Seeing Grayscale

1. ONE

ONE

Evil is not defined by wrongdoings, only by those who look upon suffering and do nothing.

How many people keep walking instead of asking the guy curled up on the street if he’s alright?

How many stop at the car, hiding that person hunched over, crying their eyes out?

What about that kid who showed up in class with odd bruises? You know the one I’m talking about. Is he clumsy or into sports despite only ever reading graphic novels and wearing an oversized hoodie during summer?

I’ll tell you just how many do nothing.

Everyone.

I know because that kid and that guy are the same.

He’s me.

It’s easier to go about your day with the mentality that you can do nothing.

Helping a broken man in a broken world seems pointless, right?

Oh, he’ll take that three bucks and buy meth.

Sure, Karen, that’s exactly what he’ll do.

Heaven forbid he hobbles into the gas station he’s been sleeping behind for the past two nights and grabs a dollar fountain drink, water bottle, and hot dog.

And even then, he comes up short because Nice Lady Karen didn’t factor in for tax.

“It’s $4.34,” the cashier says to me.

I pat down my jeans, hoping I'll have a few coins left, but I come up short. “Can I get you next time?”

He eyes me with disgust.

Believe it or not—I glance at his name tag— Harry , I did try. I tried real fucking hard to beat the system that was determined to destroy me, but here I am.

“It’s $4.34,” Harry repeats, eyeing the growing line behind me.

“Just the drinks, then,” I say, ignoring the growl in my stomach. Sometimes, if you drink it fast enough, the carbonation gives the illusion of something solid in your gut.

I would’ve abandoned the soda for the hot dog, but I'd rather have the cup for refills after I finish the soda and water. I'll have to panhandle for a few more bucks in the morning.

I pay for my drinks and hobble back into the chilly fall air.

Fuck, it’s cold.

Pulling my hood over my head, I hug the wall, avoiding the gawks from people getting gas, and make my way behind the building where the few things I still own are stashed.

The fact I’m not angrier about losing my sleeping bag and a pack of cigarettes might raise some eyebrows. Desperate people do despicable things. They will steal, fight, kill —anything to beat the odds, permanently swathed in this greyscale we call surviving.

So, no, I’m not angry. I’m just exhausted.

And my leg might be broken.

Lowering myself to the frigid asphalt, I stuff the bottle into my backpack before popping the straw into my soda and taking a careful sip.

The bite from the ground isn’t dulled in the slightest through my threadbare jeans, and my busted lip makes drinking slightly painful.

In hindsight, I probably should’ve bought a coffee, but that’ll only make me have to take a dump.

Judging by Harry’s glowing personality, I doubt he’ll let me use the restroom without buying something again.

You see, people like me are seen as filthy degenerates. The losers who spit on functionality. Those lazy motherfuckers who just didn’t want to get a job.

Of course, that’s just one side of the coin. The other isn’t much better, in all honesty.

If we aren’t lazy, then we’re insane. Society’s rejects, if you will. I’m definitely a reject, and society definitely doesn’t want me, but neither are the result of each other.

I’m simply the kid who was failed in more ways than one, left to rot in a group home that didn’t seem to care what happened to him. Flunking out of school was ignorable—hell, acceptable. Not going? Who fucking cares?

It was easy to get caught up in that hive mentality. It was even easier to start taking what we wanted because consequences seemed like such a wild concept, mythical, and wouldn’t happen to us.

Next thing I knew, I had a felony, was eighteen, no one would hire me, and I had nowhere to live because you’re an adult now, Gray. Figure it out was the bulk of my teachings.

Fast forward a few years, and I’m stuck in the same cycle. A few more misdemeanors, some jail time, and broke with nowhere to go. It doesn’t do me any favors to rehash it all, nor does it stop me from doing what I need to to see another day.

There’s this weird network of people like me shrouded in mystique. If you know how to communicate through it, you do. If not, well, you’re just a walking target.

One Tooth Ray is the guy you go to when you need fast cash—pushing product ‘n such. Tammy down in the Pines complex is where you go if you want consistent, quick cash and a place to shower. Sex sells, even when you aren’t worth selling.

