Hive Ave Fall2024 - Flipbook - Page 14
Fiction
Hive Avenue Literary Journal
moisture all around.
“Missed what?”
“Nothing,” I tell him. “I’m ready if you are.”
I extend my arm in the direction of the trail, inviting Max
to lead the charge.
“No,” he says, and presses the start button on his watch.
“I insist.”
And, just like that, we’re o昀昀 doing something stupid.
Just as Max’s watch announces our 昀椀rst mile, a runner
passes wearing a tie-dye bandana, a black nylon jacket, and
neon green short shorts. They’re running alone but seem to be
talking to themselves. Max elbows me in the shoulder and nods
up ahead with a shrug.
“Isn’t he the kid who shit, puked, pissed, and bled all over
and into my toilet and then dipped without cleaning it up like a
decade ago?”
“That’s the one.”
“Isn’t he late to everything?”
“That’s the one.”
“So why are we inviting him?”
An orange dot in the distance becomes a runner, who
eventually passes without waving.
Max yells, “Bitch,” after they’ve passed and acts like this
is the way it should be.
“What the hell was that for?” I ask.
“She didn’t say, ‘Good morning.’”
“Singing,” I tell Max, and motion toward the person’s
earbuds as they pass. They wave, I wave, and Max waves, but the
person isn’t singing. They’re on the phone — something about
“Didn’t say ‘Good morning’? What if she’s having a bad
day and just wants to be left alone?”
Tesla stock — but before we can catch anything else, they’re
gone, bounding down the trail, leaving me and Max walking to
the sounds of Pink Floyd again.
“At any time,” I tell him. “Strangers don’t owe you anything but common courtesy.”
“I forgot about the tunnel!” I shout, as we make our way
along the asphalt path. Sure enough, exactly two miles into the
hike, we see an automobile overpass with a red-brick pedestrian
tunnel underneath.
“I’ve got an idea,” I say with con昀椀dence. I take out the
vape pen and smile slyly in Max’s direction. “Take a hit and hold
it until you get to the other side.”
“You morose mother fucker,” he says, and grins.
“That doesn’t even make sense,” I tell him, but it doesn’t
matter. We’re only a few steps outside of the tunnel, so I wait,
hit the pen, hand it to Max, and then hang the fuck on.
We emerge on the other side of the thirty-foot tunnel in
a litany of coughs. My vision ebbs as I try to corral my lungs, but
the hit was huge and the steam went deep and suddenly all I can
think about is my friend Camden, whose dad has lung cancer.
“At seven-thirty-昀椀ve?”
Max ignores me and fusses with his watch.
“Mile two was an eighteen-昀椀fty-two.”
“Great,” I tell him. “Stop yelling at people!”
“Not a chance,” he says. “Not a chance.”
“I’m serious about Camden, though. He’d love this. And,
besides, aren’t you the one that’s always trying to get everyone
on board?”
“What are you? His mother?”
“No,” I say, resolutely. “I’m his friend.”
Two Blue Jays land on the path in front of us and 昀椀ght
over some trivial morsel until our presence is too much and
they 昀氀y into a nearby oak tree.
“The pandemic has been hard on him,” I say. “He hasn’t
seen anyone but his family for weeks.”
“Neither have we.”
I ask myself why I’d think of a man dying of adenocarcinoma when Max and I are out in nature, celebrating everything
there is to celebrate about life, but that’s an easy one. I’ve been
smoking for a majority of my thirty-four years.
“What about this?” I ask, and motion to the space
between us.
My chest tightens as his dad’s image pops into my head:
a disgruntled man in his early sixties, short grey hair, glasses,
emaciated, yelling at the rest of his family to do this and to do
that, while slowly wasting to nothing on an old, hand-me-down
couch.
“No,” he says, lording his voice, “Because we’re basically
brothers.”
“We should invite Camden out on one of these,” I say,
absently.
“Who?”
With more clarity: “Camden.”
“Camden Camden?”
“Yeah, Camden.”
14
“This is di昀昀erent and you know it.”
“Because we don’t care as much?”
“Is that why we’re sharing a mouthpiece with a killer virus
on the loose?”
Max grows quiet.
“Sorry,” I tell him after several stony minutes.
“He’s late to everything,” Max says.
“I’m still going to invite him,” I counter.
Max replies with, “Three miles. Eighteen-forty-昀椀ve,” and
then sni昀昀s the air romantically.
“How’s that Anderman Cocktail treating you?” I ask.
