Hero Worship Read Free Page B

chance in hell. It means a lot that Gus has faith in me, and I’m not about to do anything that would destroy that trust.
    Making the rounds through the restaurant, I turn off all the lights, unplug the neon signs, and make sure all the exits are locked. As I pass the counter, I spot a small stack of cash resting on top of two Styrofoam to-go containers with my name written on them. I pick up the cash and count it. After my first week on the job, Gus handed me a check. I’m sure my blank expression prompted my new boss to ask whether or not I had a bank account, and I admitted I didn’t. He took the check and counted out the amount in cash. Ever since then, he always gives me cash, no questions asked.
    Pocketing the money, I open the Styrofoam containers and am pleasantly surprised to find they contain leftover baby back ribs, one of Midtown Café’s specialties. Gus usually squirrels away food for me that was just going to be tossed out at the end of the night. Yvonne and Kent love this job perk.
    Juggling the to-go containers, I arm the security system, wait for the chirp, and hurry out the front door. On the street, the bus at the stop closes its doors. I sprint through the parking lot as it pulls away. “Wait!” I yell, waving my free hand. But the vehicle coughs a cloud of black exhaust as it ambles off. I stand on the sidewalk and watch as its tail lights fade into the city’s artificial glare.
    Tucking the containers under my arm, I hoof it down the street. It’s not a long walk home—no more than five or six miles—certainly not long enough to kill me. But it’s not the walk through a jungle that will kill you. It’s the predators.
    The street is deserted, not a car in sight. It reminds me of a post-apocalyptic landscape in the movies. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if tumbleweed rolled down the road, driven by a lonely wind. A street sweeper slowly drives by me on Elm Street. Thousands of bristles spin against the pavement, but it does little to remove the stains. Some stains just can’t be brushed away.
    As I turn down Red Hill Avenue, I spot a shiny SUV on the side of the street. There’s a family of three—a father, mother, and a young boy, probably eight or nine years old—huddled around the back of the vehicle. The father pumps the jack up and down, up and down, slowly raising the backside of the SUV off the ground. The culprit is a flat tire. Despite this late-night inconvenience, the family laughs and appears to be in good spirits. The father nudges the young boy with his hip, which makes the boy howl with glee. The mother cups a hand over her mouth as she laughs.
    I can’t help but smile.
    But almost immediately I’m gripped by a sense of loss, which is strange because I’ve never had this type of relationship with my father. Can you lose something that you’ve never had?
    I’m nearly a block away from the family when I see four teenagers appear like specters out of the shadows. The smile on the father’s face disappears as he sees the teens approach like jackals closing in on a wounded animal. He fumbles with the jack, frantically pumping it.
    One of the hoodlums points and laughs. The young boy turns to look, but his mother whispers to him to not stare. He looks at his parents, confusion on his face as he senses their agitation. Fear swirls around them like a bad odor.
    The teenagers surround the terrified trio. The ringleader has a pockmarked and twitchy face, like he has a tic, which conjures the image of a nervous rodent. His hands are stuffed deep inside his sweatshirt pocket. He leans forward and angles to get a look at the flat tire. “Car troubles, huh?” he asks, flashing a yellow smile.
    The mother wraps a protective arm around her son. The father glances at the ringleader and fumbles with the jack. “Yeah … yes, a flat tire,” he says.
    â€œThat sucks.”
    â€œWe’ll