Chapter Three: Small Town

As far as he could tell, it was all trash. As Chris panned across the mess before him he quickly began thinking about why he was there in the first place. He needed the money, but there had to be a better way.

“You done yet, Chris?” His boss barked at him, not realizing that Chris had just snuck in through the back gate.

“Getting close, but I think I'll stay late tonight just to make sure it gets done,” Chris said, hoping to hide his delinquency. In fact, his boss didn't care. He planned on paying Chris the same amount of money regardless.

At first sight it looked like miles of scrap metal. Some of the cars were mangled beyond recognition, obviously the result of some unimaginable tragedy. One of the cars had several bullet holes in the hood, the windows laying in thousands of pieces on the ground beneath. Others had almost completely disintegrated into a mere pile of rust. Chris spent twenty minutes in a daze - just staring - before his mind finally wandered back to where he was standing. Somehow he had to determine was what junk-junk and what was useful-junk. No doubt every car there had a life-changing story that brought it to where it now rested, but to Chris it all looked like trash and he had no desire to make judgment calls on the value of trash.

The town was small, so there weren't a lot of job choices. Most of the kids in town worked on farms for the seasonal work, but Chris never could bring himself to get up early enough for that kind of work. Besides, working for Jumbo Jim (a name the town kids had given him) gave Chris ample time alone – something he rarely got living with 4 sisters and 4 brothers. Unfortunately, being alone so often caused Chris to drift into a mental lull, as he now found himself doing again only 30 minutes after arriving at work. He decided it would be best to keep busy to avoid any more daydreams.

A car toppled over as Chris pulled on what appeared to be a lose piece of scrap. He jumped back a few feet instinctively, even though he was standing far from where the car slowly rocked to a halt. His heart had begun pounding a little faster and his mind raced as he tried to determine how a little piece of metal had held up an entire car. Chris didn't have time to process the thought in his head before his heart suddenly came to a stop. Partially buried under scrap and part buried by dirt was a motorcycle that appeared almost new. Scurrying around the bike, Chris struggled to find why this bike was there, and how long it had been there. The tires were low and it had a considerable amount of dirt on it, but there was no damage and no parts were missing.

Once again, the job at hand fluttered out of his mind and dreams of racing down the highway filled his head. It wasn't the thought of riding the motorcycle that excited him – it was the freedom that the bike offered him. It was an escape from his desolate town and from the monotony of his life. After all, that was the whole reason he was working here in the first place – to find a way out. Where would he go? Did it matter? Wherever it was, it had to better than where he was now. By the time he regained his focus it was dark and Chris found himself standing in the dim light of a waning moon.

Chapter Two: Street Cred

With his hands pressed firmly into his coat pockets, David walked silently and somberly through colorless streets under a colorless sky. The alleys were damp, and as he walked on some buildings hissed steam from their vents while other vents just droned. The sights and smells weren’t always pleasant, but whatever they lacked in aesthetics they made up for in intrigue because, in David’s mind, anything foreign to the suburbs seemed dynamic to him.

David had fair hair and fair skin, and his face soon became ruddy with the cold. Breathing into his hands, he sat down on a bench outside the bus station where two men approached him.

“Hey man, you got the time?”

“Yeah, 10 o’clock.”

The first man smiled and took another step towards David. He was a black man, tall and stocky and he was wearing an army style coat with a large duffle bag over his shoulder. His friend, however, was small and frail, and long strands of gray hair were slicked back on his head. Coarse facial hair sprung from unexpected places: high up to the tops of his cheeks, between his eyebrows and hairline, and even a few hairs sprouted from the tip of his nose.

“Dang, brother,” the first man continued, “Is that your coat?”

David nodded, suspicious of where this exchange was going.

“My name’s Tony. This here is William.” He slapped David on the shoulder with big paws. “Seriously, that’s your coat? Dang, man! You’re waiting for a bus?”

“No, I have a car.”

“Look, man. I’ll be straight up. Me and Will here are in a bind. Can you give us a lift to the Super 8 uptown? Huh?” Tony smiled and slapped David’s shoulder again. David didn’t have much time to respond before Tony interrupted with an exaggerated sigh. “Aw, Buddy! I think Buddy’s scared of us, Will! Look at ‘im!”

William flashed a toothless grin and fidgeted nervously. David was unsure how serious Tony was, and decided to laugh and go along with it. “Just to the Super 8? That’s on my way home.” David wasn’t sure if he was performing his good deed for the day or if he was getting duped. At any rate, Tony and Will seemed harmless. If anything out of the ordinary happened, David would have a good story to tell his friends.

Tony talked all the way back to the car. He was from Queens. The streets are tough. David is a good man. Will is his friend; don’t mess with Will. David smiled and nodded and laughed as Tony rambled, but that didn’t stop Tony from occasionally declaring, “Oh no! Buddy’s scared to death now.” Again, David laughed. But he could never tell how serious the stranger was.

The car was quiet in the parking lot of the Super 8 motel. David could see Will in the rear view mirror, he was quiet and wrenched his hands by his chin. “Look, man,” Tony quietly started, “I’ll be straight up. We don’t have a room at the Super 8. But listen, we just needed you to help us out.” The words came quietly and rhythmically, “All I’m asking is for you help me get a hat and some band-aids for Will’s feet. Is that too much to ask, Dave? Huh?”

