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 tilted my head, my mind filling with so, so, sooo many reasons as to why his statement was not a good thing. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Well,” I folded my arms, “you must’ve done something if you think you don’t deserve kindness.”
“I did nothing.”
My mind clicked. So the man was paying penance for something he’d failed to do. Perhaps he was like one of those morons you saw on social media who got out their phones and filmed while an innocent granny was being robbed.
He bent down and started picking through the wreckage, collecting his red bag and a partially charred book. I wondered what it was.
“Just so we’re clear,” he said, “you are not to ask me questions, go through my belongings, or attempt to save me.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it. I do not need rescue. And certainly not from you.”
I nodded. “Understood. No rescuing. No butting in. But I do have one request.”
“What?”
“Okay, two, really,” I said. “Don’t slam the decorations in my apartment, and would you help me pass out candy? I have a big proposal due at work tomorrow, and the people in my building leave out a big bowl of boxed raisins.”
“I don’t understand. What is wrong with raisins?”
No sane person handed out raisins on Halloween. “Would you like to spend the next two days picking little brown blobs from the mailbox or scraping them from the windshield of your car? Because the kids find really creative ways to give them back.”
“That is very mean.”
I nodded. “Yep. And it’s why I bribe them with full-sized candy bars to leave us alone.”
“In my day, naughty children got a lump of coal, not oversized treats.”
In his day? Like I’d said, he was probably around my age. “Okay, grandpa. Are you going to help or not? Because I have twenty pounds of diabetes in colorful wrappers that need homes tonight.” Plus a ton of work due tomorrow.
“If you count this as working for my keep, then I will help.”
I smiled.
“After we pick up this litter.” He looked at the candy on the ground. Some of it was probably fine on the inside, but the wrappers were all wet and mucky. No good.
“So you’re a clean, non-swearing, prideful hobo. I can respect that.”
“And you are a nosy, condescending, overly honest, kind person. I can respect that too.”
I was about to argue over his assessment of me, but it didn’t really matter what he thought. I would get help with the candy and have a peaceful night’s sleep, knowing he wouldn’t die under my window.
Seriously though, underneath the excuses, I kept thinking how odd it was. I didn’t know the man, yet I sort of liked having him around. Why would a stranger, who could very well end up being a crazy person, inspire a sense of comfort?
CHAPTER SEVEN
“So what is it that you do, exactly?” asked Tent Man as he went through his red bag, looking for something. I noticed how all of his clothes looked clean and were neatly rolled.
“I’m in the insurance business. The name is Meri Winters, by the way. And you?”
“Beau Starling.”
“Beau the hobo. Cute.” I smiled.
He flashed an annoyed look.
“So, what did you do before this?” I asked.
“You mean before I decided to live like I do now?”
I shrugged. “Sure.”
“Nothing worth mentioning.”
I frowned and wiggled my lips, hesitating to get nosy but unable to resist. “How long have you been living on the streets?”
“I live in a tent, and you said you wouldn’t pry.”
“Okay. You’re right. I’ll butt out.” But really, my curiosity had dialed up to ten. Every answer he gave convinced me there was a big whopper of a story hiding inside him.
“Thank you.” He looked out the window behind the couch, checking for whoever was coming to deliver this mystery package.
“I was about to have some soup for dinner. Would you care to join me?” I asked.
“Thank you, but I’m not hungry. Buying something at the gas station down the street is a requirement to use their facilities. I end up snacking all day.”
So he didn’t poop in a paper bag. Good to know.
His eyes moved around my living room, taking in the various displays in each corner. “You really like Christmas, don’t you?”
I was about to proudly gush over my fanaticism but held back. I was beginning to realize that not everyone shared my sickness: Santa fever.
“I do,” I said, leaving it at that.
“Did you make all of these decorations yourself?” He pointed to my appetizer tree and then to the enormous snowman with an ice machine built into his belly. It wasn’t a big machine, but it had been a fun project, creating an enormous paper mâché snowman with a little table inside. If you wanted ice, you just lifted his red scarf and reached inside his tummy to the ice container. I’d added blue lights inside, too, for Arctic flair.