I Want Out [Working Title]

I Want Out

         "Is that it?"
         Those three words hung in the air of a cramped and dingy one-bedroom apartment. They couldn't quite travel elsewhere, for the apartment bottled them within, never to leave its claustrophobia-inducing parameters. Seeming to leisurely bounce off the walls and floorboards, the words found their way through the bedroom door, to the living room and kitchen (where the two merged as one conveniently), down a narrow and short hallway that led to the door out, bounced desperately on the door back to the bedroom. Sitting up in scarce contemplation to receive these words was Cris, a slim man whose consciousness he let slip anywhere it pleased.
         Half-naked and a bit cold, Cris finally fetched the three words his girlfriend of a couple of months--who took her space lying her head on the pillow in a way so that she wouldn't have to see him--had said. A silence of tremendous awkwardness or, rather, impatience fell upon the couple; and that silence was completely one-sided with the ball on Cris's court, but he definitely did not appear to play cricket in this situation. He had disappointed his mate during sex. Although he knew full well what he had done (or failed to do), he could not summon any words or constructive thought towards his girlfriend's inquiry. He merely sat up and let those words bounce all over his apartment and return to him. As if to register, he softly repeated them to himself: "Is that it?"
         His girlfriend, or Jen he'd like to call but usually opted-out for names like "hey" or "bitch," tossed a tad under the sheets, hugging the covers closer to her exposed chest. "Well, if you're going to act like that, I might as well go to sleep, wake up tomorrow and visit your pal Sammy, and maybe he might make better use of what God gave him," she said while closing her eyes with a smirk of having won yet another battle in the War of Relationship. Although she was twenty-two, Jen did not perform the paradigm of woman; rather, she exhibited petulant traits such as her outlook on her and Cris's relationship.
         "I'm gonna go out for a spliff," Cris says with the same expressionless face. He started off the bed with a sort of quick tempo; put his pants and undershirt on the way another man does after a one-night stand. After slipping his shoes on, he proceeded to exit the apartment, first putting on his light jacket, for he saw out the window of the kitchen the visible exhales of shady passersby under a luminescent moon.

         Hands stuffed within his jacket pockets, Cris made his way towards a twenty-four hour diner he frequented called Elmo's. Though the hands on his watch shorted two hours from midnight--the time he usually decides to head on over--Cris found himself a bit hungrier than usual. This hunger, however, could not be satisfied by anything on their menu; and his leisurely gait conveyed his attitude towards the diner at this point in time. Nonetheless, Cris did want to make it in time for something.
         The bell on top of the door of the diner sounded as Cris entered the scene. Not many souls lingered within this dusty diner of which consisted of some of the same qualities other shady diners have: an unattended counter with some old man reading the paper in the stool located at the far end; an open sign at the window blinking off and on sporadically, like a lighthouse losing its touch; that one man, sitting in a booth by the window, on alert for something. The man at the booth quickly caught Cris's attention as his feet started towards his direction.
         Out from the little pathway between kitchen and counter shouted the owner of the joint who had spotted Cris out of his peripheral, "It's pretty early for you to be coming down, ain't it, Cris?"
         Both Cris and the man sitting at the booth looked at each other for a slight second after Elmo identified Cris. Cris went to have a few words with Elmo over the counter.
         "Hey Elmo, you seen Sammy around here yet?" Cris asked, not making any eye contact.
         Elmo answered in a voice comparable to a frog, though his eyes stuck on the screen of a little television set with one bent antenna: "Nope. But if I had seen him, I would have killed him. His tab's getting to be too much." At this point Cris decided to take a look at the stout man who had accumulated perspiration over sitting. Handle casually caught in between his fingers as the head stood on the tile rested a baseball bat. Cris imagined Elmo would really clock Sammy out of the park if the chance ever arose, however strange and nonchalantly Elmo had put his threat.
         "I'll be sure to send him your way next time I see him," said Cris, to which Elmo replied with some odd intestinal grunt.
         Cris began to walk towards the man in the booth by the window again, but this time he held no surprise in his presence. He slid into the seat opposite of the man and pretended to be interested in the view outside. A cat had rested itself to fit the mouth of a storm drain. His girth was such that one false breath would mean him taking a free fall down the drain; and he would probably remain there until the next generous storm.