David wondered if he made the right decision. “A hat and band-aids?” David cleared his throat, “OK, hat and band-aids, guys. Then I gotta get going, you know?” Tony came back to life and started rambling again as the car made its way to Wal Mart.

“Buddy, is that your watch? Seriously, is that your watch? Is it stainless steel? My watch is stainless steel. You know what that means?”

“What.”

“Brother! It’s STAINLESS...and it’s STEEL! Geez!” With that Will rattled off a stream of laughs and mumbles that didn’t make sense.

Soon David found himself at the register with a hat and band-aids. It was an NFL certified beanie for $11.97, not the equally warm beanie for $2.99. Also at the register: gloves, Hot Tamales, socks, SpongeBob Squarepants boxers, and a litany of other items that may or may not have been necessary. David wasn’t sure if he had been duped or if he was being uncommonly charitable.

Still, it wasn’t his place to establish what was needed for survival on the wilderness of the streets. As David extended a hand to wish his dubious amigos a polite farewell, Tony shook it heartily, but didn't let go. “Look, man. I’ll be straight up...”

Chapter One: Bus Depot

"But that's against the law!" stammered Krystal. Her boyfriend Tedford, a tall half-black 27-year-old man from somewhere in Southern California, looked disappointed and shrugged his shoulders. "Whatever - forget I ever mentioned it."

Such was Krystal's life, it seemed: always running with the wrong crowd. In high school, she'd hung with the "rats", the smokers, who would congregate outside behind the cafeteria during lunch, pulling drags on shared cigarettes, wearing mostly black, and holding up the walls with their poor posture. She'd walk out there each day, slowly, after grabbing a Coke and then spark up, her "friends" acknowledging her presence by nodding slightly, then bumming a cigarette or a light.

During the summer, she could be found on the shores of local beaches, baking herself alongside the boy of the month, skantily clad, as usual, and attracting more than her share of glances from passers by. She was a pretty girl, her parents had always told her, but she'd decided to learn this for herself in a shady, physical fashion from the company she'd kept in her early teens. Smoking since age 11, drinking at 13, and experienced with men since 14, Krystal was the epitomy of adolescent rebellion, confusion, and sadness. Don't try and tell her she's unhappy, though; she'd probably just smile and brush off your well-meaning words, placating you with something like "I'm okay, honestly - besides, I'm off to a party right now!", then run out the door smirking. On rainy days, she'd fall into ruts of unhappiness, sure, but nothing she couldn't pull herself out of - with a few shots of Tequila, some loud, very loud, hip-hop music, and a smoke.

She had met Tedford at a bus depot in downtown Reno five or six weeks ago while taking the Greyhound down to be a bridesmaid at her friend's wedding. The Chapel of the Bells wasn't the most romantic place for a wedding, but they hadn't exactly planned it, and it would do. Krystal had jumped on the bus just hours after the phone call, and actually not cared about the mysterious odors and cramped quarters on the trip. She'd phoned her friend when she arrived, then walked the few blocks to the Sands and met up with them. The ceremony was performed that night, and Krystal was a beautiful bridesmaid in the photos. Afterward, however, she lost a little of her charm as they all drank back in the hotel room, and passed out on the floor after vomiting in a drawer. She said her goodbyes in the morning, gave the newlyweds gentle hugs, then headed back to the bus depot without breakfast or a shower. She had a monster hangover, but nothing she hadn't dealt with before.

Tedford spotted her at once and sat down on the bench opposite the now haggard 23-year-old girl. "What's a fine girl like you doin' here?" he'd eloquently asked. Krystal looked up at him slowly, surveyed him silently for a second, then replied simply, "Bus." Tedford chuckled and persisted, "I can see that. Where you goin'?" Again Krystal looked up at him coolly, paused, then said "Look, I'm not in the mood, okay?" Again Tedford chuckled, and said "Now hold on, baby, I'm just tryin' to be friendly like, alright - but if you don't wanna talk, then that's cool wit me." They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, her icy glare melting with lack of energy, and they just sat and awaited the bus in silence.

Hours into the next stretch of road, Krystal's head cleared a little, and she surmised that she was on the wrong bus, Tedford's bus, and that she was heading South, not North. As she sat next to him and thought about this, she decided that it didn't really matter. Her job was a piece of crap, her car couldn't make it around the block without needing some sort of fluid, and she was living with some friends of hers anyway, and they had probably already rifled through her stuff anyway. As the miles spawned more miles of bleak desert, her mind wandered and she envisioned herself living somewhere else, anywhere else, with the strange man next to her, cruising the warm evening streets in a car she'd never seen before, top down, and tunes blaring. She saw herself laughing and having fun, and that was something she hadn't had for a long time. She dozed off several times over the hours, the low, rhythmic droning of tires on asphalt a powerful catalyst to induce the rejuvenation her body desparately needed. Tedford, of course, didn't seem to mind one bit. When they pulled into his neighborhood, she awoke with a start, and he said "This is it." She rubbed her eyes, gathered her meager belongings, and followed him home without a word.