly going flat and saltines crumbling in Kid’s mouth. Jerk stopped in the middle of the aisle and asked a question. “So how bad is it in there?”
“Let me clean it up. I’m almost steady.” Kid said. They were pallid.
“That’s not an answer, Kid.” Jerk caught Kid’s reflection in the mirror over the coolers. They stared at the back of his head.
“It’s my mess. Let me clean it up.”
“No! It’s just a mess.” Jerk shoved his hands into his pockets, grabbing two handfuls of material. Shoulders stiffened, elbows locked.
“My mess. My problem.”
“No one owns a problem!”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means: Just tell me how bad it is in there.” Jerk turned, looking directly at Kid, no mirrors. “It’s my job. Let me do it.”
Kid looked towards the bathroom door. “You’re going to need a mop.”
“That’s fine. How bad? Should I bring kitty litter?” Jerk’s shoulders relaxed as he took his hands out of his pockets.
“Even if just to improve the ambiance.” Kid smirked weakly and nodded.
“Little punk.”
“Jerk.”
-
Old Pennies
Jerk put up the ‘Back in 10 minutes!’ sign, locked the door, and grabbed the cleaning supplies. Cleaning the bathroom didn’t bother him—it was part of the job. At least this catastrophe hit during a slow stretch.
“I’ve seen worse,” Jerk announced as he went inside. “Well, a few times,” He said quietly to himself once the door closed. Based on the mess, the toilet had dodged from side to side as Kid retched—and maybe during another type of expulsion. The smell had the tang of bile, stomach acid, and something metallic that Jerk couldn’t place.
Tiny had taped multiple layers of electrical tape over the 2nd switch on the wall plate that controlled the lights, and Jerk thought he knew why. The tape didn’t stand a chance against the key he sawed through it with. Jerk flipped the switch, and the ancient vent fan sputtered to life, coughing the stink into the alley with a dying whine.
Kitty litter was a lifesaver with messes like these. The clay bound to all sorts of liquids and semi-solids, then you swept or shoveled it up. Kid’s output was pushing shovel territory. Jerk wasn’t going to be able to eat his usual for a few days after this cleanup.
The metallic smell grew stronger near the trash. As Jerk moved to dump the kitty litter and defiled meal, he saw the source—wrapped in blood-soaked paper towels, hitting him with a stink like a sock full of old pennies.
“No way.” Jerk was imagining things. Had to be. He tied the bag shut, sealing the cacophony of stinks inside.
The secret to cleaning The News’ bathroom was the drain in the floor. Once you dealt with the semi-solids, you could just rinse the rest down the drain. Tiny once joked that he could kill someone in it and wash all the evidence down the drain. Jerk reckoned he was speaking hypothetically—but Tiny’s father might have had some practical experience.
Jerk unhooked the hose hanging from under the sink and unrolled it. Spraying down the bathroom took no time, the mop after that was as easy as wiping down a table you were cleaning for the third time in a row.
Jerk used the mop handle to pry the door open and speed up the floor drying. He turned off the fan. It’s whine was getting louder, and a fan like it had caught fire in a tenant’s apartment just a couple weeks ago. Tiny also had a really strict no-fires-on-Jerk’s-shift rule.
“I’m throwing this in the dumpster in the alley.”
The rain was over and it was dark and quiet, except for the sound of distant thunder. City stank, but it always did after rain. In the alley, Jerk heaved the bag into the dumpster and stood there a minute before heading back inside. Thought about what he saw, and that old pennies smell.
Kid was up and on their feet, putting new bag into the bathroom trash. “I’m feeling better, might as well help.” Jerk realized he saw the wince and not Kid, that first time. Kid had real talent at wincing, and making themselves smaller. They were nearly as tall as him, but slighter.
“You gotta tie the bag just how he likes it or Tiny yells at me.” He showed Kid, it wasn’t hard, and got a chance to size up some things. Kid truly stunk and needed a bath the way Tiny needed his orthopedics. One of the stinks was the old penny smell, but very faint.
Jerk headed back and got another coke for himself, a ginger ale for Kid. He put Kid’s drink down on the counter. Kid hurriedly finished their current one and cracked open the next. “Thank you.”
