Creative Writing Story Log #2
The other story from my most recent CW project: two three-page stories on the topic of student choice. This one is a bit more cynical. A friendship/humor story entitled Reaction. Enjoy!
Tuesday, May 11th
At first, Mike thought that it was just a pile of abandoned laundry that someone had thrown out carelessly. After all, he went to this same corner restaurant every single work day on his lunch break; Sammie's on 12th and Baker. The garbage in the dumpster was always overflowing, so people probably didn't bother to try and aim right anymore. He barely even looked at the pile. He acknowledged its existence out of his peripheral vision and continued towards his thirty-minute lunch break.
He thought that, until the laundry spoke up with unexpected enthusiasm, "Afternoon, sir! Got any loose change ya don't want?"
Mike's shoulders suddenly jolted up and he stumbled out of his usual quick stride, not expecting anyone to acknowledge him. He whipped his head around in the direction of the cheerful greeting, scowling as if to say, "who dares interrupt my mundane routine?"
The pile of dirty clothes now had a head, and a body of a man sitting against the dumpster. He was wearing a black beanie hat that made his greasy brown hair cling to the sides of his face, which was sporting only a slight amount of scruff. He was still grinning up at Mike, and Mike gave him a skeptical look. "You don't look that dirty. And you look a little young to be homeless. Where's your car?"
"I only got kicked outta my place three days ago. You can't be a freelance artist and be unemployed at the same time, it seems. I haven't had the time to become sufficiently hobo-fied," the guy replied with a laugh. "Name's Richard. So, you got any change?"
Mike sighed a little. Just make an excuse and get away. Tomorrow he'll be saying he can't walk and he needs money for a taxi and a wheelchair. "I'm afraid I don't."
Richard looked downcast for a moment, but was immediately brought back into his bright reverie. "You're going into Sammie's, right? If you grab some change I'll take even just a couple dimes. I'm not a greedy bum."
"Hnn. I'll see," Mike replied, making a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat as he continued to the restaurant. Except he knew he would have change, and a pretty good amount of it, too. A drink, specialty salad and a BLT would cost about $28.57 with tax. Since Mike didn't use his credit card for meals, he had $1.43 left. He was so concerned about getting back to his office that, without thinking or stopping, he dropped the change (keeping the dollar) onto the pavement at Richard's feet. He didn't even acknowledge when Richard called, "hey, thanks!" to him and picked up the loose coins. He was just on his way to work. He wasn't one to let anything get him sidetracked, let alone a bum.
Thursday, May 27th
Mike didn't know, or particularly care, if the man had found a halfway house to stay at, but he was there in front of Sammie's on a fairly regular basis; maybe not every day, but Mike could count on him being there two or three lunch breaks a week. And he was either sincere-looking enough or very frugal, because he now had to carry the money he collected in an empty paint jar. The red paint had dried on in a slow drip down the side. "Crimson Shore;" Richard once showed him the label.
"How did you lose your apartment, anyway?" Mike had asked nonchalantly once, when he still had about fifteen minutes left before he could head back. He pressed on top of the Styrofoam box that held his leftover salad, the material squeaking and cracking slightly under the pressure.
"I told you a couple weeks ago. I'm a freelance artist, and I just wasn't earning enough selling my paintings to pay my rent. The landlord gave me six months to come up with at least a month's rent and I could have my place back." Richard looked up at him and smiled at him in a way that Mike couldn't really figure out, like he was in another place. "Don't you have a dream? Something you want to do, or be?"
"I'd like to keep my comfortable living space, that's what I like," Mike replied bluntly, placing his leftovers in front of Richard. He'd left a plastic fork inside for him. "I'm thirty-two. I like being in marketing because it pays the bills. I have hobbies, but I don't let them take my life up." He heard the Styrofoam crackling again as the homeless artist was probably opening the box. "And even if you do have dreams, sometimes those should be put aside to keep yourself out of poverty. You'd do well to learn that--"
He interrupted himself when he heard a wheezing noise. He glanced down and he actually withdrew suddenly to see that Richard seemed to be the source, his eyes tearing up. "Hey, are you okay? Are you choking?" Richard didn't respond to the question, but he looked up at Mike pitifully. He held out his right hand and seemed to be trying to pull his sleeve back, still gasping for air. Mike nervously looked around, seeing if anyone else was around to help, since he would have to get back to the office. He nearly slapped himself for thinking such a thing. He was here, now! He set his briefcase aside and kneeled down to the artist's height and checked his wrist. His eyes widened as Richard slumped against him.
"Oh, crap." Richard was wearing a medical identification tag. He turned it over. On the back there was the engraving: "Anaphylaxis - Shellfish."
Friday, May 28th
Richard had been passed out for an entire day, but Mike hadn't been able to bring himself to stay at the hospital when he brought him in. He didn't even get into the ambulance with him. He thought that the EMTs might have gotten the wrong idea, somehow. As Mike sat down, he heard a muffled noise from the bed. Richard tried to let out a frustrated groan, but found that it was muffled. He glanced down, crossing his eyes slightly, and found that the pressure on his face was a breathing mask.
"You nearly went into anaphylactic shock." Richard jolted a little and glanced to his side, his neck too stiff to truly whip around. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. There was Mike, that kinda cynical guy with the briefcase and the daily change. He looked as if he'd just sat down, leaning forward in the chair on the side of the room. "Lucky for you the hospital isn't too far from your dumpster." He glanced down, biting his lip hesitantly. "There are...scallops in the house salad."
"Oh." He pulled the breathing mask down slightly. "I-I'm sorry...Didn't say anything..."
"Why would you? It's not something you just talk about. Besides, you're fine now."
"Yeah, but you were...worried about me."
Mike shook his head a little. "Anyone would be worried about having a dead hobo on their hands." He reached behind the chair, maintaining eye contact with Richard. "Besides, I just came back to give you this. I picked it up when the paramedics took you away." From behind his back, he produced the familiar white can with the streak of Crimson Shore running down the side. Every coin and wrinkled dollar was still present and accounted for.
Richard smiled. "You're a good guy, Mike. I guess they...won't miss you at work?"
"I took a vacation day. I had a lot of them piling up anyway," he replied. "And I'm not any better than anyone else. I wasn't going to leave you choking on the pavement."
"I know. I'm just making sure you know," he teased, chuckling a little. It quickly dissolved into a coughing fit, and Mike shook his head again.
"Richard, you're confusing. How can you be so optimistic about everything? You don't have a home, you barely have any money, and you almost died," he asked, flexing his fists slightly.
"It's not necessarily optimism," the artist replied, that trademark grin returning. "It's just a philosophy: knowing that everything, good and bad, passes with time. I know I can get that money to get my apartment back, and not just by bumming. I clean up nice and I can go get job applications. And I survived anaphylaxis before, I survived it now, and I know I should never eat the Sammie's house salad."
Mike had, to his surprise, straightened up in his seat. He was, somehow, overcome by this thought. His routine life seemed like an insult to a guy like Richard. It was a shock they'd gotten along up until now, with how unlikely it would be that their paths would clash otherwise. "Hey, you remember the last thing I said to you?"
"You mean before my trachea closed up? This is very dramatic of you." At Mike's glare, Richard nodded in surrender. "I remember, don't worry. You said dreams and hobbies aren't worth taking up all your time."
"Uh-huh. I've been thinking about that." Mike smirked a bit and reached into his suit pocket, pulling out a small toy. Richard squinted and saw that it was a faded green model car. "I used to collect these when I was a kid. I remember I once wrote a 'When I Grow Up' paper on how I wanted to design models like these. All of my high school notes have model car schematics drawn in the margins..."