I sat in the back of some cafe, waiting for the couple at the table next to me to finish eating.
A guy and a girl. Yellow yolk dribbled down the stubble of the guy’s chin before landing against his large, elephant legs. I ran my finger over the menu in front of me.
Two Eggs: Sunny Side Up. $3.75.
My silverware lay, untouched, against a clean ceramic plate. No one bothered to come take my order. The shirt I wore smelled worse than dead rat fur, and it was obvious I had no money.
Not yet.
The girl at the table next to me picked up her knife and fork, sawing into her food before bringing it to her face. Jam smacked against her lips. The red globs burst from her mouth like herpes, and my tongue watered.
Strawberry Pancakes. $4.50.
In my pocket, I ran my other finger against the teeth of Verona’s storage key. Ten-thousand dollars. I could buy a tower of flapjacks—a farm's worth of eggs.
A waiter walked by, keeping his distance from me, and placed a pile of meat and potatoes in front of the dining couple.
My stomach growled, but the more food the couple ordered meant that there was a greater chance for leftovers. Both of them scooped the steaming mash onto their own plates. Potatoes mixed with jam. Meat sopping up egg yolk.
Pork and Hash Scramble. $8.99.
I pinched the storage key tighter. But how would I get the money? Verona’s dad wouldn’t hand it over to me.
The girl forked a heap of her jellied-potato-pork-mess and airplaned it towards her partner. More goo dripped from his chin as he took the bite. They both laughed. My stomach clenched, but there was nothing left in it to vomit.
I would need someone to get that reward for me.
The couple laughed louder, spit flying from their mouths. The sound was worse than the guy’s fork scraping against his plate. The storage key sliced into my skin.
“Anything else for you two?” The waiter had come back to their table. His voice was as crisp as his starched uniform, and I didn’t know how he kept it so clean in this place.
“Just some to-go boxes,” the girl said.
I sucked on my bleeding finger. It tasted like rusted silverware, and I tried to pretend it was jelly. A drop of it landed at the bottom of the menu in front of me where a picture of some cartoon delivery man spoke into a large quotation bubble.
Breakfast to-go? $12.50.
Breakfast at home? Priceless.
Ten-thousand dollars. I could have anything. I’d be able to buy my own diner or my own bar. I’d be able to get any type of food or drink or drug I wanted.
I’d be able to…
To…
Shit. What else was there?
“Oh my God,” a voice interrupted. “Kurt? I thought that was you.”
Someone with white leggings and a matching sports bra scooted into the booth across from me. Her perfume slapped me in the face, and it smelled better than the strawberry pancakes.
“I’m so sorry about Verona,” she said. The girl in the white sports bra.
“Amity?” I asked. She looked completely different from when I last saw her, when she walked out of Verona’s apartment over Christmas break. “Aren’t you…supposed to be in Mexico?”
“I can only imagine how you must feel,” she said. “When I lost Nathan it broke me.”
“You…left Clair’s,” I continued. “She told me that you…went to Mexico? Or…rehab?”
She reached for the menu. Her fingernails were long and clean. Buffed into perfect ovals, and I couldn’t tell if they were real or fake.
She said, “New Bloom Recovery. That was the name of the place. Just uptown. Super hip.” She flipped the menu over. “Do they have anything good here? My therapist thinks I should stop eating meat.”
The couple at the table next to us got up to leave. The man swung his giant elephant legs out from the booth and peeked past me after noticing Amity’s chest.
I peeked past him to stare at the pile of crumbs left on his plate.
“Hey,” Amity said, placing the menu down. Her makeup dovetailed perfectly off both eyes. Symmetric. “Do you like, need any help?”
Blood seeped into my jeans as I gripped my thigh, feeling for the outline of the storage key.
“Because my therapist told me I should really start helping people, like if I ever want to get over Nathan or whatever. Plus,” she said, leaning closer until I could taste her perfume. “You kind of smell like boiled garbage.”
The couple shuffled through the diner, their to-go boxes in hand. I traced blood over blue denim and asked Amity, “what would you do if you won the lottery?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” she said, leaning back. “I’d give it away. My therapist says ‘the only way you get more is by taking less.’”
Outside, a dog barked at the couple as the diner door swung shut behind them. Some homeless man lay sprawled next to the entrance. Even under the shade, waves of heat rose off his body. The dog jumped against the couple to get their food, but the man with the elephant legs kicked it back.
Some of us are coyotes. Desperate, skinny, and always howling for even the tiniest scrap of meat.
I turned to Amity. “Would you do something for me?”
“No need to ask,” she said. “Yes. You can absolutely have my therapist’s number.”
The dog outside bounced from one edge of the entrance to the other, chained to the homeless man by an invisible leash.
