Faith in Strangers
Chapter 4 – Beer cans
7:34pm 2nd August 1994
The layup was set.
Bouncing the basket-ball a couple of times for luck, I crouched, and then sprinted up to the hoop. Right before I reached the wall, I jumped, stretching out my arm to launch the ball up to the metal circle, but before it could leave my paw, a yellow flash batted it away and it ricocheted off the red bricks instead.
I arched my back and scowled at the cheetah who'd foiled my near-perfect layup.
"That would have gone in!" I protested, picking up the dusty rubber ball.
"Hah, you wish! Lemme show you how it's done," Justin waved his paws, gesturing for the ball. Frustrated, I threw it at him as hard as I could, but he caught it easily - at school he was always insufferably good at sports.
Folding my arms, I cursed nature under my breath. I wanted to be able to run and jump like Justin, like a cheetah with fast and graceful movements, but, being a fox, I'd only been gifted with a stubby snout and a massive tail that got in the way while I was trying to sleep. Mom always said I'd grow into it eventually, but I didn't believe her.
The feline squatted below the basket, eyes fixated on the hoop. He jumped, almost a metre up, extending his lithe body and catapulting the ball to the centre of the backboard. It slipped through the ring effortlessly and Justin turned to face me, a huge smug grin plastered across his face.
"Now that's how you shoot a hoop," he said smarmily.
Before I could get any angrier, a black shape sprinted behind Justin, snatching up the ball. I heard the gate to the open-air court swing closed, and two more figures entered my periphery.
"Sure, sure kid, you'll be NBA material in no-time," said the shirtless black jaguar who now stood in front of us, bouncing the ball between his legs. His voice was deep, and he looked a lot older than me; I guessed at least tenth grade. Justin's face morphed into a scowl as he attempted to swat our possession from the invader's paws – but the jaguar moved too fast. I could feel nerves pricking at my stomach already; trouble with teenagers was the last thing we needed.
"Give it!", shouted the cheetah, "it's ours!"
The black feline chuckled smugly in response, bearing a set of long white teeth that glinted in the evening sun.
A voice from behind me chimed in, "Ay Lopez, give me a look-in". I turned apprehensively and got a better look at the jaguar's friends: one was an antelope, tall and lanky with a rucksack on his back– he was waiting for the ball. The other was a fox, like me, but a lot shorter and yellower – his eyes were obscured by a pair of Ray-bans, and a cigarette butt hung from his mouth. The fox didn't say anything, but he seemed familiar, and his presence alone was somewhat magnetic. Behind the sunglasses, I could feel his gaze burrowing into me.
Lopez answered the request, and the basket-ball soared over my head, landing in the antelope's hooves.
"This what you want?" he asked, holding the ball up at arms-length while I feebly grasped for it.
"Give it back," I strained through gritted teeth.
The antelope ran circles around me with the ball and passed it back to Lopez, who promptly took an aggressive shot at the hoop. It was far too powerful, and the ball bounced off the ring, settling on the other side of the court.
"The fuck was that shit?', the antelope quipped as he walked over to the jaguar, forgetting about Justin and me.
Lopez punched him playfully on the shoulder, "fuck off, like you'd do any better."
With the strange miniature fox leading, the trio walked off to the opposite gate in a cloud of chatter.
Justin appeared next to me, holding the ball tightly in his paws. His face was scrunched, and I could tell he was irritated. I scuffed the ground with my dark-blue sneakers.
"I've seen them around outside school", he muttered, "they're trouble for sure."
I sighed, "I think the short fox guy lives on my street."
For all the warnings that both my head and my friend were giving me, I couldn't help but admire the three mammals' bravado. They had been trying to humiliate us, yes, but a growing, selfish part of me wished I was that intimidating - that cool under pressure. Memories of my attempt at joining the scouts resurfaced like the twinge of a wound; the insults, the shoving, and the muzzle. I wasn't going to let my guard down like that again.
The fox and the jaguar were now sat on a park bench outside the court, with the antelope rummaging around in his bag. It was in the lush pink light of the sunset, bouncing off the walls of the white tower blocks, that I saw the first puff of smoke come from the fox. He passed something to Lopez who repeated the action, creating an even larger cloud.
"What d'ya think they're doing?" I asked.
Justin turned away, spinning the ball on his finger, "Don't know, don't care", he said with a huff.
Curiosity wrapped its claws around my mind and I walked towards the gate.
"Nick! Where are you going?"
I opened the wire-fence gate and trudged over to the bench, putting on as confident a stride as I could.
"I just wanna see what's going on…" I said to the air.
Lopez noticed me first, tapping the fox beside him on the shoulder. I could smell it now, whatever they were smoking; it had a musky-fruity scent that made my nose wrinkle.
"What?" asked the fox, lifting his Ray-bans to stare at me again. His voice was almost indescribably low - the sonic equivalent of cream or melted chocolate.
I smirked nervously and shoved my paws into my pockets.
"What're you smoking?" I queried as I watched him take another drag on the chubby cigarette-thing.
