Page 23 of Two-Step
“Yeah, I got that. You don’t know her. Move on.”
“But I seen her before.” The bum’s eyes widen. “On TV!”
“Aw, crap.” Again, she speaks the words under her breath, but I catch them.
“Lady, you’re on TV. You must be rich. Help a guy out, will ya?” No longer looking at me, the bum advances.
I raise a hand. “Stop. You’ve got two seconds to get out of here beforeIhelp you out.” He doesn’t stop. He tries to veer around me, but I step in front of him. His chest collides with my hand, and he jerks to a halt with a look of surprise.
The smell coming off him is unbelievable. At Northside, I have kids from pretty rough backgrounds. Some of them go a few days before they get a shower. It’s the worst in August and September, but May starts to get pretty bad too. The last week of school has found me stocking the take-what-you-need cabinet in the back of my classroom with soap and deodorant.
But my students’ sweat-and-hormones funk isnothinglike this guy’s stench. One whiff carries layers of odor. Sweat is just one of them. His T-shirt looks like it has been sweated through countless times, but mingled with it is the sour, cloying rot of garbage and the unmistakable tang of urine.
He reeks. And I’m now touching him.
I’d like nothing better than to pull my hand away, but all he sees is his next bump, and as far as he’s concerned, Iris is the one who’s giving it to him.
“Hey pal, you are not getting one step closer to her. You understand?”
He scowls at me again, leaning into my hand, but the guy is little more than a bag of bones. He opens his mouth to speak, and I have the misfortune of discovering the source of the garbage smell.
“I ain’t gonna hurt her.” He raises his hands again to show he’s no threat, and unless he’s got a knife tucked away in those sagging jeans, he’s not. But he’s also not getting past me. I could drag his ass to the street, but I won’t. As much as I don’t want him to be here, this guy’s a human wreck, but he’s still human.
“Iris,” I say low. “Are you sure you don’t want to go hop in my truck? We can leave right now.”
I hear her quick exhale behind me. “My ride’s almost here. Like less than a minute.” Her voice has changed. It’s stretched tight with nerves, and her words sound heavy with regret. “I’m sorry about this.”
I don’t take my eyes off our friend who's watching her with unchecked awe. “S’alright. We’ll wait.”
“Or you could just give me a little cash. All I need is a little—”
“Hey. Enough.” I thump him in the sternum once with the heel of my hand. Big mistake. The guy coughs right in my face.
I suppress a shudder and wipe my face against my left shirt sleeve. But not even a shower in bleach would make me feel clean right now.
From behind me I think I hear Iris moan. And then I catch:
“All my fault.”
The words are as hushed and brittle as leaves falling. Well, I can’t say she’s wrong. This night is all her fault, but I’m glad she has the decency to recognize that. Maybe she’s an entitled drama queen with an ounce of conscience.
The sound of a car turning off St. John Street catches my attention, but I don’t take my eyes off the bum. Brakes sing and headlights paint the yard and our silhouettes in the gathering dusk.
“That’s him,” Iris says.
I tilt my head toward the street. “Go on, then.”
But she doesn’t move.
“Don’t leave without helping me out, lady,” the bum begs, his rheumy eyes turning down with a practiced slant. “You can see I’m in a bad w—”
“Shut it,” I warn. “Go on, Iris.”
She still doesn’t move.
“Will you be alright?” The question is feather soft, and even though I’ve only seen glimpses of her in front of a camera, I know this girl can deliver a line. Her voice is just as pretty as she is.
“We’re fine here. Just go.”
