by Skye Taylor
Table of Contents
Other Titles by Skye Taylor from Bell Bridge Books
Mike’s Wager
Copyright
Mike’s Wager
Please visit these websites for more information about Skye Taylor
About the Author
MIKE KENNEDY’S college pals at Cambridge refuse to believe that his hometown, Tide’s Way, North Carolina, is the good-hearted Mayberry Mike depicts. They bet him money that no one in Tide’s Way will offer him a helping hand if he spends a week disguised as a grungy, dangerous-looking homeless guy. Mikes takes the bet.
So there he was, spending a chilly, rainy Spring break shivering and hungry under an old tarp draped over the railing of the bandstand on Tide’s Way’s small common. Three days had gone by without anyone offering him so much as a cup of coffee. He hated to lose the money he’d wagered but even worse, he hated that his hometown was apparently not what he’d thought it was. Would anyone prove that Tide’s Way lived up to its ideals?
Other Titles by Skye Taylor
from Bell Bridge Books
The Camerons of Tide’s Way Series
Book 1: Falling for Zoe
Book 2: Loving Meg
Book 3: Trusting Will
Tide’s Way Short Stories
Loving Ben
Mike’s Wager
Mike’s Wager
A Camerons of Tide’s Way Short Story
by
Skye Taylor
Bell Rabbit Books
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.
Belle Rabbit Books
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Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-641-3
Belle Rabbit Books is an imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.
Copyright © 2015 by Skye Taylor
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
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Cover design: Deborah Smith
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo/Art credits:
Young business man © Curaphotography | Dreamstime.com
Grass on the beach
© Richard Lammerts | Dreamstime.com
:Mwmk:01:
Mike’s Wager
MIKE KENNEDY tipped his chair back and skimmed his fingers through the sweat beading up on his beer bottle. “I never saw a homeless person until I landed here at Harvard.”
“What? You think Cambridge, Massachusetts has a corner of losers?” His roommate, Troy, asked.
“That’s not what I said,” Mike replied. “I said I never saw anyone living in a box in Tide’s Way. Can’t recall seeing any in Wilmington either, but I suppose there are some.” He took a swig from his bottle and set it back on the table.
On their way down to the bar, Mike and his friends had passed two incredibly filthy men huddled together in the flimsy shelter of an old appliance box set over a grate that vented steam from a laundry room in the basement of an athletic club. Mike saw a well-dressed man kick the side of the box in and tell the homeless men to get a job.
Discussion during the rest of their walk to the bar had rambled over the causes and effects of homelessness. They were still debating the issue when the waiter delivered their drinks.
“People just don’t care.” A nerdy computer whiz named Kirk opined. “So long as it isn’t them, they don’t give a damn.”
“I think they’re too busy.” Troy stuck his hand in the air to wave a late arrival over to the table.
“Too busy? C’mon. Most of us waste time doing nothing of any significance. We blow hours of time with video games and tweeting. Or just sitting on the couch watching games we aren’t really all that interested in. If people cared, they could find the time.”
“I think it’s how cities work. You don’t find homeless people in places where everyone knows everyone. Only in cities packed with people. Think about it,” Mike jumped back into the conversation. “Some people live in apartment houses and never even know their neighbors, never mind the down-and-out veteran panhandling on the corner or the old lady pushing a shopping cart loaded with all her possessions.”
“So, you think this podunk town, what did you call it? Tide’s Way? Where the hell is that, anyway?” Kirk signaled the waiter for another round.
“North Carolina,” Mike filled in the answer.
“So, you think people are different in Tide’s Way? You think if a homeless person set up shop in the town center of Tide’s Way they’d be better off than they are here in Cambridge?” Kirk snorted.
“They’d be warmer. That’s for damned sure.” Troy laughed and screwed the top off his new bottle.
“I think if anyone did, they’d get noticed. And someone would do something about it.” Mike insisted. He was sure of it. Tide’s Way was a whole world away from Cambridge culturally. The contrast had been the hardest part of adjusting to his new environment. The way people cut each other off in traffic or in grocery lines. The total disregard for common civility. It seemed as if no one here had ever been taught any manners. With the exception of Kirk, everyone around the table was from New England, and they often poked fun at the civilities that had been drummed into Mike’s head since he was old enough to talk.
He loved his studies and most of his fellow students, but he couldn’t deny he often felt a little homesick. For his mother’s cooking, of course, but all the guys missed that. But for Mike it was more than just home-cooking. He enjoyed the challenge: the Ivy League education he was getting, the friendships he’d made, activities he’d never tried before, like rowing on the Charles. But in his heart, there was something missing. He wondered if that something was related to the way the homeless got treated in this chilly college city in a region known for aloofness.
