Sam kept thinking about the scene in a movie he had seen a couple of years back; it was one of them super-hero flicks where the kid who had gotten all the powers decided to give them up, and in this scene he was happily strolling down the street, while “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head” played in the background. Sam couldn’t help but hear his own soundtrack as he exited the alley; although he liked to believe his version of “Raindrops” would be a Green Day cover.

He had done it. He had done what he was told to do. All that was left was making the phone call, and Enid would be safe.

His sweet, sweet Enid.

At the thought of her, a cloud entered the skies over the movie scene in his head, and he felt a tightening of his chest. If he could make sure she got out of this alive, he could almost forgive himself for getting her into it in the first place.

But there would be time for guilt later. Guilt for putting her in trouble, and guilt for the little bit of business he had just completed back there in the alley. Right now he had to focus on getting to a phone and making the call.

“Buddy, you got a quarter?” Came a harsh bark from just to Sam’s left. A bum had emerged from behind a dumpster and was holding out a fetid and filthy hand.

Sam’s knee-jerk reaction was to spit on the lazy waste of space and tell him to get a job, but his good mood prevailed, so instead he dug into his jeans pocket and emerged with a shiny silver coin.

“Here, use this to get some soap,” he sneered as he flipped the coin into the air. The hobo watched it arc through the sky in greedy anticipation, then snatched it out of the air.

“Like I could buy soap for a quarter,” he grumbled as he stuffed it into one of the interior pockets of the rags that passed for his clothes.

“Cry my a fuckin’ river, pal.” Sam responded as the gutter trash shuffled his way back to his home beside the rest of the garbage.

He continued on his way, walking at a healthy clip until he looked down at his watch and realized that it was much later than he though. Time had gotten fuzzy amidst the fear, anticipation, and then finally the rush of adrenaline as things went down.

“Shit,” he spat. “I’ve got to call.” He broke into a run. The street he was on was deserted, so it was easy to spot the phone booth two blocks up under one of the few streetlights that still worked.

Unfortunately, when he got there, he realized there was no phone inside the booth. Someone had torn it out, no doubt in order to grab the few meager coins that were inside. They had left some rather colorful graffiti announcing what gang was responsible, but Sam had no time to appreciate the artwork.

Again he ran on, until two more blocks down and one more over he discovered another phone booth, and this one actually had a phone in it. A quick look at his watch told him he had less than five minutes to call before things got very, very bad for Enid.

He grabbed the receiver and frantically thrust his hand into his pocket, emerging with a jumble of coins. He gripped the phone receiver between his ear and his shoulder as he used his other hand to sift through the money. He snatched out a quarter, then a dime, then a nickel, and then he stopped.

All that was left in his hand was a pile of pennies.

The phone required an initial deposit of sixty-five cents.

And it didn’t take pennies.

“Shit, shit, SHIT!” He screamed. He reemerged from the booth and scanned the streets. No one. Not in any direction.

This time, he probably could have outrun a marathon as he flew down streets, searching desperately for anyone who might have a dime or a quarter.

“You!” He shrieked at an old woman emerging from a cab on her way home. Her arms were loaded with bags, which she promptly dropped as she jumped in response to his call. “Give me a quarter!”

“Go away!” She responded, half in anger and half in fear.

The cabbie thrust his door open and stood up to face Sam over the roof of the car. Mrs. Simmons was a regular, and he’d be damned if he was going to let some deadbeat harass a regular. “You got a problem, bub?”

Sam was easily twice the size of this guy, but he didn’t have time to make that point.

“No, I just need a quarter!”

“Piss off, pal.”

Sam didn’t wait to respond. Away he flew.

He came upon a police officer, and desperation caused him to throw caution to the wind. “Officer, I need a quarter. Can you help a guy out?”

Officer Davis stuck his hand in his pocket and began fishing. As he did so, he looked Sam up and down and noticed mysterious red stains on his pant legs and on one of his hands. The hand that had been digging for a quarter reemerged to grab the gun from it’s holster.

“Buddy, I think you need more than a quarter. Why don’t you put your hands up where I can see them?”

Sam, who’s eyes had followed the officer’s as he noticed the blood stains on his clothes, raised his hands into the air. It was over, and so was Enid.

“I’m so sorry,” he whimpered.

And in the back of his head, he thought he heard laughter. The laughter of a bum sitting peacefully beside his dumpster, admiring his shiny new quarter.

Enid's Last Call

Cents and Sensibility