He walked in the dark from the train station, on his way to work, where he rented rooms to men from the neighborhood, twenty bucks a pop, while women he knew were there tried to make themselves invisible in the parking lot. He’d worked there since he moved to town, even slept in the quickly empty rooms for a few weeks until he made enough for a place in midtown, a basement corner with an arched door.
Like on most nights, he watched the shadows and his step, shielding himself with a medium-loud humming, more often Amazing Grace than not, since he could mark the time with his walking pace, and he held to a vague faith in the protecting veil of a common hymn. How sweet the sound.
His walk skirted a fall-off, a ravine deeper than the kudzu let it appear. It always smelled the same, like decomposition, like an inviting place to throw the unlucky cats who’d met their destiny on the street, the only night to night difference the weather affecting the intensity of the aroma.
It was maybe a mile; he could do it in twenty minutes, more or less, time for several verses of Amazing Grace repeated, the debris of the city drifting against the curbs and chain link fences. Some nights he noticed broken bottles, others were wrapped in the waxy paper from greasy burgers. He was almost always on time, enough that the manager let him slide on the nights the trains ran behind.
He was aware of the traffic without conscious concentration. It was more a thought to his swerving shadow, the dopplering of tires on the cracked concrete, a snatch of thumping music through an open window, sometimes the twinkle of a woman’s delight there and gone again.
When the car pulled up, he made room, angling away from the curb, anticipating a passenger arriving home and a slamming door.
“Hey,” said the man at the wheel, cruising slowly, “You got a gun?”
“What?” He stopped walking. Other cars carved past, revving into the inside lane.
“You got a gun?” The man asked again.
“What? No. Why?”
“I seen you. Before. Walking.”
“O.K.” He turned.
“You ain’t got no gun, do you?”
“No. Why you keep asking me?”
“I can’t give you no ride you got a gun.”
“I didn’t ask for a ride.”
“You work up to The Twins.”
“Yeah. I gotta go, gonna be late.”
“I can give you a ride, you ain’t got a gun. Get in. “
“I’m almost there.”
“Man, if you almost there, I wouldn’t give you no ride. Get in. Rain comin’.”
He reached for the door, swung it open. The man grabbed some stuff off the seat and threw it back.
“Thanks for the ride.”
“You sure you ain’t got no gun?”
He laughed. “No, man. You’re crazy. No, I don’t have a gun.”
The man looked back. He turned the wheel to pull away from the curb.
“Can’t be too careful. Mean, I couldn’t let you in here you got a gun.”
He lit a cigarette. Blowing out the smoke, he said, again, “I don’t have a gun.”
The man smiled, pushed the gas.
“Good. ‘cause I do.”
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