The Knave Page #2

• Drama
• Fiction
• Short story
• Action and Adventure

								

     “Chris, you don’t have to—”
     “Love you, man.”
     “Yeah.” Marlin hung up.

     Chris strolled down the side of the road that evening with his empty plastic bottle in hand. A crowd passed, staring at him in silence. Even as he’d passed them, they stared at his back. He looked back for a moment before jogging away.
     He reached the Shell gas station and looked around inside. Then, he walked towards the soda station and filled the bottle with Root Beer. The moment after his first sip, he scrunched up his nose and spit it onto the ground.
     “Poison toothpaste!”
     “Excuse me, sir,” the cashier said, peering over her glasses. “Clean that up—and don’t spit in my daddy’s store.”
     “Yeah? Then tell your daddy to stop selling poisoned drinks.”
    She rolled her eyes and picked up the phone. “Yeah? Yeah, he’s not cleaning it up. Yeah, send in the cops, will ya?”
     “Alright, alright! What do you want me to use, a mop or something?” Chris raised his hands in the air. “Sheesh.”
     She wheeled out a mop cart and shoved the handle into his chest. “Clean.”
     He scrubbed the floor. Then, he emptied his bottle into the trash can and filled it up. “Water, this time,” he told himself.
     His stomach began growling, but he only had $10 in his pocket. He slapped it on the table, “Here. I’m buying this, uh, agua.”
     “Hm,” she nodded. “You could’ve just taken one of our regular cups, you know.”
     Chris looked over his shoulder at the sizes. The cheapest one had less room than the plastic bottle, but the outside appeared bigger. A simple trick. “I’ll take this,” he said, raising the bottle, “for the same price as your tiny size.”
     She nodded at the tiny size. “You know that thing’s bigger, right?”
     “Yeah,” he smiled.
     “You’re a moron,” she muttered, shaking her head. 
     Chris left the store and walked downtown to the back of the grocery store, his stomach grumbling. The butcher, Garry, came out with blood staining his apron and sausage fingers on his hips.
     “Chris,” he pursed his lips. “I can’t go out tonight. I’m leaving for my cousin’s wedding.”
     “That’s okay,” Chris stood up taller. “Wait—you got any leftovers?”
     “You’re not gonna eat our leftovers, man,” he smirked. “You can’t do that.”
     “Please, Gar.”
     “Go ask your girl for money or something, dude. You’re not homeless.” he snorted, “What happened to all the money you saved up from your magic shows?”
     “I’m saving it for our wedding.” he said, “There’s not even much in there. Just let me have something—anything.”
     “Well, the meat’s no good ‘less you wanna get sick. But the fruit’s probably fine. We got some strawberries and, uh, apples in the back. Huge bags, though. Long as you’re okay with never eating an apple or strawberry again because you can’t get these ones outta your head.”
     “It’s fine, man. It’s okay. It’s just for tonight, anyways—I’ll have money by tomorrow. I got a show tomorrow morning.”
     “Right,” Garrett nodded. He disappeared behind the steel doors again and came out ten minutes later with tiny plastic boxes of strawberries and a plastic black bag filled to the brim with brownish, holed apples.
     “This is sick.” Garret crossed his arms and shook his head. “Don’t get carried away.”
     “Don’t even worry,” Chris smiled. He took the bag of apples and pulled one out. Brown, just as the rest of them were.
     “I can’t even watch this, dude. Have fun. And leave the leftovers in the dump.” Garret left, and Chris fell to his knees, devouring the apples like a mutt who’d never seen one in his life. The juice trickled down his chin. It had a slight sour, poisonous aftertaste. The strawberries had whitish yellow fuzz growing off them, but they tasted alright. Even juicier, Chris thought.
     He took a few boxes of the best looking strawberries and apples and started back home. Chris opened the door to his apartment, as his feet felt like two numb bricks from all the walking.
     Inside, the landlord and the sheriff glared at him. “Uh, yes?” he frowned.
     “You know what’s up,” Mr. Brown, the landlord, said. “You’re evicted.”
     “Sir, I promise you I’ll pay the money,” Chris said.
     “$550 right now or you can’t come in.”
     “$550? I can get it by tomorrow.”
     “I need it now, boy.”
     Chris looked around, as the sheriff stepped towards him. “Wait—Mr. Brown—”
    The sheriff pinned him against the wall, his palm on the small of Chris’ back. The fruit and water spilt all over the floor. 
     “Let me get my stuff—”
     “Alright, Justin. Let ‘em get his stuff.” Mr. Brown said.
     Chris walked past him slowly, opened the closet, and pulled out a magic suit, a top hat, and 4 other shirts. Then, his baggy jeans. His barely strewn together socks. His magic equipment—a wand, juggling balls, feathers, glass shards, and a deck of cards. 
     He stuffed it all up in one old box and left. The door closed, Mr. Brown took his key and locked it, and Chris stood outside alone. “Shit,” he kicked the wall. “Shit!”
     Suddenly, Linda’s car pulled up in the lot. She came out with wet hair and dry clothes. Chris set the box down on the sidewalk, hands on his hips. “Hey, Linda. You’re so beautiful, do you know?”
     “What happened?”
     “Nothing.”
     “All your stuff is in there, Chris. You smell like shit. Have you eaten?”
     “Yeah, McDonald’s. Everything’s fine, Lin. I just got packed. Marlin’s graduation’s tomorrow, and I’m driving straight there, probably staying the night in some fancy hotel with my parents.”
     “How far away is it?”
     “Not that far,” he leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Sorry about what I did earlier, Linda. It was stupid, an—and I’ll never do it again. I love you, okay? And you know I normally don’t do that.”
     “Then why did you?”
     “I…I hadn’t eaten in two days,” he said truthfully. “No bookings lately. Just bad business, I guess. I didn’t want to tell you because I figured you’d—never mind.”
     “Chris, Mr. Brown told me about your apartment.”
     “What?” Chris’ face flushed.
     “And he said be prepared to let you stay at my place because he felt bad for you.”
     “Yeah?”
     “I can’t,” she blurted out.
     “What?”
     “I can’t let you, I’m sorry. I can’t even love you.”
     “What?”
     “We’re done.”
     “No—Why, Linda?”
     “Really. Do I really need to explain this to you, Chris? Are you really that gullible?”
     “Is it ‘cause I’m broke?”
     “Yes. I don’t trust you. I need to have a man who can provide for me, who I can trust, who I can be honest with because I know he’ll love me. And you clearly can’t provide anything for me. No food, no house, no money, and definitely no family.”
     “I can, too.”
     “How?”
     He paused, staring at the ground, trying to come up with one way. Any way at all. She kept pressing him, staring straight down his soul.
     “You can’t even feed yourself, child.”

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