Disclaimer: Jay & Silent Bob are the intellectual property of Kevin Smith and View Askew Productions, and I have no intent to profit financially from the use of these characters.

TWO

I roll over in bed and stare at the clock. Five nineteen a.m. It's been three days since I stepped on that kid in the shopping district. I haven't slept well since. Fuck, just because I put a hot meal in his belly doesn't mean he's my responsibility but somehow this fact escapes my conscience. Like me, it hasn't said much the last few years, so when it does speak, it's hard to ignore.

Digging the remote out from under my pillow, I turn on the television just in time to catch the weather forecast for the week. A reporter is standing outside, getting thrashed by the wind while his loafers soak up the dirty slush which remains of the snow. They're predicting record lows and the mayor's feigning concern for the homeless. Too few shelters and too many street people equal bad press when the temperature dips below freezing and folks end up dead because they've got nowhere warm to sleep.

Not my problem, I tell the knawing in the pit of my stomach. Hard enough to get him into that coffee shop. No stretch to think he'd prefer frostbite to an offer of a night on my couch. And how the fuck would I find him, anyway? Look under "Jay" in the phone book?

I swallow hard and throw the remote at the television, drag myself out of the bed. Since when do I give a fuck about anybody else, anyway? Bob comes first, second and last. Didn't Christmas prove the wisdom in that? Came and went without a visit from Santa Claus, or anybody else, just like the three Christmases before it.

The rent's due in a few days. I gotta scare up some cash. After a quick shower, I throw on my clothes, lock up my apartment and walk to the Denny's around the corner. Some pancakes, hot coffee and a cigarette get me going. I use the pay phone to call around and find out who needs my services today. I don't have to search too hard.

People get caught up in the frenzy of the holidays. Some of them forget they owe money. Some of them assume their creditors have the Christmas spirit and withhold a payment. Either way, the debt has to be collected. That's where my skill at intimidation turns from hobby to vocation.

Downtown is five minutes by bus and I'm stepping off into one of our city's more notorious neighborhoods by seven o'clock. It's a little early for this kind of thing but I look at the hour as an asset rather than a liability. Surprise is always an advantage.

All eyes shift to me when I enter the lobby of a shabby hotel. The junkies are looking for their connections and the crazies want to make sure I'm not a Martian or a CIA agent. A couple of hookers are already dressed for work and they smile at me and wink. I smile back non chalantly. Not touching that with a ten foot pole.

Double checking the room number on the crumpled napkin in my pocket, I head upstairs. I strong-arm the door to find a guy bigger than me cowering in the corner. Doesn't take any work to get the cash out of him, he seems to be expecting me, appropriately contrite, shoving a fat envelope into my hand and begging me to pass along his apologies to our mutual friend.

"I swear to God, it's all there, all of it, please tell him, tell him I'm sorry and I won't be late again." I just squint and draw on my cigarette. I count the money twice. Nodding, I leave, pulling my cut out of the thick wad of bills and sliding it into a hidden pocket inside my coat as I exit the building.


Four more pickups go just as uneventfully. Some of these folks have met me before. Like I said, too easy. Finally, around three o'clock, I'm done and glad for it, the wind cutting through me and whipping my trench coat around like a black canvas flag. My "friend" offers me a beer and a sit down when I drop off the money, but it's just a courtesy and he nods when I shake my head.

Walking the two blocks to the bus stop with the chill still slicing me, anticipating the few more blocks I'll have to walk when I get back to my part of town, I pat the stash in my hidden pocket and consider waving down a taxi.

And then I hear a scratchy, strained voice that sounds familiar.

"Get off me! Get the fuck off me, you horny bastard, I told you I ain't down with that shit!" I hesitate, wondering if I'm a little off my rocker, having guilty hallucinations. "I got a blade, you cock smoker, I'll fucking use it, I swear!"

