In The Gutter,
age ain't nothing but a number.
age ain't nothing but a number.
Mr. Big by Jonathan Brown
The road
is always slickest after the first rain. We’d had twenty-nine days of scorching
heat then the dark clouds moved in overnight like a bad omen. By eight a.m., I’m on the street and the road is like
ice under my rubber. Still I go—gotta get there or I’m toast.
I gun it
down Eastman and take a hard right on Main. Breaking slightly before the turn,
I punch it coming out. The back end kicks out but I ride it and right it. I’m
pushing it when I hear the sirens. They get close. I shoulder-check, seeing as
I don’t have a mirror. A black and white Ford Explorer has all grill and roof
lights flashing. I don’t care. I’m going for it. I grind the gears as I shift
sloppily. I feel every bump as my rubber fights to meet the road. But I won’t be
late—can’t be late.
I see my
spot and accelerate, crank the wheel, and squeeze between the Beemer and the
Audi, and tuck in like a Louisiana tick. The cops scream by and keep on movin’.
I leave
the ride and take the steps two at a time. Sprinting down the hall, I deke left
and double-deke right. No way is this horde of people going to stop me, not
today. I grab the door just before it shuts. The place is packed. Mr. Big holds
court. Nobody talks when Mr. Big has the floor. His sleeves are rolled up high
on his thick hairy forearms as usual. When Mr. Big puts his pissed off glare on
you it’s like being stared down by a Rottweiler. I try not to shake.
“Nice of
you to join us, Mister Davis,” he says.
“Sorry,
Mister Big,” I say, angling for a chair.
“Sorry?
That’s it?” His voice is deep like actor James Earl Jones only add two
tablespoons of gravel to it and that’s Mr. Big’s soundtrack.
The
silence is thicker that grandma’s gravy. A thought hits me before I sit. “Mr.
Big I apologize again for being late but I’m going to need, like, another thirty
seconds.”
“Oh
really? Why don’t tell us why we should wait for you? You do know that if you
fail this final you’re looking at summer school? And if you fail that it means
no high school for Mr. Timmy Davis. You’ll be looking at eighth grade all over
again.” He pauses and folds his big arms. “Talk about middle school blues.”
