Keeper, fiction by Scott Blackburn

Y our eyes don’t leave the stoplight ahead. You’re praying it turns green before I hold out a hand and ask for any change you can spare. You might pity me. Maybe you judge me. What I bet you don’t realize is how thin the line is between you being in my shoes and me being in yours. A cardboard sign exchanged for that seven dollar latte in your cup holder. Dominos fall fast. A solid nine-to-five at the bus factory, to sports gambling with some guys on the assembly line, to you-need-to-call-a-helpline because you’re a goddamn gambling addict. A two year bleed-out in my case. Debts fermenting into desperation. Stealing a pocketful of cash from a locker at work. Hawking my nephew’s Playstation to cover what I owed some seedy fuckers who dealt in baseball bats and needle nose pliers. I shut doors in my life. Some forever. So maybe you can understand why I wake every day feeling the acid burn of guilt in my gut for the people I hurt. Maybe that guilt is why I’m doing wha...