When I first met Mark, he was standing on the corner of McBee and Main handing out twenty dollar bills with different styles of moustaches doodled on Jackson’s face. I’m not one to pass up twenty dollars.
“Here you go, sir,” he laughed, tossing the bill at me. “You spend it wise, okay?”
“Is it legal?”
“There any cops ‘round?” he asked. I shrugged and pocketed the bill. Cars crawled down Main, crossing paths with speedy roadrunner versions on McBee. We were standing outside of an Indian restaurant. The odor of curry splattered the sweet scent of car exhaust and honeysuckle. I sat down next to him, crossing my arms and leaning back onto the metal bench. He stuck out his hand.
“I’m Mark.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said. His hand was sweaty and smooth, fingertips calloused like a typist’s. I sat and watched the world fly by as Mark handed out little mustached Jacksons to total strangers, some merely nodding and smiling while others fell over themselves trying to thank him. Mark grinned, waving his hand off. Spend it wise, he kept on saying.
“Bet you’re wondering how I got the money,” he sniggered to me. I pulled the corners of my lips downward and raised my hands.
“Less I know, the less I can testify with, so don’t tell me nothing,” I whispered nervously. “Last thing I need’s some police bustin’ down my door, askin’ if I know a Mark.”
“Suit yourself.” He turned back to the corner, t-shirt flapping in the breeze of the tail end of summer, jeans plastered to his legs without being too tight, backpack clutched tightly to his chest. The streetlights popped on. Somewhere down the street, a chorus of construction workers tried to outlaugh each other with hoarse cigarette voices. I watched a mother leash her children using bits of yarn tied from their wrists to hers. Statenburg wasn’t a rich city, but it wasn’t a poor one either. It was what politicians might call “upper-middle class” or “well-off”. Point is, no one really needed the money in the sense that they didn’t really need another drink. It was just a luxury of the first world transposing into a problem of the first world. Mark sat, hands now empty of soul patches and Hitler-staches.
“I quit my job,” Mark said, voice full of enthusiasm like he expected me to congratulate him. I just stared blankly. “I was a lawyer. Made a fair bit of dough ripping other people off.”
“I was laid off. Worked on an assembly line.” Mark frowned, then clapped me on the back. “Couldn’t pay the rent on my apartment. They kicked me out this morning.”
“Well, I’d offer you to live with me, but my wife kicked me out and sold our home and I haven’t found a place to stay and I don’t think I will.”
“Then whatcha gonna do? You look like you just handed off all of your money,” I said.
“Oh no,” he laughed, “no no no.” He motioned with one finger. I leaned in, confused. He put a hand on my forehead, holding me in place.
“Before I show you anythin’, you gotta promise me something. You gotta promise that you’ll come with me.”
“What’s in it for me?” I asked. He let go of my head and unzipped a corner of the backpack. I whistled.
“That’s a cool quarter million in hundreds, all hundreds. Wife was sure quick in kickin’ me out, but I was the first to our savings account. You come with me, I guarantee you ten thousand.”
I laughed. “Bullshit,” I snorted. “Nobody just gives ten thousand dollars away just like that. What’d you do, steal it?” He shook his head.
“It’s mine. All mine. All you gotta do is just keep me company, okay? Just take the Greyhounds with me, talk to me, keep me sane. That’s not illegal. Not breaking any laws. Trust me, I used to work in that field.” He stood. “Come on, we’re goin’ to the Greyhound station ten blocks down.” I followed him, skipping to the sweet jingly tune of ten thousand dollars.
