NOTE:
This is sample portion ONLY. To request this manuscript, click here.
Second Chances
By Jason R. Peters
When the peddler jostled Brian, inflaming his broken arm, Brian wanted to hit him so hard that his rotting teeth skittered across the pavement. It was the man’s face which stopped him. Bloodshot eyes bulged beneath droopy lids, scant strands of colorless hair clung to his scalp. His thin smile was predatory. Brian would probably go to jail for decking this geezer. He stepped away, wincing.
The man snagged Brian’s good arm with a withered claw.
“Wanna buy some souls?” His breath misted in the cold.
“Let me go,” Brian growled, trying to escape the codger and rejoin the throng of Chicago’s pedestrian traffic. The peddler clung fast, his eyes hungry.
“Listen, brother.” The man sounded like James Earl Jones, though he looked more like Steve Buscemi. The effect was jarring. “I know you’re hurting. I can help.”
Passersby had begun to give the duo a wider berth; they wanted no part of this strange exchange. Nor did Brian.
“I’m not buying anything,” he snapped. “I don’t even have enough for rent. So shove off.” And he did shove a little, breaking free.
“First few are free.”
“I don’t want your drugs.” Particularly not if they make you look prematurely corpse-like, Brian added silently. The man was obviously mentally ill.
The peddler laughed. “No drugs, brother. I said souls. You hurt yourself, lost your job, can’t afford rent.” He looked Brian in the eye. “You’ve lost hope.”
Brian took a step back, disturbed. “Are you stalking me, psycho?”
“I can help you set everything right.”
“Seek help.”
“Has your lady friend left you yet?”
“Fat chance,” Brian said, believing it. Ashley was the one good thing going for him. Her job didn’t pay much, but she could help Brian through his rough patch. More importantly, she was supportive and reassuring. Without her, Brian suspected he’d be as crazy as this kook.
“When she does leave, come find me. I can make everything better.” And he winked.
Brian backed away, not wanting to turn his back to the crackpot. After a few yards, he turned. Not fleeing, walking briskly. It was cold, after all. October wind in Chicago bit harder than a starving mongrel.
If he saw the old dealer snooping around his apartment, Brian would call the police. As if he needed something else to worry about.
#
Home was a fourth-story apartment above a passport photos shop on South Plymouth Court. The kitchen overlooked noisy signs of a dollar store across the street, selling soda and t-shirts for tourists. The Formica cracked and peeled, and the heater was faulty. Sometimes the front door stuck.
The girl on the sofa made it bearable. Ashley was plumper than the Hollywood vixens who tyrannize fashion, but not fat. Reddish-blond hair played counterpoint to soft blue sweater. She sat cross-legged, doing a crossword puzzle. Brian found her adorable.
She did not look up when Brian came in.
“I’m home,” he said.
“You’re late,” she said. Brian blinked at that. Late? For what?
“I was out for a walk. Was I supposed to be here at a certain time?”
“I just thought you’d be home earlier,” she said. “Seeing as how you don’t have a job and can’t play anymore games.”
Was she upset? Unsure how to respond, Brian took his time hanging up his coat before answering, careful not to jostle his arm. He ran his free hand under warm water to soothe away the numb of the cold.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
She set down the crossword. “This isn’t working for me, Brian.”
He froze. “What isn’t?”
“This.” Ashley said, gesturing vaguely. “This isn’t going anywhere. You aren’t going anywhere. You went from a dead-end job to no job at all.”
“Uh,” he protested, mouth dry. But she wasn’t finished.
“Do you expect me to support you?”
“I haven’t asked you to.” He kept his voice soft. He would not lose his temper. Not at Ashley.
“Do you have another job lined up?”
She already knew the answer. He played along. “No.”
“Do you have any money saved?”
“No.”
“So I’m just charity to you?”
“What? That’s not true at all!”
“Well I don’t see how else you thought this would work, Brian. Even if I wanted to, I can’t support you. I barely make enough to support myself.” She stood and walked to the door, pausing to grab her windbreaker from the chair. Brian hadn’t noticed it; normally she hung it in the closet. Had she been planning this? She hadn’t seemed angry earlier.
“Have I done something wrong?” Brian asked, truly perplexed.
“Your whole life is wrong, Brian. You can call me when you get your act together.” And she was gone. She didn’t slam the door. She hadn’t yelled. Just spoke in a clear, even tone, relating the facts.
It wasn’t fair, though. The broken arm was an accident. She had never resented him for playing basketball before, why should he apologize now?
He thought he understood, though. Ashley shared his frustration. The injury didn’t happen at work, so he couldn’t claim worker’s compensation. His temp agency offered no benefits, so he had no short-term disability. He wasn’t exactly “fired”. But it was damn near impossible to unload trucks with one arm.
“I’m sorry, but we have to respect the wishes of our client.” That’s what Jennifer, from the temp agency, had said. Talk about adding insult to injury.
