More

This is the noise I feed to the guilty Haves. I show them these fake little Have Nots, looking bright and oh-so-happy, and the Haves get so sad. They think these kids don’t even know how bad they have it. And if I have anything to say about it, they never will. So they give me the cheques. The cash. They send me my dinners and my clothes and my rent money. All so they can sleep knowing they cured a pretend disease. That they made a kid who lost his parents to an out of control house fire smile. Sure, in reality, the kid’s parents pick him up everyday for lunch, and papa gives me a raised eyebrow for standing around with my camera—but my sponsors don’t need to know that.

“The well’s really dried up, huh?”

“Don’t say that, Teddy. It’s a cliché. A bad one. And you say it every time we haven’t eaten anything better than rice cakes for a few days.”

“I know Led, but—I don’t know, I’m desperate! You know I ain’t got the money Malone’s looking for.”

Malone. That fucking jackass neighbour. He’s the kind of guy that buys smokes for his pregnant wife just to keep her mouth busy, to keep her shut up. Smokes or worse.

I also know that Teddy needs about three thousand times the amount of money he has in his pocket right now. If someone there hasn’t already taken that from him.

“Yeah, I know you don’t, Teddy. Listen, I’m going to see if I can’t do something to speed this up. Maybe I’ll do a cancer drive or something.”

“Those never get enough.”

“But they get it fast. I’ll get some marathon pledges, too. Quick work, alright? No writing. They’ll see my face though. So you know I love you for doing this.”

“No you don’t, you just can’t sleep in an empty apartment.”

“Okay Ted, I’ll talk to you later.”

Done.

Cancer drives? I hate those something serious. Especially now. Winter.

I mean, I don’t love my hair or anything. I’m no Orlando Ponytail Bloom. But no hair in winter gets too cold too fast in an unheated apartment.

I get the cancer table out anyway.

It’s this little portable plastic camping table Teddy used to use when he was still smart enough to do card tricks on the street. The kinds of tricks that cost cocky people money. Tricks that cops usually chased him for. How the table survived any of that, hell if I know.

But here it is, in my apartment, in all its pock-marked, blue, dirt-crusted glory. I’ve got it’s little storage compartment stuffed with barber equipment. Clippers, razors, smocks, that kinda stuff.

It’s got a little handle on the top of it, when it’s still all folded, so it looks like a big, blue briefcase. So I can maintain a bit of dignity on my walk to Target.

Once I’m there, I can stand out in the cold asking anyone who doesn’t shut me down with a “fuck off” if they’ll pledge me a couple bucks. In return, I’m going to shave my head as a symbol. Like they do in high schools, but those kids don’t really get it, either. I’m saving someone I know, at least.

“Yeah, my head stubble sucks.”

“Sorry man, really. You should just let me go.”

“Legs kill, too. When was the last time I ran a mile, let alone that godforsaken fifteen those stupid autistic kids made me? Shit.”