Spare Change #11

I watch the storm clouds gathering while waiting for the traffic light to turn green. It’s another six blocks to DJ’s store and I’m quickly losing confidence that I’ll arrive dry. I wish I hadn’t stopped to check in on Tommy and then wasted even more time asking around about his whereabouts when he wasn’t there.

It’s been two days since the knife incident and it seems like nobody has seen Tommy since. I’m trying not to worry about him but that’s proving to be difficult.

The walk signal brings my attention back to the here and now. I step out onto the crosswalk and –

“Hey, watch where you’re going moron!”

“What the…” It takes a few seconds to realize that this clown on a motorcycle almost ran me over. “Watch where I’m going?”

“If you had scratched up my new ride there woulda been hell to pay!” He has flipped up his visor and all I can see are flaring nostrils and angry blue eyes. Ignoring common sense, I don’t walk away.

“Sorry to get in the way of you running a red light,” I say with a sneer. “Next time I’ll be sure to let you ride on through so a cargo truck can knock some sense into you.”

“Are you getting smart with me?” I’m not surprised he’s unable to figure it out on his own. The walk signal is flashing now so I shake my head and turn to walk away. “That’s right, chicken. Walk away.”

Throwing rational thought out the window, I spin and flip him off. We’re frozen for a breath as we both try to comprehend the situation. Then he jumps off his bike.

Rational thought makes its triumphant return and I turn and run.

I glance over my shoulder as I reach the far sidewalk to see him getting back on his motorcycle as the light turns red. I slow to a walk but keep watching to make sure he goes straight instead of left. He does and I breathe a sigh of relief. Is anything going to go right for me?

Right on cue, the first drop of rain crashes onto the top of my head.

I hunch up my shoulders and hurry to DJ’s, taking special care to look both ways five or six times per intersection. By a minor miracle I manage to arrive without further incident.

“J-man,” DJ says as I enter, dripping rainwater on his clean floor. “There’s a washroom in the back, go dry up and we’ll get started.”

I nod gratefully and make my way past the coffee bean bag blocking the back hall and into the cramped washroom. I do what I can to sop up my dripping clothes and only bang my elbow on the sink three times.

When I reenter the store DJ is with a couple customers so I hang back to browse his “DJ Mike Picks of the Week” display. I’ve listened to all of them before which is both reassuring and a let down. Good to know I’m keeping up with the good stuff, disappointing I don’t get to discover something new.

DJ rings up their purchases and sends them on their way with a smile and a promise that they’ll be back. I arrive at the counter to begin my training as the door closes behind them.

“Alright J, first things first,” DJ says. “I am not the post office, I’m not hotmail and I sure as hell ain’t Facebook. So don’t plan on turning me into your message center.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This is the first and, more importantly, the last time I pass on a message to you, okay?”

Who would leave me a message…? Karl and Tommy are the only people who I’ve told about this gig. Karl would never do it and Tommy was so out of his head that I can’t imagine he remembered anything we talked about after he came back down.

“Got it man. What’s the message?”

“A woman came by yesterday, said she needs to talk to you,” he says. I swallow hard. “Said her name was TJ.”

Interlude

Alright, apparently I'm missing two weeks. But hey, I haven't missed a day yet on my Daily Writing Practice.

So... yeah. July 25th will be the return of Spare Change.

Spare Change #10

“So what’s new with you?” Tommy asks as he admires his own smoke rings.

“Well, I’ve got a job,” I say, still not really believing it even though it’s been two days since I told DJ I’d cover for him. “I start in a couple weeks.”

“Nice man, who you selling for? Doug will rip you off; I hope it’s not Doug.”

“No, I’m –“

“And Petey’s crack is terrible; please tell me you’re not selling his junk.”

“Listen,” I begin but Tommy isn’t paying any attention to me. He’s just blowing rings and patting that damned rabbit of his – bastard still won’t tell me where he got it, probably stole it from some poor kid.

“You gotta watch who you work for on these streets man, competition is getting scary,” he says before taking a long, deep drag on his joint.

“I know Tommy, that’s why I’m not selling drugs,” I tell him and he finally looks at me. Alright, now that he’s listening –

“You think hookers are any safer? Man, if the pimp don’t get you one of those crazy who-“

“Tommy! Just shut up for a minute, okay?” He looks a little hurt but at least he keeps his mouth closed. “I’m not doing any of that crap, alright? It’s a legit job – DJ Mike asked me to run his shop for a week so he can take a vacation.”

“Tiny wants you to run his shop?” Tommy says in disbelief. “I thought that man was clean.”

