Page 57 of Naked Coffee Guy

Then I met a group of guys on the street, the ones who taught me how to lift items from pockets, and later how to steal from homes. Being the youngest, I became the key to their operation. I’d ring the bell with a sign-up form in hand that I’d swiped off some other door-to-door marketer. Upon answering, I’d charm the man or woman of the house into buying a subscription to magazines they’d never get. The checks were useless, but some paid in cash. But a look inside their homes was priceless, my eyes memorizing what I could before they closed the door again. A few nights later, their personal items were in our possession.

Benji’s house was different, though. I look up now at the massive home, recalling what it was like to enter that home for the first time. We hadn’t cased the house properly before because it seemed like no one was ever home. For days we’d waited, watching for signs of life, and finally I decided the owners were on vacation or something, and it was now or never to ransack the place for things of value.

Of course, what happened next changed my life. I got caught, the other kids ran off, and I had a choice to make—keep running or see what Benji had to offer.

I stayed, and I soon discovered it was not going to be the cushy life I envisioned it would be. Benji worked me hard. Outside of school hours, I was working. And if I fucked up, he beat me for it.

But here’s the difference with Benji; instead of telling me I was worthless, he told me I wasn’t living up to my potential. He said I was smarter than that. He told me I could have so much more if I would stop being a product of my circumstance and start moving into my future. His form of discipline was unlike the abuse of my former foster homes, and more like old-fashioned discipline. He’d take a switch to me, but never struck with anger. It was always him and not one of his guards, and he used that time to drill values into me.

I was not a street kid.

I was not a victim in the foster system.

I was Malcolm Dermot Anderson, a teenage boy who was learning how to become a man.

And that was why I stayed—even through the endless work, even though our relationship was more business-like than anything else. Benji was not my father, and I was not his son. I grew to care for him because he’d saved me, but as hard as I tried to please him, there was no warmth that came from his direction. I bonded more easily with his security guards than I did with the cold, shrewd man.

I soon discovered why. For Benji, every relationship held currency. He attended parties and held poker nights at the house, but none of these people were his friends. Eventually, these gatherings became fewer and fewer. He spent most nights at the long formal dining table eating alone while I ate at the small table in the kitchen. When he talked on the phone, it was always with a raised voice, often ending with something thrown and shattered against the wall.

He was losing his connections, and we were running out of money.

That’s why I was placed in charge of the housework and landscaping, because he had to fire the house staff. It’s why he brought Brock in, yet another teen that needed a home in exchange for some manual labor. Years later, when he built those apartments as a last-ditch effort to regain his finances, it’s why I handled all the maintenance and Brock managed the rest—because he had nothing left and we’d accept the shit wages he gave us on top of room and board.

What can I say about Brock, except he was a weasel from the start. That guy saw this as his golden ticket and worked it to his fullest advantage. Don’t get me wrong, we were both tasked with more responsibility than most teenagers our age. I was a few years older than him though, and I had been through enough to know it wouldn’t get better. Brock, on the other hand, came in after Benji had fired his last security guard. He knew where the blind spots were in the cameras around the house, and things would go missing without Benji ever noticing. I noticed, though. I kept quiet, but I took note.

When he stole Maren, knowing full well I was interested, it was just one more “thing” Brock decided to steal. It was the reason I knew that, if I wanted to finally be free, I needed to make a way on my own.

Ironically, Benji was the only one standing in my way and the thorn in my side once I finally made a name for myself. He taught me not to remain a victim of circumstance. But when I stepped into the future—away from him—I was told I could only go so far.

“Everything you are is because of me,” he told me.

And it was true. It was one of Benji’s last connections, a man who remembered me from one of the poker games, who set me up with a mentor once I got my real estate license. This mentorship evolved into a partnership, and eventually became the foundation of my business when he retired and I started my own brokerage.

Benji wanted me to stay on to help him with the apartments, especially when he had to sell off his other properties to pay the bills or to keep from getting sued. When it was apparent I was rising to the top while he was tumbling down, he reminded me again and again that if it weren’t for him, I’d be in jail or dead.

Everything you are is because of me.

Which is why he’s still insured and receiving top notch, round the clock care, why his mortgage continues to be paid, and why—when I realized those apartments were beyond repair—the title was transferred to me in case anyone else decided to sue.

I turn the car off, but still can’t bring myself to go inside. In the depths of this cold, dark house is a man who is living his final days. His rapid decline lets me know we are reaching the end, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. On one hand, here was a man who gave me a home and security, allowing me to sleep at night without worrying about my safety. But on the other hand, his death will finally break my shackles. I am tied to this man, whether I want to be or not. He never showed me love, I’m not even sure he was capable of love, but he did care for me in a way no one else had outside my late parents.

My phone buzzes and I am glad for the excuse to spend a few more minutes outside. But when I see the name of the person calling, something in me knows.

“Mac, you need to come to the house.”

Hattie’s voice catches slightly, and something in my chest drops. It’s like all the life goes out of my body, knowing the exact reason she’s calling.

“I’m right outside.” I hang up without another word. My body moves of its own accord, carrying me down the walkway and up the steps. The same steps I took at fifteen before I snuck in a side window. The steps I took every day after school, and then later after work at the apartments. The steps I took before I told him I’d enrolled in real estate classes, and then when I said I was quitting the apartments to pursue my career.

The steps I have taken just about every day this month as I’ve taken residence in my old room, the smallest in the house, while the man who raised me lies dying in the living room.

A house that once held parties and poker games, a full staff, and was the setting for every lesson I learned on the way to becoming a man.

The house is dark when I enter, as it’s been since Benji’s health declined. Hattie stands by the bed, her hands twisted in front of her as I approach. She moves aside when I get close, resting a hand on my shoulder.

“He loved you, you know,” she says, and it takes everything in me not to break the silence with a sardonic laugh. She never knew Benji before he was sick, so how would she know about his feelings? She presses something into my hand, then murmurs she’ll be in the other room, and to take as long as I need.

I stare at Benji. I take in the gray of his skin, and how it just hangs on his bones without any life left to animate it. His eyes are closed, but his mouth is open, and I eventually have to look away so that I’m not haunted by the vacancy in his face. His chest remains forever still now that he’s released his final breath.