Walsh World

Cinnamon Lattes are Approved

672 HOURS AFTER

All the girls loved him, or at least they acted like they did. He was the hot commodity of 31st street. Some of the other unfortunates would have clung to their attention, cherished it, and adored them for it. By stark contrast, Walsh hated them for it. He thought of the girls as despicable creatures who traveled in packs and could nearly pass as clones. Their limbs were stick thin and it wasn't too hard to tell that they enhanced their eyes, lips, and even their hair beyond their natural state. Walsh was extremely confused as to why. They were fortunates; which means their thinness was by choice and their enhancements were no doubt purchased. To Walsh, they were wastes; of food, of currency, and life.

He was stewing over this conundrum when a group of girls happened upon him. Three of them following another who was obviously their leader. Walsh could tell, in part because he was trained from birth to distinguish leaders from followers, and in part because it was obvious. They buzzed around her- literally- their electronic devices were vibrating every few seconds. They chattered over it, reporting to the lead girl. It created a symphony of sorts: buzz, buzz, ha! Buzz, buzz, yeah! Buzz, she said, buzz, buzz, aw!

Walsh was humming and bobbing, eyes closed, when he got bonked on the head with one of their electronic devices. It was the leader.

"Helloooo." She sang in a shockingly cheerful voice. "Anyone home?"

He recognized this one. She managed to swing by his spot every few days or so. Never a dull moment.

"I don't know what you mean." Walsh glanced around. "I don't have a place of residence."

"Duh, I mean, where is you head at right now?" She laughed.

"My head? It's on my.. spine?" Walsh was always so confused when conversing with these girls.

The leader sighed. "No, I mean, what are you thinking about?"

Why does she want to know what I am thinking about? Is she gathering Intel or is she actually curious? Either way, best not to reveal my innermost thoughts. Rule one of living with secrets. I shall laugh at her stupidity. Hahaha!

"I was wondering what in the hell you are wearing." He fibbed, although not without a basis of truth. "What all of you are wearing?" Indeed, all her followers wore some semblance of today's outfit.

She was wearing another strange ensemble. Blood red leather pants and jacket which fit like a second skin, and a luscious white fur coat draped across her shoulders. Chunky black boots adorned her feet, covered in tiny metal spikes.Overall, it gave her a powerful and dangerous glamour effect. Walsh couldn't help but admire her form in it as well.

Bordering attractive. He thought.

It seemed she had patented the element of strange clothing here in New York, Earth. She was plastered all over the billboards in the area. In some she was barely clothed, in others she was wrapped in rich fabrics. When he first arrived in New York, he had thought she was the city's queen. And now that he thought about it, Walsh was shocked he hadn't recognized her when she first entered his sights today.

Her laughter bubbled at him once more. "I call this look MM&M. Moto-Military-Mistress. Isn't it delicious?"

"Delicious, as in taste? Is it edible?" Walsh's eyes widened.

The girls had to practically hold each other up as another round of giggling occurred. Then the leader said something about lattes, and the three followers bid him goodbye with lingering touches on his shoulder. He watched them strut down 31st, before slowly turning to the leader and raising an eyebrow.

She took a step closer. "Just you and me now."

Walsh must have looked puzzled, because she sighed tiredly.

"What's your deal?" she asked, toeing her spiked boot into the sidewalk between them. "Is this a gimmick? If so, it's a good one, but why? What a waste of your potential."

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean."

"Just stop. You are not actually homeless." She looked him in the eye. Her eyes were a light color, he wasn't sure what, but there they were, accusing him.

"Ahem, I beg to differ." He look pointedly at his cardboard sign, with the words "HOMELESS. PLEASE HELP WITH MONEY AND FOOD." etched there roughly. He'd been meaning to redo it.

"It's not funny to pretend. There are actually people suffering. Down the block there's a one-legged veteran with no place to sleep."

"As awful as that sounds, I'm quite sure I'm also starving and freezing. Sleeping behind that place every night isn't so comfy either." Walsh said, nodding at the pizza place behind them.

She glanced at it dubiously. "Lies. You look and sound like an aristocrat. Besides, you're wearing an Armani sharkskin virgin wool-blend tuxedo." She barked out a laugh.

He stared at her.

"Those don't come cheap." She cried, jangling her bracelets in a frenzy of movement.

He shrugged. "It's all I had." Truth.

"No way, no how. You must have some high end family who can help you out."

"Nope."

"You must have other means, connections.. good lord, you have the cheekbones to become a model whenever you want. Your life is definitely not this bad." She took his cardboard sign in her long hands and tore it over her knee. He let her.

That was it. She was being more than a nuisance, and he snapped back without a thought. "As hard as it may be for you to believe, oh-so-fortunate one, you do not know everything. True, I might have come from great heights, but I have fallen so far so fast that I doubt you could ever comprehend what I have been through, what I've lost. You don't know anything about me. So take your little court and get far away."

The girl gaped. She took a step back, eyes hard on him, then on his hands which were chapped and cut from the cold city wind night after night. "I'm sorry. I was sure you- you were joking around."

"I haven't joked around for some time now." More truth. I should stop conversing now.

"I am sorry." Then after some silence. "What's your name?"

"It's Walsh." Ahhhhh, you fool. Anything else you want to reveal while you're at it?

The girl fished something out of her bag, a card, and handed it to him. "If you ever-

"Jeanie! Jeanie!" The girls came up behind their leader and handed her a steaming cup of something.

"How did you survive without us?" a brown-haired one said with a smirk. "Was Lost Boy here being naughty again?"

Jeanie's eyes never left him. "No, nothing like that." She pushed her hot drink into his hand and left the rest unsaid.

A while after she had strode away with her followers, her coat floating after her like a large, furry ghost, Walsh took a sip of her drink. A new taste flooded his senses, it was hot and spicy and alive, and very good. They had called it cinn-amon. For the first time in a long time, Walsh felt like he was awake. He was alive, he was seeing, and breathing, and hearing, and tasting. Whatever happened 672 hours ago, however horrifying, it was not the end of his life.

Jeanie was- he detested even thinking it- right. Slumming it day after day was a waste of his potential. His life was definitely not this bad, or it didn't have to be. After all, he was wearing an Armani sharkskin virgin wool-blend tuxedo.

Walsh took a deep breath of chilled New York City air for the first time since he'd arrived. He felt a spark light itself once again in his core and the blood sizzle in his veins. Time to play.