Barefoot Concrete

Chapter 5

Unfortunately, fear of the law didn't stop three thugs from giving chase at the sight of a scrawny white kid exiting a pawn shop in the slums. Trent sprinted the instant the one of them pointed his way. He only prayed he could get away. Or convince them he wasn't worth beating too badly after they caught him.

After just one block his breathing came in labored grunts, and he careened off an alley wall with a loud 'oomph' as he turned a corner. His footsteps echoed loudly as he fled toward the opening that led to the street, but his heartbeat drowned out the sound. He could feel the blood struggling through a body that fainted at the thought of exercise.

His pursuers were hot on his heels, but Trent had a trick for them: Martin Street was only a block away, and the thugs wouldn't chase him beyond that. A war would break out if the guys in gray spotted the guys in blue chasing a young guy across the border.

He sped out of the alley like a bat out of hell; just one more block of alleys and he was clear. An alley on the opposite side of the street swallowed him up after he crossed the cracked pavement in five quick steps. In a fit of genius Trent began pulling over trash cans and grocery carts to sling in the path of the people behind him. He looked back, and saw the leader was close enough for him to make out the black guy's glorious smile as he vaulted a trash can in pursuit of his prey.

Trent's eyes swept forward again and his heart stopped. He slammed in to the wall where the alley made a hard left turn without a sound.

********

“Shiiiit...” Trent moaned as he opened his eyes. He was lying on his side, staring down twenty feet of dark alley at the lamplit street that marked the boundary of Crazy Pete's territory. He had been so close.

He sat up slowly and yawned. “OW!” His jaw hurt, bad, and he felt dried blood crackle roughly on his face. His pursuers were gone, and he took stock of the situation with slow, painful movements.

Fifty dollars from the pawn shop: Gone. Little bag of weed: Gone. Shoes: Gone.

“Fantastic,” Trent mumbled. If he hadn't been some kind of genius and run in to a wall he would have gotten away free and clear.

He stood up slowly and rubbed at his face to clear away some of the blood and lazily assessed the damage. A cut on his eyebrow was all he could feel beyond how sore his nose was, and that didn't seem broken. He had pulled muscles in both legs from running, and his chest hurt from stretching his smoke damaged lungs. Apparently the thugs hadn't decided to give him any more of a beating than he had given himself. It was a nice gesture, and Trent appreciated it in spite of the added insult of taking his shoes.

A heavy sigh left his lips as he started for home. By the fourth step he was wincing before his feet even touched the ground. He crossed socks off his list of suitable footwear for walking on the cracked concrete.

The front door of his building was a welcome sight after making the acquaintance of every rock between his house and Martin Street. He was so focused on the door that he failed to notice the guy sitting against the wall just outside. He stepped on him, screamed in an embarrassingly high pitch, and jumped away from what he had taken to be a pile of trash.

“Watch where you're goin'.” The voice that came from the derelict at the bottom of the pile was rough, but it didn't sound particularly interested in finding out who had stepped on him.

Trent stared. The shape finally resolved into something remotely human. He identified legs and a hood poking out of what looked like a bean bag chair, but was really an enormous bundle of clothing. Nothing of the body beneath was visible, and there was no telling what kind of hideous creature hid inside the shadowed opening of its hood.

“Sorry...” Trent said. What do you say to someone you just stepped on? “Uh, where'd you come from?” He hadn't seen a bum around in a long time, there wasn't anything to beg from people in the slums.

A sarcastic laugh came out of the hood without moving to even look up at Trent. “I come from everywhere. Why you worried about me? Where'd you come from?” The bitter words rasped out of the hood.

“No, I mean, why're you in this part of town? There ain't nothin' here.”

“Look, ki�"Damn! What happened to y--,” The guy quickly cut himself off, but it was enough to remind Trent that he had just tried to use his face as a wrecking ball.

Trent thought of how close he had come to the same fate as the man sitting at his feet. Wrapped up in old blankets and clothing, doing his best to stay alive. He wouldn't have done even as well as this guy. He walked toward the doors of his apartment building, intent on leaving the man to his misery. Then he turned suddenly, surprising both himself and the bum.

“Look man, ya want, you could come in and get a shower. It ain't much, but I ain't got a lot to offer.” Trent watched the guy stiffen in much the same manner he would if he'd been shot. “What? I ain't just gonna leave ya out here when you could get inside and get a change of clothes that wasn't glued together out of what you stole from a donation box.”

The bum stared at him for a long moment. Once upon a time, pride would have won out and anger would have made him beat the stuffing out of an upstart kid showing him pity. But, the world had a way of making even the proudest of people humble, and he could certainly use a chance to rest. The kid's motives were in serious question, though. It was a dark knowledge he had learned from living on the street; it was a rare person indeed that took someone in. Nine times out of ten they would rob the person they were 'helping' before ten minutes passed.

“Well?” Trent had his hand on the handle. He wanted to get cleaned up himself and rest his aching feet. If the guy didn't want his help, far be it from him to force the issue.

“Sure, kid. I'll gladly accept your hospitality.” The bum stood, and Trent watched as the man stretched to well over six feet. He hadn't seemed so big while slumped against the building with his suitcase of clothes rumpled around him.

