Alexander's Gift

The Worker- 3

A dull ache coursed through Jerry's body before he opened his eyes, and he found what at first looked like a stormy sky, only the clouds were leaves and the streaks of lightning were tree branches.

Blinking rapidly to adjust to the morning light, Jerry sat up stiffly, finding that there was a suit jacket draped over him as a blanket. Remembering the man, he looked up eagerly and saw the man lying against the same trunk as yesterday, awake and holding himself against the morning chill.

"Morning, kid. Want a cig? I got some Duke's in my jacket." The man gestured slightly with his head towards the one now on Jerry's lap.

'Thanks, mack!" He rooted excitedly through the pockets and found the small white bag and slips of tobacco-infused rolling paper. He looked up, biting his lip. He had so many things he wanted to say, but honestly the man was just a little intimidating. "Thanks, you know, for everything . . . I'm Jerry, by the way."

"No problem, kid. You can call me Paul." Seeming amused, he leaned forward and struck a match to light Jerry's cigarette. There was something in his eyes that made Jerry think he knew all the secrets of the world- or that he knew all the troubles of the world and laughed at them. 

Paul lay on his side beside Jerry, a fist curled against his temple and the other hand pulling absentmindedly at the grass. "Whatttya doin' out here, kid? Especially with a bag."

"Runnin' away." Jerry swallowed. "They were gonna make me do summer school."

Paul unexpectedly burst out laughing, an easy, carefree laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made Jerry think to himself: I made him laugh. I want to make him laugh again.

"Summer school, huh? That's a hell of a reason, kid. Most of us just got no place else to go . . . say, how old are you?"

"Just about 17." Jerry stated proudly, and Paul's eyes widened in unprecedented surprise.

"No. I thought you were twelve or sum'n."

"Most people do. What about you?"

Paul looked away, and lifted his hat to run a bear paw of a hand through his dark curls. "Oh, getting' up there, kid. 26."

26? Jerry smiled inwardly, already running with the idea of a guardian angel older brother. He'd never had one before. He'd never even really had a dad before. . . . not really. "So what are you bummin' for? You're not exactly like everyone else."

"Says who?"

"Your clothes, for one. And just . . . well, I dunno. You saved me while they were tryna jump me or worse."

"That's nice, kid, but I'm just lookin' for work like everyone else. Not too hard, though, if I can help it." He grinned, and rubbed an eye sleepily. "You got any real grub, kid? I'm starvin'. Well, actually, I'm Italian."

Jerry giggled despite himself and pulled out the box of saltines from his bag, feeling very hungry now that Paul mentioned it. Although he knew they should have come up with some sort of rationing system, they split the whole box in five minutes and ended up eating the two cans of tomatoes because they were so thirsty.

"So, what do we do now? I mean . . . we don't got anymore food or anything." Jerry finally began carefully, something within him warning that Paul was scared away easily, and he didn't want to put too much pressure on him. After all, Jerry was basically dead meat without Paul.

Running his tongue contemplatively over his teeth, Paul raised his eyebrows in something like resignation before getting up slowly to his feet, taking his time to carefully brush any grass or dirt off of his clothing. Jerry had never seen a bum acting like he wasn't a bum before. Jerry watched with curious admiration as Paul straightened his tie and said, "Well, I think I've got a way to make some dough. The only question is . . ." His dark, gentle eyes took on a playful glint as he languidly struck a pose like Rodin's The Thinker before saying airily, "Should I take some cockeyed kid who's only going to eat my food?"