Chapter 4- Chances
On the first floor the Smiths were arguing yet again. Mrs. Smith hated his old leather La-Z-Boy and demanded that her husband remove it immediately from the apartment. “Damn it, woman, I’m moving as fast as I can!” whined Mr. Smith as he dragged his long beloved chaise from the apartment.
“Well the garbage truck comes this evening and I don’t want that thing sitting out front for a whole week!”
“Yeah, yeah” Mr. Smith grumbled under his breath.
“What was that?” His wife demanded shrewdly.
“I said…yes, dear.”
“That’s what I thought I heard. You’ll be glad to be rid of that thing,” she eyed it suspiciously “when we have more living room space. You’ll see. No need for that good for nothing piece of junk.” She watched him struggle out the door for a moment before returning inside.
Though it pained him to lose it (after all, the chair had been with him since his chummy college days), Mr. Smith had agreed to let his wife redecorate the living room after their last argument. He had not quite anticipated her demanding that he be rid of his favorite chair. He was pretty sure he could talk her into letting him get a new one; one that was not old and worn, and would match the new décor.
Having finally finagled it to the sidewalk, he stopped and leaned against it to catch his breath.
“LOOOOOOOOOOK OOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUT!”
Mr. Smith glanced up and dove swiftly out of the way as young man whose sandy blond hair looked overgrown and disheveled (reminding Mr. Smith distinctly of one of the Beatles, except a less cool version) plummeted towards the concrete. A split moment later he heard a loud thud and hesitated to lift his eyes to the mangled mess he expected to find, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. There sat the scruffy kid in his old chair.
“Huh.” The young man glanced up at the window he’d just fallen from. “What are the chances of that happening?”
“Not huge.”
“Thanks, man!” The kid got up, shook his hand, and dashed down the street. Mr. Smith watched him go then lovingly shuffled his chair back towards his door. Good for nothing, his rear.
He closed the door just as two large menacing figures barreled outside, hot on the Beatle’s trail.
TEN MINUTES LATER
Lee thought he’d lost them. He dipped into a local shop for a refreshing can of “OrangeLee Glad I Didn’t Say Banana” and exited out the back alley to avoid being seen. As he sipped on his energetic and delicious beverage, he wondered what to do next. Who were Hammer and Nails, why did they want him, and how could Lee get himself to the NintendOlympics? His passport and other items were back at his place. Could he risk returning to retrieve them?
He might have to, but he’d need protection. It was one thing to take on thugs in The World, and another in real life. Where could he go to get help? He could think of numerous friends he could call on, but most of them had hair shaggier than his, so who could he trust? Great, thought Lee. What now?
He hurried down the alley, eager not to stay in one place to be caught. Just as he was turning the grimy corner onto a street that smelled like greasy Chinese food, Lee heard a rustling. It started faintly then grew louder and came from somewhere to his right. Lee spun around with his arms up ready to defend himself- he knew a good bit of Tai kwon do- but there was no one there. The rustling stopped. Unsure, Lee stepped forward again to leave the alley and heard the rustling once again. He tilted his head to listen; it was more of a scraping than a rustle. He looked again to his right and down to the ground and there amid a pile of garbage and old newspaper, saw a flash of red. “What the…” Lee bent and quickly snatched up the newspaper, ready for an attack.
On the ground, barely discernable through the filth, huddled a quivering creature just barely larger than the size of Lee’s callused fist. “Aw, hi there little buddy.” Lee crouched down and scooped the terrified creature into his hands. “This is no place for a cutie like you.” The animal beamed up at him with wide beady eyes, his orange and black fur a matted mess. “It’s ok, you’re not the only homeless one.” Lee told him, thinking back to his invaded apartment. “Come on,” he said, tucking the guinea pig safely in his oversized pockets. “I’ll call you Ike. Ike Kush. Let’s get somewhere safe.”
There was one friend Lee could trust to at least feed him and keep him for the night so he could plan his return to his apartment to retrieve his belongings. No way was he going to miss the NintendOlympics. He’d waited for it his whole life and a couple of pair of thugs with a convenient namesake wasn’t going to take it from him.
On the street again, Lee paid a kid ten bucks for the use of his skateboard and sped down the sidewalk towards his favorite guitar shop master, careful not to jostle Ike in his pocket. The animal was oddly calm, he though, for being stuffed into a large pocket and raced off on a skateboard. Lee knew his old Tae kwon do master would be at the guitar shop this time of day. They frequently met there to jam. If nothing else, they could play a couple tunes before the old man helped him devise a way to get safely to
