Chapter Thirty-Four
John sighed, watching as the sun peeked over the buildings surrounding the diner. He finished his fiftieth cup of coffee, pulling out his wallet to see the pictures of Claire he kept there as he opened it to get his money out. He sighed, touching his fingers to the image of her on the beach of lake Michigan when they'd gone there for her seventeenth birthday. He pulled a couple twenties out of his billfold, walking over placing them beside the register for Annie to take after she finished counting her drawer up so she could finish her shift. He noticed how she struggled to add up the cash, trying to work it out on a scrap of paper. "Need a hand?" He asked, glancing at the paper.
She looked up at him, noticing how the wheels in his head seemed to be turning as he looked at the numbers. "I keep coming up almost eighty dollars short." She placed the money on the counter, rubbing her eyes as they burned from lack of sleep.
John thumbed through the worn bills, adding them up in a matter of seconds. "You had a few of them that were new in there, they stuck to the backs of the older ones and made it look like you were short." He wrote the total down for her, handing it too her. "You've got about nine-hundred and twenty-four, plus the thirty-five cents in your hand, and the seventy in your tip jar."
She looked at him, astonishment clear on her face. "How can you do that in your head?"
John shrugged, stretching his arms over his head as he stood to leave. "I'm an odd ball." He smirked, tapping his head. "I've got a photographic memory."
She nodded, handing him the money he'd left her. "You should keep this." She smiled, taking his hand in hers and forcing the money into his palm. "Thank you for your help."
He chuckled, taking one of the twenties from his hand, and discreetly pushing the other into the tip jar without her seeing. "I'm John by the way." He held his hand out to her, giving it a firm shake.
"Nice to meet you John." She looked him over for the first time, noticing that he didn't seem to care how he looked. His hair was a tangled ratty mess from him running his hands through the short locks while he was writing, and he wore a t-shirt that had been worn and washed so many times it was almost see through, his jeans were ripped and had oil stains on them from what she would guess from his personality to be fixing up cars, he had no belt, and his shoes had obviously been fixed by him a few times. "If you ever need a place to come hangout for a while, you're welcome here."
He nodded, turning toward the door. "Thanks. I'll remember that."
John slipped his hands into his pockets, his fingers brushing against the pack of Marlboro reds and the strike anywhere matches he'd bought to light them with. He sighed, knowing that he'd screwed up, as he pulled another smoke from the pack and lit it between his teeth. He took a long drag, taking the cigarette from his lips as his body rejected the smoke in his lungs. He coughed for a moment, realizing exactly how long it had been since he'd last had a pack to smoke. He spit the mucus that came up onto the pavement, before taking another drag. He felt his nerves start to calm as he walked, hating that he smelled like burned tobacco and kicking himself the whole time he smoked the cigarette.
He turned as he heard something behind him, stumbling backwards as he took a fist to the mouth. He immediately put his hands up, throwing a few punches before he was able to lock on his target. He could taste blood from his lip, that he knew had to be split. He ducked as his attacker faked a left hook, leaning right into the right jab to his eye. "Fuck!" He exclaimed, feeling the guy grab the book in the back of his pants before he could recover. John lunged, landing a good hit on the guys nose, earning himself a hard hit to his own nose. He felt it start to bleed, not giving up on his mission to get his poems and songs back. "Give me my goddamn book!" He shouted, landing a hard blow on the man's cheekbone before he got out of range and John gave up on the fight when he knew he couldn't catch him.
John wiped his thumb over his lip, knowing that he'd left his own mark on the thief. He looked down at his hand, smiling painfully at the ring on his finger. Sid's ring, the one that he'd gotten after his friend's death and his parent's conviction, the one that Sid had stolen when he was ten to help protect himself. It had a hollowed-out skull in the band, the edges so sharp they would cut the image into the attacker to let everyone know they'd messed with the wrong kid. He rubbed his shirt collar under his bleeding nose, wincing as he stepped on his bad leg, noticing that it had gotten banged up in the fight. "Shit." He placed more weight on his foot, pain shooting through his thigh where the break had been. "Did I fracture it again?" He mumbled, knowing that even if he had he didn't have a choice but to walk on it. He looked around for a moment, noticing an old broken-down Harley Davidson in the ally. He cocked a brow, limping up to the house and knocking on the door. "Excuse me Sir, I noticed that, uh, you have a '45 Harley Davidson in the ally."
The man gave a puzzled look at the kid, squinting at him because he didn't have his glasses on. "It don't run." He stated, wondering what this kid wanted with it. "If you want it for parts you can have it."
John ran his tongue over the inside of his split lip, pulling out the last of his money, and handing it to the man. "There's sixty dollars there, I'll pay you what it's worth after I get a real job." He smiled, shaking the man's hand before taking the key from him and running to his new ride.
He swung his leg over the bike, feeling the power if would have after he fixed it up. He smirked, kicking the stand up as he began pushing it the four miles home. "This is gonna be sweet."