A late June crescent moon hung in the sky like a sickle as I strolled along North Ogden examining the pointed two-story homes that lined both sides of the street. Each one the same except for color, shrubbery, or an occasional concrete front porch. At the corner the lights from Joe’s Deli sat like a star atop a Christmas tree. My frayed bell bottoms swished as I jogged to the entrance, bounced up the steps, and pushed open the door. At the ding of the shopkeeper’s bell Joe stopped facing off boxes of Oxydol and pushed to his feet. He wiped his hands on the dusty apron tied around a red and green plaid shirt, top button fastened.
“Don’t tell me your mother’s out of soap, I just got these boxes how I like ’em.”
“Nothing that serious, Mr. Matelski. I only want a Coke.”
Joe’s Deli was old style. A long and narrow wood plank floor with shelves to the ceiling stocked with the staples like fossils in a museum. Look, don’t touch, ask for help. The only reachables were ice cream, soda, and beer. I went over to the cooler, opened the lid, and slid a bottle off the rails.
While I stood at the counter paying, the kid came into the store. He looked to be about twelve. A tall, scrawny, hook-nosed urchin wearing clothes that looked like they were stolen from a scarecrow. Everything about him reeked of poverty. The door banged shut and the kid angled his shoulders to slide past me and go to the back of the store. When he reached the beer bottle shaped Bevador, he took out a six pack of Schmidt’s. The kid ambled up front, plopped the beer down and unfolded a note on the counter.
“For your dad?” Joe said lowering his glasses and giving the kid the eye.
“Yes sir.”
Old Joe pulled the pencil from behind his ear and made a few scratches on the note.
“Tell your father to learn how to spell,” he said.
“Yes sir.”
Joe stuffed the note under the cash drawer, figured the total on a paper bag and slid the beer inside. The kid wrapped his arms around the bag and walked out the door.
Joe shook his head. “Feel sorry for him. His father’s a crazy one.”
I popped the cap on a bottle opener screwed to the wall and stepped out to enjoy the night air. Outside, I watched the kid balance his rusty bike against the building while he stuffed the bag into the front carrier. Then he put a foot on the pedal and pushed. Once he got going, he threw his leg over the seat and disappeared around the corner. A moment later metal squealed on the concrete followed by the dull pop of breaking bottles. I ran around the corner and saw the kid laying under his bike surrounded by rivulets of foam. I helped him to his feet and picked up the bag. The kid wasn’t hurt bad, just a scraped knee. I was about to say something but stopped when I saw his face wrinkle in terror.
“He’s gonna kill me when he finds out,” the kid howled.
I looked inside the bag.
“Only a couple bottles are broken,” I said.
“He’s gonna kill me.”
Sobbing, the kid picked up the wet bag and got on his bike. And as he wobbled down the street, I heard the cries of a wounded animal. When the sound faded into darkness, I put my hands in my pockets and trudged home.
That night I slept. Not a restful slumber but a desperate flight from reality to shut out the echo of the kid’s cries. Cries that would haunt me for the rest of my days.
H. E. Vogl is a retired professor who has turned to writing fiction. Vogl’s work has appeared in Fiction on the Web, Bewildering Stories, Every Day Fiction, Fabula Argentea, and Murderous Ink Press. He lives in Ormond Beach Florida.
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