I didn't know if this merited a PG-13 or an R, but R seemed too harsh so...
JACK IN THE BOX
July 19th, 2006
1
New York City, New York
“Whoa,” Speederman said as Jack entered the room. “What’d you do to your der After! hair, Jack?”
“Dolly did it,” Jack answered. He ran a self-conscious hand over it, shrugged, and plopped down on the bed, the springy mattress groaning under the weight of his body. Jack and Speederman both looked up, holding their breath, to see if the bed would finally collapse, once and for all as Jack was not tiny and the bed was flimsy. After a moment, Jack let it out, and grinned. “One more night for sure, then,” he said, referring to the mattress.
“Yeah, yeah, what’d you, God, Jack, what’d you to your hair, though. Jack? Kleine Arshlock?”
Jack grinned and lay back on the bed. “I told you, Dolly did it. She just goes, ‘Jack, lemme do your hair,’ and so I’m like ‘okay, go crazy Doll.’ And she did.”
There was a pause, characterized by Speederman’s fast-chattering teeth (due to the cold November wind) and tapping fingers. Clickety-click click. Clickety-click click. After a moment:
“What, you don’t like it?”
A shrug. “Maybe a, er…a little…uhm…?” here Speederman giggled, high pitched, and ran his fingers through his own hair (thick, red, and thankfully, not rainbow-colored. Let Dolly try to get her hands on his hair. Just let her try!).
Jack’s hair, previously long, thick and ink black, was now cut shorter in the back and long in the front, with dark purple undertones and an extremely thick streak of bright blue through the front going over his face. Splotches of pink in random places suggested that he was a nervous, angst-ridden soul, gay, or possibly just a pushover that allowed roommates to fix his hair how they wanted. It was the latter, but Jack didn’t really care. He picked up a book by his nightstand and, ignoring the rap-tap-tapping of Speederman’s fingers, clunking his ice against its glass, he opened it: Catch-22. He fell back against the bed and read until his head hurt, then sat up and belched, loudly.
Speederman had by now passed out on the bed and was sleeping. He was twitching even in his sleep. The clock said that it was 10:22 PM. Jack had an appointment to make…an appointment that he would rather not make. He debated briefly calling in sick (as if that would work!), then shrugged it off and snatched up his jacket before hurrying out the door. Past Dolly, now curled up on the couch—waiting for Mark, her boyfriend, to get back, Jack figured. Then he saw the spoon and syringe next to her and realized that she was enjoying a fix he would have killed for, probably.
The closest subway was twenty-four blocks away. He didn’t care—for all its problems; nothing was more refreshing than the smell of Brooklyn at night. It wasn’t a scent he could tag down, though. It was musty and breezy and on cool evenings it tasted like rain or grass, and he couldn’t tell which. It also smelled like smoke and testicles, but he ignored that. Usually.
He had to get to Harlem by eleven o’clock, or whereabouts. 111th street, to be specific. Trey had contacted him earlier that day to give him the specifics. Jack wondered if the fact that his hair had changed would make any difference to the customer.
* * *
Arriving at Harlem around 11:30 PM, Jack looked up the official residence. A little Asian-American girl was standing in front of it, tapping her foot in an annoyed manner. As if she had far more influential business to be about, like, say, trying on different brands of mascara. If she could afford them.
She looked up when she saw Jack. Big brown eyes, stringy black hair, short, and cute.
“You the guy?” she asked, popping her gum.
Jack nodded, for once grinning.
“Yeah, well, keep your pants on. Uncle Marty! Uncle Marty! Your guy’s here, I’m sending him up. See you later!”
She ran down the street. Walking up the porch steps, Jack saw the Asian girl meeting up with a boyfriend at the end of the street, laughing, and getting into his car—a beat-up 1970 Chevy.
‘Uncle Marty’ opened the door with a hassled look on his face. He tapped his watch grouchily. “Late, late…”
“Sorry.”
Jack remembered the three rules: General to complete compliance, always use protection, and Never, Never make eye contact. With a capital N. He stared at his shoes. Beat-up converse coming apart at the seams.
Too bad he never actually kept the full sum he made. Even if he did, though, he knew what he’d be spending it on. Looking at ‘Uncle Marty,’ a muscular but balding Asian man, with a fit body and a large stature, maybe in his late forties, Jack was nervous.
“Come in.”
Jack followed the man into the house. Brown, thin carpet. A stairwell, living room to the left with an open kitchen, orange light shining, three cats and a pink backpack that said “CaSSiDY” in iron-on letters. There was a couch facing the TV in the living room with a coffee table, two stuffed chairs, and general mayhem on the carpet. ‘Uncle Marty’ turned on the TV and sat on the couch.
“Right here,” he told Jack, who, reluctantly, obeyed.
* * *
It was 12:22 AM. Jack figured if he got to keep the full sum of money, he could be rich. As it was ‘Uncle Marty’ would pay straight to Trey, who would give him maybe a third of it. Which would go into his monthly rental fee (not too much, considering he roomed with five other people), drugs, and food, maybe. New shoes would be nice, he noted, looking down at the black converse he’d sported since he was fourteen.
Five years was a long time to wear the same shoes.
He got home to the same sight: Dolly on the couch, now with Mark collapsed at her feet. Speederman, still on the opposite bed. Angelica, lying neatly on the floor with one of Jack’s blankets tugged tightly around her miniscule form. He lay down on his bed, too tired to think straight, to wonder why Angelica hadn’t just taken the bed and forget the blanket, but oh well…He slept, and dreamt that he was awake, praying for a normal dream where no one got hurt, no one got cut open…and then he switched into regular dream mode, and there was Angelica lying on the floor, hunched in his blanket, but smattered in blood.
Oooer. Another sentence.
