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.
SIX
Long night last night. I sat up with the kid, flipping through infomercials. Seemed like the thing to do, he was so sick, not acting like himself. He woke up now and again, always with a panicked, confused look in his eyes, shedding a layer of clothes and slumping into a new position each time, until he was down to pants and one shirt and curled up in a tight, protected little ball under the blanket.
Made me think about my own childhood.
My dad's ex-military, complete with crew cut and authoritarian attitude, my mom subservient to his every whim. Two older brothers, a brain and a jock, everything a parent could want. My family was like something out of the fifties. Fucking models for Norman Rockwell.
Then there was me. All the good roles were taken by the time I dropped into the picture, so I had to settle for being the fuck up. A smart ass from the time I could talk, I got more than my share of the belt. Adolescence didn't improve the situation. Bulked up with the weight, grew my hair long, retreated further into my own world of comics, movies and electronic gadgets. None of which ingratiated me.
But once in a while, I got sick. Chicken pox, mumps, flu, sore throat. Mom slowed down and paid attention to me, plied me with soup and ginger ale. Dad gone to work, my brothers gone to school, those were the few times I'd have her all to myself. I'd wake up feverish and she'd be sitting right there, maybe reading through one of my comics and smiling to herself. Watching over me.
Like I said, it seemed like the thing to do.
Jay seems much better today. Got up this morning with his mouth going ninety to nothing, took a hot shower, changed into clothes he'd been carrying in a plastic bag in his coat. He ate nearly a whole box of cereal, five pieces of toast and a banana. Even I don't eat that much at one sitting. Fuck, I don't mind. He's fourteen, a growing boy, and half starved. Next trip to the grocery store'll just have to be a big one.
After breakfast, we came to work. Been here a while, me roosting between the QuickStop and RST Video and smoking while Jay circles and dances and generally maintains nonstop movement. Sales are good, some people showing up looking only for us. This being Saturday, with word of mouth obviously bringing us business, we may have his $500 by the end of the day. For some reason that doesn't make me smile.
I figure he'll be long gone the minute we pay Tony.
"Hey lunchbox," Jay breaks into my thoughts, bouncing up to me. Why the fuck does he call me that? "I gotta take a piss. I'll be right back." I split my focus between him and the parking lot, watch while he makes his way through the QuickStop. Stuffing his pockets, waiting until the clerk is engaged in a heated debate with a customer and then unwrapping and gulping down two packages of Twinkies straight off the shelf. Shit. I have to laugh.
Just the kind of skill it takes to keep hunger pains at bay when you've got zero money and too much pride to beg or take handouts.
After making the requisite pitstop in the men's room, he comes back smiling, holding out a pack of gum. "Here you go, tubby, a little present." I lift an eyebrow, Catholic morals pounded into me since birth demanding that I at least pretend to disapprove. But Jay looks so stricken that I abandon the effort and take the pilfered gift, putting pieces into my mouth until the wrinkle in his brow smoothes out. God I'm a sucker.
Then he's off again, shifting from foot to foot, peeking through the video store window and holding forth with unflattering commentary about the people inside. He cups his hands, breathes into them, warming his fingers. I remember the gloves and hat that I shoved into his coat pockets weeks ago. I wonder aloud what happened to them. The question earns me a nasty glare.
"Yeah, about that, tubby." Jay growls, frowning. I've tapped a nerve. "Two fucking things." He holds up as many fingers. "One, I don't take fucking charity. The clothes, the coat, you got too fat for 'em, that's fine. Ain't worth nothing to you anymore anyways. But you don't fucking outgrow gloves and hats."
He pauses, stares at me. Finally, I nod and he goes on. "Two, no sneaky shit. You want to give me something, do something nice for me, you do it up front, not behind my fucking back. Got it?" I nod again.
Point taken.
But I have to ask him again where the items went. He sighs. "I gave 'em away. I ain't the only fucking kid on the street, you know." And he blushes. He's embarrassed!
Keeps his distance after that admission, only landing next to me when a customer approaches and even then he avoids my eyes. His discomfort is tangible. Perhaps he thinks he's shown me a defect. Or worse yet, revealed that he has a heart. I don't fault him his unease. Just what he doesn't need out on the street, a heart to get trampled on or used to someone else's advantage.
I don't much care for having one myself. Makes life painful. It's why I stopped talking, stopped interacting with people. I can't seem to harden it enough to withstand human contact. Which is why I should be glad I'm almost done with this kid, right?
Navel gazing about all this, I momentarily forget my purpose in our partnership, don't notice the danger until it's imminent in the form of a very muscular, very intense predator looming over Jay. They're at least a couple of yards away from me. Fuck. Two more assholes are coming up behind me. I ignore my own predicament and walk toward Jay.
Terror crosses his face as the guy grabs him. He hides it quickly under the same bluster he used in confronting me that first night. "What the fuck you want, you big ugly motherfucker? A piece of my sweet ass? Ain't for sale. Ain't that right, Silent Bob?" He doesn't turn to me, eyes trained instead on the blockhead in front of him. He's taking everything in, looking for weapons, weaknesses, opportunities for escape.
Maybe he should be the muscle instead of me.
I look away from him long enough to check out the other two imbeciles, pleased to find that while we're outnumbered, only one of them seems to pose a real threat. Unfortunately, he's the one clenching Jay's arm. One twist and he could snap it like a twig. I restrain myself. Not gonna move if it means Jay gets hurt.
"I wouldn't touch your nappy ass if you was giving it away." the big fucker sneers, moving, pushing Jay toward the side of the building. Gritting my teeth, my escorts and I follow until we're all out of plain sight. Not good.