“Like what?” Kirk, who was from Minnesota, dragged Mike’s attention back to the debate.
“Like what, what?”
“Like what would anybody do about it? Except maybe get the law to run them out of town?”
Mike tried to picture the Tide’s Way sheriff running anyone out of town. “He’d be more likely to offer him a bed at the sheriff’s office. The cells there don’t get used all that much.”
“And hang out with Otis? You sure this place isn’t called Mayberry?” The entire group hooted with laughter.
“I’m serious,” Mike sat forward and dropped the front legs of his chair to the floor.
Kirk pulled his wallet out and slapped a fifty dollar bill on the table. “Fifty bucks says you get someone to play the homeless bum for a week and no one pays any attention.”
Troy glanced at Mike, then drew his wallet out and matched Kirk’s bet. “I’m in.”
There was a shuffle as everyone at the table dug into their pockets and added to the growing pile of
bills.
Mike wondered where on earth he was going to find anyone willing to play the bum. But town pride blossomed in his chest. Or maybe it was the beer coursing through his veins. But whatever, he was going to prove these guys wrong. He whistled to get attention and called the owner of the bar over to the table. When the man arrived, wiping his hands on the towel tucked into his waistband, Mike scooped up the money, counted it out and then handed it to the bartender.
Murphy looked at the thick wad of bills in his hand, then at Mike. “What’s this for?”
“It’s a bet, and you get to be the keeper of the pot until I either win or lose it.”
Murphy grinned as he folded the bills in half and shoved them into his pocket. “So, what’s the bet?”
MIKE HELD THE tattered jacket with a broken zipper closed and willed his body to stop shivering. Winning the bet was looking more and more unlikely. He’d been so sure the residents of Tide’s Way would have done something before now. Even if it was only a complaint to Sheriff Nicholson that ended up with Mike getting kicked out of town or recognized. Mike wasn’t sure which would be more embarrassing.
He must have been drunker than he’d thought to get involved in such a stupid wager. But even when the next morning came and he’d woken up sober, it had seemed like an easy bet to win.
With Spring break on the way, he could find some homeless guy desperate enough to go along with the caper, fly the man down to North Carolina and set him up in a likely location. Then Mike could watch the progress of his experiment from the comfort and warmth of his parent’s home.
But no one had been that desperate. The few men he’d convinced to even talk to him had preferred to stay where they were. Close to their regular round of soup kitchens and emergency shelters that opened when the temperatures really plummeted. Close to the familiar colony of homeless men and women they’d come to trust. They had not trusted Mike. No matter how easy he’d made the job sound.
So, here he was, shivering under an old tarp draped over the railing of the bandstand on Tide’s Way’s small common with barely enough food to keep a kitten alive. Some spring break this was turning out to be. And if something didn’t happen in the next two days, he’d lose his bet. It wasn’t the seven hundred and fifty bucks he’d have to fork over to cover all the bets that bothered him though. It was the fact that his hometown was apparently not what he’d thought it was. The people of Tide’s Way had continued to go about their business without one person approaching him, or even offering a cup of hot coffee. Where was their compassion?
With nothing else to do, Mike pulled the frayed and stinking sleeping bag he’d traded for his L.L.Bean fleece-lined, winter-weight, good-down-to-minus-5-degree bag up to his neck and curled into a tight ball. He pictured the haunted, skeletal veteran this bag had belonged to, comfortably cozy in his bag, probably still on top of that rusted grating with the laundry steam warming his backside.
When Mike woke, it was dark. Good thing. He had to pee. He stood up as much as was possibly inside his damp and drafty lean-to and let the sleeping bag drop into a stinking puddle around his ankles. Then he pushed open the flap and stepped out into the crisp cold air. He didn’t remember it ever being this cold in Tide’s Way, in March. Spring break week was usually warm. Warm enough to lure people to the beaches on the outer banks from places like Cambridge and Minnesota. But not this year.
Mike wandered far enough from the bandstand to take a leak without adding to the fetid stink that clung to his make-shift quarters and relieved himself on some bushes. It seemed like his urine should have frozen on contact with the naked branches, but apparently it only felt like it was cold enough for that to happen. Damp salt air was like that.
It felt good to stretch, and he actually felt warmer now that he was moving about. He decided to take a walk. There was barely any moon so he didn’t think anyone would see him, even if they did happen to be wandering about the deserted green wedged in between Jolee Road and Lee Street.
He stepped up onto the sidewalk that ran along Jolee Road. The faint sound of voices came from the Baptist Church across the street and a handful of cars were parked in the lot. Choir practice. Every Thursday was choir practice and not so long ago, he’d have been in there singing along with everyone else. Warm, well-fed and surrounded by friends.
