Pod Read Online Free PDF

“Look, I don’t want any trouble—”
    Hoodie says, “Oh, you already
got
trouble, my chubby little friend. The question is what
kind
.”
    Round Guy slides up his glasses. Licks his lips. His mouth opens but nothing trickles out.
    Hoodie says, “See, like maybe you got drugs in there? Some illegal
con
-tra-band?”
    Round Guy puts his hands up and out like everything’s cool. “Hey, I can do this some other time. I mean I can—”
    Hoodie takes a step toward Round Guy, saying, “You can’t do this some other time, my friend. Cause there ain’t gonna be
another time
.”
    Hoodie’s fist slams into Round Guy’s stomach, once. I hear the rush of air leave his lungs. Something metal drops out of Round Guy’s hand, clanks on the cement. He sinks to the ground like a balloon deflating. I can’t see him now, but I hear the squeaks of him trying to breathe. Black Beard turns to face the green door, his hands clenched into fists.
    Hoodie, smiling down on Round Guy, says, “You gotta work your abs, my friend. Otherwise you’re gonna have some serious back problems.” Then, to Black Beard: “Like punching a feather pillow, man. I think I bruised my knuckles on his spine. Never, ever let your body get that soft.”
    Black Beard stares at him. He says something to Hoodie, but I can’t hear what. I think it’s in Spanish.
    Hoodie shrugs and says, “Desperate times, desperate measures.” He heads for the green door.
    Black Beard lifts Round Guy to his feet. His legs are all floppy like they don’t have any bone. He slings him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and followsHoodie across the lot. They disappear inside. The green door clicks behind them.
    I wait ninety-three seconds.
    I slide out of the car. Round Guy’s glasses are on the ground. I pick them up, start to put them in my pocket, then decide to leave them where they are. I look for that metal tool. It’s under the blue car next to a rear tire—a six-inch flathead screwdriver. Not a tire iron, but it’ll do.
    It takes me sixteen minutes and lots of prying, but eventually there’s a click. The trunk of our car pops open. I’m so thirsty my tongue feels like it’s glued to the top of my mouth. I lift out the cooler along with some extra clothes that might come in handy. While I’m doing that I see the clothes Mom wore the night we pulled into LA. They’re folded and tucked into a corner next to the spare tire. It’s her favorite jeans and the Red Sox sweatshirt I bought her for Mother’s Day. My throat gets lumpy. She must have changed into her “interview outfit” in the car while I was sleeping. That was what, a million years ago? The sweatshirt would come in handy against the cold at night, but I think no, when she comes back, she’ll need it more than me. That outfit didn’t cover much skin.
    I lug the cooler back into the car and open it up. There are lots of treasures, but my first move is to twist open the only bottle of water. I drink it so fast it spills out the sides and soaks my T-shirt. Half the bottle is gone before I think maybe I should save some. I cap it, then look at what I’ve got. Four cans of beer, one can of Mountain Dew, a half-gone package of pepper-jack bologna we stole froma Safeway in Bakersfield, eight soggy hot-dog buns, a handful of mustard packages, and some stinky yellow cheese sealed in a Ziploc bag. There used to be ice, but it’s all melted so the mishmash is floating around in a brownish, lumpy glop. It looks like soup to me. I figure the beer will last the longest, so that means it’s bologna and cheese and Mountain Dew now. There’s an empty water bottle on the floor of the car. I fill it with the soup. Squeeze some mustard on the bologna. Wrap it around a piece of stinky cheese. I’ll have a hot-dog bun later. Call it dessert.
    Mom would be proud, wherever she is. I fixed lunch all by myself.

DAY 4: PROSSER, WASHINGTON

    Taking out the Trash
     
    I’m having a dream about Mom. She’s making