Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 47241 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47241 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
“I hear you. And I’m sorry for helping without asking.” I marched to the door. “You’re free to leave. I won’t stop you or interfere again.”
He stared for a long moment, meeting my gaze with a strange, undecipherable expression.
He walked toward the front door, stopping a foot from me. He opened his mouth to speak, only to snap his lips shut.
“What?” I said.
“Sorry for speaking to you so rudely just now,” he said flatly. “You’re probably not as bad as I thought.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“Thank you for bringing me into your home. But no matter what happens, you’re not to try that again. I can take care of myself.” He went out into the hallway and disappeared down the stairs.
“What a jerk.”
I wouldn’t talk to Tent Man again for a few weeks, but each night, I’d look out my living room or bedroom window at the visible slice of red next to the dumpster. Why hadn’t he moved on yet? And how come my neighbors weren’t causing a stink? It was odd on both counts.
On Halloween eve, I’d finally had enough of wondering and decided to talk to the guy.
With a bowl of candy in hand, I made my way down to the alley, prepared to butter him up with gooey, chewy treats before grilling him.
I came out of the gate just in time to spot three teenage boys setting fire to the tent.
“Hey! You little shits! What are you doing?” I yelled.
The three went full-on deer in headlights and then split in the opposite direction.
Oh no. I dumped the candy and ran to the tent, removing my black cat sweater to slap the flames out. “Hey, dude! Your tent is on fire!”
I didn’t hear a reply, and fearing he’d maybe taken something to sleep again, I unzipped the front flap, charring my fingertips. “Son of a bitch!”
I looked inside, relieved to see the tent was empty.
I stepped back, watching the fabric melt under the flames.
“What are you doing?” said a deep voice.
I turned to find Tent Man in jeans, a green T-shirt, and boots, staring angrily at me.
“Oh, no,” I said. “It wasn’t me. Some little fuckers did it.”
He rushed over, picked up the tent, and flipped it over. He began stomping out the fire. After a few moments, he’d succeeded, but the damage was done.
“Frosty holidays.” He kicked at the mess of smoldering fabric.
I gave him a look.
“I don’t swear,” he explained.
“Oh.” I wasn’t sure if his alternative to cussing was cute or just plain strange. “So you’re a clean-mouthed homeless man who doesn’t believe in seeing doctors.”
“I prefer being called a hobo.”
I chuckled, thinking he was joking, but his straight-laced expression told me he wasn’t. “You really like being called that?” The word conjured up retro cartoon images of a scruffy man with a generous belly, hopping railcars and carrying his worldly possessions in a red handkerchief tied to a stick.
“Yes. Because the world is my home. Ergo, I cannot be home-less. I am home-more.”
“Ah. I see. Well, you still need shelter from the elements.” I stared at the smoldering mess in front of us. “It’s supposed to rain tonight before it drops into the thirties.”
“I know,” he said.
“I can take you to buy a new tent if you want? The sporting goods place across town has tons of camping stuff, but they won’t open until morning. Is there a shelter you’d like to go to?”
“I need to stay here.”
“Why?”
“I am waiting for an important package.”
Okay. This was just getting weird. “From?”
“From none of your business.”
“Fair enough.” I nodded, masking my intense curiosity. “Do you know what time the package is coming?”
“I do not, but I cannot miss it,” he said.
“Well, you didn’t slit my throat last time despite being a serial killer, so I suppose you can crash on my couch again.”
He flashed an irritated look at me.
“I’m just trying to help.” Though, I really didn’t know why.
He looked away, his jaw pulsing beneath a curtain of black bristly whiskers. As I stared, waiting for his reply, I realized he was probably around my age. The beard made him look older, but there was no mistaking the youthful skin under that scowl.
“I’ll go first thing after work tomorrow and buy you a new tent, okay?” I added.
“Why are you trying to help me?” he asked accusatorially.
I shrugged. “I guess…” I was about to say something that made me sound like an awesome, selfless giver, but it would be a lie. “It freaks me out, thinking of someone dying under my bedroom window. And honestly, I could use a full night’s sleep.”
“So you do not actually care about me,” he said sternly.
Of course I cared, but I couldn’t claim he was a level three yet. Aka a casual acquaintance. “I guess not.”
“Good. Because I do not deserve your sympathy or goodwill.”