Another struggle to get out of the bin and the boy hit bottom again, a flailing bundle of arms, legs, and curses strong enough to fuel Moses’s drive out of Egypt.
“Here, give me your hand,” Frank said, reaching into the bin. “You’re too short. You’re never going to get out of there without some help.”
“Fuck off, old man. I’m fine.” The kid growled and shoved as much of his ratted-together hair out of his face as he could manage.
“Okay, so you’re fine.” Leaning over the edge of the Dumpster opening, Frank looked down into the bin. Despite being a day after pickup, the Dumpster was fairly clean. “Tell you what. I’m going to toss in this wooden box for you to sit on while you think about how to get the fuck out of there and walk away. If you want to shut the lid when you’re out, that would be appreciated. I don’t like thinking someone’s cat might get into one of these things and get turned into a smashed meat pancake because it was open.”
He grabbed one of the discarded shelving boxes the clothing store left stacked up near the Dumpster and tossed it in. The kid jumped back, lifting his feet out of the trash. Glaring up at Frank, he pinned himself against the far wall, coiled up tight, as if waiting for an attack that only Frank knew would never come.
“Now, I’m going to head off to bed. There’s some leftover pizza I’m going to leave out on the table. Grab something to eat and go home, kid.” Large drops of water began to strike the Dumpster’s open lid, rumbling a deep percussion through the thick black plastic.
“Yeah, like I’m going to fucking eat something you leave out—”
“It’s up to you, kid.” Frank shrugged, scratching at his thick graying beard. “Just see if you can close the lid. If not, I’ll do it in the morning.”
He walked away. He had to. The boy’s eyes were burning into him, stealing past the lazy haze of his apathy toward children and his resolute stance on people getting a few handouts, but lifelines were something a person had to braid themselves. Walking away from the kid should have been easy. Even if he couldn’t shake off the wince of pain when the boy pressed his back into the Dumpster or the whimper when he’d landed on his back amid the piles of discarded plastic bags and tissues.
Frank put one foot in front of the other and entered the RV, closing the door behind him with a firm snick. After digging out the chartreuse and orange bong he’d gotten from a friend’s little girl, he sat down to pack in a bowl before he allowed himself to sleep.
Not that he thought he’d be able to sleep with the image of the boy’s haunting face floating behind his eyes.
He was drawing out his first gurgle of smoke when he heard the Dumpster cover slam shut, the lid hitting the bin’s rim with a singsong chime. He’d regret leaving the pizza, especially since he really didn’t think the kid would chance eating it. There’d been talk around the neighborhood of more than one street kid getting roofied and fucked after being given food by strangers.
Bad enough people poisoned cats and dogs. Did they have to go after the kids too? Frank thought as he finished up his hit. The rain struck, drowning out even the pull of his inhale through the bong’s skunky water, and Frank sighed, wondering if he was going to be hit with a raging case of the munchies just because all he had was peanut butter and possibly—now—soggy pepperoni pizza.
When Frank woke up in the early afternoon, the rain was still intent on sliding the city into the bay, and he smacked his lips, tasting a serious need for a toothbrush and possibly a cigarette. Just not in that order. Grabbing his smokes from the RV’s slender kitchen counter, he headed outside to shiver under the awning. Having forgotten about the boy, he stared at the empty box of pizza sitting on the café table outside of his door.
Two quarters on the lid were the only evidence left of the kid’s existence—that and a note scrawled on the inside of the box. The pen the kid used seemed like it was on its last legs or perhaps had higher aspirations on being a tattoo machine for all the ink it leaked. Still, the uneven scrawl was easy enough to read, even if it was a bit misspelled.
“Money’s all I got, but next time I’m around, I’ll give you a blow job, ’cause I took the rest of it and it was a lot. Thanks—Forest.”
“Well shit and Jesus Christ, kid.” Frank frowned as he read the note. “What the fuck has the world done to you?”