It's not a hallucination, and it's coming from an alley not ten feet away. I shake my head at the quirky stubbornness of God or fate or whatever it is that's throwing me into this kid's path again, and move toward his voice. I slip down between two buildings and around a stinking dumpster that hides the scuffle I hear progressing.

My conscience couldn't have manufactured a more inflammatory scene. There Jay is, flailing around on his stomach, pinned to the ground by a man more than twice his size. His hat flies off and his hair drops into his face. One meaty hand is already clamped over his loud mouth, louder than this brute had probably anticipated, and the other is yanking at the waistband of his torn jeans.

I run up behind the guy, who's so busy trying to wrestle Jay's pants off that he doesn't notice me, and I clench my hands together like I'm holding a bat. I take a wide, enthusiastic swing and connect with the side of his head. Nothing happens for a minute, but I don't wait for him to turn on me. I throw another two handed punch, and this time he topples over.

The kid is springing to his feet before his attacker hits the ground, taking cover behind the dumpster. Taking nothing for granted myself, I kick the creep in the stomach a couple of times before I'm satisfied that he's out cold. I lean over, panting, catching my breath. Shit I'm out of shape.

When I stand back up, Jay is edging out of the shadows, fumbling to get his hat back on, his eyes wide and his limbs shaking as he stares at the beast that was trying to rip him a new asshole. The fear is plain on his smudged face and I realize the shock hasn't worn off yet because he isn't trying to hide it. Finally he looks up.

"Well if it ain't that tubby bitch, Silent Bob!" Just like that, the mask is on, but not firmly enough to hide his relief at finding a relatively friendly face instead of an unknown quantity. I nod and a smile escapes my own mask. "Shit, what you been doing, Silent Bob, following me around like a fucking puppy?"

I shrug.

"You didn't have to do that, you know, you crazy fuck, I knew what I was doing." He circles the human lump on the asphalt, giving it a respectfully wide berth. "I can take care of myself, you know." Maybe he's fronting for my sake or maybe he's trying to convince himself. Either way, I don't argue.

The days since I saw him last have obviously been rough. The tattered coat is gone, two or three layers of knit shirts the only thing between him and the weather. His face has seen some action, day old bruises and a split lip have joined what's left of the black eye and the scab on his cheek. His encounter with the incredible bulk has left a few marks too, his knuckles bloody and his chin scraped raw. He sniffs and drags a filthy gray sleeve across the injury, blinking at the bright red smear it leaves.

"We should get the fuck out of Dodge before this freak wakes up." he says sensibly. I nod and he follows me out of the alleyway and onto the sidewalk. I watch him from the corner of my eye as I make my way quickly down the street and into a sleazy pub. He follows, hands shoved into the warmth of his armpits, shivering.

"What the fuck is this place? You gonna buy me some more coffee, lunchbox?" I shake my head and point toward the door. "Yeah, I guess, good enough place to hide for a few minutes. Just in case." I'm amazed at how accurately he's interpreted my gesture and I smile. But that brings the guarded look back to his face and he wipes his chin again.

"Sure, yeah, you think I owe you something, now, huh? Like I said, I coulda handled that fucker myself, didn't need you to jump in and play Superman." He shakes his head and rolls his eyes, disappointment settling over his features. "Why else you been following me around? Just like everybody else, ain't you, waiting for the right time to take your shot. Fine. Let's make a deal, then, Monty Hall. What you want? And you remember, tubby, I ain't taking it up the ass."

Talk about a one track mind. I sigh, frustrated, before remembering that's exactly what he was just fighting so hard to avoid. Living out here in the street, young and skinny and for all appearances defenseless, what's just happened is probably a constant threat.

I watch his eyes as I contemplate all this and see that same pain flick across them that I saw the other night. Can't quite keep my gaze disinterested. It's not pity I'm feeling, more like grief or sadness, and I'm vaguely surprised at the depth of it, considering I've spent a total of an hour and half with this kid. He sees it in my face but doesn't erupt as I would expect. He doesn't react at all.

