The Line

Prologue

Bye Suzy! Bye Tommy! Seeya in da manana! chirped Christian as he stepped past the gate of the back field of his grammar school, Mariemont Elementary. He started walking down the black gravel street, the smell of new tar hitting old road flaring in his nostrils. Looking ahead, he could see that there was a construction crew working on the old suburb’s streets. He managed a shy wave as he walked by them while clutching the house key that was tied around his neck with a red shoelace. Christian had battled with his mother for hours the night before to convince her that he was old enough to make it home the few blocks by himself. In fact, she was right now preparing one of his favorite snacks, pineapple upside cake, which was usually reserved for birthdays and Christmas.

Christian was a little apprehensive about walking home by himself, but as his house came in to view he could begin to taste the wonderful fruity cake on his taste buds and his pace began to quicken. He just barely caught the car in his peripheral vision as it rolled up next to him.

The door swung open and a man who seemingly moved faster than thought drew Christian in to his arms and got back in the car as quickly as he had gotten out of it. There were no screams heard. There was no one watching.

As Christian’s mother, Amy, peered out of the kitchen windows she spotted a limousine driving by and wondered what important celebrity or businessman was inside.

How could she imagine that from behind the tinted windows, her only son was staring back at her?

One

Good morning, ma'am! I was wondering if there was anything in the house that needs fixing...maybe any chores that need to be done?, I said in my most sincere, good-person voice. I had been out all day and really wasn’t in the mood to sweet talk another old woman. Money is necessary if a man is going to get a good meal, though.

I’m sorry, sir, I can’t think of anything at the moment, she said in a slightly quivering voice. I hadn’t been in this neighborhood before, so I could understand the fear behind her words. There aren’t too many people in the world, let alone an older upper-class white woman, that aren’t a little fearful of a 6’7" black man. I don’t think the gray tattered trench coat, the green, worn cotton sweater, or the muddy work boots helped either. It had been quite awhile since I had altered my wardrobe.

Thank you for your time. Have a nice day! Cheerfulness wasn’t my strong suit, but I managed to get those words out in a pretty happy tone. She smiled and closed the door as I turned and started to walk back down the street. Maybe I was in a cheery mood because this was the last house I had planned to try in this neighborhood. The neighborhood across the street was a little less affluent and I figured I might get more action there even if the donations wouldn’t be as good. Donations. That’s a funny word to use. It almost makes it sound as if I’m some sort of charity. The real word to use would be handouts. I just can’t come to terms with the fact that I’m basically a bum. It wasn’t always like this.

My slide in to this kind of life wasn’t fast. If it was anything, it was confusing. I came out of high school and immediately entered the Marine Corps. It had always been something that seemed cool. Kick some ass, save the country and get paid all in one shot. After three years of service I began to have problems. Not the usual kind. I had problems of the cerebral sort. I started seeing things in people. Like, their insides. The real them. This wasn’t really a problem till one day I saw the devil in one of my superior officers and decided to rid him of his satanic possession. Thank God I didn’t have a gun in my hands at the time.

I spent a few months in a veteran’s hospital after an honorable discharge. I guess its hard to blame a guy who’s just fucked in the head. My parents were supportive, but I wasn’t willing to listen. They suggested therapy and medication. I tried a few medications but all they did was bulk me up and make my dick limp. After a violent tirade at home I sure as hell wasn’t welcome THERE any more.

I stayed with friends while I worked a few miscellaneous jobs. Its hard to hold a job when you’re bipolar though. That’s the fancy word the docs gave for my condition at the hospital. Large mood swings, emotional outbursts, uncontrollable crying, and violent tendencies are some of the wonderful characteristics of being bipolar. None of them are very easy to deal with on a normal basis without some sort of medical help. I always figured that being thin and hard was more of an advantage than being able to hold a job, have a family, and have kids. Well, that’s one area I succeeded in, having kids.

As I was crossing the street I noticed an older gentleman staring at me from an open garage. I waved and smiled. He smiled back, so I figured what the hell? I’ll give him the pitch and hopefully get the opportunity to make enough money to have a Whopper tonight.

Hello, Sir! I was wondering...

I heard your spiel before, Son, I don’t need to hear it again. He cut me off with a voice so full of conviction that I just stood there befuddled. So I stammered out the best response I could come up with.

Sorry to bother you, Sir.

Ya know, young man, I think there's a pretty awful problem with your little setup here.

What’s that?

You want to repair things and do chores, but how do you plan on doing them?

Well, um.....

Dammit, son, think about it. Use your head!