         "You see that cat caught in the drain?" asked the man. "He's been there for...hmm, I'd say two hours now. I can't tell if he's stuck there or if that's some sort of comfort to him." The man spoke with a practiced collectedness, the kind of collectedness accrued with a number of self-organized drug negotiations held in the damp alleyways within the same street that that cat stuck in the storm drain is in. One must maintain his composure if he wants his business to stay under the radar.
         "I'm pretty sure that cat can get out on his own," replied Cris, "He's big enough."
         "What, you think that cat attained some sort of good karma? That's a little...hopeful, isn't it, Cris?" The man said this with a faint surprise in his tone as if to pry something off of Cris.
         "It's not so much karma that I'm saying this out of; it's will power."
         The two stared at each other out of the corner of their eyes while facing the cat in the drain. The cat attempts to move but is stuck wiggling around with its paws motioning to go but its body saying otherwise.
         "Then again, the damn cat might just be stupid," said Cris.
         The man slightly grinned and exhaled at his attempt at identifying this as humor. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a pack of cheap cigarettes, and gestured an offer to Cris, of which he accepted. When the man pulled out the lighter to spark his cigarette, Elmo's frog-voice croaked across the diner, "I thought I told you guys no smoking!"
         The man shot Elmo a glance but proceeded to spark. "Eh, pipe down!" He handed the lighter to Cris.
         "So, have you seen Sammy?" asked Cris while fixing himself up with a smoke.
         The man took a long drag, let the breath rest for a bit in his lungs, and exhaled before answering. "Nah--but if I would've seen that coward I would've killed him."
         "What, you, too?" said Cris, rolling his eyes and tapping his bud on the side of the table, letting the ashes fall to the discolored tile.
         "You know that friend of yours--he's a piece of work," the man continued to say, "He's been skimming on my cut of the action. I say that because he thinks he's running the gig; he thinks he's the one supplying. And it ain't like that, you see?"
         "So what, you think he skipped town with your money?"
         "I've got eyes on him. I may not have seen him, but I got eyes. I could have him taken out at any point of my...let's call it displeasure."
         "So why haven't you?"
         "I'm a self-centered man, Cris. I want him to come to me,"--light drag from cigarette--"so I can gut him myself."
         Cris rested his eyes on the man before him, trying to figure whether he was serious or not. The man stared back. Oh, was he serious. Cris took another drag and decided not to smoke anymore of the cigarette for the ugly taste that settled in his mouth every exhale. He saw that the man continued to suck on his like it was a full course meal. In many ways, that disgusted him. He had finally spoken for himself after the smoke rode a breeze of poor but timely air conditioning: "I want out, Vick."
         Now the man sitting across Cris coolly checked to see if he had meant what he just said. Vick awkwardly grinned. "You ain't serious, are you, Cris?"
         "Completely."
         "What, you got a better-paying gig or something?"
         "As far as money's concerned maybe; but the investment would be on me."
         "Ah, I see: You've seen one of those preacher guys on TV, the one that comes out in the AM when no one but addicts and the awake are up to watch."
         "Tag it to anything. Point is I'm out."
         Vick continued trying to read Cris.
         "You're not the type to snitch my business to the cops, are you?"
         "What you do--and, more importantly, what I've done with you--is in my vault."
         Vick played around with this in his mind. In his history of working for him, Cris always seemed loyal, and he did not look for trouble or come upon it that often. Yes, Vick viewed Cris as a great employee; however, he didn't expect him to want to leave. When people get into this business and commit to it for as long as Cris and Sammy have, the predictability of them quitting gets a little foggy. Still Vick considered letting him scram for some odd reason. Surely he had the capital, the pushers, and the quality of his narcotic practically sold itself. He figured that perhaps Cris was just another cat stuck in the drain--stuck, not stupid. With this in mind, he spoke, "With your friend occupying all of my anger and displeasure, I'm finding it quite easy to be generous with you here." He sucked down another lungful of smoke and released it into the air. "I'll give you out. However, there is a catch."
         Cris quickly contemplated the horrid or embarrassing task he would have to perform under this "catch." Different scenarios playing in his head, Cris still could not have a definite sort of punishment designed specifically for him.
         "The catch is," Vick continued, "that you must bring in your friend Sammy to me." Vick smiled a sort of menacing smile, for he knew the weight of the stipulation.
         "Why do I have to do it? I thought you said you have eyes on him. Can't one of your eyes get this done?" Cris asked, sounding a bit desperate for another possibility.
