Pay For the Corn Meal by Wayne McCray (beginner reading books for adults txt) 📕

It’s two o’clock in the afternoon. The box fan that kept him cool was blowing in the kitchen. His mother came into his bedroom and confiscated it. So Jaybird, like other days, went outside and sat alongside the house in the shadows. It became so customary he’d doze there.

Standing tall, addressing him sternly, was his momma. “I figured I’d find you right here.” He woke up, rising politely, believing it’s time to eat. But she disappointed him. Moreover, she wanted him to run an errand. Jaybird sighed, unenthused about where, particularly in this ovenlike weather.

“Cornmeal,” she requested. “And this time buy the yellow, self-rising kind.”

With cash in hand, off he went. Above him hung a tangerine of light, at zenith, in friendship with a cloudless ocean blue sky, shining unhindered on a treeless neighborhood. Sunlight scorched everything. Sidewalks glowed, roads evaporated, and cars mimicked hot grills. It’s been hot-as-hell all summer. He couldn’t wait to get to the corner store.

Soon Jaybird pushed open the heavy door, triggering its entry bell. Cold air blew out, causing him to sneeze and have goosebumps. But it felt so good. So much so, he took his time. Much of it spent thumbing comic books. When done, he went for the yellow cornmeal and that’s when he saw gone that cheating pinball machine.

Instead, there’s something much better.

Jaybird inserted a quarter. He began gobbling up dots and blue ghosts, clearing four boards without loss of life, when a distinctive roar pricked his ears. Suddenly, motorcycles rolled past and parked. Two gothic bikers dismounted then galloped to the front entrance. He ducked down, instinctually, then realized he’d effed up.

But it’s too late now. The bell sounded, followed by directives for all to obediently kiss the floor. Some customers were reluctant. One foolish lady refused to give up her purse. Blunt force trauma solved that. The cashier must’ve felt it next. A cha-ching soon followed. And that’s when the dying began.

Pac Man died repeatedly, disrupting the mood. Staying hidden was done with and he knew it. Calls for him mounted. Jaybird finally showed himself. Then he ran straight across the room, toward the emergency exit, giving the bar-handle a good shove, ignoring shouts to stop. Down the alley he flew, head down, arms working. Jaybird hurtled a nearby fence, passed through the yards, out onto another street. Then he took off his shirt and strolled home.

His momma met him and asked why he’s so jittery? And she listened then reacted. “Hand it here. I’m just glad you got the right cornmeal.”

“Say what? Ma! I almost got shot,” handing it over.

She beckoned for her change. Which was given. In the distance echoed sirens. Even an ambulance sped past. She looked at him. Then waved him inside to go eat. The food was ready except for cornbread. “Jaybird,” she said. “I’m finished with the box fan. And when things die down go back and pay for the cornmeal.”

Images: Wingless Dreamer
Cover: Wingless Dreamer
Editing: Ruchi Acharya
Proofreading: Ruchi Acharya
Publication Date: 10-31-2020

All Rights Reserved