“What?” I asked.
“I mean I kinda owe it to you,” Amity continued. “You’re the reason I went to New Bloom in the first place. After you saved me from those assholes at the bar, I kept thinking to myself: ‘Damn, if Kurt of all people has the balls to do something like that, then what am I doing with my life?’”
“That’s…umm,” the blood on my pants looked like dirt sucking up rain. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh?” she asked. “Well, what do you want?”
Outside, the dog’s muffled yells softened to a whimper. It pressed its muzzle against its master’s face, and flies buzzed in a black cloud over the two of them.
My stomach howled. Loud. People turned to look. Even the waiter turned to look. I grabbed my gut, rubbing it back and forth, and asked Amity. “Could I…get something to eat?”
On the outside, Amity’s car was a mess. Different colored doors. Rusted handles. But inside, it was cleaner than her polished nails. Her engine roared to life, and she drove us away from the cafe. She drove away like it was a test, obeying each road sign as it appeared.
Keep Right.
Yield to Oncoming Traffic.
I took another bite of the breakfast burrito she bought me.
Don’t Pick Up Hitchhikers.
“I don’t know how you can eat that stuff,” she said as she slowed down for a yellow light. “My therapist always says, ‘garbage in, garbage out.’”
A large chunk of sausage slipped free, falling to my feet, and I didn’t know what she was talking about.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said. “Once we get to Mark’s…well it might take some time, but I can pay you back.”
I couldn’t bring myself to use Amity to get the reward.
Her radio buzzed in the background, playing some program I had heard a thousand times but couldn’t remember the name of.
Fast food delivery services? Diet pills on demand? The children are our future, but they’re not going to have a future if they keep squandering it with all this instant gratification.
“I’m not taking you to Mark’s,” Amity said. “I’m not sure my therapist would let me live with myself if I did.”
Just look at that dead girl, that college chick. Don’t you think she’d still be here if she hadn’t been dating that junkie boyfriend of hers?
“Oh,” I said, sinking my teeth back into my breakfast.
Everyone wants to eat cake, but no one wants to bake it.
Cheese melted down the back of my throat, and the edges of my tongue popped to life. When the light changed, Amity sped her car back up until it exactly matched the speed limit.
She side-eyed me from the rear-view. “Are you not going to ask where I’m taking you?”
And even when they’re spoon fed everything, they still go and bite the hand that feeds.
An entire olive shot straight down my gullet, and more taste buds fired on. Salty. Sweet. I shoved the egg, beans, and meat further back into my head. Tortilla to tonsils.
Children these days have no shame. Maybe that’s how they develop that appetite of theirs—from always running away from their problems.
Amity turned down the radio.
“Kurt?” she asked.
I took another bite, and the bottom of the burrito broke open. Salsa painted my jeans chunky green, and I tried scooping the mess into my hand, but it just kept dripping against the seat. I licked my finger and rubbed it against the fabric, but the stain wouldn’t come out. I was only making it worse.
I started to cry.
“Oh,” Amity said. “Uhh…shit.”
The tears splashed against the seat, and the green slime, and it kept making the whole mess worse.
“There…there?” She patted my shoulder with one hand, while continuing to drive with the other. My tears streamed out like someone was stealing from a soda fountain.
“You know,” Amity said. “My therapist told me, ‘once you let it all out, you make room for something better.’”
Salt and grease stung the corners of my eyes as I rubbed them. Each breath I took was the sound of metal flapping in the wind.
“Umm,” Amity stuttered. “If I can do it, so can you?”
I turned to her, my vision blurred. “Why are you trying to help me?” I asked.
The blinker clicked as Amity slowed down, pulling us over to the side of the road. After cutting the engine, I could hear the person on the radio again.
Children these days, they’re no better than animals.
Something pressed against my face. A blurry splotch that was Amity’s hand. She ran her thumb against the scar on my lip.
“Love beats the shit out of us,” she said. “That’s what my therapist told me. She said ‘love beats the shit out of us…but it can also pick us up.’”
A bird cawed outside the window, and I didn’t know what she was talking about. I didn’t know what to do. My stomach was still growling.
“But honestly,” she said. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”
They’re all dog eat dog, these kids. Eat or get ate.
Amity said, “I’m just trying to do what I’m told.” She leaned over me to open my door. “And my therapist said, ‘If I want to help myself, I should try helping you.’”
Outside, the sign bolted to the sidewalk said, Neighborhood Watch, and I knew where we were.
“Sorry,” she said. “This is the best I can do.”
A house sat at the end of the sidewalk. A house that at one point was my home. Amity’s home. Nathan’s, Jimmy’s, Spit’s, and Clair’s home.
“It’s no rehab,” Amity said. “But there is a shower.”