Strangers
A short story
by BP Gregory
Strangers Copyright © 2013 BP Gregory
Lunchbox Copyright © 2015 BP Gregory
All Rights Reserved.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This work is copyright apart from any use permitted under the Copyright Act 1968. This work may not be reproduced or transmitted in part or in its entirety in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, nor may any other exclusive right be exercised, without the prior written consent of the author BP Gregory, except where permitted by law.
This is a work of fiction. Places and place names are either fictional, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons either living or dead is purely co-incidental.
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Acknowledgments
Strangers cover image by Aprilphoto courtesy of Shutterstock.
Something for Everything cover image by MarcelClemens, The Town cover image by Ortodox, Lunchbox cover image by kamontad999 (along with a millipede by Sakdinon Kadchiangsaen), Orotund cover image by Alex Malikov, and Visit the Website image by Peter Dedeurwaerder all courtesy of Shutterstock.
Strangers
This stinks, thought Denny morosely, like some mother’s group setting him up, the divine angels of society’s secret vile justice. The little girl, the object of his attention had LOST stamped all over her, pale little lip quivering. And nobody was doing anything. Not one of these stern upright folk; folk who always found a way to pass the word about him, no matter how many times he moved. His crap just lived in boxes these days, those boxes getting fewer and fewer.
Nobody shuttling back and forth on their very important business so much as glanced down, but of course Denny couldn’t help noticing the little girl lost, it was his sodding curse. Even with the injections that had just made him sick at first rather than better, and then killed off most of his, well, stuff, the child was all lit up: she glowed amidst the heedless sea of grey faces and grey suits. She was all that was real, more than real, and no science or witchdoctory ever helped.
Talking to some poor kid, any child, violated his parole in a big ol’ way: and wasn’t that what the world at large was holding its breath for? Likely some righteous keen eyes had already noticed he’d been staring, staring for far too long, and he ought to just move along same as all these other good folk who didn’t see the skinny legs jutting all knobbly from under the comically big backpack. Didn’t notice the big, baffled and increasingly tearful eyes contemplating some scrap of paper in her small hand.
Besides, nothing Denny had ever done ever turned out good for anyone; and with that familiar deep old shame he admitted he was a jinx, a curse, just like his brother said. Ought to be locked away for everyone’s protection.
But now there was this girl. One busy fellow actually knocked the kid as he hurried by, nearly sending her over: no apology, nothing; and for Denny that was it. He crossed the road to her, heart pounding. This is suicide, suicide! Alarms would already be being whispered into phones.
‘Hello.’ Stupid, but what else do you say? Doubtful eyes looked up at him, and he found it hard to breathe. She knew what he was, she knew, she must know. Children had a sixth sense, like cats, and had never liked him. ‘You lost?’
The girl offered him the piece of paper. Almost as scared as she was Denny took it, careful not to touch her hand: you didn’t touch kids, oh no no. Not even with the injections.
It was a map. Almost looked like it’d been drawn for her by another child. A big red arrow pointed to a building, with the crude glyph of a book.
‘The library? This is where you’re trying to go?’
The girl waited and Denny expanded under a massive bloom of relief: he knew where the library was, he knew! Hunkering down he pointed up the street, unsure of what the girl could actually see above all the people hurrying here and there. Not a lot, it seemed. ‘Go four blocks that way, and take a left at the building with the big flag.’
Time was up; his jackals would be closing in, ready to save the day. No more strikes, Denny. You’re out. He could almost feel the beating claustrophobia of their fists and shoes already, which was a strange relief. He’d take it over the never ending stares, hateful letters, and windows broken in his progression of shabby government housing flats.
But the kid took the map back with a grateful relief of her own, scurrying away down the street through the heedless ranks of those closing in. And Denny crossed his arms and thought defiantly to himself: it was worth it.
It was Violet who saw the girl next. Violet, who bitterly missed hearing the name from her birth certificate, wasn’t due on shift ‘til three when the hole opened but that didn’t stop the tired old fuckers lining up out front like cheap sex was some kind of celebrity. She sat on the curb and smoked blues to drown the stench and scowled sourly at them, shuffling their worn out hush puppies and fumbling pension money in crabbed fingers. And if her ‘tude meant Mr Happy wasn’t going to play – well whoop-di-doo, they had to pay at the door regardless.
Violet always noticed other people’s little girls, always punishing herself with a hurt sneer ‘cause she hated looking at them. She loathed that prompting of days she could no longer remember: tutus and praise and running free with a chest as flat as a board. Days of doting parents (two!) who drummed into your little skull that the only requirement for beauty was to be a good person, a futile effort at getting the concept across before the world put lie to it.
Soon enough this little pretty struggling under the enormous backpack would sprout, and society would vacuum pack her titties and put them on sale. That first heady sip of power over the gangly boys in school and she’d be hooked, just in time for the kicker – it was all a lie! It didn’t last, and with all the excitement she’d missed every damn opportunity to make anything else of herself. Finally washed up in a nightmare like this, where every pump of a client’s flabby hips drove dreams of home further from recall.
What was a kid doing out wandering this neighbourhood anyhow? Where were the parents who were s’posed to hold reality at bay just that little bit longer – this was rubbing the poor kid’s nose in the filth!
Worse news. Usually disposed toward the pretence that each other didn’t exist, the gaggle of old fuckers had noticed the girl and were muttering away. None with the juice left in his saggy old balls to take the job on himself, but maybe if they spread the responsibility nice and thin amongst their ranks ..?
‘Fucktards.’ Violet crushed out her cigarette and groaned to her feet. That was just what the girl needed – visions of things to come.
‘Hey. Where ya goin’, kid?’
At the swimming eyes that turned up to hers, Violet’s jaded heart almost broke. She wanted to snatch the kid up and run far, far from here, take her someplace safe and pure and happy that just didn’t exist.
The little girl held up her pathetic map, which by now was getting a bit smudged and teary. Perhaps she’d just been too young for Denny’s well-meaning directions, to tell left from right. Violet studied the paper and squeezed an elbow into her side to pacify the savage sympathy in her chest – after all these stifling years, it was finally set free. Poor little blighter probably left home all optimistic, convinced she was a big enough girl to do this trip on her own; then the world set its big boot down on that vanity.
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br /> She traced her finger across the kid’s map. ‘Here, see? You go here – then there.’ The solemn little face gazed up at her: yes ma’am, thankyou ma’am. She looked like the sort of little girl who might say “ma’am”. Tears forestalled for now – although they’d certainly come another day.
‘Well, off you go, then.’
It was soft, but Violet couldn’t help feeling just that little bit warmer as she watched the small figure trot away, map clenched firm in one determined fist. Maybe she was going somewhere after all.
The final leg of the journey fell to Sam. He was writing up the rest of a traffic violation, wearily trying to ignore the shouted “Fuck you pig!” as the perp pulled away. It really wasn’t worth the extra paperwork; and he was so sick of paperwork.
All he’d ever wanted was to help people, and the badge had seemed the most logical route there. But how could you help anyone when you came slam up against a wall of nasty suspicious people who cheated all the time, who exploded in outrage should you question their purity especially when they were in the wrong, and who were convinced in their horrible little minds that you were out to get them when really they’d got themselves without any help at all.
The people, the community he’d so wanted to assist never seemed so far away. Sam was lost.
It hurt him to see a