         Vick sucked down whatever that was left of his cigarette and pressed it to the table. "You said you wanted out, didn't you?" He got up and left the diner.
         Eyes watching Vick's figure as he left, Cris was dumbfounded. He let the cigarette burn out as he slowly realized he had been asked to lead his best friend to his demise.

         Casting a roaming shadow under every sidewalk light walked Cris heavy into the night. Consumed in thought and a biting sensation of bitter coldness from the harsh breezes rushing by, he figured he had to at least check if Sammy was at his home a block down from the diner. This meeting would have to come eventually, he thought.
         Sammy and Cris's history go a ways back starting at preadolescence. Cris would cook up some big scheme to make them money, and Sammy would go along with him because one, he never turned down an opportunity to make that extra green, and two, he considered Cris to be a brother--the brother that his parents who had emotionally sequestered him from their lives could not give. So as his parents were detached from Sammy, he could care less of what kind of trouble he would get himself into; and what he got into was a whole lot of shady business. Cris found it easier to help deal drugs on the streets than to get a job with applications to fill and larger ladders to climb. For years, they found themselves under different holders until they had landed in Vick's alley.
         As Cris recollected their history, he found himself at the front door of the shabby apartment Sammy resided in. He thought about circling the block one more time, though his legs took him up the stoop.
         "Hey, it's me," Cris spoke into the intercom. The door buzzed and made a clicking noise signaling the okay to come inside the building. As Cris went up a couple flights of stairs, he couldn't help but hear the crying of crack babies, a name he gave most of the kids that were born to live in the premises of Downtown. He understood that there lived a hopeful group of people here and there amongst the shady blocks; and he aimed to succeed their dream. He felt as though he awoke into his current life. Those crack babies crying, he thought, shed tears of joy of the life rewarded to those who broke into getting a new perspective.
When he stopped at Sammy's floor Cris merely tapped on his door; the minute force cracked it open to where the light from inside escaped onto his eye vertically. Cris cautiously opened the door in fear of walking into a murder scene. The first breath he took he coughed on; he quickly assumed the air held smoke of a gun, for it smelled heavily of it. However, he soon found that he thought of the wrong smoke.
         "Hey! It's my ol' pal Cris, ladies and gents!" shouted Sammy, high as a kite with no one at the ground-end running it. Joint in one hand, the other whisking the air between the fingers, Sammy took on a role as conductor of his life's symphony, feeling the flow to it all. The smile on his face and the occasional giggle signified his contentment with his actions. "What brings you here, chum? And please, take a seat."
         "I came to see how you're doing, Sam," Cris returned in looking for an open seat. The only couch in the living room had its seats occupied in piles of hemp--green, fresh, and neatly packed in cheap Zip-Lock bags. "I'll just stand up," Cris muttered under his breath.
         "How I'm doing?" Sam replied. "Nowadays you only drop by as a messenger pigeon for that prisoner Vick."
         "Prisoner--what, you think Vick's in the rock or something?"
         "Man, he might as well be--a prisoner of his own designed cell. Stiff wouldn't know living if it gave him money like he loves getting money--in a dark alley with it smelling of blood, sweat, and not an ounce of shame."
         "I think that stuff you're smoking is making you stupid or something. Why would you say something like that when you're pushing for him..."--Cris glances briefly at the pile of product--"and keeping most of the goods for yourself I see."
         "Shush, shush--don't tell ol' Vick, but I'm actually getting more off of this cheap stuff and pocketing the excess; he don't need it anyways. The only thing that matters more than that green on the couch is the green in my wallet." Sam giggled some more then fixed his eyes to Cris's. "And I'm not stupid. As much as I would normally disagree with it, go to church; you'll find stupid people in there. I'm just celebrating the income, my friend."
         "You know, Vick's wanting to bust your ass, Sam," Cris finally said.
         "Man, that guy's been busting my ass since we met him."
         This was true. Sammy and Vick never really got along when it came to just about anything. One usually stuck to a program because of its efficiency, the other always tried to find another way of doing things, and usually the bad way. One found certain things humoring, like pain and specific episodes of the Late Show, the other found life in general laughable. One tapped after he pissed, the other gave a light squeeze. The two frequented arguments as it provided a chance for one of them to be right. Sure, they worked together in the honest spirit of money; but give one of them a gun and a room to themselves, and the surprise would fall to no one if only one of them came out alive and just the slightest happier. This was their relationship.
