December 12, 2024 Short Story

Guilty Pleasure in Fallen Friends

Guilty Pleasure in Fallen Friends Artwork by DALL·E
We called him Old School because he stood still against the movement of time.

He stole things – CDs, video games, tools – shit he could sell quick and easy.

He said batteries were best – small with a substantial price tag, common enough to pocket the same brand at one store and return it to another.

I stole too.

Stupid shit, all based around getting fucked up.

We broke into a country club's halfway house once, through an unlocked window.

The alarm blared.

I turned to flee, but Oldie hopped the counter, filled two backpacks with mini liquor bottles.

A golf cart sped down the path, way off in the distance.

We ran and ran.

Another time, we broke into a hippy drug dealer’s house.

Oldie jimmied the window and let me in the front door.

I stood on the threshold thinking – this isn’t me – but stepped forward.

Because it was me.

Oldie moved through the house like the seasoned pro he was.

He had a special power.

He could sniff out hiding spots.

A fucking Bloodhound.

He found a pound of weed in the drop-down ceiling, a vial of acid under the fishtank, a roll of cash in the sock drawer.

I stopped at the house he shared with his brother, years later.

Oldie was gone then, sent upstate, and a huge part of me hated the fucker.

His brother, Spruce, had a chicken scratched note taped to the door.

It said, “To the mailman – I am here but cannot hear the doorbell. Please call XXX-XXXX.”

The last time I’d seen Spruce he asked me to grab a carton of cigs from the res.

I said, “You’ve got the money, right?”

He said he did.

I said, “You better have the fucking money.”

When I got there with the cigs, he tried to pay me with liquor rebates.

“They’re as good as cash,” he said.

I tossed the worthless rebates in his face and took everything I wanted from his room.

Which amounted to a stack of pirated DVDs and a Sublime poster from the wall.

I saved the number written on the door into my phone, just in case.

And cupped my hands to see in through the window.

It was the same as it ever was.

I could feel the house deep in my stomach, sharp as ammonia.

It tasted like black licorice, LSD-tinged breath drops.

The scene of a crime.

And through all of space, it stood still against the movement of time.