Wednesday Nights

Christofer’s hands tapped against his jeans, cooling from the night air. He loved living in California and had since he moved here. Nimbly, his fingers tapped on. He sung along quietly to the frequencies emitted from his ear buds. His eyes collapsed, his body moving a bit more. He was never one to care if a three year old girl saw him strumming an air guitar while he walked, so, he did. He laughed slightly as he pulled one ear bud out, looking across the way. Out of habit, his head tilted, staring at a bundled up… thing. It arms and legs were closed together, its jeans ripped massively at the knees. He looked quite homeless.

Chris checked the roads- right, left right,- then jogged across the way. The bundled thing became clearer. It was a human, a man. He was lanky, curled over, his forehead against his knees and his mop-looking brown hair covering it. “Uh… hello?” he asked the lump, wondering if it would respond. There was nothing, the lump just sat like a log. Christofer pursed his lips, unsure of what to do. He could take him in for the night, perhaps. He nodded with a small smile and tapped the lump’s arm- still no movement. He sighed and pulled his arm a bit, forcing him up. He was conscious, breathing, but seemed like that could end any moment. The man’s hazel eyes stared at Christofer’s, confused and slightly afraid. Christofer shrunk down, just quick enough to help him stand. With his help, the man stood, several inches taller than Chris.

Christofer took his fingers, lacing them with his own and beginning to walk. The man followed, not sure where he was going, but the warm embrace of the boy’s hand made him feel strange- good, even. He could tell this boy wasn’t going to hurt him.

Before he knew it, they’d stopped in front of the backside of an apartment building, loud music going off, the streets dirty and grimy. The man watched everything, taking it all in. this boy didn’t live in a very good neighborhood. It was that sort of place that you’d be afraid to walk out of the building for fear of being shot.

Christofer climbed the last of the stairs, standing on a metal, rusted balcony. “Come on!” he called down below. “You gotta climb the stairs, I don’t have my key.” The man did as he was told, trusting this boy, though he shouldn’t be trusting at all.

As they entered the back, Christofer huffed and plopped on the couch, pulling his shoes and socks off. His shorts rested half way down his thighs when he sat and his hair was flat by the hat he previously wore, throwing it like a Frisbee onto the floor with a grin. “You can sit,” the boy told him, giving an innocent smile. The man nodded, sitting at the very opposite end of the couch.

Now that Christofer had proper light, he noticed him. He looked no more than twenty-five with a ragged shirt that fit loosely on him and it nearly looked like the holes in his jeans were intended. His sneakers looked fairly new, fitted perfectly to match the tightness of his faded black jeans. His lanky arms were lined with tattoos that came across his chest and neck, and his hair rested just above his shoulders at a natural brown colour.

“Do you have a name?” Christofer asked after a minute of staring.

“Erm… Oliver,” the man said, looking at him, his accent shining through in just the two words.

“Where are you from, Oliver?” Christofer asked, noticing it.

“England… Sheffield,” he nodded.

“So, why were you in the street?” he asked with a slight laugh.

“Er… well, my band… kicked meh off tha bus.”

Christofer stood slightly, looking at him. “Well, why’d they do that?”

“I was… erm, I was, pissed.”

“Like, mad? That’s no reason to throw you off a bus. What instrument do you play?”

“Er… no, pissed, like… drunk, always,” he muttered, slinking his tattooed fingers through his hair.

“Oh, right. Well, what instrument?”

“I scream,” he said quietly, looking back at Christofer. “Look, thanks fer, fer this… bu’, er, ‘m I gonna live ‘ere, or…? Why’d yeh take meh in?”

Christofer shrugged, staring at his nails. “I’m a nice person. You can sleep on the couch, alright? Call your band tomorrow or something.”

Oliver wiped his mouth with a nod, watching Christofer stalk away. He didn’t know this boy’s name, he didn’t know how old he was, or anything. He had just watched him leave and turn into a room. He curled up on the couch, closing his eyes as he rested his head on the arm of it. He was tired, hung over, and, cold, so he questioned nothing.

Oliver had fallen asleep rather quickly, his eyes shut tight and his body curled up as if he was hiding from something. The couch was a foot too short, so he had to scrunch. Christofer stared down at him with a slightly sad smile. He draped a blanket over him, whispering a good night before stalking off in the hall again.