A brief explanation. Every Friday, Friday Fiction! delivers a compact yet resonant story–Each chapter unfolds snapshots of men in crisis, moments which linger long after the final line. Though semi-brief, each post is layered with introspection, irony, and emotional precision. Call it a weekly ritual for readers who enjoy fiction that doesn’t waste a word. My hope is your time invested won’t disappoint, and you’ll leave the post feeling subtly rearranged. On to chapter one.

Jimmy flipped off the covers like a matador and fumbled in the dark to find his brother’s old backpack. His auburn dreads swung back and forth as he jammed the pack to the brim. A sleeping bag was strapped over the top, thin as a rolled-up Sunday paper. On the way through the kitchen, he slipped some cookies and leftover bacon in two sandwich bags. The back door was closed slow and silent as he headed out.  

He was on the move well after the bars had closed, and only the streetlights kept him company. The wet pavement reflected their glow as he picked up the pace. Once in town, he stopped at a 24-hour Mix-Mart for provisions. The way he clenched the brown paper bag wasn’t the smartest choice, considering the homeless lying about in clumps.    

After about an hour he made it to the other side of Marshall and kept on, westward. His inner conversation often slipped out in chunks of stubbed phrases. The rising sun warmed his back and put a lamp on Partello Road. He reset his knitted cap each time he looked over his shoulder. The hat was more like a jar lid to secure the thick dreads underneath.  

Noise of the interstate increased. He moved down the edge of an I-94 onramp. No sooner had Jimmy hopped to adjust the backpack than some old guy and his dog pulled over. The rear plate of the rusted pickup read “Show Me State”.

Jimmy threw the pack into the bed and scooched next to the loose-skinned bloodhound.  

“I can take you to Michigan City.”

“Thanks.”

The young man and the dog exchanged glances, and each found their own napping positions. The old guy turned up Chicago’s WLS radio station. Neil Young’s Heart of Gold dulled the rattle of the interstate and wove the passengers tight into sleep.

The gas station in Michigan City was full of cockeyed shelves of over-preserved snacks. The kid behind the counter held out a wooden ruler with a dangling key. As Jimmy and the old man parted ways the man held out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill.

“Here’s a bit of something for you.”

“Thank you. I should be handing you something.”

“Just because I have a sad looking pickup and a lazy hound doesn’t mean I’m destitute. I try not to draw attention.”

“Smart. Thanks for getting me this far.”

The old man tipped an imaginary hat.

Jimmy tried not to touch any surface in the bathroom. When he lifted the toilet seat it came completely off. The signoff sheet for cleaning had faded except for lude notes with attached phone numbers. He washed his hands and used his jeans to dry them. The ruler was handed back using his thumb and fore finger, pinky extended.

A Twinkie lured him, but he remembered the stores in the pack. The wind swung the door open, and Jimmy gave up efforts to shut it. The garbage can outside overflowed. Gusts grabbed what fell and threaded a myriad of snack wrappers into a chain linked fence.

“Post modern art.”

A piece of bacon hung from his mouth while he cinched the backpack. With a cleansing breath he hoofed it toward I-94 and left Marshall further behind.

The events from yesterday echoed behind his eyes, like a migraine.

“They couldn’t leave it alone. All the food was…I wish I could have… Load of crap.”

He had become the reason why people cross to the other side of the street. He hadn’t showered since the funeral. His stubble and dreads looked like scrummed friends trying to get along. A week had passed since he gave up his bedroom to his sister and her husband. The lumpy sofa offered little rest, and zero sleep last night. Now he spilled jagged phrases as morning commuters zipped by.

When Jimmy got to the highway, he walked under it as the rumble of commerce reverberated in his chest. He let out a banal scream. The homeless tucked up in the structure were roused enough to lift their heads. After giving a weak wave to their cocoons, he marched on, head down.

“Can’t even scream in peace.”

The onramp was cumbersome as he had to enter the highway on the overpass, no shoulder, only a thin walkway. He couldn’t care less. Frustration rose as he had to use the concrete jungle to get out of it. He left the noise of a full house only to replace it with deafening chords of truck engines and tires pounding the seams of the highway. Jimmy’s passing thought was to jump to his death as a semi’s airhorn ushered him to another world.

He kept walking though, spitting sentence fragments of despair.

Once beyond the bridge he gave a wider berth to the pulsing traffic and put his thumb up.