Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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The chat was brief and strange. Simon confirmed who he was, his age, and his social security number which they’d somehow gathered, a detail that made his skin grow even colder than the voice had already. His heart thumped hard in his chest as he wrote down the address he had to be at the following morning. He worried briefly about not showing up at the brickyard as the call concluded with the dollar amount and the fact this was confidential. It couldn’t be real and he was likely giving up small, sure money for a bullshit scheme. But Simon had never colored outside lines, never taken a risk, and as he put Alex and Kaily to bed, watching them surrender to sleep as the day did to night outside their dusty, cracked blinds, he believed it was time to stray from the narrow path tread by dawn to dusk each day.

After a routine morning of bathing, tooth brushing, and breakfast he loaded the kids onto the school bus and then hopped into his barely-running, paint-chipped Pontiac Grand Am and headed to the address from the call. No one was there, but as he walked over to the streetlight, he heard a phone ringing and found a cell left lying beneath a thorny shrub. Rushing to grab it before the caller hung up, a long scratch measured the distance from the base of his index finger to below his wrist. He grimaced as he answered.


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To see what's what in the world of Santo

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