         "Look, I'll go over to Vick in an hour or two to give him his cut," continued Sammy. "I still feel the high in my eyes."
         Cris gazed towards the window at the opposite side of the room, opposite of the front door. He could see the fire escape by the light of the moon, and he could hear the minute clattering of the rails and steps, a result of the howling wind. Although the window was closed and the outside remained a world separate from him and Sammy, he could still feel a beckoning to join that separate world, like a light tugging at his soul.
         "You didn't come down here just to tell me about that little doggie, did you, Cris?" Sammy interjected with a smile.
         Cris looked to the floor for a moment in brief deliberation with his mind's council. At first, the thought of telling him saddened him, for Cris knew that this business of cheating and dealing kept Sammy smiling. This smile, however, brought a little fire to the pan. What gave Sammy the right to smile, Cris thought in a slight resentment. That smile of yours is a result of other's misfortune and your arrogance. You think nothing can touch you. I regret ever involving you in my life, the life I'm trying to escape right now.
         "If you came here to tell me about old Vick," Sammy said with a slight impatience, "then the least you can do is help me separate the money into these two bags." He moved towards the couch where the drugs sat and threw Cris two empty duffel bags from behind the end furthest from him. Sammy then motioned towards the bedroom.
         "I'm leaving this life, Sammy," Cris finally said, stopping Sammy in his tracks.
         "What--you mean in a spiritual sense?" Sammy joked. He proceeded to go to the bedroom. "If you mean that, I can sympathize with reincarnation, I really can," he shouted from his bedroom, "I believe the possibility of me existing before this life--and after. I mean, nothing can stop me. It's kind of like a perpetual seed, don't you think?" He came back to the living room with a gym bag and dropped it on the floor in front of the couch. "If it pleases you in any extent, I'm sort of leaving this life, too. I'm planning to catch the rails up north with my score. I'm gonna give Vick his cut and most of this hemp. I got enough to live on for quite some time."
         "How much do you actually have?"
         "A little over ten."
         "Ten?"
         "Saved and raised the price."
         Sammy opened the gym bag and revealed the money he collected, thick bundles tied together by rubber bands. Articles of clothing layered underneath the cash. As Cris stood still in contemplation, Sammy sat himself on the floor next to the gym bag and took one of the duffel bags from Cris's hands.
         "I'm gonna put five in this bag and my ten in this other one," Sammy continued. "However, Vick will probably expect something with greater weight than the amount I'm cutting him, so--check this." On the table in the middle of the room, Sammy snatched an empty small vase and placed it in Vick's assigned bag. "I've already summed this to equal the weight of my bag; he won't know the difference." As he said this, Sammy poured his ten in his bag, watched as all the bundles plopped to the bottom avariciously, almost hungrily. He put four baggies of the weed inside Vick's and two inside his. When he was done, he zipped both bags up and got up from the floor to grab his coat from the couch. He went to the kitchen counter to retrieve his keys and wallet.
         Cris couldn't help but watch as Sammy got ready his disappearing act; and he considered how much of a coincidence the both of them planning to leave. He could not, however, comprehend the fact that he had cheated Vick out of so much money--and that he was going to get away with it and probably do it again. Why does he get to leave with a greater pot, wondered Cris. He snapped out of this confusion when Sammy opened his front door and called for him. It doesn't matter--as long as I get to leave, too.
         Sammy tossed him both duffel bags separately. "This one's Vick's. This one's mine." He gestured with his head to vacate the apartment as he fumbled with his keys to lock the door, gym bag hung around his neck. "You forget which one's which, and I'll make sure you pay for it." He gave a light chuckle, but Cris could sense some hidden hostility as he said that.
         "Wait," Cris realized as they jogged down the stairwell, "Wouldn't Vick check the bag to see if the money was all there?"
         They had already reached the ground floor.
         "In all the time we've known Vick, has he ever checked the spoils while we're still in the room?" Sammy said. He stopped their progression to make this a point. "No. He just gets a pleasure when someone comes to him with anything really. If some narc came in to bust him, he'd raise his smile and his guns happily, saying, 'Why didn't you come sooner?'"
         "I'm only bringing this up because of his current aim," explained Cris; "He knows you've been skimming him some." He started for the main entrance.
