Change

“Can I get the…” Elijah Rosales’ voice trails off as he stares at the menu behind the cashier. Nothing costs less than $5, and he only has one crumpled bill left, with change.
 

The cashier doesn’t smile as she hands Elijah his change, but he pays more attention to counting the coins anyways. Two quarters, a dime—BEEP—a dime, and two—BEEP—and two penn—BEEP.

“Will you shut that shit off!” A hush falls over the McDonald’s, and all eyes are on Elijah. He mutters and hobbles away from the center of attention.

When she brings his tray, the girl can’t spare a glance, and scurries back to the kitchen. Salivating at the smell, Elijah scarfs down his meal and relishes the bubbling of his soda. With every gulp, the knot in his throat loosens, until his wrist twitches, and half the drink ends up on his chest. “Damnit!” Elijah throws his cup at the window and storms onto the street.

An orange bus whose sign reads “2-USC STN” stops at the corner, and Elijah covers his ears when its brakes hiss. He boards the bus, ignoring side-eyes and covered noses as he finds a seat. Elijah’s eyelids are heavy, and he lets them droop lower and lower as his head rests against the glass. 

The bus drives for less than a minute before HISSSS. Elijah’s eyes snap open and he cups his hands over his ears, flinching at the sound. A new crowd of people swarm onto the bus, and their bustle begins to frighten him. Luckily, no one sits next to Elijah on either side, and the bus moves forward again.

HISSSS. Elijah shouts, and people rush off the bus. No one gets on. HISSSS. Elijah groans, trying to stop himself from screaming over the noise. HISSSS, and now Elijah can’t take it. He pulls at his hair and screams to drown out the engine and the brakes and the cars. The driver escorts him off the bus.

Continuing on foot, he sees two figures hunched closely beneath an overpass and—forgetting why he’s taken the bus—walks over to them.

“Whatchu two got there?”

They look up at him with wide eyes. “Whatchu care? Get outta here.”

Elijah looks over one of their shoulders, and sees a needle in his hand. His heart skips a beat. “How much?”

“How much you got?”

“Sixty-two cents.”

The pair turns away from him without another word.

With white knuckles, Elijah stomps further down the overpass, kicking rocks and muttering curses. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, reaching for something to throw, and the jingling of his coins against the concrete echoes in the dark. The two figures hear the sound, and watch as he feels around for the money. One of them stands up, and Elijah breaks into a sprint without a second thought.

Sunlight blinds him, and as he looks back, the overpass looks completely black. He can’t see the figures, so who knows how close they might be, and he needs those sixty-two cents. A horn steals his attention in front of him, and Elijah pulls his hair as the squealing of tires suddenly surrounds him, followed by a loud shattering and the screech of bent metal. He runs from the sounds, which pierce his head like a bullet to the brain, and flees down the stairs of MacArthur Station.

In the dim underground, Elijah stumbles to a payphone, and fumbles his quarters into the slot. Careful that his quaking fingers don’t press the wrong button, he sounds out each number. 

“Eight…one…eight…three…” he pauses. “Six. Zero. Four…” Elijah stops again. What were the last three numbers? He closes his eyes to think, but all he can remember is the taste of his soda. 

A familiar voice, soft and loving, sounds in his mind. “One-two-two,” she says.

The line rings. It rings again.

“¿Alo?” asks the same voice, harsh and quick.

“Hola Ma.”

“I told you never to call here again until you’re clean.”

Elijah waits before realizing that’s all she’ll say. “I know, Ma.”

“Well? Are you?”

“I—well—it’s been—”

“You’re still using, aren’t you?”

“No Ma, I swear. I-I’ve been trying to—”

“Then why can’t you stop shaking?” Elijah doesn’t know what to say. “We tried with you, mijo. We really did.” Tenderness creeps back into her voice. “But you didn’t want our help, so what was left for us to do? We tried everything, mi niño, but you never let us in.”

Another silence. “Please, Ma. Can I come home?”

She doesn’t answer, and Elijah’s legs quake at the thought that the call dropped. “No, Elijah.”

“Why not?” his voice breaks.

“Your brother isn’t going to share a room with an addict; your father wouldn’t stand for it. And how am I going to live, seeing you, my baby, suffer every day, knowing that every time you leave the house, you’ll come back with a new scar next to that stupid tattoo?!” 

“Please, Mamá, there’s no new scars, I swear, I swear! I haven’t had any in weeks, I promise you! I want to get help Mami, I swear! I want to come home, Mami, please! I’m so scared out here, I’m so hungry all the time, and, and, and I hate sleeping in a tent, and I miss you so much, and I just want to go home!”

Elijah’s mother doesn’t answer. He waits, and he waits, but she says nothing—not even a breath.

“Please insert fifty cents to continue your call.”

His agonized wailing silences the trains below, stops passersby in their tracks, and echoes against the mosaic walls of the station. Elijah slams the receiver against the wall, and jumps up and down in a panic, until he crumbles to the floor in a weeping mess of ragged clothes and unwashed hair.

Footsteps approach, but Elijah doesn’t care if they kick him out. 

“Excuse me, sir? Do you need a few quarters for the phone?”