No Parking at the End Times by Bryan Bliss Read Free Book Online Page B

with the cold night air against my face and the tall buildings rising above me like sentries, I wonder if this is why Aaron leaves.
    I let everything fall out of my mind. All I think about is my feet pounding against the sidewalk. Trying to let my breath slip in my nose and out of my mouth. To pump my arms like machines. I only stop when I turn another corner and see two people standing down the block.
    They are misshapen, like something from a nightmare. One looks about ten feet tall, long and gangly. He leans back and then forward, but I can’t figure out why. The other is short, like a child, but stockier. The smaller one says, “Yo, you’re getting that shit on me.”
    The other, standing on the hood of the car, laughs and says, “It ain’t shit, dude.”
    “Well that doesn’t mean I want it on me. Keep on target. And besides—” He stops talking and, I think, looksright at me. My eyes finally focus and I see the two of them, maybe a few years older than me, a bit more clearly. The smaller one is kneeling next to a large SUV, a can of spray paint in his hands. The other is peeing into its open sunroof.
    The taller one jumps from the hood and yells, “Who’s that? Teller?” It doesn’t sound threatening, more the way you’d greet a friend you see across the street. But I don’t wait to hear what comes next.
    My legs tremble with each step, but I go hard and fast even though suddenly nothing seems familiar. Every shadow reveals another person wrapped in newspaper or a stained blanket, all of them groaning and yelling at the night and me, rushing by faster than I thought possible. The voices of the two guys fade behind me, and I don’t stop running—faster and faster—until I’m back on what looks like a main street. I feel like I’m going to throw up, but I keep moving until something familiar rises out of the darkness.
    I know this place.
    The tall stone walls and metal gates. Rows of empty cement bleachers stretch down to the empty field. Every time we passed it, Dad would say, “A football stadium rightin the middle of the city . . . how do you like that?” I’m two blocks away from the van, maybe three. Regardless, close enough to sprint.
    Behind me something scrapes the pavement and I don’t even think, I put up my fists—even if they’re useless—and swing.
    I connect with something fleshy and hard. It hurts, but I’m ready to swing again until I hear Aaron’s voice and see him shielding the eye I probably just blackened.
    “Abs, what the hell?”
    My fist is still raised and my entire body ready to react. He’s sweating, too, almost panting for breath. My initial relief is taken over by anger.
    But it’s like he can’t see anything I’m feeling, or doesn’t remember what he promised. Because all he does is stare at me and say, “Christ, who are you? Muhammad Ali?”
    I don’t ask how he knows about the opening in the fence that surrounds the football stadium, or why he hasn’t shown it to me before. I don’t ask how he knew I was here, or why he was out of breath. I follow him down into the belly of the stadium, toward grass so green it seems plastic, unreal. He lies right in the middle of thefield, patting the spot next to him.
    “I came back to the van,” he says when I lay down on the wet grass. “You weren’t there and I freaked. You can’t do this, Abs. You can’t be out here by yourself.”
    Above us, the clouds drift across the moon, making everything seem darker than it really is. Aaron goes up on his elbow and stares down at me. I close my eyes.
    “I know I said I wouldn’t leave,” he says.
    I take almost a minute before I finally answer him. “That’s right. You did.”
    What he says next isn’t what I expect.
    “I didn’t pinky-dog swear.” I open my eyes and stare at him. Pinky-dog swearing was about as serious as you could get when we were kids. It held more weight than anything else—friends, fights, parental decrees. If you pinky-dog swore, you