         Sammy gave a hard tug on Cris's coat sleeve. "We're heading out through the alleyways." As Cris changed directions and passed Sammy, Sammy gazed intently at Cris, the kind of gaze that read complication no matter how nonchalant Cris conversed. "You wouldn't happen to know something I don't, would you, Cris? They aren't waiting to make me Swiss, are they, buddy?"
         "I ain't saying that. What I'm saying is that it's only logical for Vick to check the spoils before you skedaddle. You hear?"
         Sammy's gaze grew coldly fastened. "What--you think I'm stupid? What do you mean it's only logical? I happen to think I'm the smartest man in the whole damn world right now."
         At this moment of argument, a tiny gleam of light dimly shone on Sammy's waistline, unnoticed save for the chance streaks of light reaching from the streetlights, through the glass portion of the backdoor, onto Sammy's figure. Cris merely caught eye of it from dipping sight, but boy, did he feel the frost of tense fright run up his spine. Suddenly, he received a new idea of what Sammy might have cooked up in that monetarily drowned mind. He decided to address it.
         "What is it that you're going to do over there, Sam?" Cris shot a look at Sammy's waist.
         Sammy followed the subject in question using Cris's eyes and found his pistol, exposed in the light; the bottom of his jacket had ridden up on the descent.
         Sammy gave a light chuckle. "Oh, this? This is just in case I happen to run into a little trouble along the way. It's for safety, of course." Shrugging his shoulders as he yanked his jacket to conceal the weapon, Sammy walked on towards the back exit and wrapped his hand around the cold, worn knob. Just as he tried to turn the knob, however, he felt a tugging at his jacket. He turned slightly to see that Cris with his arm extended to catch him from leaving the building.
         "What do you have that hand there for, Cris? You forget something?"
         "I can't let you leave knowing that you're going to get yourself killed."
         "What makes you think I'm going in to die?"
         "You're being stupid, that's what."
         "I thought you said I wasn't."
         "It's just hit me right now, your stupidity."
         "You know what else is gonna hit you right now?--me, if you don't let me go."
         The two of them stared into each other's eyes as if to bluff.
         "I've been known to scrap around when needed, Cris. You know this," Sammy said with a light laughter and a faux happy face that still turned back to him. Taking the opportunity to strike, Sammy quickly reversed positions and shoved Cris to the wall adjacent to the door, tightly held him there by the neck with his forearm. Both of them began to sweat.
         "What is it now, huh, Cris?" Sammy hissed under his breath. "Are you jealous of what I got?--jealous of what could've been?" Cris didn't answer. "What, you think you can waltz in after months of ignoring me?"
         "You left me," Cris muttered, his throat straining underneath Sammy's forearm. "You were doing well enough alone. I figured you didn't need me anymore."
         "Yeah, well, you're right. I didn't. I don't;--and for you to come along and give me this shit... I don't appreciate that. You may have brought my life to this, Cris, but I'm a man of my own."
         "I still can't let you get killed for being stupid."
         Sammy drove him into the wall again. "Who says this is stupid? Hell, I bet you wish you were me right now because I gotta tell you, I'm having a hell of a lot of fun being me. How about you, Cris?--how's life going for you right now?"
         "Just peachy," Cris wheezed. He caught a big breath against the force on his throat and gathered strength to shove Sammy off him.
         Sammy stayed still at the other end of the hall, eyeing Cris intently. He wiped his face with his forearm to prevent the stinging sweat from assailing his stare. Then, without any physical hesitation, Sammy raised his pistol to Cris, aimed it at his chest. With it, he held his sanity and escape. He thumbed the safety back and swallowed a hot gulp. Deep inside his realm of thought clamored the sensory of his childhood; it beckoned with every second that passed to pull his arm away, and as a result, his hand trembled. Cris saw this tremble and started toward him, running to spear him with his shoulder in the gut. Sammy's hand trembled like mad for an instant, only to have the other join to aim in a frantic endeavor. All this went for not when he realized he could not shoot the man he had grown up with.
         "Fuck!" Sammy shouted as he let the grip on his gun lessen and Cris gored him. He ran Sammy to the backdoor, bursting through it and landing on the sleet-covered concrete of the alleyway. Sammy landed hard on his back, and Cris on his head, tumbling forward. Both of them lay for a bit on their backs staring up into the night sky, the pain of their tiff pulsating like the beat of the city, nearly covert. The grayness of the sky seemed serene to the boys for that moment. The brisk winds that brushed their lashes and the clouds steadily reminded them of how their childish playful spats ended similarly. It was different now--at least they seemed to think so.
