The Invisible Man
A Short Story
This fictional story is inspired by Sean of the South’s post, also titled The Invisible Man.
It’d been years since I’d been in the attic. But the kids were hell bent on cleaning it out. They’ve been on me about it since Judy passed, and I finally gave in. I’d hoped that they would tire of it all before we got to my trunk, but they didn’t. Luckily I caught sight of my boots before they made it into the trash.
“Where’d you get them old boots at anyway, Pa?” My son asked.
I was on I-95 headed south out of NYC — petal smashed to the floor, still drunk off a weekend with no sleep. The engine of my old Chevy was screaming like banshee.
Yet another job pissed away. And it’d been a good one, too. I’d somehow managed to sign on with a company that sold and installed bleacher seats, and they paid great. But I’d been fired on a Tuesday, just like the time before. I still hadn’t learned then that Monday’s aren’t optional.
I’d been thinking about the beach anyway. And figured I still had enough funds to get me to Florida, if I played my cards right. So I’m Southern bound, with nothing but a quarter tank of gas and a fist-full of dollars — thinking, a couple days and I’ll be outta this snowy hell and lapping up sunshine on the coast somewhere.
Like just I said, the budget was almost nil. So it’s a pretty big letdown when the gaslight dings, before I’m even out of New Jersey. Hell, I was hoping to get into Maryland — maybe even Virginia before I needed fuel.
I exit when I see the first BP sign. And as I stop at the end of the exit ramp to wait on the red light to turn, a bum walks over. I don’t roll the window down, it’s cold as a witch’s titty. But I can still hear the man say, “God bless you,” as he passes by the driver’s door.