Rent was due in two weeks: $1,300. Brian had $381.42 in checking. He had applied to other jobs. But most positions, no matter how menial, required both arms. Ashley shared all of Brian’s pain and fear that there was no way out. The difference was that she saw a way out.
All she had to do was get rid of Brian, and the problem was no longer hers.
#
Even simplest tasks took great patience and skill to perform one-armed. Everything from eating to changing clothes had become a hassle. Brian winced every time an unexpected bump sent pain searing through him.
The easiest task of all was fetching a bottle of Jack Daniels from under the sink.
In the morning, as binge drinkers are prone to do, Brian cursed his alter-ego of the night before. His arm ached more than his head, but the contest was close. Fortunately, he had enough dexterity to open a bottle of aspirin. He took two more than the recommended dose and fell back asleep.
#
Brian woke at noon. While showering, he thought about the joker selling “souls” on the street. The idiot had predicted Brian’s girlfriend would dump him. Had the old-timer known that Brian wasn’t married? Or that his finances would jeopardize his relationship?
“I can make it better,” the man had said, citing with acuity each of Brian’s woes.
Brian almost decided to find him. But then he remembered: He had mentioned being short for rent. The peddler capitalized on that idea, pairing it with a visible injury. He was just a drug dealer preying on the downtrodden. Drugs would only worsen Brian’s bleak circumstances.
Brian spent the afternoon on the phone. His First Manpower, his temp agency, was apologetic and unhelpful. Your call is so important to us that we will do nothing for you.
Other agencies were worse. Invariably, they wanted Brian to come in and take some tests. He couldn’t write with his left arm. No matter how many times he assured them: I’m a hard worker, I’m dependable, I’m not a moron, it didn’t matter. They adhered to commandments of Almighty Protocol. That particular deity had no use for Brian.
He called Ashley and apologized. For what, he wasn’t sure, but he knew that women like apologies.
It didn’t help. She wanted to know whether he had another job. Without that sole qualification, she was uninterested.
“Is this a technique to panic me into looking harder?” he asked. “I’m doing everything I can.”
“I’m not trying to manipulate you, Brian. Either you’ll take responsibility for yourself or you won’t.”
The injustice of it made him want to scream, made him want to slam the phone the way you once could, before cell phones made hanging up as wimpy as pressing a button. Instead, he offered assurances both empty and heartfelt, because nothing in his situation was bound to change.
He glanced at the bottle of Jack on the coffee table. Half of it remained. It seemed to catch the light, as golden brown as sunset, inviting.
Brian decided to go for a walk instead. He wanted to walk the half-mile to Grant Park and Chicago Harbor, but felt he didn’t deserve the view. Instead, he trudged west, past Union Station.
Within fifteen minutes, Brian found the peddler, leaning against a pillar just outside a Dunkin’ Donuts, its cheery pink sign at odds with the gray sky. That sallow face was unmistakable.
“You came back, brother,” said the dealer, his voice smooth.
“I took a wrong turn,” Brian said. He shouldn’t have come this way.
“She left you?” The man’s certainty was unnerving.
“I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”
“Neither do I. Yet here you are. You can have her back…if you want her.” He shrugged. “You can have someone better.”
“I don’t think drugs are going to win her back.”
The dealer grew serious. “I don’t sell drugs.”
“What do you sell?”
“Second chances.”
“I thought you said you sell souls.”
The man smiled. “That’s right, brother. The kind Jesus and Satan play chess with. The only commodity valuable enough to turn your life around.”
“I’m not interested.”
The man’s eyes flashed. “Bullshit.”
Brian had no answer for that.
The dealer leaned closer. “I’m no hustler. This is the age of try-before-you-buy. So here’s my no-cost, no-obligation offer. Three souls, yours to keep. Try them out. If you don’t like the results, you walk away. You won’t find a better deal.”
Brian stared at the lunatic, trying to decide how to respond. What the hell did he mean by ‘souls’?
“Second chances?” Brian asked.
The man’s brightened like a professor eyeing a star pupil. “That’s right, brother.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Say yes.”
This is crazy, Brian thought. But no crazier than losing his livelihood and his girlfriend to a dumb accident. No crazier than being unemployed, evicted, homeless.
He was sure nothing would happen, but it was fun to indulge a fantasy. To pretend for a moment that a stranger could make everything right again.
“Yes.” A tingle ran through him. He was sure it was his imagination.
Brian’s cellphone rang.
It was Ashley.
“Brian, I’m really sorry. Can we talk?”
“What?” he asked, startled.
“I’ve been a bitch. What happened wasn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have been so hard on you.”
It was a coincidence. Ashley would gradually have seen reason. She just happened to call him now.
“Can I call you back?” he asked. She said he could.
He looked back to the dealer. The man was gone.
NOTE:
This is sample portion ONLY. To request this manuscript, click here.
