Dirt

5 Cents for a Spoon

    Nothing gave me more pleasure than watching Trevor being handed bag after bag of burgers whilst giving the cashier a look a pure and utter hatred. I had to admit it did take about 20 minutes for them to be ready but the wait was well worth the copious amounts of meat and cheese that was now in our possession.
    As he pulled into a parking space in the deserted parking lot he turned to me with a smirk, “So if a burger is a marriage proposal what does that make us now?”
    I turned my head away from him in an attempt to feign a lack in satisfaction, “Well as far as I’m concerned you’ve bought the ring but I haven’t heard a proposal yet.” And at this I crossed my arms dramatically with the emphasis of a terrible actress.
    At this I got no reply, forcing me to turn my head back around and give up my pathetic act only to reveal Trevor leaning down with a burger raised in hand towards me, “Nora, I have a very important question to ask you.” He stated so solemnly I couldn’t help but snicker to which he snickered back quietly before shushing me.
    “Yes Trevor, what could it be, my love?” I replied in a soft high pitched voice, imagining myself to have been an idiotic young girl in a romantic sitcom in which she could never quite realize that someone was in love with her.
    “We’ve been through so much together in the past… 16 hours. You know, as soon as I saw your rack that night at the bar, I knew it was meant to be, and I swore to myself, Trevor, you will make that fine piece of ass your wife if it’s the last thing you do. There comes a time in every man’s life when he has to ask himself, is this the rack I want to look at for the rest of my life? and he realizes that yes, it is. So, all that being said, Nora, will you take this greasy slab of meat and call me your husband?”
    The entire speech was more lovely than any proposal I had ever heard in a cheesy romance film for television show, and it was definitely far more genuine than any I had heard. I decided to myself that if I ever decided to marry, the proposal could be nothing less than which Trevor had just spoken to me.
    I raised a hand to my forehead in the same vain as shocked fair lady of the Victorian age, “Oh Trevor Philips, why of course I’d marry you, you are the most sought-after gentleman in all of Los Santos, after all. Why, you’ve made me the happiest woman in all the world!” I picked the sloppily made sandwich up from his hand with as much finesse as I could muster before taking a bite.
    I had managed to eat 5 cheeseburgers before admitting defeat Trevor wolfed down 7, leaving us with a total of 48 cheeseburgers making themselves known in his truck with sweet aromas of ketchup and grease. With a stomach packed with fast food and a mind filled with foreign romantic fantasies it needed not be said that this was the happiest I had been in a very long time.
    Somehow we ended up kissing and fondling each other in the parking lot like two teenagers on prom night, much to the disdain of everyone and anyone within viewing distance. Maybe it was the fact that I was alone in a foreign place, but I felt no embarrassment for any of this, somehow my concerns about self composure had managed to escape me.
    When the unlucky employee who had taken our order was forced to approach us and politely ask if we might possibly consider leaving their parking lot they then had to face the wrath of Trevor who proceeded to leave his truck and chase the cashier back into the building whilst threatening to shove his boot so far up his ass it would come out of his mouth.
    Was it possible that I had finally met someone who shared my unusual hatred of most everything? This was likely the reason why everything Trevor did made me either want to laugh or cry; he was simply a kindred spirit and as I sat in the passenger seat of his truck laughing away I found myself with a lump in my throat, thinking to myself how thankful I was to have found him.
    I wanted to tell him that I loved him again, this time not in the throws of passion but simply and sincerely just as we were, but I could not bring myself to do so. There was an odd thought in the depths of my mind that still pestered me, the imminence of my return home, even though I had just arrived in Los Santos the previous night. All I could wish for was Trevor’s happiness yet every passing moment with him would only cause greater pain in a weeks time.
    “Little fucker.” Trevor muttered as he climbed back into the truck, seeming to me to be genuinely peeved, so I placed my hand on his as a small gesture of kindness, hoping that maybe human contact would have a positive effect on his blood pressure. “You know you’re a fucking sweetheart, right? Where were you for the past 30 years of my life, I wouldn’t have turned out half as fucked up as I am.” As he chuckled he started the engine.
    “You’re fucked up, but that’s what makes you perfect. I’m glad we met when we did because now I have a whole new level of appreciation for how fucked up you are, and a whole new level disgust for everything that wasn’t fucked up about everything else.” Even I wasn’t quite sure what I had meant by this but it came from an honest place.