“He’s not high, at least I don’t think he is.”

“Might explain a few things if he was,” Tommy says as he feeds the rabbit a scrap of bread.

“I didn’t know rabbits ate bread.”

“Oh, they’ll eat all sorts of things,” he says from far, far away; I’m gonna have to cut him off soon. “Isn’t that right Hopper?”

“Oh good, you finally got around to naming him.”

“Her.”

“Right, her… every other bum in this city has a dog or cat for a pet, but not you – always gotta be different, huh Tommy?”

“Hopper ain’t no pet,” he mumbles. “You see a leash?”

I concede the point as Hopper nuzzles my hand, searching for food. I’ve got nothing on me so I give her head a pat and she goes back to Tommy. However he got her, pet or friend, they’re definitely together now.

“Anyway, DJ wants me to come by a few times this week to show me what he wants done while he’s gone,” I say as I try to get back on topic. “I wasn’t sure at first but I’m starting to look forward to it.”

“Whatever floats your boat man,” Tommy says, flicking away the remains of his joint and reaching into his jacket pocket for another. “You get to wear a cute hat and uniform too?”

“It ain’t McDonald’s man,” I say, finally starting to realize this isn’t the person I should be talking to about this. I reach out my hand to stop him from lighting up again. “I think you’ve had enough of that for today.”

“Don’t you tell me when to stop!” He’s leaning over me in an instant, breathing hard through his mouth like a rabid dog. I’m so shocked by his change in demeanor that at first I don’t see the knife clutched in his right fist.

“Where the hell did you get that?”

“You shouldn’t be worrying about where I got it,” he spits, waving the blade in front of my nose. “But where it is right now.”

“What are you smokin’ man, to pull a knife on me?” What the hell is this? Did someone lace his joint or was it something he was doing before I got here? The only thing I’m sure of is that this is not the Tommy I know.

“Get out of my alley before I throw you out… piece… by piece,” he says matter-of-factly, tapping the blade first against my right cheek, then my left.

“Tommy, what is going on man?” I ask, doing my damndest not to panic.

“Get out you thief!” he screams at me from inches away. I scramble to my feet and back away down the alley. My eyes never leave his face; his eyes never leave my throat. “And don’t come back!”

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I call down the alley as I reach the sidewalk. “Hopefully you’ll have all the crazy out by then.”

He screams incoherently and throws an empty soup can in my direction. I duck around the corner and head for home. I need to get back to relative safety… I doubt I’ll be able to sleep tonight. Maybe I’ll get to see Phakov coming in the morning.

Oh man… what just happened?

Spare Change #9

Ice cream drips off my spoon and splatters the white tablecloth with minty green. What were they thinking when they chose white? If they thought their customers would be too high brow to spill their treats, well, they set up shop in the wrong part of town.

“This is an incredible opportunity for you J,” Karl says as he jabs the jagged end of his half-eaten cone at me like a broken bottle in a street brawl. “When did DJ offer you this?”

“Three days ago,” I reply without making eye contact.

“I thought you said he told you to come back the next day?” My answer is muffled by a heaping spoonful of mint chocolate goodness. “J… you are not passing this up.”

“I’m just giving him time to come to his senses.”

“His senses? Has that man ever taken a vacation? The man needs a break and he needs you to make that happen, God help him.”

“Thanks,” I say with a grimace. “DJ’s got plenty of customers, I’m sure he could find someone else.”

“Someone else who’s in a position to run his store for a week? Besides,” Karl says, “he chose you, not some other customer. He’s giving you a hell of a chance J. When was the last time you had an actual, honest job?”

“My resume is at the office but if I recall correctly… about fifteen years ago.”

“You do this for him and maybe it’ll lead to some steady income. Wouldn’t it be nice to know how much money you’d be making each week?” he asks with a single, bushy red eyebrow raised.

“I do this and screw it up I’ll never get another chance,” I say without thinking.

“Ah, we’ve found the problem at last,” Karl says, sitting back with a satisfied smile. “The Fear is getting in the way again.” I can hear the capitalization of that four letter word.

“I don’t think I’m being unreasonable here man, DJ is dumping a lot of responsibility on me. I haven’t had to take care of anything but me for a long, long time.”

“You talked to TJ about it?” Karl asks around a mouthful of cone.

“I haven’t seen her in a while,” I admit.

“What was it this time?”

“Don’t ask me, she’s the crazy one,” I reply with a sigh that refuses to be contained.