Smiles spread across each of the mammals' faces, and the fox blew more acrid smoke into the air.
"This," he murmured, sitting forward and holding out the burning bluish stick, "is howler, and it's some real good shit, I can tell you that." He spoke slowly, emphasising every word.
"Gives you a kick, ya know?", he continued.
I nodded, "a kick, yeah, I get you."
The ensuing silence was awkward, and I inspected the ground, racking my brain for something to say.
"Can I try some?" I muttered, only briefly considering the implications of what I'd asked.
The antelope, now sitting on the other side of the bench, snickered loudly at my question, and I felt my mask of confidence begin to slip.
"Shut-up Winston," came the curt reply from the fox, who looked over at his laughing friend, "the kid asked a question."
Winston's face deflated, and my pride remained intact.
I heard footsteps some distance behind me and turned to see Justin holding the ball, looking fed-up.
"Come on Nick, we've only got half an hour left out here!" he complained.
"Just a minute!" I replied half-heartedly.
The blue cigarette was in the jaguar's mouth now, his exposed arms wrapped casually around the back of the wooden bench.
"Sure Nick, you can try some," was the fox's answer, and I smiled at hearing him use my name, "but first, you gotta earn that right. This stuff ain't cheap, ya know?"
I nodded again, "What have I gotta do?"
Winston looked over to the fox and then back to me, a smug expression crossing his face.
"I reckon we could do with some beers round about now," he said, "what do you guys think?"
"Sounds good," chimed Lopez through the howler smoke. The fox nodded approvingly.
Winston pointed behind him, to the street at the end of the park, "there's a convenience store just over there. You get us a pack of four and we'll let you have a couple of puffs."
The cogs and gears of my mind whirred as I spoke, "but I'm not old enough to buy alcohol, I'm ten."
Scoffing, the antelope countered me, "who said anything about buying?"
Realisation hit my thoughts like a car crashing into a wall. I had been caught thieving before, but that was only by my Mom after I had taken ten dollars from her purse. This was a wholly different ordeal – it was proper shop-lifting.
My jaw lay slightly ajar as I attempted to form words. "I dunno…" I sputtered out with a chuckle devoid of humour; controlling nerves was not my strength.
"Come on man, you're a fox!" said the fox cheerfully, waving his paw at me, "we're the sneakiest motherfuckers around!"
Pushing my conscience to the back of my mind, I thought about what he'd just told me. I was a fox, that much was true, but I had never tried anything like this before. Images of all the fox-bandits and fox-supervillains from cartoons on TV swam through my awareness – they were always foxes.
"You can use my bag" said Winston, holding the red rucksack out in his hoof, "but you better come back with it, or you're dead-meat."
I imagined what the howler might taste like, how it would make me feel, and how awesome I'd look smoking it. I remembered the scouts of three years past.
"I'll do it," I stated firmly, taking the bag and slipping it onto my back. Before any of the teens could speak, I walked past the bench and towards the store, each step bringing a new spike of determination to my racing thoughts.
I had reached the edge of the grass, and I was about to cross the empty road, when Justin appeared next to me, panting slightly.
"Nick, tell me what the hell's going on?!" he demanded, his voice sparking with anger, "you just left me back there."
I sighed, gripping the bag straps, "There's something I gotta do, ok? It's important."
The spotty feline sneered at me, "For those guys?!", he shook his head, pointing back across the park. "They're thugs Nick, thugs we shouldn't be getting involved with. Why the fuck would you talk to them?"
"Look Justin," my brows furrowed with frustration, "you can go do what cheetahs are supposed to do, like play basketball and be good at sports and shit. I'm gonna go do what foxes are meant to do!"
I hadn't intended for my voice to get so loud – Justin looked shaken.
"What," he mumbled breathlessly, "like steal?"
Our eyes met for a few seconds in the awful silence, and I could see the hurt on his face. I sniffled, turning to cross the road.
"Ugh, whatever…" he muttered bitterly, walking away.
I stood for a moment as I tried to compose myself; the butterflies in my stomach fluttering with intensity. Regret choked my thoughts, and my paw came back wet when I wiped my eyes. "No," I whispered, this was not the time to cry, I had a job to do.
I examined the convenience store, taking in the large automatic doors, suitable for elephants, and the old pig who was stood behind the counter, chatting to a sheep in a baseball jersey. If I was quick and quiet I figured I might be able to get in without the shopkeeper taking much notice – leaving the place without buying anything, however, would be immediately suspicious. Rummaging around in my pocket, my paw discovered two crumpled dollars, and I sighed with relief.
"Here goes," I said, ears pricked, and attention focused ahead.
The store's huge entrance swallowed me up like the mouth of a beast, and, despite his ongoing conversation, the pig took notice of my presence instantly, flicking his brown eyes in my direction. I stiffened under his gaze and quickened my pace into one of the aisles, pretending to browse the 'medium-mammal' sized candy. Thankfully, I could see the alcohol shelved at the back of the store.