         Within the beat of the city and the whispering wind, they heard a crunching a little ways off, oncoming steps in the hard snow.
         "Well, isn't this a beautiful picture," came a familiar voice, a chillingly familiar voice.
         A light snow began to fall from the sky.
         The two boys sat up with fluid impetus to confirm the face to the voice; and there stood Vick, smoking a cigarette with his signature stolidity. In front of him stood one of his men, stout and a smack head; possibly a muscular dolt, loaded on drugs harmful to the brain. This party both wore trench coats and an air of having the advantage, certainty.
         "What are you doing here, Vick?" said Cris, though he knew without having to ask. He knew exactly why he appeared to them.
         "I was taking a stroll of the city's backlines--my personal favorite feature this city has to offer--and I decided to drop by to pay Sammy a visit." Vick smiled and continued: "It's come to my attention that you've been holding out on me, Sammy. Now, I, myself, am an entrepreneur, so I can come to appreciate certain business ventures and whatnot; however, what I don't appreciate is someone making more off my product and keeping it for themselves. Word's ugly on the street: It says that you're doing just that."
         "Vick, you told me to handle this," Cris spoke up, now feverish with the lie.
         "You be quiet," croaked the stout man taking a step forward to assert his seriousness.
         "Now, now," Vick interjected, "I've just grown a bit impatient. After this, Cris, you may surely take a hike. My beef isn't with you--and don't make it." Vick never refrained from staring down Sammy, shortly noticing the two duffel bags tossed on the concrete. "Why, are those for me?"
         The stout man started toward the bags as if ordered to on the spot. Cris looked at Sammy.
         Sammy sat in a portrait of forced acquiescence and caged enmity. His jaw stiffened and slid outwards as to bite on his teeth; and his posture took the mold of a dasher pending the starting pistol shot. Vick held his fate, which made Sammy the thrall; and at any opportunity for redemption, Sammy would take it.
         When the stout man retrieved the duffel bags, Vick let one down at his feet and seemed to take much interest with the one he kept at hand. He unzipped it to where he, alone, could account for the contents, and smiled and chuckled a bit. This made Sammy realize that that bag held his cut of the money, not Vick's. At the very same moment, Cris concluded that the bag that lay at Vick's feet held Sammy's cut.
         Sammy surreptitiously, yet desperately, padded the near concrete for the gun that dropped during his and Cris's tiff. Scraping over the sleet and swiping over the snow, Sammy found his pistol at last and grabbed it intently.
         Vick looked up in a merry mood. "Man, are you guys pieces of work"--a clamorous shot silenced him. Sammy had shot at him, though he did not penetrate anywhere vital. He had merely shot Vick's left ear.
         Vick dropped to the snow covered alley floor, squirmed in pain, and hollered at the stout man as if he hadn't seen what just happened: "He fucking shot me--he shot my ear off! I can't believe he did that! He shot my fucking ear off!" He pressed his hands against the wound; however, it did not prevent the blood from spilling onto the pure snow, nor did it conciliate his pain or stifle his hollering.
         As the stout man turned to face the two boys, Cris met him with a great tackle that shoved him headfirst into a fade of a building, rendering him nearly unconscious and very stupid. Cris looked back at Sammy, who, seizing the opportunity, ran up to poor old Vick wriggling on the floor and grabbed the bag that he previously unzipped. As he began to hightail it, he yelled back, "Abscond, Cris!"
         Cris gazed at the bag that Sammy left in astonishment and, upon hearing the stout man fumble around in the darkness of his attention, heeded his friend's advice and peeled with the bag in his hand.
         The two boys raced through the mazelike alleyways, Sammy winning with the head start. Out in the distance, through the snowflakes and the turns of wide corners, Cris could see Sammy ahead of him, saw him cut into the street;--and right away he knew where he was headed. He then turned his attention to the bag in his hand. He paused his running for a minute and thought this out as he caught his breath. Presently, Cris had two options to consider; he could meet up with Sammy either with or without the second bag.
         "If I bring the bag along, he might think I'm greedy or something," Cris said aloud, "Hell, he might even shoot me for carrying it." After this thought came to verbal consideration, he then thought of becoming that which he might get killed for.
         He quickly stashed the bag into a trashcan along the alleyway and ran off to meet his friend at the rails.