Karl finishes his cone with a sharp crunch and we lapse into silence for several minutes. I’m sure he’s trying to come up with a way to convince me to take DJ’s offer. I leave him to it and turn my attention to the other customers on the patio. It takes me about five seconds to realize that all the other tables are occupied by couples.

“What are you thinking?” Karl asks.

“I was just wondering,” I tell him, “whether or not everyone else here thinks we’re gay.”

“I suppose it would have been too much to ask for you to have been thinking about DJ’s proposal,” he says with a sigh before smiling that toothy grin of his. “You’d be the one wearing the dress at the wedding by the way.”

“Fat chance. I make the money and you hold it, sounds to me like you need to go buy some makeup,” I tell him with my best poker face. He shakes his head and looks away, unwilling to indulge my avoidance of the topic at hand.

“I know I can’t make you take this job,” he says, still not looking at me. “But it would break my heart if you didn’t.”

Dammit. Damn it all to hell.

“I won’t make you any promises,” I say quietly, “but I’ll talk to him.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“How about now?”

My stomach does a somersault and I begin to sweat. There really is no escaping this.

“What, you gonna hold my hand and walk me there?” I ask.

“I’ll stick to just walking with you,” Karl says as he gets up. “Come on, let’s go.”

“It’s a long walk from here.” I remain seated.

“Good, that’ll give me plenty of time to explain to you every single reason why doing this for DJ is a brilliant idea.”

“That’ll just make it seem even longer.”

“Get off your ass and let’s go. It’s time.”

And I know he’s right. And I know there’s no reason to fight it anymore. So I stand.

Spare Change #8

“Well if it isn’t J, my man, my man!” Mike says from behind the counter as I step foot onto the freshly scrubbed tiles of his store. “Where you been, dog? I ain’t seen you in weeks!”

“Hey DJ,” I reply with his preferred nickname. Some fools insist on calling him Tiny but I’m not crazy enough to try that; he may be five foot nothin’ but he’s built like a pit bull. “I finally took that vacation I been dreaming about – you know, Disneyland, Disneyworld, Euro-“

“Shut the hell up and come see my new stock,” he says with a jerk of his head. I make my way over to him, my eyes jumping from album cover to album cover, always searching for a golden nugget I somehow missed on a previous visit.

“So what you got that’s worth listening to?” I ask.

“Worth listen- I don’t stock crap that ain’t worth playing for anybody that’s got half an ear for good music,” he says with narrowed eyes, a pit bull sizing up his dinner.

“You know I’m just pushing your buttons,” I tell him with a smile. I’ve been coming to DJ Mike’s Real Music Shop for the last two years, usually every couple weeks, and it’s always worth the extra bus to get here. The first time I wandered in, looking for shelter from a spring shower, Mike and I hit it off instantly. Our musical tastes match up extremely well, with enough differences to keep things interesting. He knows I can’t afford to buy anything but I pay him in conversation for his time and knowledge. “Show me what you got.”

“You best watch yourself and that mouth of yours, not everybody has my forgiving temperament,” he says with a wave of a thick finger in front of my nose. “Alright, now I know you dig real hip hop: Mos Def, Common, Talib Kweli and those other brothers that speak the truth. Well I got an original truth speaker for ya – say hello to mistah Gil Scott-Heron.”

“That’s a hell of an afro,” I say as I take the album from him and turn it over to scan the track listing. “I don’t think I’ve heard any of these. Put it on for me?”

“Anything for my man,” Mike says. “Pass that back and I’ll pump it on the store stereo.”

He slides the record out of its protective sleeve and handles it with the kind of respect I imagine an art collector would show a million dollar painting. DJ probably got his piece of art for two bucks at a garage sale.

“That ain’t the Mona Lis- oh damn, what track is this?”

“The Revolution Will Not Be Televised,” he says smugly.

“This is the source, the original that everybody samples and quotes?”

“It all started with my man Gil,” he tells me as he flips through a cardboard box of records on the counter. “I’ll play Angel Dust for you after this one is done. If you think this is ‘oh damn’, Dust will blow your mind.”

“I can’t wait,” I say, closing my eyes to better absorb the music. I start to nod my head by choice and my right foot and hand join in on their own accord.

“Hey dude,” a voice calls from the doorway as the track wraps up and I open my eyes. “You got 50 Cent’s new cd?”

“Do you see any cds in here?” DJ asks the kid with the backwards cap, wife beater and baggy jeans. I know there are only albums and a handful of tapes here but the kid has to stare blankly around for a few moments before he gets it. “You’ll have better luck around the corner at the strip mall.”

“Oh. Alright,” he mumbles before fleeing to the safety of the street.