Mike stayed in the shadows until he was well past the church, then let his stride lengthen, walking faster, working up some heat. He pulled one of his last granola bars from his pocket and nibbled on it to quiet the rumbling of his stomach. It wasn’t used to such deprivation and it complained loudly and often. Too often.
The lights of the 7-Eleven grew brighter. Mike was tempted. He had cash in his pocket. He could just go in and get a premade sub and a box of cookies. A quart of milk would be good too. But he’d be recognized. Besides, in some crazy-assed way, he felt like the experiment wouldn’t count if he chowed down like he usually did. Otherwise, he could have walked the twelve miles to his own house and raided the fridge. No one was home and no one would know. Except he would know.
He turned away and headed back down the far side of the park on Lee Street. Past the bookstore, the post office and the town hall. All were dark and closed up tight for the night. Occasionally a car would drive past, and Mike shrank into the shadows until they were out of sight. He passed the place where his current home huddled in the lee of the bandstand and continued on, all the way down to Stewart Street and back up Jolee road from the other direction.
Having never clocked the distance, Mike had to guess, but he thought it might have been six or seven miles. He was pleasantly tired and ready to curl up again in whatever comfort he could find when he finally reached his box.
He would have stepped right on it, had the scent of warm gravy and biscuits not caught his attention first. He pulled a tiny flashlight from his pocket and pointed it at the ground. Wrapped in a checkered dishcloth, the still steaming plate of food sat in front of the entry flap to his leaky, tarp lean-to.
Mike jerked to a stand and whipped around. He flicked the flashlight off and peered into the shadows, waiting for his eyes to adjust again.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
Mike walked carefully around the perimeter of the bandstand.
No one.
He checked inside the bandstand, then circled further out.
Still no one.
His stomach rumbled with renewed energy. Whoever had left him his dinner was gone. At least for now. Mike returned to the box, picked up the towel-wrapped plate and bent to enter his humble lodging. He sat cross-legged in the tiny space and turned his little flashlight on end so he could see what he was eating.
He was halfway through the plate of chicken, sweet potatoes, biscuits and gravy before it occurred to him that he might win his bet after all. So long as he got someone to care about a nameless homeless person within the six days allotted, he’d win. But it couldn’t be because his benefactor somehow knew who he was helping.
Mike was so hungry he kept on devouring his meal, even after the realization hit him. He’d figure it out later. Right now, hunger was the main issue. There was pie to follow. And a baggie of brownies. He tucked the brownies into his pocket for breakfast and finished off the bottle of water that had thoughtfully been provided along with the meal.
One last trip out to the bush to take care of business, and then Mike settled himself back into the rancid old sleeping bag. For the first time in five days his stomach was full and didn’t ache. And he almost felt warm, thanks to a hot meal filling his belly. Sleep stole over him quickly on this, the fifth night of his wager.
He woke to the sound of scratching. Bolting upright, Mike’s first thought was an animal. Some animal had ferreted out the meager scent left clinging to Mike’s empty plate.
“Anyone in there?” A man’s voice.
Mike
hesitated. Then, doing his best to disguise his voice, “Yeah?”
“I’ve come to invite you to breakfast.”
“What if I’m not hungry?”
The man snorted. “Don’t believe it. You’ve been sleeping under that tarp all week. You have to be pretty cold and hungry by now.”
So, he had been noticed. Tide’s Way wasn’t so blindly focused on personal pursuits after all. But did this unidentified man know who he was talking to?
“Well, maybe a little,” Mike forced his voice into a growl.
“You might as well come because the missus is not going to be happy if I come home without you. She’ll likely march down here and drag you home herself. And if you think she can’t do it, you should think again. We’ve raised us up five boys, and she is not cowered by any of them, even though they’re all over six feet now.”
“Why would she care about some homeless guy she never met?”
“Stubborn cuss, aren’t you?” the man grumbled. “We’re all God’s creatures, and if someone’s in need, then we do our best to help where we can. That a good enough reason for you?”
“But I’ve been here a week. What changed?” Please don’t let someone have figured out who he was. He couldn’t win the bet that way.
“It’s coming on to rain, and this thing you got rigged up here doesn’t look all that weather-tight.”
Mike put his hand on the flap. Truth time. He pushed it open and crawled out. Then reached back for the empty plate and towel. “These yours too?” He held them out toward the man squatting just a few feet away.
It was Gordon Quinn. Tide’s Way’s town manager. And his wife was Aunt Bea to everyone in the town, whether they were related or not.
Mike stood up slowly, careful not to look Mr. Quinn directly in the eye. Five weeks of preparation had provided Mike with a pretty impressive beard, and he’d let his hair grow as well. But in spite of the disguise, it wouldn’t take Aunt Bea long to figure out who’d been living on the town common all week.