Just a Piece

The two shaggy looking men sat underneath the old Route 3 overpass with the remnants of soggy cardboard boxes resting over their shoulders as makeshift blankets. Over the years they'd become good at shielding themselves from anything Mother Nature threw at them. The occasional crash of thunder would echo off from the steel beams over their heads, while the crackling of a fire made of mostly garbage lighted up their faces. Although both men wore tattered clothing and smelled like a combination of dumpster bottom and bar room floor, there was in fact a large gap in age between them.
The older of the two men, still seated on the ground, inched himself closer to the fire by dragging his bottom along the pavement. His companion watched him intently before he too got closer to the fire, hovering filthy fingers over its warmth. He seemed to stare directly into the flames for a moment before he began to speak.
"I heard George isn't paying for it anymore. He's high for life," he said, his eyes still fixed on the glow of the fire. The older man said nothing, but simply shook his head from side to side in a very slow and purposeful manner.
"I seen him the other day, and he was higher than the fucking birds. He told me where to get it and I'm going once this storm stops," he said. For the first time all evening the older man stood, and surprisingly towered over his associate.
"There is no such thing as high for life, and there's nothing in this world bad enough to do that shit," he said. He turned his attention to the younger man, who for the first time looked the old man in the eyes.
"I'm sick of this shit. Look at us, a couple of degenerates sucking the life out of society one needle at a time. I'm done with it," he said, walking back to where he once sat. The old man followed him, placing the two pieces of cardboard flat out on the ground. The two men lay down on their backs and looked up at the stars.
"Why don't you sleep on it," the old man said. "We'll talk about it in the morning." The younger man said nothing, but instead closed his eyes and thought of somewhere else.

When the old man awoke the next morning, the first thing he noticed was the empty strip of cardboard next to him. He stood up and looked around, letting his aged eyes adjust to the light. He decided not to worry about the absence of his friend, and instead went about his daily routine of checking the nearby trashcans and alleyways for something of sustenance. After eating the loose ends of a spaghetti dinner and something that resembled a cookie, he made his way to his daily hand out corner, where he sat on an old bucket, hat in hand, looking his oldest and saddest. A few hours passed before he had enough money to buy a few ounces of booze from the corner liquor store, and by the time he returned to the overpass the little plastic bottle was just about empty.
On the ground sat his younger comrade, his legs folded, wearing a new looking baseball cap. When he saw the older man approaching, he swiveled his body around to face him.
"I found it," he said. "The eternal high-it was right where George said it would be." The old man's face contorted for a moment before taking a few steps closer.
"What'd it cost?" he asked, noticing a change in the young man.
"Just a piece," the young man said, removing his hat to reveal a newly shaven head, completed by a thin scar that traveled from ear to ear.