When he first came to New York, everyone and everything seemed to move rapidly. Every fast paced interaction had a purpose and at first this scared him. Now, though, it appeared that everything had slowed. Over the years either his pace had improved or his patience worsened (probably both) because now a lot of the times people weren't going fast enough for him. Like now for instance. Martinez seemed set on doing everything but get to the point. The only time the man would take a breath was briefly to inhale more of his food, or to motion to Roman to keep eating, although his appetite still hadn't returned. He knew he should be grateful. Free food, especially after wasting money back at the diner, was something to be grateful. And given his typical dining which really wasn't ever anything more than something quick from a food stand or maybe from a drugstore, this was a treat. Even still, the biscuit that was less than the size of his palm seemed like too much. It was his third one by now and there were still four more that Martinez seemed pressed about him eating. As if that would somehow make him gain twenty pounds in muscle. What was the guy even talking about now?
"And that's why I brought you here," Martinez was saying. Roman looked at him quietly, not having said more than a few words since arriving. He nodded to indicate that he understood when in reality he'd missed the whole thing. "Because opportunity is precious and I've got a precious opportunity for you." It was safe to say that Martinez was a bit dramatic. Killens sometimes wondered if the guy thought he was a salesman or something because he always exaggerated everything. Roman nodded again. "You're subbing. I've got a fight for you. Tonight," Martinez said with a pleased grin as he wagged his fork at Roman who was staring at him dumbfounded. Martinez didn't seem to comprehend the look that Roman was giving him, so Killens swallowed the bread he'd been chewing for a while and sipped his water before speaking. "I had one last night."
"And you've got another one in," Martinez began, only pausing to look at his watch, and then he continued, "'bout 6 hours." Roman gave him a hard look, but before he could protest, Martinez cut him off. "You got something against making money now? You should be thankin' me. I give you free bread, free water, some fights. I don't get a thank you? How do you think that makes me feel, huh?" He didn't wait for an answer. "I didn't have to call you," he said. "But I did. Because I like you. Because you're an investment. I make money, you make money. We're both happy. And I mean I do all the hard work. I find you good fights you've actually got a chance at. All you gotta do is throw a few punches." Roman had a good mind to tell him that that wasn't how investments worked and that only one of them was going home purple and blue, but he didn't say that. Instead he rubbed the frustration that was accumulating in his temple and sighed. "I can't do it tonight, Martinez."
"Killens, Killens, Killens," he said, which meant a lecture was coming. "Let me tell you a story. One time I had this ball. I put it on top of this little hill and it rolled down. So I picked it up, put it back up there, and what happens? It rolls down again. I keep bring it up there, and it keeps rolling down. So what do I do? Do I get mad at the ball? No, because the ball doesn't know any better. So I get a little block and put it in front of the ball and guess what? It stays." Martinez spoke as if he'd just discovered some miraculous discovery and presumed to his food for about five minutes. Roman watched him disinterestedly, again wondering why he was so damn slow. When he finally spoke, he displayed a mouthful of food. "So I had to introduce an outside force, take matters into my own hands, to get what I want. Now do you get it? If I have to, I'll introduce an outside force, Killens, and I'll take matters into my own hands. And I don't think you'll like that, but it's nothing to worry about since I'll be seeing you tonight. Because you do want to pay off your debt to me, right? Or am I mistaken?"
Roman focused on the salt shaker on the end of the table. It was slightly slanted, little salt crumbs decorated around its base. The tremor in his hands had formed into a tremble and the nausea that had subsided was returning. A thick lump was blocking air from getting down his throat, but he didn't swallow. Instead he just frowned at the salt shaker, purposely avoiding Martinez's eyes. Roman cleared his throat and straightened the salt shaker. "No," he said. Martinez nodded his head in approval, his fork resuming to clinking and clanking against the plate. He slurped his pasta, his mood cheerful again. "Good," he said through his loud chewing. "Good."
"And that's why I brought you here," Martinez was saying. Roman looked at him quietly, not having said more than a few words since arriving. He nodded to indicate that he understood when in reality he'd missed the whole thing. "Because opportunity is precious and I've got a precious opportunity for you." It was safe to say that Martinez was a bit dramatic. Killens sometimes wondered if the guy thought he was a salesman or something because he always exaggerated everything. Roman nodded again. "You're subbing. I've got a fight for you. Tonight," Martinez said with a pleased grin as he wagged his fork at Roman who was staring at him dumbfounded. Martinez didn't seem to comprehend the look that Roman was giving him, so Killens swallowed the bread he'd been chewing for a while and sipped his water before speaking. "I had one last night."
"And you've got another one in," Martinez began, only pausing to look at his watch, and then he continued, "'bout 6 hours." Roman gave him a hard look, but before he could protest, Martinez cut him off. "You got something against making money now? You should be thankin' me. I give you free bread, free water, some fights. I don't get a thank you? How do you think that makes me feel, huh?" He didn't wait for an answer. "I didn't have to call you," he said. "But I did. Because I like you. Because you're an investment. I make money, you make money. We're both happy. And I mean I do all the hard work. I find you good fights you've actually got a chance at. All you gotta do is throw a few punches." Roman had a good mind to tell him that that wasn't how investments worked and that only one of them was going home purple and blue, but he didn't say that. Instead he rubbed the frustration that was accumulating in his temple and sighed. "I can't do it tonight, Martinez."
"Killens, Killens, Killens," he said, which meant a lecture was coming. "Let me tell you a story. One time I had this ball. I put it on top of this little hill and it rolled down. So I picked it up, put it back up there, and what happens? It rolls down again. I keep bring it up there, and it keeps rolling down. So what do I do? Do I get mad at the ball? No, because the ball doesn't know any better. So I get a little block and put it in front of the ball and guess what? It stays." Martinez spoke as if he'd just discovered some miraculous discovery and presumed to his food for about five minutes. Roman watched him disinterestedly, again wondering why he was so damn slow. When he finally spoke, he displayed a mouthful of food. "So I had to introduce an outside force, take matters into my own hands, to get what I want. Now do you get it? If I have to, I'll introduce an outside force, Killens, and I'll take matters into my own hands. And I don't think you'll like that, but it's nothing to worry about since I'll be seeing you tonight. Because you do want to pay off your debt to me, right? Or am I mistaken?"
Roman focused on the salt shaker on the end of the table. It was slightly slanted, little salt crumbs decorated around its base. The tremor in his hands had formed into a tremble and the nausea that had subsided was returning. A thick lump was blocking air from getting down his throat, but he didn't swallow. Instead he just frowned at the salt shaker, purposely avoiding Martinez's eyes. Roman cleared his throat and straightened the salt shaker. "No," he said. Martinez nodded his head in approval, his fork resuming to clinking and clanking against the plate. He slurped his pasta, his mood cheerful again. "Good," he said through his loud chewing. "Good."