That was an excellent question. “I could have stolen his phone,” I answered as honestly as I could.
“Yeah. Not that it matters, but it’s the anniversary of his wife’s death. Just give him a break. Okay?”
“Yep,” I said. “He’ll still be here when you get here.”
The connection ended and I handed the phone back to him. The guy with the dead wife. “He’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“You made that look very simple,” he said.
“It was,” I pointed out. “You know you could have just told Siri to call your driver for you.”
I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to point that out, especially since he hadn’t paid me yet, but I wasn’t going to be here the next time this guy got drunk.
“Fuck, Siri.” He put the phone in his back jean pocket and pulled out his wallet. He fumbled with it for a few seconds and I rolled my eyes.
“Dude, seriously?” I asked him, looking around the street for people who were way more serious than I was about taking money from this guy. “You don’t need to be flashing cash.”
He pulled out a few bills, folded them and stuffed his wallet back into his pocket.
Then he turned and leaned against the brick façade of the building, the bills still in his hand.
“I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to give that to me.” I pointed to his hand.
“Wait with me,” he demanded.
“I’ve got places to be.”
“Of course you don’t.”
He was right. I didn’t. I walked over and leaned against the wall next to him. A few inches apart. If I needed to, I could slip the money out from his fingers and take off.
“You gotta cigarette?” he asked me.
“You smoke? Do people actually still do that?”
He shrugged. “People do. I don’t. Just thought it’d pass the time.”
“It’s not good for you,” I told him.
“Hmm.”
He leaned his head back against the brick and stuffed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, making the cash less accessible. I was working that problem when the door to the bar opened and a blast of light exploded onto the street as two people walked out. A couple, or a hook up. Hard to tell. They walked past us without any consideration.
“So what’s your deal?” he asked. I could see in my peripheral vision, his head rolling in my direction.
“Told you,” I said, looking straight ahead instead of at him. “I’m a good Samaritan. I roam the streets looking out for drunks and people down on their luck.”
He laughed at that, and this time he actually sounded amused.
“You a hooker?”
“No,” I said.
Except a part of me thought about Nico and wondered how long that might be true.
“Homeless?”
“Only every other night,” I said, but I could tell he was too drunk to register it. “Heard your wife died,” I told him, turning the conversation back to his misfortunes.
