Nicotine was calling his name, and he didn’t have smokes, but Mike Larderin walked outside the party anyway, onto the deck, as he would have when he was a smoker.
He hoped someone had a cigarette, a cigarette he’d regret tomorrow.
A kid was sitting on the railing of the deck.
His palms were on the railing, like he was thinking of pushing himself off.
Mike walked up slowly, didn’t want to startle the kid.
If he jumped he wouldn’t die, but the Franklin Valley was at a steep angle, he’d break an ankle at the very least.
“How ya doin?” He said calmly to the kid.
The kid turned the opposite way of Mike and sniffled, like he had been crying and didn’t want to be seen.
“Shitty Christmas?” Mike asked.
The kid turned. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Denise’s boyfriend.”
“My mom’s cousin Denise?”
“Yeah.”
“Well,” the kid said, sniffing what sounded like a pound of snot into his head, “My mom’s a bitch because she didn’t get me a PlayCommand X2 Console.”
“Disappointed, huh?”
The kid looked at Mike and just spat into the dark abyss.
“Can I tell you a story?” Mike asked.
The kid shrugged.
“My dad was in special forces, then he was a mercenary.”
The kid looked at Mike, intrigued.
PlayCommand X2’s came with the new Mercenary Battalion game.
Mike cleared his throat.
“I didn’t see my Dad until I was eight, because he was in Algeria, North Africa, trying to free a group of hostages, French colonial sympathizers who the UN pronounced dead but who hadn’t really been executed.”
“No cap?”
Mike nodded.
“He taught himself to speak Berber, worked this mission for eight years. Eventually all the hostages were murdered except one. The one they saved my father befriended.”
“Did he win a medal?” the kid asked.
“No, the US government wasn’t giving medals to guys like my dad. But he brought the guy to the US to tell his story at colleges. My dad volunteered to be his translator.”
The kid just nodded.
“See, my dad wanted the guy to talk about life as a hostage, the horrors and indignities he suffered, how the UN and the French government had let them all down.’
“What kind of gun did your dad have?”
Mike shrugged. “A lot of ‘em. I’m not sure. But when he got the guy to the states, up on the podium, the guy didn’t want to tell his story. He was afraid the Algerian Liberation Front was going to assassinate him. So the guy stood in front of a room full of professors, generals, and diplomacy students and my dad had to translate free form poetry about the beauty and wonder of the electric hand dryers at Dulles Airport.”
The kid looked at Mike like he was from Mars.
“Was there a point to that story?”
“Disappointment,” Mike said. “Life is full of disappointments.”
The kid hocked a massive loogie out into the dark valley.
“Oh. So what? I want a PlayCommand X2 console. I can’t believe I didn’t get one.”
Mike nodded.
“I want a cigarette.”
“My dad keeps a carton in his tool rack in the garage.”
“Grab me a pack and I’ll buy you a PlayCommand.”
The kid twisted to look at Mike, his right hand slipped, and he plunged off the deck.
Mike heard the kid cry out as he landed. He ran down the stairs, crawled commando style under the deck, then rolled down into Franklin Valley toward the kid, who was in a fetal position.
Mike brought himself to a stop near the kid,
“Auuwwg,” the kid said.
“Don’t move,” Mike said. “I’m gonna call an ambulance.”
The kid sat up. “An ambulance? Why? I landed in my own loogie.”
“Something could be broken,” Mike said.
“Nothing’s broken, you shitskull. I’m fine. Just grossed out.”
The kid bent and wiped his face against the damp grass, then sat up again.
“What a shitty Christmas.”
He started to stand.
Mike extended a hand. “Wait. Let me help you.”
The kid stood without help.
“I’m going to get you a pack of smokes. You owe me a PlayCommand X2.”
Mike swallowed. “I was kind of kidding.”
The kid flopped back down on the ground.
“Order me a PlayCommand X2 or I’ll tell my dad you pushed me.”
***
Today’s generation is lost and selfish, he needs to volunteer in a shelter in a very poor neighborhood!
A brat AND a blackmailer? He should have pushed him.