Page 335 of Phobia
Leave it to Andre – a five-foot ginger, slight as a waif, blind as a bat without his glasses to pick a fight over a crate of browning asparagus with a burly dude four times his size who looks like he could bite his head off.The asparagus wasn’t even on the list of invoiced items. It was supposed to be a favor. Now, we’re going to lose everything else because Andre doesn’t budge on anything. Ever.
I wait for a moment. If I interfere without any need for getting involved, Andre would be pissed. He despises people coddling him, whether it be because of his slight frame, short stature, or his thick glasses.
The delivery driver glances over Andre’s head at me. I look intimidating, but I don’t use my six-and-a-half-feet height to lord over delivery drivers. I shrug my shoulders. “He’s the boss.”
We’re both the boss, but whatever. The truth is, I let Andre get away with murder and hardly ever try to convince him he’s wrong about anything.
I’m not wise like that.
Andre takes advantage of this momentary distraction and shoves the crate back into the driver’s arms. He takes a hasty step back, I suppose finally coming to his senses. A fight with this big dude will cost him more than the crate of stupid asparagus.
“Fuck off! I don’t tolerate people trying to weasel me out of my hard-earned money.”
The guy glares at him in disbelief, but as the moment stretches between the three of us the giant takes a step back, then turns to his truck.
“Whatever,” he mutters and tosses the crate on the ground, near the dumpsters.
Andre rushes past me back into the restaurant, hissing, “I was handling it.”
I don’t say anything. I've seen him beaten too many times to humor him and express some fake sentiment that, yes, I truly believe he had it covered all by himself.
I don’t know what his own personal poison is. Most days, I don’t know what is eating him on the inside. Whatever his demons are, they make him fearlessly reckless and aching for trouble. If after twenty years of friendship, he isn’t going to tell me why he does the senselessly dangerous shit he does, I’m not going to bother asking.
But I am here for him. Always.
Scraping him off the ground, putting him together, allowing him to let the rage that fuels both his pain and his brilliance burn bright.
The truck takes off and drives away, probably never to be seen again. My eyes follow it as it turns to the main road and disappears into the morning traffic, loaded to the brim with our precious cargo.
Great. Another one bites the dust.
Shaking my head, I’m already compiling a list of delivery companies I’ll need to contact to supply us with fresh produce. To say Andre has burned some bridges is an understatement.
I linger outside. The cold morning air makes my skin prickle with goosebumps.
My attention is drawn to the alley across the street. I'm not sure what I'm looking at until my eyes finally focus on the pale flesh on a foot, poking through a familiar sleeping bag.
Time stops.
There is no air.
There is not but a single sound besides the flimsy fabric of the sleeping bag rustling, moved by the morning wind.
A fat, black rat scurries from one of the flaps of the sleeping bag and I lunge forward, running.
I fall to my knees when I reach the lifeless pile and desperately pull the fabric away to reveal a body battered and bruised.
The boy.My boy,I decide here and now.
Skin and bones he is, worse than I could have ever imagined. His ashen flesh is taking on a bluish tinge.
I should do something. Anything. But all I’m really doing is watching his chest with morbid fascination. As it raises ever so slightly, I lean forward, hovering over his mouth, and wait until his faint breath grazes my lips.
Its scent is flowery, sickeningly sweet. Still warm.
I scoop him up. His body is so slight I hardly put any effort into carrying him, as I make my way to my truck.
I open the tailgate and deposit him as carefully as I can. After a moment of contemplation, I take one of the thick blankets I normally have ready and cover him entirely.