"Like I said, pal, let's get this over with, cause I've gotta get my shit together. It's gonna be colder than a witch's tit tonight and I gotta find a place to crash. I ain't got time to be negotiating with you all day."

"I'll have to think about it." I say, trying to buy time. "Meanwhile, you're mine." A ludicrous line, even coming from me, with my carefully constructed tough guy facade, and I'm surprised when he doesn't fall to the floor laughing. Instead, he nods, albeit reluctantly.

How often has he been kicked in the teeth, that he would buy this bullshit from me and submit to God only knows what kind of crap I have to dish out? Just to settle a street debt. He must be awfully damn close to the end of his rope.

I shake off the morose thought and head toward the door. Jay follows. I hail a taxi and we get in. He sits as far away from me on the seat as he can, arms wrapped around his stomach as he stares out the window at the passing scenery, curiously quiet as the rows of seedy motels and strip clubs give way to the more suburban landscape of grocery stores and real estate offices, houses and trees, even a playground or two left empty due to the vicious winds.

Jay seems to have shaken his own moodiness by the time we pull up in front of my apartment building. He jumps out and stretches his legs while I pay the driver, adjusts his cap and surveys his surroundings.

"You live here Silent Bob? This your place?" I nod. "Fuck, this is some depressing shit, man. No wonder you keep coming downtown, looking for action." I wonder if he's being ironic and decide he's just trying to stir the shit. At least he's talking again. Somehow I'm relieved.

He starts checking the place out as if he's casing it as soon as we get inside. Or maybe he's just looking for escape routes should I turn on him unexpectedly. Or maybe it's a little of both. I realize that I might just wake up tomorrow minus a few electronics. I silently curse my uncharacteristic naivete. Better keep a close watch on him.

It's somewhere near five o'clock now and I haven't had anything to eat since breakfast. Unlikely Jay's eaten lately, so I dig around in the fridge and throw some cold cuts and cheese on the countertop that separates the tiny kitchen from the living room. He stares at the food then looks back at me.

"You feeding me again?" I nod. He lifts one eyebrow and bounces around restlessly. "You think this shit's funny, jerking me around? S'a real good joke, Silent Bob, jerking me around like a little bitch on a string. You better just fucking tell me what the fuck you want, or I'm outta here." He backs towards the door, suspicious and ready to bolt, perhaps feeling the vulnerability of being shut inside with me.

"Just relax, motormouth." I say quietly, carefully, continuing about the business of setting up a snack, putting out bread and condiments. He pauses halfway between me and the only exit, muscles taut to the point he seems to be vibrating. "I'm fucking hungry, ok? You don't want to eat, you don't have to eat. Doesn't matter to me."

More and more he reminds me of that kitten, always hiding under the furniture at the sound of footsteps. Took a while for that ball of fur to decide who was friend and who was foe, and until he did, he reacted to us all like we were deadly. Couldn't blame him. Five pairs of feet in the house, and all but mine were either kicking him, pushing him out of the way, or stepping on his tail.

Eventually that cat figured out he could trust me, that I was the one person in his little universe that wasn't out to get him. Not that it mattered. He ran out in front of a car trying to get away from my brother and just like that he was dead. Harsh wakeup call for a ten year old who had a penchant for lost causes.

Apparently I didn't learn my lesson.

Jay, still hovering in the hallway, watches as I make a couple of thick sandwiches and slide them across the counter toward him. When I move into the living room with my own dinner, he goes into the kitchen and washes his hands. He gulps down the food, just like the other night, keeping a cautious eye on me the whole time.

He'll eat, he'll sleep and he'll be gone in the morning. I can't save him, anymore than I could've saved that cat, but at least right now he's not hungry, he's not somebody's bitch, and he's not going to freeze to death anytime in the next eight hours. Maybe my conscience will shut the fuck up and I can get some sleep tonight, too.