Communication Breakdown

     As he put one foot in front of the other, Jackson cursed the biting cold and wind and rain that seemed to pass through his thin gray cotton jacket. His old joints cracked with every step, but he had stopped noticing the sound years ago. Piece o' junk. Drive just fine when I got nowhere to be. He cast a glance back at the rusted silver Taurus sitting in a heap under the flickering street light. The wind caught his tie and whipped it up against his face. Up ahead he saw the faint orange glow of a cigarette. A young man, no more than seventeen, stood on a rundown porch, pacing back and forth, as he texted.

     “Hey, there!” Jackson called out. “Is your daddy home, boy?”

     A quick shake of the head was the only acknowledgment Jackson got. The young man turned his back and took another hit off of his cigarette.

     Jackson stepped onto the porch, wiping the rain from his brow. Damn kids can't be bothered to listen when they elders talkin'. “Listen, boy, my car broke down a ways back and I got to get to work. Let me use your phone,” said Jackson, with the stern tone he used on the rowdy kids at the mall where he worked as a security guard.

     The young man turned and stared at Jackson. “I can't help you, so you're just gonna need to go somewhere else.” He flicked the remains of his cigarette at the ground and turned to go inside the house.

Jackson stood there, shaking. His breath was hot and ragged. His eyes narrowed and his hand shot out and grabbed the young man's shoulder. “Damn it, boy, don't you walk away when I'm talkin' to you!”

The boy was a foot shorter and about fifty pounds lighter than Jackson, but he turned and smacked the older man's hand away with ease. In the same movement he knocked Jackson back with his other hand.

     “I'm not your 'boy',” he said, “and I told you once to go. I ain't telling you again.” The two stood, eyes locked on each other in the last dying light of the evening. Seconds that felt like minutes passed, when a voice called out from behind Jackson.

     “Eli! What the hell you doin', boy?” At the first sound of the voice Eli took a step back and seemed to shrink, looking suddenly to Jackson a handful of years younger than he had originally guessed. As he started to turn to find the source of the voice behind him, a man, a massive man, shoved past him and, with a blur of a fist, knocked the boy back against the metal screen door.

     “Nothin', sir. I wasn't doin' nothin'.” The boy kept his eyes down toward the ground as he spoke. The mountain of a man turned and faced Jackson.

     “What's goin' on, here?” Jackson drew a breath and nearly gagged on the smell of whiskey and stale cigars. “He causin' trouble again?”

     “I just need to use your phone, if that's alright,” he said. “My car's broken down up the road and I got to call my boss and tell him I'm gonna be late.”

     “That right?”

     “Yessir. If I can use your phone I'll be on my way.”

     The man glanced back at Eli, still cowering against the door, then turned his watery red eyes back to Jackson. They gazed around and over Jackson, seeking a point to focus on.

     “Gimme your phone, boy, and get in the house.” Without a word Eli handed the man his phone and went inside. The man smiled. “What kind of work you do?”

     “Security guard over at Forest Point.”

     “That's the mall over on DuPont, ain't it?”

     “Yessir.”

     The man sat down on worn out lawn chair, still holding the phone. He fished a crumpled pack of Camels out of the pocket of his jeans and lit one. Absently, he offered one to Jackson.

     “No, thanks. I should be making my call and heading out.” The man's face disappeared behind a cloud of smoke. Jackson stood, quietly, as the faint orange glow of the cigarette brightened and dimmed three times before the man spoke.

     “Job's important to have. Lost mine 'bout seven, eight months back.” Another cloud of smoke punctuated the rambling speech. “Bet they don't pay too well out at that mall, do they? Better than nothin', though. Man's got to have a job.” The man's voice got lower and Jackson felt that he was talking more to himself than anyone else.

     “Look, I really do need to get going. I'm late already...”

     “That boy o' mine ain't good for nothin' but spendin' money I ain't got.” He paused to finish his cigarette, his eyes fixed on Jackson's. “Now, I ain't interested in takin' on some punk job down at the mall. I got some things goin' that'll be payin' off any day now. But, in the meantime, how about you and me work out a deal?”

Jackson was tired and cold. All he could think of was his boss staring at the clock wondering where the old man who was supposed to relieve him was at, and he could barely follow whatever it was the drunk in front of him was trying to say.

     “Hey, man, can I use the phone or not?”

Suddenly the man was on his feet, his face inches away, looking down at Jackson.

     “You get my boy a job out at your mall, and you can use MY phone.” He stabbed a beefy finger into Jackson's chest as he spoke. Jackson's heart raced and he felt his temper rising again. Swallowing it down, he turned and walked back down the steps. “Hey!”

     Heading back the way he came, Jackson heard the man calling behind him.

     “Don't you walk away when I'm talkin' to you!”