Baby You’re a Rich Man

He’d been invisible, subhuman even. It’d boiled over last week on a rare day shift when Coleman had paged him.
After five years at minimum wage as the night janitor, Donovan hoped against hope, promotion? 
Nope, a visitor had come to the most lucrative movie studio in the world with dogshit on his shoe and Donovan had been called to scrape it off the carpet
- straight out of a Rolling Stones song, the command issued with zero eye contact.

But today, invisibility paid off. It’d been so damn easy. Three bungee cords and an old sheet was all it took,
R2 secured in the bed of his beat-up truck. Donovan was sweating despite the chill of the February Los Angeles night
blowing through the open windows. He shut the radio, he had no patience for today’s music,
the 80s were proving to be as bad as the 70s. A Beatles song ran through his brain as
thrummed his fingers on the steering wheel, his eyes darting from speedometer to rear-view mirror.

There were two problems. First, telling Carla. She’d probably yell and try to get him to bring it back.
But maybe not. She’d cried when they’d sent Andrea to kindergarten in a Goodwill jumper, a faint stain on the front.
The dinginess of their apartment, the nights of boxed mac and cheese. Him, a musician trapped as a custodian, her, a painter trapped as a waitress.
They deserved this break.

Second, selling R2. It wouldn’t be like fencing stolen jewelry.
But hell, this town was full of eccentric rich guys. He’d find someone. Eduardo worked on a landscape crew in the hills,
told him stories over 50 cent Coronas about those people. He’d have to cut him in, but Eddy was good people, it’d be okay.

He drove down his alley past the garbage cans. Yeah, the unit past the garbage cans. 
He pulled into the tight parking spot and saw the light on in their tiny kitchen. Was Carla up? His watch read 2 am.

She nearly leapt into his arms. He breathed her warmth and took in the smell of her hair. Then pulled back,
“Is everything okay? Andrea?”

Carla smiled, “She’s fine. Look.” She pulled something from the front pocket of her flannel shirt.

It was a check from a lawyer’s office, $1500, almost three months’ rent on this dump.
He squinted at her. “It’s an advance. They want me to paint their whole office, mural style. It’s a thing now.
They love my stuff.” Carla’s words came out staccato. “This girl at work knew someone who knew someone. Sorry I didn’t tell you, I never thought …”
She fell into him, her tears wet on his neck. He remembered his secret. His eyes welled up. He shut them and held her tight.

“Donovan?”

He opened his eyes.

Police lights pulsed through their kitchen.
In the corner, the strings of his steel guitar glistened red and blue on each rotation.

François Bereaud is a husband, dad, full time math professor, mentor in the San Diego Congolese refugee community, and mediocre hockey player. He is the author of San Diego Stories published by Cowboy Jamboree Press and the novel, A Question of Family published by Stanchion Press. He’s the fiction editor at The Twin Bill.