You could be the ugliest motherfucker on planet Earth, and someone would still pay to bend you over.

I know a few other people in our network, but they are even shadier than the first two—people you do not want to come crawling to. I made that mistake once already.

Some folks get a couple of dogs to keep them company and protect them.

The dog doesn’t know it’s missing out on a warm home and good food, but the person toting it around does.

As someone who knows firsthand how sacred both are, I’d never subject anyone—human or animal—to walk these streets beside me.

It’s wrong.

Sipping my soda, I rest my head against the side of the dumpster, serving as a shield from the wind, and close my eyes.

I swear it’s only about five seconds before the sound of feet pricks my ears.

I stiffen, hand absently reaching for the side pocket of my old backpack.

It’s not dark yet, but I wouldn’t put it past whoever stole from me last time to come back looking for seconds.

Slipping the knife from the pocket, I keep it concealed in my fist, face blank as the footsteps get closer.

Sleek, black loafers enter my peripheral first, followed by crisp, clean slacks. “Uh…hi there,” a man says.

I slowly glance up. “Yeah?”

“You look like you need this.” In his outstretched hand is the hot dog I abandoned, complete with the same condiments I’d tucked into the box.

The guy looks to be in his thirties, maybe a smidgen younger. His beard is throwing me off, so I can’t tell. “Thanks,” I murmur and take the offering.

Another thing I learned a long time ago: Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.

So I don’t.

Tucking the knife under my leg and not bothering to hide my hunger, I open the box and start fixing up my hot dog.

It’s only when I take my first bite, a satisfied groan leaving me, that I realize I’ve got an audience.

With his hands tucked in his pockets, the man stares at me like he doesn’t know what to do.

I mean, the logical thing would be to leave and go about his life. He did his good deed for the week, I’m sure.

“Unless you’re going to give me money, you don’t need to linger,” I tell him through a mouthful.

“Oh. Right.” He quickly digs into his back pocket, retrieving one of those fancy leather wallets my dad used to have, and starts thumbing through bills.

My eyes narrow as I swallow my food. “I was being sarcastic.”

“No. I meant to. I just—you seemed—never mind. Will two hundred get you a place to sleep tonight?”

The slits on my face become saucers. “Huh?” I almost drop my hot dog.

“Not with the way they keep raising prices, and then they’ll probably be full because of the—never mind.

” He pulls out five stiff green bills and folds them.

“Here. Get somewhere safe.” I blink at him; then my eyes dip to the wad of cash in front of my face.

“I promise I’m not a creep. I want to help. ”

Kind hazel irises meet mine, and a half smile forms on his lips.

I know a red flag when I see one, and this guy has an entire parade’s worth waving. You don’t take that kind of cash from strangers. Especially not ones in a fucking suit. I’ve managed to remain unscathed when it comes to sexual predators, and I’m damn well keeping that streak.

“I’m good, thanks anyway.”

Returning to my food, I eat with my eyes on my lap.

“How can I convince you to take the money?” he asks after a few beats.

“I don’t want it.” I do. I want that money, but not at whatever catch he hasn’t coughed up yet.

This kind of thing might fly in his world—the one full of colors and soft, clean sheets. He might be able to buy anything and anyone with those pretty eyes and a full head of dark hair. But in my world, he’s a shark who just got a whiff of blood. I’m not letting him take a bite.

“I’ll just set it right here, then.” He squats, stuffing the wad underneath the dumpster and out of direct sight, and then stands. Another stare-down ensues between us while I chew obnoxiously loud. “You’re too… young to have the world fail you this badly.”

My eyebrow cocks as he shakes his head and leaves.

I wait a few minutes, finish my hot dog, and swipe the drop of ketchup off my crotch before leaning forward. There’s no sign of him or anyone else. What I wouldn’t kill for a bed tonight—with a thick blanket.

I swallow hard, hoping this won’t come back to bite me in the ass and scramble to snatch up the cash.