"You better tell me what the fuck you want and let me the fuck go, you dickless piece of shit." Jay snarls, trying to pull away, more wired by the second. Slow down, Jay, don't push it . . .
"Listen, you didn't bring us around here for a dance." I say, drawing attention my way. "The faster you tell us what you want, the faster we get this transaction over with." Non descript fellows, all of them, no gang colors, white, probably somewhere around my age, maybe a little older. My two look bored as hell but alert.
The big guy, though, he's pissed. He gathers up a handful of Jay's coat and shoves him into the wall, leans into him. Jay freezes and I jump but the goon's friends grab me and I don't resist. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet. Bide your time, Bob, wait for the right moment.
"I'm gonna talk and you're gonna listen, Goldilocks." the one in charge says, addressing Jay but looking at me. "This is my turf. Mine. I sell here. You wanna keep breathing, you two fucks will vacate. As long as you make it quick, I won't hold a grudge. Understand?" He cocks his head at me. I notice his hand. He's relaxing his grip on Jay, just barely. Jay catches my eye and winks.
Action. Jay slams his knee into the guy's crotch, eliciting a spectacular, breathless scream, and head butts him a split second later. I duck and throw my elbows backward, make contact with flesh, throw some punches, kick and stomp at whatever falls down, and spin back around in time to see a meaty fist collide with Jay's face.
Adrenaline rush that surges through me in that moment is like nothing I've felt before, blinding, deafening, all consuming . . . asshole's on one knee already, the hand he's not using on Jay buried between his legs, and I launch myself at him, pound on him with a ferocity that would shock me if I weren't in the middle of it.
That's probably what's driving them away, his friends, I can hear them running, footfalls fading quickly. A voice I don't recognize - "What the hell's going on out here!?" - yanks me out of the frenzy and I let go of the fucker, infinitely satisfied when he scrambles away as fast as the others, albeit limping and bleeding.
"Those fuckers were trying to mug me and Silent Bob!" Jay's yelling. "Fucking pricks! What kind of business you running here, you fucking clerk, what kind of neighborhood is this, felons fucking running around, ain't safe to shop here, somebody should fucking - " and so on.
Leaning over, panting, I let him ramble. Fuck, something's definitely changed since that alleyway, since the last time I saw somebody trying to make this kid eat the asphalt. I cared then, and I stepped in. But this. Fuck. I feel . . . paternal. Protective to the point of homicide. Fuck.
Finally able to breathe again, I push myself upright. "It's ok, it's ok, it's over." I interrupt Jay's tirade. Guy from the video store's the one listening to him rant, lean, plaid shirt, backwards baseball cap, giving him a dubious once over. Jay isn't looking at him, though, despite all the trash talk. He's staring at me, actually, looking worried. Worried? Is that what I see on on his face?
"You ok, Silent Bob? You alright, man?" He steps over to me, puts a hand on my shoulder. Up close now, I realize he's bleeding from his nose and maybe his mouth, a cut open on his forehead.
"I'm fine." I insist. "But you're not." When I reach toward him, he flinches, hard, and I remember who I'm dealing with and back off. He lifts his fingers to his upper lip, scowls at them when they come away bloody.
"Fucking bastards." he says. Clerk's still watching us both with one eyebrow arched. He offers to call the cops, smirks knowingly when I decline with a shake of my head, and goes back to his lazy ass job. Suppose he's noticed our thriving trade. Whatever.
Now that we're alone, Jay calms a little, leans against the wall, and I join him. "Fuck, you kicked their fucking asses, Silent Bob." Smiles at me. "You really fucked 'em up, did you see them running, fucking chickens, took off like their asses was on fire. Even that fucking King Kong asshole. You fucking took him down." I shake my head.
"No, that was you, Jay." I light up a couple of cigarettes and pass one to him. "He was already on the ground by the time I got to him, I just cleaned up the mess. I have to say, I'm fucking impressed. Nice moves." Jay ducks his head, almost shy.
"Yeah, well." He drags on the cigarette. "I got a few. Some of 'em hurt me as much as the prick I use 'em on." He fusses with the cut on his forehead. "Guy had a head like a fucking rock . . . "
"You might need stitches to close that up." I observe, not shocked by the sharp laugh I get in answer.
"This ain't nothing." He looks away, swallows hard, wind lifting a few strands of his long hair. "I been through a lot worse than this shit." The ensuing silence tugs at me but I don't speak. Whatever memories are surfacing, they're obviously painful. He pushes them away visibly with a shake of his head and forces a tired grin. "Kinda surprised you hung around, Silent Bob."
"What?" This is one of those moments when every shitty thing that's been done to him shows up on his face and he ages a few years. "You expected me to bolt?" He nods, finishing up the cigarette and grinding it under his heel.
"Sure. Why wouldn't you? Everybody else does."
"Not me." I tell him firmly. "We had an agreement. You sell the stuff, I hold the money and get your back." Looks away again and starts using his shirt sleeve to wipe his bloody nose.
"People agree to a lot of things." he says, still avoiding my gaze. "Don't mean they do 'em. I learned a long fucking time ago not to count on people doing what they say. All the fucking trick moves in the world ain't worth nothing till you get that one through your head."
"I respect that." He snorts. "I do. I get it." Finally he looks at me, eyes narrow, examining my face for something to prove or disprove my words. "But I want you to be clear. I mean what I say." I pause, contemplate the irony of my statement, and laugh. "Or don't say, as the case may be."
Breaks the tension and Jay laughs too. Don't know if the message has sunk in, but if not, that's ok. Takes time. If he wants to invest any, I'm here, can't deny that anymore, certainly not to myself. Maybe he understands at least that much.