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?”