In Need of Assistance? (TF2)

Fifty-Seven: Thinking Not Included

Fired.

That's a thing I haven't been in a while.

Tch, fired.

It's best if I don't indulge in it. That means crying and then crying means that I'm sensitive and being sensitive means Miss Pauling is only proven right even more than she already is.

My skates roll on the pavement and the gentle breeze of the warm summer night runs over my skin. Confetti trots along next to me as I glide at a walking pace to take it all in. I'm free, but at what cost? Nope, don't do that. Stop thinking. Street lights come and go in small circles on the beach walk, couples walking in the opposite direction with food and drinks in hand. Music is always playing from somewhere. I just passed up a man a few minutes ago who was lazily strumming his guitar on a bench at his own leisure, as he was taking a break from earning street cash. A woman runs by with her German Shepherd, and our dogs touch noises before we continue on in our own directions.

Confetti pants and whines as she yawns. It's time for another break. I pull her aside to another bench and take my backpack off to open it. She leaps up and sits patiently as I open a water bottle and cup my hand to act as a bowl. Her slimy tongue laps from my palm as I drizzle water so none of it goes to waste. She decides she's had enough, so I store the water away and sit down next to her to look at the sea and the glimmering lights that reflect off of the tiny waves. Taking this time, I dip my head in between my legs and pull the scrunchie on my wrist over my hair to make a high bun. Some of my hair doesn't make it in, but it's about the mane rather than the strands. My bangs stay out of the bun, since they were too short to be held in.

I take Confetti's leash and go off further down the coast after our brief rest. The beach is occupied by campfires and night waders looking for a sense of adventure in entering the ocean while it's dark. I'm tempted to go in for myself, but I don't think Confetti would be a fan of sand in her fur at the moment right now. She goes along and pulls me, almost. A trio of elderly men play drums up ahead while a younger woman sings. It's Swahili, but her dialect is weird and I can't understand all of it. I believe it's a church hymnal. One man has his bongos in front of him at his waist. He's keeping the base beat with one hand and waves me down, beckoning me to come closer.

I drift slightly, and he takes my hand and twirls me around before pushing me off to give me a bit of momentum when I continue. Normally, I'd stay and dance a little, but dancing is now strictly reserved for happy times. I don't even think I'm sad; I think I'm just numb. No. No. No.

I hear wheels approaching quickly behind me, so I stick to the far right side so they can pass me up. The wheels slow down, and I look next to me to see Scout step off his skateboard and kick up the back end of his board to pick it up. I slow down and wrangle Confetti, holding her by her harness to keep her still. Scout has a white plastic bag in his hand with styrofoam containers. Holding it out tells me all I need to know, so we go over to the seawall and sit on the blockade. Confetti hops up and sits facing the ocean as Scout and I face the street. He opens the bag and hands one container to me with plastic ware. The box creaks as I push it open with the tab and the plastic stretches with my fingers until it burst. Arroz con Pollo, you've never let me down. We're not in Jamaica, but I know jerk chicken when I smell it. The skin of the chicken stretches when I stab it with my fork, and I stop when I watch it dip. Nothing matters right now.

Fired.

"How's Salvador doing?" I ask.

Scout shrugs. "He apologized to Medic and then went to bed. Out cold."

"That's how he calms down." Confetti yawns behind me. "He just naps it off."

"Can I..." Scout starts as he crosses his legs and sets his food down in his lap, "Can I tell you something?"