“I won’t be around tomorrow,” I say.
“Out-of-towner?” the man asks.
“Decker,” I say.
Then the moment of truth: Will he challenge the reality of Death-Cast, or trust that I’m dying?
The man shakes his head. “That’s tragic. I’m sorry to hear that. You’re so young. . . .”
I’m relieved that he cares, but of course my truth stings anyway.
“Come on in. You can have a look around,” the man says. He shakes our hands. “I’m Férnan.”
“Valentino. This is Orion.”
“Nice to meet you both. Orion, mind the swearing if my son comes out from the back. He’s ten and already cursing like me whenever the Mets are losing.”
“That’s a lot of fucking cursing, then,” Orion jokes, tapping his Yankees hat.
It feels like we’re entering a crime scene. The glass counter has been shattered, and all the jewelry boxes have been emptied. Workout weights are still in the corner because I guess the looters weren’t lifters. Two bikes on the wall, one yellow and the other steel gray. A microwave is upside down, probably tossed about during all the action. Shelves of sneakers with minimal scuffs, which I’m sure is great for anyone wanting to act like their sneakers are fresh out of the box but life happened while wearing them out, like my white sneakers are already experiencing. Then the floor is littered with so much more, like action figures, baseball caps, tools, video games, DVDs, a couple electric guitars with broken strings, cracked vinyl records, and a bunch of other things that have their own stories. Reasons they were brought here to set someone up for success out there. As if theft wasn’t a big enough crime standing on its own two feet, I think about all the stolen treasures that people cannot buy back. That’s the biggest crime here.
“How long you been in business?” Orion asks.
“Few years, but thinking about getting out of it soon,” Férnan says.
“How come? Because of all this?”
Férnan shakes his head. “This didn’t help. I just don’t have the heart for this business. I hate putting price tags on people’s priceless belongings. I’ve lost count of how many times people put their wedding rings on layaway for cash.”
At least those people got to have weddings. That means they got to fall in love.
That’s not in the cards on an End Day.
I continue searching for a camera, remembering that it’s something I can control. There are dozens of books fanned out on the floor; I guess the looters aren’t readers either. There was no camera hiding underneath the books, though I pile them into a neat stack so it’s less work for Férnan later. I look under Frisbees and behind a broken printer but nothing.
The back door swings open, and a young boy comes out. He looks like a young Férnan but without the grays and beard and tattoos. He’s wearing a blue sweatsuit. He finishes the last bite of a McDonald’s hash brown and wipes the grease off his mouth.
“I thought we were closed, Pops,” the boy says.
Férnan is crouched behind the shattered counter. “We are. But these young men were gentlemen, and I decided to let them in. See how manners work?”
“Yeahhh.”
“Why don’t you see if you can help them find a camera?”
“Can I finally get that bike if I do?” he asks, pointing at the steel-gray bike on the wall.
“It’s still not for sale.”
“Just say it was stolen, Pops.”
“Rufus . . .”