Mike v2.0 (A Firesetter Short Story) (6 page)

Six months passed until my back was more or
less healed and I was released from the hospital, a new, but not
improved man. I was also totally broke, so much in debt that four
lifetimes of delivering pizzas, my previous occupation, wouldn't
yield enough to ever make me a free man.

Briefly, I considered stepping into the street
again and encouraging another vehicle to roll over me, this time
finishing the job completely. That was the only way I could foresee
escaping the hospital's payment plan, which as I departed, was
detailed on an invoice that would follow me for the next forty
years.

Instead, I headed to a local pub where I spent
the next day and night drowning my sorrows in beer, drinking up
what little remained of my money. It was stupid, of course. I
should have put it toward the hospital's first installment.
Somehow, and at some point, I managed to stagger home to my flat,
where fortunately, the landlord had taken pity upon me during my
absence.

Gloria didn't evict me, or toss my things in
the street during my convalescence. This could have been entirely
due to the fact that no one else was willing to rent that dive. It
also could have been because she liked me. Poor Gloria was on the
wrong side of forty, nearly twenty years my senior and throughout
her life, had a habit of selecting the wrong kind of guy. This
included me.

I regretted what happened. I became a whore.
While I scrambled to pay the hospital bill by selling my stuff and
raising money in any way I could, I kept Gloria entertained in
exchange for the rent.

Every month, on the first, it went like this.
Gloria would knock on my door, usually bright and early,
undoubtedly, waking me from a sound and contented sleep that was
much nicer than my reality. Groggily, I’d stumble from the sofa,
swing the door wide open to admit her and feign surprise at her
arrival during this ungodly hour.

“The rent, Lance,” she'd say frostily, holding
out a hand, the other knuckled into her side, a foot tapping out an
impatient rhythm. “I can't let you go another month without
paying.”

“Rent,” I'd mutter sleepily, running a hand
across my night's beard. “Oh. Gloria. Yeah, the thing
is---”

“What?”

“I'm a little short again this month.” I’d pat
my hands against my hips as if checking inside the nonexistent
pockets of my marginally clean and slightly torn boxer
shorts.

“Mhm,” she'd mutter, her eyes drawn to my
hands, where inevitably she'd find a prime example of morning wood.
“Oh. Is that for me?”

“It's all I've got right now,” I'd say, which
was followed by the old couch being cleared of my ratty blanket and
the even older sleeper mattress beneath extended to its full
size.

Then, I did what I did best, because at
twenty-four, I was a loser at every other round in this game of
life. Gloria left happy, and my lack of rent was forestalled for
another month.

Eventually, Gloria tired of this game, or
maybe, she preferred to play it instead with the guy in the
apartment across the hall. At any rate, she gave me an ultimatum.
At the end of the month, pay up or get out.

“You got anything else?” the pawnbroker asked,
as I stared at the measly number written on my ticket.

“Hey, that ring is worth more than that!” I
insisted. “It was my mother's. She left it to me to give to my
future wife.”

“I'm doing you a favor then,” the guy replied.
“You give a girl this piece of crap cubic zirconia and she's liable
to throw it back at you and walk out of your wedding.”

“It's not a fake.”

“Listen to me, son. I've seen a lot of rings
in my day, and that one's about as real as my tooth.” He proceeded
to reach into his mouth and pull out a shiny, white incisor.
“Look's nice, eh? Indestructible, too. Better than the real thing,
but my wife doesn't wear it on her finger. So, you got anything
else for me to look at?”

I would have liked to offer him my fist, but I
didn't. Since Gloria dumped me, this guy was about the only friend
I had. Putting my hands in my pockets to restrain them, I pretended
to consider the paltry offer on my mother's ring. I was going to
take it. I had no choice. I was down to my last nickel, or rather,
the forty-three dollars and thirty-seven cents which were already
promised to the hospital.

“Just this,” I said, finding that stupid Euro
coin in my pocket. “Maybe this is a collector's item?”

“Let me see.” The guy dropped his loop over
his eye and turned the coin this way and that way. He murmured
something, while trying to read it. “I don't know what in the hell
this says. It's a piece of crap. Not worth a nickel.” He tossed it
back, whereupon it rolled the distance of the counter, before
falling flat.

Heads. Some dude in a crown looked off across
the horizon at the ancient toasters and television sets with orange
price tags hanging from them.

“It's an ancient Euro.”

“No, it's not. What language does that look
like to you?”

“I don't know. Greek? Russian?
Portuguese?”

The pawnbroker shook his head and glanced at
the door. Another customer had come in, or more likely, another
victim of the decrepit economy came to hock whatever he had in
order to eat. “Are you taking my offer on the ring, or
no?”

“I guess so,” I said, studying my not-Euro
coin again. “You sure this isn't worth anything?”

“Not to me.”

“That's worth a fair amount in the old
Empire,” the new customer interrupted. “Although, it'll cost you a
heck of a lot more to travel the ten lightyears to get
there.”

“Where?”

I turned to look at my neighbor, only to
discover he was wearing a SpaceForce uniform and carrying an old
iPad from the twenty-first century.

“I found this in a rummage sale on Darius II.
Is it worth anything, Pops?” He set it on the counter for the old
man, and then, held out his hand to take a look at my coin. “Yep,
this is an old Imperial dollar. It’s definitely worth something to
collectors around the galaxy. It dates back to the reign of the
Great Emperor. That’s who this guy is on the front. You wouldn’t
want to sell it to me, would you?”

“I will buy it first,” the pawnbroker
interjected.

“No way.” I snatched it back from the
spandex-clad spaceman. “You can buy his iPad, Pops. You missed your
chance with me.”

Grabbing my mom's cubic zirconia wedding ring
off the counter as well, I left the pawnshop with a new spring in
my step. I was determined to take my coin to a place where its
value would be appreciated. Worth something could mean several
thousand and several thousand would easily pay off the hospital
bill. This coin would give me a chance to restart my life
debt-free. On the other hand, if I had to take the coin across the
galaxy, why would I bother coming back?

Unfortunately, the fare on a spaceplane to the
nearest port where the coin could be exchanged, cost more than I
would have gained selling the ring and the clothing off my back, as
well as the old sofa, and the toaster in my flat. The only way to
get myself from here to there was to get on a ship that didn't cost
me anything.

“The dude's spandex uniform wasn't all that
ugly,” I told myself, walking into the SpaceForce recruiting office
down the street. “And, I'd get three squares a day, a hot shower,
and a clean bed without any aging landladies in it.” That didn’t
sound a whole lot different than prison, but at that point, I
didn’t care.

An hour later, I walked out, officially a
recruit with a contract in hand, and an induction physical
scheduled for the following day.