When The Time Comes

Chapter 37; Ben

I look like shit. No, not in the usual way my appearance is. I'm horribly plain looking. Always the guy in the group no girl walked over to talk to. And I guess that's okay. I became okay with that. But right now, I look like utter shit. I watch my video back, the one I recorded in the parking of the hospital. Back when I first received my stag mail, when I was still enrolled in college, back when I thought life was cruel. When I hold my phone in my hands, watching what I intend Michael to see as the last thing he'll ever have of me, I know that life could never have been worse than it is right now. Out of cash. Out of luck. Out of time.

I send this video to all of Michael's socials, just in case he's able to access any of them. And then, before hitting the power button, I do something that I know I won't be able to come back from. I upload it to my Facebook. That app that nobody uses anymore except old people and the young and uninformed. Like Michael. His foster parents may try and hide the truth from him but they won't be able to censor my Facebook page. 

My thumb shakes a little, unsteadily hovering above the post button. Eventually, I press down on the screen with a single heavy exhale.

I try not to think about it. The video. Michael needs to hear it all. The money I saved, for him. My car being stolen. The lies he's been fed. And above all, the promise I intended to keep. If the stag mail is real and I leave before we get to go camping, then he'll know exactly why I couldn't live up to it.

I look around, my stomach pangs growing stronger. My body is screaming for sleep and a warm bed. But it almost feels like giving up. 

Even I know that there's no way I can find Michael. I tried everything I could. I called the police once I was done with my expose'. The minute they heard about my stag date, they got off that call so quick I barely got another word in.

They broke no law, is what they told me. 

We can't do anything for you. They're his guardians.

I'm sorry.

When the call dropped, I didn't know what part they were sorry for.

I walk down the street, even in the parts where the pavement breaks and so I'm technically on the road most of the time. But it's fine because the roads are wide and winding, extending in broad directions, but all of them carrying cars away from this place. There's empty lots on this road, all sitting far from each other in a lonely kind of way. The unplanned, unstructured parts of the city. The parts tourists would never find on their google searches and hence, would never really know these places existed in the first place. That people like me, walk over potholes and dog piss. Past broken syringe needles and a single black sock, bleaching in the grass.

At the cross road, where I wait for the pedestrian light to turn green, are three guys across from me. They're waiting for the same light but are kind of rough looking. Flappy jeans, unfitted shirts, shoes that look broken but might not be. But they all have beards and lines on their faces that make them look unkind and unfriendly- enough to put me on my guard.

The light turns green and we all sort of walk past each other. I try and avoid eye contact, head down, mind your own business Ben. God, I wish I had my car.

"Wassup?" I'm not sure which one of them says it. Maybe the mean looking one wearing a sleeveless denim jacket. His tattoo looks like it's been done on an aged peach. I keep my mouth shut and keep walking. By the time I make it towards the overhead bridge, I realize he was just being polite. Something I was the opposite of. I wish I'd said something. A nod would have sufficed. I feel like I've just missed a massive opportunity to make a pedestrian comrade. A secret club just for people on the street. People who have also had their cars stolen. 

Guys in cars are never this friendly. Some of them stick their hand up when I'm too slow to cut them off from merging out of side roads. I rarely ever did it out of kindness. No, on the road, I was always too impatient.

The heat beats down on me. My pits get sticky under my shirt. I wonder, if I'm even that kind of person. As the heat trickles across my skin, I forget the thought as quick as it had arrived. I don't have time to care about being a nice person. Can I be a dying asshole in peace? Does that make me the selfish one?

I find a store, sandwiched between other larger retailers. It's a sports shop. They've got air pumps out front for bikes and a few fishing nets. I look up at the street name which I don't recognize. I wonder if there are lakes around here.

I stroll into the store which thankfully, has the AC turned on full blast. When I make eye contact with the store guy, I hope he doesn't see through me and my thinning wallet.

"Hey welcome in," he says in a gruff voice, which doesn't make me feel any better.

"Hey, thanks," I mumble while walking off in another direction. 

I occupy my time by aimlessly breezing my hand through t-shirts, pretending to look interested. It works because the guy is busy with other things and I make sure I steer clear of his attention. This isn't how I thought things would go. Looking up as the door opens again, I wonder if I should have stayed with Omar and Lib. It makes me curious to think of them.

It's lonelier here. Without Michael. Anyone, really.

There is a shout from somewhere in the store. I can't see the guy who came in anymore. He's on the other side of the store where the clerk is. And then there is a bang, several of them. It isn't until I hear glass shattering that I realize something's not right.

And it happens so fast. Or maybe it happens just fine, and I'm the one whose too slow to comprehend what's happening. 

The guy reappears but this time, I've got his attention. He's wearing a thick white padded vest and he's aiming his arm towards me. Another bang. Something jolts right through me. The pain comes a moment after impact yet I don't know where it's coming from, not exactly. 

It doesn't matter. Because I only realize I've hit the floor once I've been staring at the guy sideways. When he runs away, his feet thump across the panels like heavy rocks. As he vanishes from sight, I find a pile of fishing poles to admire. I think about the gentle wad as one dips bait into the water,  the ripples just as my pain spreads like ink.

Eventually I hear the sirens.