Vassie Watts saw his life as a giant animal, plowing methodically ahead. All he could see of it were the ridges of a spine under dull black fur. Some days the haunches towered over him and blocked his view of the horizon, but mostly the beast was hidden in fog, pulling Vassie by a tether. He couldn’t let go because the thing would turn around and trample him.
Santana, Vassie’s upstairs neighbor, had been a regular at the bookstore. Santana never bought any books, he just liked to hang around with the old guy who worked the counter. The old guy had once told Santana in confidence that if the store was ever robbed he wouldn’t put up any kind of fight.
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Santana passed the information to Vassie during one of their typical afternoons, when they had nothing to worry about other than sharing a smoke. Santana bought just enough for a handful of acquaintances so he could take a commission out of each purchase. Mostly his girlfriend supported him, though he admitted that he was often mistaken for a homeless person. “You can dress as shitty as you want,” he once told Vassie. “Because you’re white, people assume you just work a shitty job. But if I dressed as bad as you, people be giving me soup and old gym shoes when I walked out of the house. Those Misericordia crossing guards be giving me peanuts and Life Savers every time I cross the street.”
Santana’s eyes lit up. “Oh ho. Fuck that, it was a quarter. Save your lunch money, boy, and next time get you an eight ball.”
Vassie used his baseball cap to wipe the sweat from his face, then stepped through the door. The room swelled around him as his balance drained away. Stacks of books leaned precariously toward the center of the counter, where the old guy sat reading a book. The junk and gewgaws reminded him of his mother’s shop.
Maybe, Vassie thought, he’d be given leniency when he got caught because he wasn’t wearing a mask. “Don’t be scared,” Vassie demanded as he grabbed the last few bills that dropped to the glass countertop.
“You been the big spender lately,” Santana said.
