The Easy Way Out

42

"I'm two-hundred-fifty pounds," Karas growled, elbows on the coffee shop counter.

Pat smirked. "You ain't been two-fifty since grade school."

"He don't see me?" Karas' angry glare fixed on the barista.

The barista pushed the bangs out of his eyes, handing a whipped frappuccino to a giggly teenage girl.

"What is it with these kids?" Karas looked up at the ceiling and shook his head. "Back in the day, when I was pumpin' gas, my manager would chew my ass if I didn't greet the next customer in line, 'Be right with you.' Now, they ignore you, like you're fuckin' invisible."

Pat shrugged. "Nobody gives a shit about customer service no more."

"If they spent half the time on basic interpersonal skills that they do on their goddamn phones..."

"Welcome to the human race." 

Karas hollered at the barista. "I know you see me, you little pencil-neck prick."

"Unless there's an emoji for 'pencil-neck prick,' you're not getting through."

########

Leaning against the McDonald's window, his swollen face grateful for the cool glass, Blake longed for the afternoons of boredom looking out at the rows of For Sale signs propped up on the windshields of cars he had little chance of selling. He caught his reflection when he straightened in his seat, a reflection of a face that appeared to have been carved into a potato.

He was so hungry that he couldn't find it in himself to keep running. He needed something in his belly besides pain. Nursing the remains of a large soft drink that he found in the parking lot, he eyed the customers nearby.

Two rambunctious kids climbed on the seat, playing with their Happy Meal toys while nibbling at their hamburgers. When they knocked their tray off the table, drinks toppling, their exasperated mother had had enough. She blotted the spill with a handful of napkins, tendrils of hair that had escaped from her messy bun dangled precariously, inches away from a close encounter with blobs of ketchup on the table.

Blake rose slowly, sauntering to the trash can near the exit. Despite loud protests, the frazzled mom herded her children toward the door, balancing the tray loaded with leftover food and twisted ketchup packets.

"Looks like you got your hands full," said Blake, offering to take her tray. She nodded warily at the bruised, wrinkled, unkempt stranger as she ushered her kids out of the restaurant.

Pretending to dump the tray's contents, he swiped two partially-eaten burgers and a container of fries, then crammed them into his pockets. He slipped through the door then crossed the parking lot to the SUV. He was barely inside the vehicle when he ravenously devoured the burger remnants.

When Alex's cell phone chimed, he recognized the incoming number. He checked the message, which read: Babe? Just got your message. Where are you?

It took a moment to register, then excitedly, he replied: Call me.

When the phone rang, apprehensively, he took the call, his cheek bulging with cold french fries. The sound of Rachel's voice accelerated his pulse. "Babe?... Chia?"

He didn't for a moment question how or why. It was Rachel and that's all that mattered. He swallowed. "Where are you?"

"I'm in Spartanburg. South Carolina. This isn't your phone number. Are you all right? How did you--"

"--Yeah, I'm okay. You okay?"

"I lost my charger. I didn't-- I've been so scared."

"I'm not far from Spartanburg," he said, his spirits lifted. "I'll call you when I get close."