The lone security camera was positioned directly above the lines of bottles and cans, and I prayed that the pig wouldn't notice what I was about to do, on a screen or otherwise. Heart pounding and eyes frantically sweeping the store for potential witnesses, I shuffled over to the alcohol and slipped Winston's bag off my shoulders. 'Blue Moon' looked the most appealing of the beers.
With my back facing the camera, and in one hushed and swift movement, I unzipped the bag, lifted a cardboard crate of four cans off the shelf, and gently placed them inside the empty vessel. The pig hadn't so much as glanced my way, and I let out a long-held breath, realising that my paws were still shaking – perhaps this whole charade could go smoothly. After zipping up the bag, I slung it back on and grabbed a random chocolate bar from the candy shelf.
The jersey-wearing sheep was gone now, and so I put on the best smile I could, given the circumstances, as I placed both the chocolate and the two dollars on the counter. Boredom was the only emotion I sensed from the pig's expression, and that was incredibly reassuring.
"Have a nice day," he said dryly, hoofing me the candy and the change.
I turned to leave the store, the weight on my back making me particularly conscious of my movements.
The old pig's voice sounded behind me, "hey, wait just a sec kid…"
I froze, his sentence assaulting my thoughts like a gunshot. Where had I slipped up? Had he seen me taking the beer on camera? I knew that my Mom would probably kill me if she found out about this, and then I'd never have a chance at smoking the howler.
Looking over at the shopkeeper, I found not a face of indignant anger, but rather the beginnings of a grin.
"You don't know a Monica Wilde, do you?" he asked in a cheerful tone.
I nodded, smiling through my nerves, "yeah, she's my Mom."
"I thought I saw the resemblance!" said the pig, chuckling, "she's a great gal your mom, my best customer probably. Always up for a chat."
Relief was surging through my body as I listened, even though I had never actually seen my Mom in this store. Guilt tugged at my mind upon hearing the pig gush about her.
He continued, "You tell her Mister Kaminski said hi, ok?"
"Will do sir!" I replied, hastily exiting the store. My expression dropped to a frown as I stepped outside, and I practically sprinted back across the park.
Justin was now messing around with the basket-ball on the court, and Lopez, Winston and the fox were still sat on the bench – they didn't seem to be smoking anymore.
The antelope cocked a sceptical eyebrow as I approached, asking "so, did you do it?"
"Yep," I replied assuredly, passing him his bag, "they're in here."
Winston peeked inside and lifted out the crate of Blue Moon with a grin. "Holy shit, you actually got some," he exclaimed.
"Gotta be honest kid, I really didn't think you'd go through with it," said Lopez, smirking, "but you fucking delivered."
The beers were passed round, and I looked to the fox for the final validation of my exploit. Like before, he lifted his sunglasses and stared me down.
"You did damn good Nick," he patted the space beside him on the bench and I sat down, beaming.
"We smoked all the last blunt," he said, pulling something from his pocket, "but I got another one here. You can try it first, ok?"
"Sure!" I replied, taking the bluish cigarette from his paw. It felt thick, rough, and crudely put together, much more so than the cigarettes my Dad had once smoked.
The fox continued, "Now, when you're smokin' it, you actually gotta take the smoke into your lungs, or you won't feel shit."
An exhilarating cocktail of excitement, anticipation and nervousness flooded my mind as I put the howler between my lips. The fox produced a zippo lighter, flicked it on and gently lit the end of the blunt.
"Breathe," he said, and I did. The smoke burnt as it travelled down my throat, leaving a vaguely sickly after-taste on my tongue – it felt like taking in a lung-full of acid.
For a split second, I resisted the almost unbearable urge to cough, but the inevitable came, and I spluttered out a cloud of white smoke.
"Take it easy man," said the fox, chuckling, "just relax."
My second attempt was more successful; the act still made my insides spasm in pain, but I managed to blow out the excess smoothly. I figured it must have looked pretty cool.
Passing the howler back to the fox, I savoured the ability to take in fresh air once more.
"You should feel it in like ten seconds," commented Winston from across the bench. It ended up only taking five.
My vision was the first thing to go wild – my paws, the grass, the trees and even the tower-blocks had all started shimmering, as if coated by layers of mesmerising glitter. Details of colour and shape that I had never noticed before came into sharp focus, and I began to feel hyper-aware of my surroundings.
Then the euphoria arrived, surging into my brain like a tidal-wave of pleasure, making my ears, nose and tail tingle, and filling my mouth with the sweetest sugary taste. I felt like I could do anything and everything, all at once.
I turned to the fox with a wide-eyed stare.
"This is fucking awesome." I proclaimed, shivering slightly.
He smiled, took a drag on the blunt and then passed it over to Lopez; it was the first genuine smile he'd given me.
"The name's Finnick", he said, passing me the final can of Blue Moon, "and I think I've seen you around these parts before, right?"
Perhaps it was the drug, or maybe it was just me, but as I sat with Finnick, watching Justin shoot hoops by himself, in that moment, I felt no sadness.
I felt like a fox.