Kid leaned the stool back, still tired, oblivious to the sweat stain they’d left on the papers taped to the wall. Jerk stood on the customer side of the counter.
“So, I didn’t realize you were a gi—”
“Am not. Shut your face.” Kid’s bright eyes flashed—irritation, anger, fear.
That first syllable was stuck in his throat for a moment before he spit it out and continued. “Are not. Shutting face.”
Jerk spun on his heel, resumed his habitual pacing of Aisle C.
“How did you figure it out?” Kid was the one staring at the hyperbolic mirror now.
“Old pennies.” Jerk kept pacing. Kid was silent, and looked quizzical. Jerk tried to explain. “Trash stunk.” Still nothing. “The pad?”
“Oh! Oh.” Kid looked toward the open bathroom door, embarrassed. “I didn’t know.”
“I’ve got a good nose.”
“And you clean the bathroom?”
“It’s a gift not a weakness.” Jerk had conquered his reverse peristaltic reactions years ago.
“Guess this means the offer of the room is rescinded.” Kid’s head hung.
Jerk stopped, turned to look at kid. Puzzled. “Why would I rescind the offer?”
“People rescind offers all the time.” A matter of fact.
“So I’ve heard.” Not that Jerk knew a thing or two about that. He resumed pacing. Looked at the time. Cursed Late. “Kid, the only thing that changes is now I understand better why you asked about locks.”
“People… want things.” Kid crossed their arms tight, shrinking in on themself. “They give you a couch, warm food. Then at 3 a.m., they’re standing over you, rubbing themselves. That’s when you realize what the food and dry place are really costing you—unless you want their ‘kind offer’ rescinded in the middle of the night. It’s hard to trust.”
“Kid I—” Jerk grasped for what to say next. “Assholes.” He stared at the coolers for a minute. When he turned back around, he saw that Kid had slumped forward, resting their head on their arms, snoring softly.
Jerk paced Aisle C, glanced at the time, then back at Kid. Their breathing was slow, steady. He let them sleep.
-
Daylight
2 a.m. came and went. Then 3. 4 likewise. A compressor on the coolers whined, and Jerk pictured Tiny whining about repair bills soon enough. Kid hadn’t fallen asleep so much as capitulated to it. Jerk figured they’d wake up when he squeezed behind them to deal with the occasional straggler, but Kid’s soft snores never faltered.
You’d be surprised how readily customers accepted a reeking, sweat-soaked person blocking their view of Tiny’s collection of GLASS PIPES—FOR TOBACCO USE ONLY, but things were usually pretty weird downtown at those hours.
Some of the more dedicated regulars—the ones who felt personally invested in The News—wanted to ask. Jerk could tell. But he’d just gesture for silence, and they learned to live with the mystery.
It was 4:49 a.m. when the door banged loudly as the roach coach guy kicked it open with his heel while he was carrying a flat of breakfast sandwiches in his arms. A total breach of decorum.
“NO!” Kid awoke with a start, arms raised to protect their face. The stool tipped back, cracking their head on the wall. With pain came awareness. “Ow.” They rubbed their head.
“Whoa, sorry.” Jerk went to Academy with the guy. He was not sorry. Guy looked around. “Where’s Late?”
“Late.” Jerk was not unpacking it with this guy. Guy handed him the bill of sale to sign.
“So Roxy—” Roxy owned the roach coach service they used for breakfast sandwiches. “She says that she can get you flats of lunch sandwiches for the same price as these while Norma’s recovering.” Tiny had a great deal on the breakfast sandwiches. Their lunch sandwiches wouldn’t be as good as Norma’s, but Roxy’s offer still verged on charity.
“Tell Roxy that we owe her, and thanks.” Guy left, quiet again.
Jerk had been mainlining lukewarm coffee and cokes all night, an alertness ritual he’d developed in middle school bingeing pulp. Its effectiveness was fading fast. He yawned and could feel the water in the corner of his eyes. He got two orange juices from the coolers, napkins from the deli counter, and placed them with two of the breakfast sandwiches from the flat, pushing Kid’s share in their direction. “Please don’t make me clean this up.”
