The Devil and Curtis Pye
One buyer showed up the next day. “Twenty. That’s all it’s worth.”
“That’s not fair. It cost me three hundred and fifty dollars.”
The man had a red Van Dyke goatee and a purple complexion. “It’s $175, plus a hundred to fix the wheel. Should I risk $275 on a broken $350 bike?”
“I need more money. A hundred.”
He looked back at his son. “Aaron. Come.” The kid–he looked twelve–started to whine.
My mouth opened. “That’s not right. It’s nearly brand new.”
“It’s a busted toy. It’s smarter to buy a new one.”
It’s not right, but this shiny, almost-new Honda is no good to me. I’ve lost two fights in two days, and I don’t want to try suicide again. If I hitch, even twenty-five dollars could be my ticket out of Oklahoma. And I want to leave here worse than I want to see if anyone will offer more money. “Do me a favor. Make it twenty-five.”
He scribbled a check and offered the oddest smile. “Smart boy like you should know. Never ask the devil for a favor.”