“Damn kids these days,” DJ mutters as he switches the records up. “No appreciation for vinyl.”

“Or good music,” I add.

“That’s what I said. Now close your mouth and open your mind.”

I barely manage to contain my ‘oh damn’ as the bass hits the speakers like a 2x4. I close my eyes again and allow myself to be transported.

“I been thinking about taking a vacation myself,” he says once the track ends. “A real vacation.”

“Nice man, where you want to go?” I ask, ignoring the cowardly calls of jealousy in my mind.

“Someplace warm, maybe Mexico,” he says, giving me an unreadable look. “But I don’t want to lose a week’s worth of business while I’m gone.”

“Yeah, that’d be rough.”

“I was thinking maybe you could cover for me.”

I feel my eyes bulge and jaw drop. He can’t be serious.

“DJ you know I’m a bum, are you crazy?”

“What, you gonna rob me?”

“Hell no I ain’t –“

“Then what do I got to worry about?”

That’s a good question. I don’t have a good answer.

“Think about it. Come back tomorrow and let me know,” he says matter-of-factly. “Now get outta here, I need to close up for the night.”

I stumble outside, mind reeling. He can’t be serious. Can’t be.

“First things first,” I tell myself, a little too loudly judging by the looks I get from passersby. “I need a drink.”

Spare Change #7

It’s the first nice Saturday in months and the park is full to bursting with people. As I sit on my bench the joggers jog by, the strollers stroll by, there are picnics of varying sizes going on all around me. I glance at them all but none hold by attention like the two gray-haired Italian men across from me.

I’ve been watching them play chess on one of those giant outdoor sets, the pieces nearly reaching their navels. They’ve been alternating between joking loudly with each other and studying their pieces intently. Every move has been greeted with cries of joy, admiration, mockery, but never silence. It’s fascinating.

The man in the brown tweed cap, open collared white business shirt and black slacks seems to have just won but I’m honestly not sure. His playing partner, wearing thick glasses, a yellow golf shirt and brown slacks, is either congratulating him on a game well won or well contested. They both look quite pleased, maybe it was a tie?

“Hey, you want to play a match?”

I look over my shoulder to see who Tweed Cap is asking but find nobody there. What, he didn’t mean me did he? People ignore me; they don’t offer to play games with me.

“You on the bench there, come over here,” Golf Shirt calls out, waving me over. Before I’m off the bench they start to set the board up, separating white and black like they used to do in the South; except these men are much gentler, placing the pieces with a little reverence.

“I’m Paul and this is Antony,” Golf Shirt tells me as I arrive at the white end of the board. “What’s your name?”

“I’m J,” I reply, looking uneasily at the pieces in front of me.

“J isn’t a name, it’s a letter of the alphabet,” Antony says with a raspy laugh. I smile politely.

“You know how to play chess?” Paul asks, his glasses making his eyes too big at this distance.

“No,” I admit, half-hoping that will be enough to get out of this.

“Ah, no problem, no problem,” Paul says. “I’ll help you out and Tony’ll go easy on you.”

“You never went easy on me when I was learning!”

“Oh hush Tony. Alright J, these guys in the front row are called pawns. Don’t let their name fool you, how you make use of them is often the difference between winning and losing.”

“Got it.” I can tell I’m in over my head already.

“These two castle tower looking pieces on the ends, they’re called rooks,” Paul continues. “The horses beside them are knights, then those phallic buggers are called bishops. I’m catholic so I try not to read too much into that.”

I laugh for the first time in a long, long time. Maybe this will be alright, hell it might even be fun. I could use some clean, honest fun.

“Now these two royals in the middle are the key pieces J. The king and the queen,” he says, laying a wrinkled hand on each.

“So you use the king to protect the queen?” I ask, starting to really get into it.

“That’s mighty chivalrous of you!” Antony says.

“It is indeed, it is indeed,” Paul says with a smile. “No J, the queen is a very powerful piece, and losing her can be devastating, but the game isn’t decided until a king is captured.”

“So the queen has the real power,” I say, mind whirling, “but if the king falls the kingdom crumbles.”

“Yes, exactly it!” Paul says, looking a bit too proudly at his student. Suddenly I begin to worry that I’ll let him down by playing badly. “Now let me show you how each piece can move – don’t worry though, I’ll remind you as the game goes on.”

I watch closely as he ambles around the board, mimicking a pawn, then a rook, knight, bishop and lastly the royals. The knight is confusing but the rest seem pretty straightforward.