Kid’s first bites were tentative. Jerk put the rest of the sandwiches in the warmer and made a new pot of coffee. By the time he’d done that, Kid’s sandwich and orange juice was gone. Jerk was finishing his when a dark shape appeared outside the door.
Door opens, bell rings.
“Jerk, where the hell is Late?” Tiny was freshly shaved, relaxed, smelled like cologne and the cigar he smoked on the way over.
“Syracuse, last I knew.” Jerk shrugged. He didn’t want to unpack it with Tiny either.
“Syracuse? Huh.” Tiny seldom pondered the unknowable too deeply, he didn’t consider it wise. Tiny looked at Kid, grunted acknowledgment. “You look like shit.” Kid stepped aside, shoulders tight, waiting for Tiny to start barking.
Jerk filled him in on Roxy’s offer, the whining compressor, and other things he’d noticed in the sixteen hours since Tiny had left him there. Then he turned to the ugly work. “We can’t run with this few people, Tiny.”
“I know, we’ll figure something out.” Tiny reconsidered Kid. “You’re the homeless kid that always reads my comics when it rains, right?” Kid nodded. “Didn’t recognize you, looking like shit like that. What’s your name?”
Kid looked at Jerk.
“Kid.” Jerk answered. “They just go by Kid. They’re going to be joining The Squat.”
“So you two are friends.” Tiny cleared his throat. “Good. You got a job, Kid?”
“Pizza, Paul, and Mary’s. Two nights a week. Just started.” Kid was proud of it.
Tiny looked at Jerk, almost bemused. “Their pizza is so greasy. Bet you needed extra napkins.” He looked back at Kid. “So you have some time free.”
“Is this a job interview?” Kid looked from Tiny to Jerk, eyes pleading What is this?
“Might become one, but right now this is just us talking and me hoping you’ll be truthful with me.” Tiny’s tone was more warm and genuine than a vacuum tube radio, but Kid still shrank when Tiny said it.
“You on drugs?”
“Not the type you’re asking about.”
“You got a legal name?”
“I don’t like that name.”
Tiny chuckled. “I can understand.” Tiny’s full name was a burden. Jerk’s too.
“Last question:” Here it comes, Jerk thought, the Rorschach test. “Have you ever stolen from me?”
“I–” Kid stuttered. Answer the question, Kid, Jerk thought as he stared at Kid. “Norma’s sandwiches. Pads. Advil. Things I needed.” Kid slumped, looking defeated.
Tiny leaned back, relaxing. “You pass.”
“But… I stole from you!” Kid leaned forward, eyes wide in shock.
“I watched you steal. I’m fat and slow, not blind.” Tiny sucked in his snot before clearing his throat, an ugly sound. “You said it yourself. You took what you needed.”
“What does this mean? I have a job at The News?” Kid looked as puzzled as Jerk was about to be.
“It’s up to the hiring manager.” Tiny looked at Jerk.
“Who’s the hiring manager?” Jerk stared back at Tiny.
“You, Jerk.” Tiny said, a field promotion.
“So, do I have a job?” Kid’s eyes were fixed on him, bright pennies ornamenting their wan face.
“I… I guess.”
Jerk, decision maker.
“Now that that’s settled, go upstairs and clean up, sleep. You two look like shit and will scare away customers.” Tiny jerked his thumb towards the door.
“This bedroom is bigger than some apartments!” Kid’s cracked voice echoed off the bare walls. “Is yours this big?”
“Minus all the room books and tapes take up.” Jerk didn’t mention those had already overflowed into the great room. He finished oiling the hinge pins and started tapping them down.
Kid sat on the bare mattress in the corner, still drying their hair. Sunlight flooded across the floor. “Thanks for loaning me clean clothes.”
“Thanks for agreeing to let me wash your filthy ones.” Jerk tested the door. It let out a horrendous screech.
“Can I read on your bed while you work?”
“Sure, Kid.” Jerk wedged the flathead under the hinge barrel and tapped the pin loose. The new lock would be next.
He was going to take his time and get it right.
-
Spiedies Disaster
Several hours later…
The News hadn’t seen a more gruesome scene since the days of Tiny’s father.
