The Misadventures of Owen Bonner

Chapter Four

        The only reason I know Cliff dyed his hair pink over a dare is because I’m the one who dared him. Yes, it was me, and I’m taking credit for it. I take full responsibility for making his hair look like cheap cotton candy.

            You see, I met Cliff the summer before high school. I had been wanting to save up for a nice pair of Heelys, even though they had been out dated years ago. But they were really nice Heelys; blue and black. Heelys were never comfortable, though, and my feet ended up growing faster than the rest of my body, so the shoes were rendered useless after two months. Anyways, that’s beside the point.

            Point is, I met Cliff that summer, pre-pink hair Cliff. The only reason we ever interacted that summer was because my mom and dad wouldn’t just give me the money, I had to earn it as I was fourteen and needed to learn“work ethics” and stuff like that. So, I went to talk to my neighbor Mr. Jenkins, and before I knew it, I was being put in an apron, paid under the counter, and ushered into a greasy food truck. Mr. Jenkins was Cliff’s uncle, from his mom’s side, so they didn’t have the same last name. It would have helped if they did, though, because there was no other way to tell they were related at all.

            Cliff is lanky, but tall. His hair was sand-paper brown and seemed to do whatever the hell it felt like doing that day (I swear the kid has never heard of a brush). He’s got too many freckles to count and green eyes. Mr. Jenkins, on the other hand, was a tan man with jet black hair and had a thick caterpillar above his upper lip. He always smelled like bacon grease. The whole fucking place always smelled like bacon grease.

            In fact, bacon grease was the reason why Cliff’s hair is pink. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

            Cliff, unlike Danny, doesn’t like touching people or gross things for that matter. Why was he working in an all-American food truck, then? Beats me. The kid’s bat-shit crazy. Anyway, it was my first day on the job, and luckily for me, I wasn’t the only fourteen year old cheating the child labor laws. Mr. Jenkins showed me around the very small and cramped space that was the Jenkins’ Junk Food Truck . It was steamy, sweaty, and hot; not the place you wanna be in the middle of the goddamn summer. But this was for Heelys, remember that.

            As per usual, Mr. Jenkins was a moron who’s only purpose in life was probably to increase the obesity rate and high cholesterol in America. He didn’t have much manners, really, he was straight to the point and very impatient. He also spit a lot, which was another reason he wasn’t my favorite person in the world.

            “You’ll just wash dishes for now,” He said quickly, handing me a rag, sponge, and apron. He also pointed to the mop in the far corner, and then motioned me to take care of the dishes by the small, dirty sink. I nodded, bit my tongue, then scurried over to the sink. Cliff was talking to the customers and handling the money while Mr. Jenkins and his son prepared the meals. I thought it was really stupid of them to put a guy who whispers the one who takes orders, especially over all the commotion, but I guess idiocy doesn’t wither with age.

            I scrubbed utensils, mainly, because everything else was out of paper. And it was only the beginning of the day, so there wasn’t a lot to clean in the first place. We were somewhere in downtown Aurora, catering to hungry construction workers and other blue collar civilians. I only know Cliff doesn’t like touching people because he’d put the food on the counter for them to take instead of handing it to them, or tell them they can just put the money on the counter and he’d be right back with the change. Never once did I see him graze his hand with another human being. Which, really, was just so goddamn annoying. Almost as annoying as his mouse-like voice. I swear, it drove me nuts.