“Name's Dave, nice to meet you. And,” the harsh tones were gone from the man's voice, and it almost sounded friendly, “Thanks.”

“Yeah, name's Trent. Follow me, and I'll show ya where you can get the coldest shower of your life.” Trent chuckled.

Dave wondered briefly what the statement meant, but didn't question the odd kid about it. He spent the short journey to Trent's basement apartment looking around curiously. “With a name like Golden Plaza Apartments, you'd think it'd be a lot nicer.”

“Yeah, I've always thought the same thing. Wait 'til ya get a load of the 'spacious apartments'.” He opened his door and ushered Dave in with an outstretched hand. “Mi casa,” he deadpanned.

Dave burst out laughing at the state of the living room. It was probably rude to laugh at the guy's apartment, but he couldn't help it. Trent just grinned in response.

“Shower's in here.” He walked past Dave and pulled the door shut. He noticed Lex was gone, but there was no telling how long he had been knocked out in the alley.

Trent pointed out the doorless entry of his bathroom, then went straight to the plastic tub that held the clothes he had collected over his years in the slums. “I'll find ya somethin' to wear. Just snatch a towel off the wall for something to dry off with. Trust me, ya won't be in there long.” Trent laughed at the look Dave shot his way, then snapped his fingers, “Oh! Lemme grab a washcloth to get this s**t off my face first.”

Dave nodded slowly, and started pulling off the countless articles of clothing he wore. One look had told him the bathroom was too small to maneuver around in.

The cut on Trent's eyebrow turned out to be negligible, but he wiped it with a washcloth a few times to make sure it was clean. Other than that nothing was serious, but he wasn't going to feel good for the next couple days.

He was out of Dave's way by the time the big guy finished removing enough clothes to make a pile that reached to his knees. Trent began to rummage around for something that would fit the bigger man and waited impatiently for the shower to start.

The cussing that erupted when the water came on was impressive, and Trent laughed as he pulled a pair of jeans and a raggedy old green shirt out of the bin. He walked to the bathroom and laid the clothes on the tiny portion of counter and laughed again at the four letter words coming from the shower in a steady stream. He decided to roll a joint and wait for his guest to finish.

Dave came out looking somewhat more decent in a matter of minutes. He had to pull the pants back up to his hips twice while crossing the small room, but they weren't ridiculously oversized. The shirt was a little too tight, and made the drifter seem as if he was trying to show off a frame that was oddly fit for a man his age.

Trent finally got a good look at his housemate. His eyes were a startling ice blue, and his hair was a brown and silver drape that hung down to his shoulders in wet tendrils. He had a hard face that was set in a grimace now, and Trent got a definite sense that he had seen his fair share of tough times.

“That shower is bullshit. Bull. S**t.” Dave crossed the room and glanced around for something to sit on before looking inquisitively at his host.

Trent gestured toward a crate sitting next to the crate his clock sat on, then thought better of it, he had seen much smaller men break them without being rough. He stood and grabbed the crate for himself and nodded toward the bed for Dave.

“You smoke?” He held the joint out to his guest.

Dave scoffed as he sat down, “Doesn't everyone?” He took the joint and glanced at the bed as he tried to find a comfortable way to sit. “Ya know, I hate to seem like I'm complaining a lot, but how the hell do you sleep on this?” He paused as he hit the joint, and shook his head as he glanced around with a bemused smile on his face. “A tiny apartment. Miniature bathroom. Freezing shower. And a lumpy bed...What the hell, man? How do you live like this?” Trent's eyes widened. “Chill, kid. I'm just messin' with ya. This beats an alley any day of the week. Some kid even tried gettin' stupid while yellin' about the clan. I ain't got s**t to do with the KKK, but I beat the little darkie's a*s for actin' like a fool, anyway. Freakin' morons.” Dave shook his head and offered the joint back.

Trent laughed in surprise at the racial slur. “Naw, not that clan. It's what the gang that thinks they run everything around here calls themselves.” He took a hit and continued, “Ya probably slept on their turf. They take that crap seriously.” He pointed at his eyebrow.

“So that's how ya got that, huh? I was wonderin'...Couple of 'em catch ya?”

“I wasn't awake for that part. I, uh, actually, ran in to a wall tryin' to get away. They didn't beat me up or nothin'...I think.” Trent struggled to put the best face on it that he could and passed the joint back.

Dave didn't respond, so they proceeded to smoke in silence. Trent couldn't help but stare at the older man's smoking technique. It looked like something out of an old stoner movie. All fingers, and special ways of hitting the joint, and exhaling in a way that looked downright superstitious. The younger man made a split-second decision.

“If ya want, you could stay here for a while. Everyone does anyway, and you won't be outta place.”

Dave glanced at him and put the last of the joint out, but stayed quiet. Trent couldn't read what was going on behind those cold blue eyes. It was almost worse than the hood had been, looking in to those eyes.

Finally Dave nodded, “Sure, you don't seem so bad.”

Reviews

[Xavier Lee]

Interesting chapter. Each word just flowed into the next beautifully and I could not turn away for anything. I'm curious about this Dave fellow and can't wait to see where this leads. Keep it coming, because I can't get enough!