I didn’t really.... I didn’t want to admit to him that I had no plans on doing ANY work.

I know what you need, he said as he nodded his head knowingly.

What’s that?

A set of tools! Come over here! He disappeared back into the garage. I walked up the driveway and stood at the entrance. I saw him shoveling through piles of dusty lawn equipment, emitting a loud curse word every now and then. Here it is! he exclaimed as I saw him lift up what had to be the oldest, grimiest tool belt I had ever seen. It was fully loaded and it looked like the tools were actually somewhat new.

Yeah, I’ve had the belt forever, but the wife gave me a bunch of new stuff a couple years ago, and I never did find a use for them. There’s nothing to fix if nothing ever breaks and even if it did, I don’t bother working on anything myself any more. Maybe I’ll just call YOU from now on! He laughed and coughed all at once as he handed me the belt. It was chock full of shiny new steel tools. I could spot a hammer, a couple of screwdrivers, and a VERY large wrench that gleamed when I held it up in the sunlight.

Um...thank you, Sir, I stammered as I managed a weak smile. Just what I need, more shit to carry around. Hopefully I would be able to sell the tools for a few bucks. I lifted up my trench-coat and strapped the belt around my waist. It actually fit pretty comfortably. Maybe after I sell the tools I’ll keep the belt to carry USEFUL stuff. I turned to leave, but was stopped short as I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around and watched silently as the man placed a crisp hundred dollar bill into a fold of the belt. This man was God. I could tell. I could see it in him. Who else would do something like that?

I’m just doing what I would expect out of you, Son, if the tables were turned. All of us need some help at one point or another. All I ask in return is that you say a prayer for my wife. She’s in very bad sorts and could really use some help. Can I rely on ya for that? He looked up at me and I couldn’t help but stare into his bright blue eyes, which looked quite youthful even though the man must have been pushing eighty.

Yes, Sir, I can manage a prayer for your wife. Thank you very much for the tools. I’m sure they’ll come in handy. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get going now. Thank you again. I turned and felt like running, but managed a slow canter as I tried to get my head screwed on straight. That’s not God. That’s not God. He’s just an old man with a generous nature.

Believe it, Kevin, believe it. He is God, you know he is. You can tell.

Let’s not get into this. I just want to walk away and forget I ever met that guy. Don’t bother me about it any more.

TWO

Hey, ya big nigger, watch where the fuck you’re going! I snapped out of my daze just in time to be knocked aside by a group of teenage boys on skateboards. I just looked up at them and stared, unsure of how to handle the situation. I WAS a homeless man in the middle of a white suburban neighborhood. Unleashing any pent up anger on four teenagers was probably not a good idea. I apologized softly for being in the way and began to scrape myself off as they laughed and skated away. One of them, however, stayed behind and surprised me quite a bit as he reached out his hand to me. I took his hand and stood up. He was pretty tall himself, I’d say somewhere in the 6’5" range. He had naturally blonde hair that hung down to his cheeks and he looked a little older than the rest of them.

Sorry about that, man, they can be real assholes sometimes. Compassion from a Gen-Xer, how refreshing.

That kind of behavior wouldn’t go over too well downtown, I replied in a gruff tone, still a little standoffish and a little embarrassed that I hadn’t seen them coming.

What are you doing around here? You look like Tim the Toolman with that crap. Ya got Pam Anderson stuck in that big ass trench-coat? He laughed and pulled out a pack of GPC cigarettes.

What’s the matter, can’t afford Marlboro’s? I was still kind of peeved and always enjoyed making fun of smokers anyway.

What the hell? What’s this, an extra from a Spike Lee movie giving me shit about smoking? he replied as a smile began to spread across his face, What do you do for a living, build shelves for cardboard boxes? I could tell he was enjoying this, as was I.

You better shut up, boy, before I take your skateboard and bust it upside your white bread, peanut butter and jelly eatin’, suburb-livin’ face! I smiled broadly, my amusement quite evident as the young man extended his hand towards me.

My name’s Darc. Pronounced DAR-C. Short for Darcy. I began to grin. Yeah, I know its a chick’s name. Fuck off, I’ve heard it all before. I shook his hand and was surprised to get just as hearty a handshake in return.

I’m Kevin. I was just on my way across town and was hoping to make a few bucks.

I think you sure as hell managed that, Darc said as he eyed the hundred dollar bill stuck into my newly acquired tool belt.

Some days you get lucky and some days you don’t. Too true.

"I’m gonna jam, Kev, I gotta catch up with mah buds. Nice