The Key

Sometimes them coppers don’t like us squatters all that much and—despite what you may hear—we ain’t ever looking for trouble. So we all packed up and scooted out of our tunnel lickety-split. I’d gone off toward 42^nd street, following the wall close to the tracks. I had hoped to get lost in the crowds at Times Square.

Right then, a train flew by on the tracks. I stopped for just a second as the subway windows lit up the tunnel in dizzying flashes of color. That’s when I saw the shadow of a giant-tall man standing behind me. It near scared me to death. I yelled out and fell backward, then scrambled up from the ground. I waited for the train to pass before saying, in my most respectful voice, “Evening there officer. I was just scooting on out of here, so you don’t need to go worrying about me.”

“Where’s the box?”

“Say what now?”

I knew what box he must a meant—I only got just the one—but I couldn’t figure how he knew I had it. It was currently tucked up under my arm, and I shifted it a little to make sure I had a tight hold on it. “Not sure what box you mean, sir.” I said. “I only got the rags on my back and my—”

“Give me the box.”

“Alright,” I said slowly, figuring the gig was up and somebody must of told him I had it. “Okay, but how much you gonna give me for it?”

The man didn’t answer so, thinking myself quite the smooth talker and assuming his silence was him deliberating, I kept on going. “Suppose you must have the key then, yah? Bet this is quite important to yah. So . . . how about 50 bucks?”

Well, that’s about the moment he pulled out his gun. Now, I ain’t no fool. I knew right then and there negotiations were over, so I turned-tail and ran for it. I made it to Times Square, jumped across the tracks and scrambled up onto the platform. A lot of people yelled at me for knocking them over and such, but I just wanted out of there. My life was at stake. And all for a stupid box, a box that I—for one silly reason or another—was still holding on to.

Well, I fixed that mistake awful quick. Ahead of me was a backpack, a small, pink one that was open at the top. I dropped that box in there faster than a broiling hot potato. No amount of a comfy tush was worth being shot at and killed.

After ridding myself of that box, I ran up the stairs of the metro station like a freak’n gazelle and sprinted along past the crowds of the square as fast as my old frame could manage. I had nearly reached 50^th street, and thought maybe I could make it to The Park and hide out there, when he stepped out in front of me. Just like that, like he’d appeared out of nowhere—his suit still nice and straight too, like he hadn’t even run.

I tried to sprint off in the other direction, but he grabbed me tighter than any thug I ever met and pulled me right up off my feet so that we was nose to nose.

“The box.” He said. “Give it to me now.”

“I don’t got it!” I yelled, putting my hands up over my face. “I was just kidding, I was only pulling your leg. I don’t have no box, don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Something I said must have done it. After a few seconds, he dropped me on the ground in a heap and, by the time I’d scrambled up onto my feet, he’d gone.

Lord knows I ain’t been much of a prayer in my day. If I went to church, I’d probably be in one of them confessional booths admitting all my sins to a priest right now, because there ain’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about that box and the little pink backpack I put it in. I don’t know what kid owned that pack. All I know is I probably put that child in a world of hurt, and I hate to think of the day when the man in the suit comes looking for his box.

Megan Kenley is a fiction writer from Anchorage, Alaska. She has loved telling stories from a young age, and grew up to a career in advertising, where she tells stories of products for a living. Megan has one published work, a short story that can be found in TM Magazine. She is in the midst of publishing a fiction novel.