         A somber sough sounded throughout the city as the blaring horn of the early train interrupted and made itself known in the world. The train served as the main source of transportation between two cities; Cris wanted to get out of one, and Sammy wanted to get into the other. It was around five in the morning, just about the time when the sun peeked into the world. Not a soul lingered in the station, save for Sammy at the platform and Cris at the door looking at Sammy on the platform.
         As the train pulled in and screeched to a stop, Sammy turned to Cris, bags hanging on him like his whole life was in them.
         "What do you want from me now?" asked Sammy. The ghost of his breath floated and died in the morning air.
         "What, can't a guy see his friend off?"
         Cris took a couple of steps forward.
         "Look Cris, I'm actually doing it. I'm actually leaving this place. How's that for being stupid, eh?" He waited for Cris to say something, but he couldn't notice any motion of reply and continued. "I'd like to think that we'd meet again in the future; and I won't deny you that pleasure. On a serious note, though, I feel as if all my life, all the struggle and smalltime gigs have led to this. I only wish to take you with me. I can't do that, though. You understand, right?"
         Again, Cris gave no reply.
         The doors to the train opened, and Sammy stepped backward into it. He now was travelling.
         Sammy gave a smile to Cris; and as the door closed, he said, "I'll see you around, perhaps in another life."
         As the train began to move northward, Sammy took a seat and watched as the city he once belonged to shrink in distance. He sat and drew a sigh from his lungs. He felt refreshed and contemplated his near future--oh, the things he would buy: the clothes, the expensive kicks, the stylish haircut, new things that would make him look good and like a new man. Of course, he would have to get an apartment, somewhere in the best part of town in splendid proximity to everything. Then he thought to get a girl; and the money he could wave around and put into his appearance made finding one seem quite easy. He reached the apex of eagerness and began to hug the duffel bag. He found himself unzipping it in small stretches like a boy on Christmas Eve; and, at length, parted the mouth open.
         His eager, spirited face dropped on the floor of the train; he suddenly became indignant of what he saw. All of this came to pass, however, in a moment as a smile appeared on his canvas and mirth begot him.
         He lifted the small vase out of the bag and chuckled at the thought of planting a seed in it. Whether or not it would be one of the seeds in the bag or another that would grow into something admirable--that was still up for Sammy to decide.

         Back at his dingy apartment, Cris marched around collecting his belongings and placing them in a gym bag. The rush of cold he experienced outside soon melted as the world turned to morning. All seemed golden outside; the ice and dew on the streets, the buildings, the people shone like newfound treasure.
         From the bed, sounded Jen, rudely awoken by Cris. She hadn't changed since Cris had left during the night; the reproachful stare still clung to her face.
         "Cris, what do you think you're doing?"
         Cris didn't answer.
         "Well, if you think you're leaving me, good riddance!" she continued. When Cris again did not reply, she grew enraged, drew the sheets off her, and got up to make her presence known. "Hey, dope head--I'll be glad if you said you was leaving. Maybe I'll find me a better man, huh. Maybe Sammy could lend me a hand..."
         She smiled having the knowledge of the touchy subject; she did not know, however, what had happened during the night. To this thought, Cris laughed a little and zipped his gym bag up.
         He turned around to face her, Jen's face a fierce rage, and planted a kiss on her; one that took her by complete surprise--surprise that would make Sun Tzu proud. This was no mere spat anymore; this was war; and the sooner he shut her up, the sooner he would raise the flag of victory.
         He pushed her to the messy bed, undressed her, and proceeded to kiss her wildly. The kisses were not of ardor--well, perhaps they were; except this seemed to take a different taste of the word. Passion for lovemaking did not inspire him to do this, especially with her. Some different animal spirited him. He knew that what he did originated not from a love for her but for a proclamation of extrication; and somehow he knew she would have done the same. However, the animal that had begotten him did not want to speak for anyone or anything else, save for its newfound strength and roar.
         Two hours would have passed before he was done with her. She lay on the bed, hugging the sheets to the center of her chest, though most of it still was exposed; but she couldn't care to tend to it. Her hair rested on the pillows like the smear of a paintbrush, and her legs tightened and wiggled, much as the whole of her body, except her legs seemed to express this foremost.
         Cris got dressed as this scene took place. His mind focused on the bag he stashed in the alleyway.
         She came twice; but he left and never returned.