They’d laid the victims out on two trays on the counter in the kitchen. Soggy bread bits went on one tray, cut and skewered cubes of marinated meat on the other.
Spiedies. Six of them.
“After my tire was fixed, I got the bright idea to get spiedies to make up for it,” Late was downtrodden. “I wasn’t thinking. I put the bag of ice I bought to keep them fresh on the top of the box, and it melted. They sat in a puddle.”
Tiny leaned over the deli counter from the floor, looking at the carnage. “The bread’s mush. Done in for sure.”
“Hear me out,” It was the Kid who had the plan. “Bread’s easy. Throw it out. We’ve got rolls in the store. I’ll butter, season, and toast them.”
Tiny nodded, in agreement. “Go on, Kiddo.” He licked his lips.
Kid held up a skewer of chicken and lamb. “No grill back here, but if we broil the water out, toss them in olive oil, rosemary, and thyme, then broil again?”
“Definitely thyme in whatever this place was using,” Jerk had sniffed them up close, he wasn’t proud.
“Not sure that’s traditional?” Tiny’s face said he wasn’t sure. He knew more about Melba sauce with mozzarella sticks.
“This was a small chain that had their own recipe and was proud of it, it was near Sar—” Late cut himself off. “Near a friend’s place.”
Jerk and Tiny exchanged a glance.
“Kid’s got the right idea.” A customer had come in and Tiny was retreating to the counter.
“I’m not sure how the skewer and rolls fit with serving?” Kid held up another skewer, beef and lamb, perplexed.
“I think you pull them out when they’re in the rolls, but you can just pull them before you cook if that’s easier.” He gestured at the grocery floor. “Grab anything you need.”
Jerk heard Tiny finish checking the customer out. He grabbed Late’s arm and pulled him out, letting Kid work on the recovery effort.
“Did you say Sarah? Sarah Ann McGuire’s out of prison?” Jerk asked as he pulled a protesting Late over to the checkout.
“Ow! Yeah, I…” Late rubbed his neck and looked away. “She finally got parole, and I got the bug to visit her.” They’d been pen pals for ten years. Jerk had the scars to prove it.
“She murdered people,” Tiny said, the memory clear. “Husband. In-laws. Cold blood. It was all over the news.” Tiny looked at Jerk. “Did he tell you that she used an ice pick?”
“It was not cold blood. She was railroaded. He was… he was doing bad things, Tiny. Them too.”
Late was only 15 when he answered an ad in the weekly looking for a pen pal. She didn’t realize he was a kid young enough to be her grandson until after he’d turned 18. He didn’t know she’d committed triple homicide until he was 20.
“So did you two…?” Tiny’s question hung, verblessly. He looked right at Late. Late turned a shade of red Jerk hadn’t seen before.
“We… She’s a nice lady!” Late stalked off to restock the cooler. Jerk assessed they’d done the deed.
Tiny’s voice dropped, lower than the rumble of the bus idling on Fourth. “This Kid. Made out of rubber or something?” Tiny looked back at the deli counter. “You mopped their guts off the floor last night, and now they’re running around like Mr Food?”
Why yes, Tiny. Jerk had done a better job than normal with that particular mess. Thank you for noticing.
“Crashed for a couple of hours and then was back up and restless,” Jerk was the same way. Tiny too. “You’re paying Kid, right? Because they consider The Squat payment and—” Jerk looked right at Tiny, eye contact he didn’t usually like to make “—Squat’s mine. You pay Kid separately.”
It was Tiny who looked away. He spit under his breath. “Blackmailer.” Jerk had learned from a master.
Tiny cleared his throat. “Federal minimum, cash,” he said. “Same as you, same as Late, same as the other putzes you’ve brought in here. Paperwork in January if they decide they’re paying taxes.” Tiny made some lies other people’s responsibility.
The smell out of the kitchen was mouth-watering already, and Jerk saw Kid run out to Aisle A and grab the bread.
“You have to tell Kid the Golden Rule.” Tiny said, letting the pause stretch. It was Jerk’s job to say it aloud.
“No crimes on the clock.”