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 Tinyâheâd normally drunk three or four by this time. Today was different. Today he was watching the kid.
Heâd thought they were a shoplifter, but they hadnât stolen anything. Hadnât 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 didnât have anywhere else to go in the rain.
âOh hell.â
They looked over at Jerk. Bright eyes that for a split second saw straight through him. Jerk looked away, fumbled for his wallet.
âDropped my wallet.â 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 growledâloudly.
âHey, Kid.â
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 Adamâs apple and peach fuzz, some turning darker. Baggy clothes, mended in spots. Bright eyesâthe color of freshly minted pennies.
âYeah?â Kidâs voice cracked.
âYou know where Pizza, Paul, and Maryâs is?â Jerk fished a twenty out of his wallet.
ââCourse I do. Just down the block.â 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.
âI get pizza and wings there almost every night. Tell âem Jerk wants the usualâand extra napkins this time.â Their pizza was notoriously greasy.
He flicked the twenty across the counter, knocking it askew before straightening it again. âYou can keep the change, and a slice and some wings for you.â Kidâs eyes lit upâthen narrowed, questioning.
âYou trust me?â Kid asked. Jerk hadnât let his face give them the answer they were looking for.
âNo reason not to. Youâve read every comic in that rack twice and havenât bent a single corner. Couldâve stolen a dozen cokes.â
Kid pinched the twenty, pocketed it, and put their rucksack on the counter. âCan you watch my things?â
âIâll hold that behind the counter. Here, take an umbrella.â
Jerk took the rucksack and handed Kid Tinyâs umbrella over the counter.
âThanks?â Kid fumbled with the umbrella like an alien artifact, trying to pry it open.
âNo! Thatâs bad luck! Were you raised by wolves?â
Jerk came around the counter. He didnât 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.
âDonât open an umbrella indoors, or bring an open one in, OK?â Jerk pointed at the awning over them. âThatâs what this is here for, so you donât curse us.â
With that, Kid headed down the block with Jerkâs twenty and Tinyâs umbrella. Jerk went back inside and made fresh coffee.
Someone would need it. Probably him.