Level Zero Dan McDowell (books to read in your 20s female .TXT) 📖

he handed the man a five-dollar bill. “Get out of here. Go buy yourself a hamburger and sober up.”

“That’s my business, not yours, chump,” the man responded in a Yankee accent.

“Excuse me? I just gave you money, and you’re calling me a… chump? You’re the one begging for dollars. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“No, no. That’s what everyone else says. I say what I want to say. I… am a chooser. I’m off for another six-pack of Flitz. It’s the cheapest stuff in town, and there ain’t anyone else around here that ever drinks it. I call it the hobo’s special. Haha!” The man’s nervous laugh lingered for a moment before he spoke again, “We should just call it the official drink of the homeless. I could be their damned mascot if I wanted to.”

Todd interrupted before the self-proclaimed Flitz mascot could say anything else, “Okay, whatever. Take care, then.”

The homeless man trekked behind the pawn shop building in the face of its second-rate graffiti. His exiting self-monologue reflected his ongoing struggle. He walked toward the back of the building and out of sight. Glass shattered.

It’s not my problem the bum can’t take care of himself. Is it?

He pulled on the worn, jet black door handle — its undercoating exposed and reduced to a champagne color. His obsessive and angered thoughts raced.

The countless filthy hands that touched it and the owners to which they belonged. How many hadn’t washed? How many had a disease? How many had killed someone? Hell, they might have even done it with a tool or weapon purchased from this building.

Entering the double-paned door, Todd waved at the shop owner, Steve Renzell, standing still behind the counter of his namesake business. Well-acclimated to Steve’s typical standoffish demeanor, Todd walked by with a half-wave and headed to his usual browsing spot. Steve entertained a conversation when he sensed it needed. Still, he was often a man of fewer, more intentional words — the ones he deemed critical.

Todd often entered the store with no particular goal in mind. Despite an innocence to the practice, his compulsive knack for buying grass whackers had become a problem.

Steve called out from behind the register, “Come on now. Do you even have any grass?”

“No, not enough to fuss about. I’ll get a weed from time to time, but that’s about it,” Todd replied, almost sounding embarrassed.

“Well, I guess the weed part fits in pretty well with what everyone else is doing around here, doesn’t it?” Steve said.

Get on with it. I’ve got to get home.

Todd rolled his eyes, ignoring the inappropriate reference, and said, “I’d like to check out, please. Ring me up.”

“Going with the sticker price today, are we…? Not even going to haggle or negotiate with me? Gee, Todd, you are losing your touch…”

“Hurry up, already!”

Steve shook his head, speaking at a relaxed tempo to calm Todd’s frustration, “Okay, okay. Don’t get your panties in a wad there. $54.00 even.”

Todd paid cash and walked away.

It wouldn’t hurt you to be nicer. Would it, Todd?

“Take care then, Steve.”

He reached for his back pocket, unwedging his boxer shorts.

Steve might have been onto something. Ninety minutes in standstill is enough to make any of us antsy.

While exiting the building, Todd observed a five-dollar bill and a note taped to the hood of his F-150 as the parking lot security lights illuminated.

What’s going on here?

He removed it, looking closer to examine the scribbled words before a sudden jolt went through the back of his head, knocking him unconscious.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

WAYNE WALLACE and Ramblin’ Ron had been radio partners hosting the Dynamic Duds show for years. They achieved notoriety in the area because of their spunky attitudes toward politics and the region’s anxiety-inducing government affairs. With local attitudes swinging back and forth between party lines — an exhausted pendulum of aged elephants and pompous asses, they found a variety of ways to make light of situations in every instance, regardless of political affiliation.

This flavor of the week styled approach kept the show fresh, forcing the pair to remain on top of news and information. Dealing with the ferocity of partners and investors in their hunt to get better ratings was far from simple. Their show topped the charts on occasion, remaining in the top five by volume of listeners. Despite this, they liked to lead their audience to believe they catered to a smaller, more exclusive crowd. While wrapping up another episode, the two men took off their studio headphones.

Ron took a sigh, looked his partner in the eyes, and said, “I’m not sure I can do this anymore.”

Wayne’s eyes widened. “Are you kidding me? This work comes natural to you. You can’t leave now.”

Ron leaned into the doorframe of the studio, propping his weight against it. “I want to end this thing on a high note. This show has cost me everything. My marriage. My life. My friends. I think I just want to go off-grid for a while.”

“Ron, come on. Think it over, buddy. I don’t know what they’re paying you, but I’m sure we can negotiate better. I need this show as much as you do. Bonnie and Clyde. Siskel and Ebert. Hall and Oates. Wayne and Ron. This is our jam, man. Don’t leave me now.”

A glassy film came over Wayne’s eyes while he processed the news.

“I’m sorry,” Ron said. “This is it. I’ll give you a few more days, and I’m done. October 21st. That’s my last day.”

Devastation ran amuck in Wayne’s mind.

What will the producers do with me? Without Ron, I’m nothing but a punching bag. I can’t be a one-man-band. Nobody listens to that kind of show anymore. It’s always got to be a gang or a duo. I don’t want to deal with a new partner. My contract is up at the end of the year.

Walking out of the station, he stepped into the street in a state of shock. A homeless man sat out front of the station with a cardboard sign.

That guy looks familiar. Huh.

It was,