    “God, I love you.” He stated blatantly with his head turned to back out of the parking lot, “This is what we’re going to do. We’re going to go out, grab some nice low quality wine, and go fucking swimming.” The spontaneity of his proposal made me giggle. He seemed to know exactly what I needed without me ever having known I needed it myself.
    We drove to convenience store whose windows were coated in tacky neon lights that read ‘beer’, ‘cigarettes’ and the like. The sun was now beginning to set, shedding light on every struggling weed trying to make its way through cracks in the pavement and illuminating the small cuts and scars on Trevor’s face.
    “Wait out here, alright sugar?” He patted me on the head as if I were puppy learning to ‘stay’ before exiting the vehicle.
    I observed his stride as he walked into the 7/11, determined with his chest puffed outward. I watched him with wide eyes as he pulled a gun from his pants, in one swift motion as if it were second nature, and pointed it in the direction of the cash.
    I felt myself frozen in place, knowing the chaos that lied just beyond the glass but not quite hearing or seeing it properly. The little moral compass that resided in my head pointed so strongly for me to do something, say something, try and stop the actions which my mind told me were wrong, and yet I could do nothing. I sat as if glued to the torn passenger seat cushion, holding my breath and watching Trevor, the fluidity of his movements turning the crime of robbery into a graceful ballet.
    With pockets full of cash and hands filled with cheap boxes of wine he sprinted from the doorway to the truck, dumping his score in the trunk and hopping into his seat all in a matter of seconds. My mind spun for a moment as he backed out of the parking spot and sped away, I could neither do nor say anything for the coming minutes.
    It wasn’t as though what Trevor had done had changed my impression of him in any way, I found it safe to assume that he had committed every crime imaginable the moment I laid my eyes on him the previous night. Maybe it was the fact that I had never bore witness to a crime, never a serious one at that; or maybe it was the fact that society had terrified me into abhorring all forms of violence, or in this case threatened violence.
    I had never seen a gun before, I had never held a gun before, I had never seen a gun in use besides in works of fiction. With the feeling of an anchor in my stomach I came to the realization that no matter how much media had desensitized me to crime and violence, witnessing it first hand was a different story entirely.
    For the time being I couldn’t bring myself to look at Trevor, I simply starred at the passing scenery, vast open desert dust and bare shrubbery void of life. With every passing moment I tried to calm myself so that I could fathom coming to terms with what I had just seen; I told myself that crime occurred everywhere and everyday, and that I myself was a criminal too, not as extreme, but I recounted to myself the time I stole utensils from the cafeteria when they charged 5 cents for a spoon.
    Trevor remained silent as well and I made myself feel awful for in turn making him question my devotion to him. I decided to force myself to look at him in the hopes that I could find what I knew I still adored about him, and accept what he had done and what I had already known he had done before, but that still managed to drive nails into my pitiful moral brain.
    Of course he was the same man, the same Trevor, the same person who had treated me with such kindness and hospitality. The same stubble and scars, the same dirty clothes, the same crude tattoos and charming brows; but added to this was a new trait, thief, one that I would force myself to recognize and identify with even if it took me the rest of my life.
    It must have been the manner in which I was eyeing him that caused the question I had been expecting, “You’re okay, right? With this- you know, the… robbing the store and whatever.” In his voice was a whiff of uncertainty, one which I had never heard in him before. Was there a hint of fear that I detected as well? The very idea of Trevor self-conscious and afraid was something I could not wrap my mind around.
    I knew in my heart that crime was in his nature, and I knew I could not blame him. The very fact that he was concerned about what I was now making him out to be warmed me, helping me to realize that this petty robbery was nothing, at least nothing I needed to dwell on.
    I forced myself to smile at him before making my reply, “No, no- I mean, I’m alright. But, can I see the gun?” What I needed was to touch it, to know its physicality and accept what it was.
    “Uh, yeah sure.” He rummaged into his pants to retrieve the weapon fastened to their band. The very sight of it made me uncomfortable, but I told myself what once it was in my hands I could accept it. I took it from him hesitantly, the black pistol with scratches in the paint and a worn down handle. It was obviously well loved, and I convinced myself that I would love it too, running my fingers along the barrel and touching the trigger with utmost vigilance.