“Those are the basics, enough to get you started,” Paul says as he steps off the board. “We’ll go slow and talk about strategies and other nonsense when you’re ready for it.”

“Enough with all your jabbering!” Antony yells from across the board. “Lets play!”

“Oh settle down Tony, what’s the rush? Old geezer,” Paul mutters to me. “You ready to give it a shot?”

I look up at the sunlight bursting through the trees above us, listen to the birds and laughter all around us and wonder what on earth I’m doing here. What would TJ or Karl think if they saw me now? Nobody would believe me if I said I spent a Saturday afternoon learning to play chess in the park. I guess this is just for me then.

“J?”

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

I roll up my sleeves, move onto the board and take hold of a pawn. “Good luck,” I say for no good reason. Antony motions impatiently for me to make a move. I smile again, amazed by my own happiness. I move the pawn forward two spaces.

And so we begin.

Spare Change #6

I hate the rain. A lot of people say that but they don’t mean it like I do. I mean that if rain was a man I’d do such unspeakable things to him that they wouldn’t bother throwing me in jail, they’d just execute me on the spot.

When it rains in the morning I just want to curl into a ball and stay on the couch until the sun comes out again, whether that be in two hours or two weeks. I only tried getting back on the couch once – Phakov nearly clawed my eyes out.

On days when the morning is warm and clear and the rain comes in the afternoon it feels like God is playing a big practical joke on us. The morning sun is full of the hopes and dreams of a fresh start; the lunch time clouds smear them all away with their cruel, cold fingers. That’s when I think the thunder is really God saying “ha ha, got you!”

This hatred isn’t a recent development either. I can remember when Brad and Julie, my foster “parents”, promised to take me to an amusement park on a Saturday and when the big day came the outing was canceled by rain. I got so angry that before they managed to lock me up in my room I’d broken three dinner plates. I think that was about a month before they finally gave up and took me back to the orphanage. I didn’t blame them then and I don’t now.

I watch people rushing by, too intent on getting out of the rain to put a dime in my hat. I think this is the least amount of cash I’ve ever brought in before noon. Oh how I hate, I hate, I hate hate hate the rain.

This awning is keeping me mostly dry but the odd gust of wind makes sure that I still achieve the drowned rat look. I should probably get inside, if only for the sake of my health.

“Wet enough for ya?” a man asks with a laugh as he runs by. He disappears around a corner before I can untangle my arm from my blanket to flip him off. Useless bastard. He’s probably one of those twits that love asking everyone “hot enough for ya?” at the peak of summer. Probably looks forward to it all year.

It’s raining harder, really pouring, and the streets are only getting emptier. I guess I should call it a day, get home and try to dry off.

Getting up is slow, painful work. It’s like I got watered enough to put down roots, muscling their way through the cracks in the sidewalk to grasp the real earth below. If I had stayed much longer I might’ve blossomed.

I head for the bus stop as I add up the change in my pockets. I’ve got enough for the fare with a whole twenty-five cents left over. I should’ve stayed on the couch.

I stick close to the buildings to make use of whatever protection their awnings will give me. Unfortunately everyone else has the same idea, including the umbrella wielders. I pull my hat down low to avoid losing an eye and try to think of all the ways to kill a man using only an umbrella.

I’m only up to number eight when I’m slammed into the brick wall to my left.

“Watch where you’re going little begga’ man!”

I look up to see a fierce, terrifyingly large black man staring me down. Now let me be clear for a moment: I’m no racist. I find any man that could eat me for a snack before dinner terrifying.

I make a few awkward apologetic, placating motions with my head and hands and turn to walk away. Thankfully he lets me go. I guess that’s one benefit of looking like something the cat dragged in: being unappetizing.

By the time I get to the bus stop there’s no room in the shelter, women and children are packed in there like soggy cigarettes. Surprisingly I don’t spot an open umbrella amongst them.

I stand to the side and pretend that I have no interest in getting out of the rain. Several guys (and a couple women) I know would just charge in there and make room for themselves but my disdain for the normals hasn’t peaked quite yet. Maybe next year.

Several minutes pass before a bus comes along but it’s so full that only a few mother/child combos can get on. As the bus pulls away I notice that somehow there’s still no room in the shelter.

Ten minutes later no more buses have appeared. I move to the curb to look down the street to see what I can see. Too late, I notice the sports car racing along the curb lane. I step back but not quickly enough to get away from the spray from a disturbed pothole and I get a face full of mud and rainwater.

As I try to get the worst of it out of my eyes and nose and mouth a particularly loud crack of thunder echoes off the office buildings and rattles my bones.

I hate the rain.