Six Bad Things_ A Novel - Charlie Huston [75]
—Yeah?
I gape at him.
—You can’t use the bathroom. For customers only.
I don’t need the bathroom. I need. Oh, crap, what do I need? I look around the store. What did I want? No clue. I reach in my pocket and feel around. Guns: two. Check. Cigarettes: none. Check. Cigarettes! I need cigarettes. I take the empty Benson & Hedges box from my pocket, walk to the counter, and show it to the kid. He finishes the page he’s reading, puts down his comic, and looks at the crushed box.
—Benson & Hedges?
I hold up two fingers, and he reaches up to the rack above the counter, grabs two packs.
—Seven even.
I hand him a hundred. He takes it and holds it up to the light, then rings in the sale. I take my smokes and the change and he picks up his comic.
Cool, I’ve achieved something. He lowers his comic a bit and looks at me still standing there.
—What?
Huh?
—You need something else, hombre?
Uh?
—Yes? No?
I shrug.
—So get lost then.
Lost! I look around the store again, and see the maps on the magazine rack. I grab one of Vegas and hand it to the kid. He slaps his comic down on the counter.
—Fucking A. Three ninety-five.
I walk out of the store, map in one hand, cigarettes in the other, and get blinded by the headlights of a car as it pulls up to the pumps. I head for the light cast by a street lamp, and sit down on the curb. I open the map and run down the lists of street names, looking for Commerce. I find it and trace it until it runs into the intersection with West California where the gas station sits. OK, this is a start, I know where I am. I smudge some grease from my finger onto the spot so I won’t lose it. Now, what is Tim’s address? Shit! I had it before. I know where Tim lives, and his address is? Oh, fuck me!
I’m cold and tired and lost and I’ve had enough and I want, I want, I want to call home. I’ve got a phone. But I can’t call home. I can’t do that to them.
Sitting still isn’t good. It’s too easy to feel the pain. Pain spiking my head, throbbing in my thigh, and scratching at a hundred nicks and bruises. My head drops forward, my arms flop at my sides, the map held limply. I’m in bad shape. I know I’m in bad shape. I gotta get out of here, I gotta get up off the ground and go somewhere and get some sleep. I’ll be so much better if I can just get some sleep, give my brain a chance to shut down. Where? Where am I gonna go? What am I gonna do?
I dig a cigarette out of one of my fresh packs.
Where are my matches? I paw through my pockets looking for a match. Where are my goddamn matches? I empty everything from my pockets except for the guns, and dump it all on the cement between my legs. Map, cell phone, charger, cigarettes, Christmas card, empty matchbook, a crumpled pile of hundreds and twenties, a spill of change. Headlights blast me from behind and a car horn jolts me to my feet. I spin, the car from the pumps is a few feet from me, its horn blaring. The silhouette of a head emerges from the driver’s window.
—Get the fuck out of the way!
I look around. I’m right in the middle of the entrance to the station. The driver honks again, loud and long. I hold up a hand, palm out toward the car, bend down to pick up my stuff, and step out of the way as the car moves forward. It’s a taxi. The driver looks at me as he eases past, shakes his head in disgust. I stand there with my hands full of junk. Map, cell, charger, smokes, Christmas card, money.
Christmas card!
The cabby taps his brakes, halting for a moment as a bus drives past. I run up to his open window and stick the red Christmas envelope inside.
—Here, I need to go here.
He ducks back from me and pushes my hand away.
—Fuck off!
I have my head and right shoulder stuck in the window. He tries to shake me loose, and I stumble alongside the crawling cab. I shove