Jinx

by Cory Braidon

About the Author: Cory Braidon’s creative work has appeared in Southern Humanities Review, New Mexico Humanities Review, Fourth Genre, Red River Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Four Quarters, New South Writing, Skylark, Aries, Mattoid, Texas Arts Journal, Austin Chronicle, Riversedge, Pleiades, Pebble Lake Review, Desert Candle, New Texas and Literary Austin. He was awarded a Pushcart Prize in 1992.

Excerpt

“Syd, the whole thing’s jinxed. We gotta call it off.”

Syd shows stiff calm, his eyes frozen hard on Moe. And Moe flinches.

“Didn’t you see that black cat in the doorway just now? It’s a bad sign, Syd. The job’s jinxed.”

“What cat?” asks Shorty, who’s not short. He’s unwrapping another Tootsie Pop. He crunches them the way he cracks his knuckles. The school dope who first called him Shorty lost his front teeth quick, and an earlobe. Then one day Shorty told us, “I kinda like it. Ironic.” So that name stuck, though you might squirm a bit inside when you say it. You can’t be too careful.

I sense the wheels turning in Syd’s head. Not over the mystery cat, over Moe. He’s the worry. Syd needs the mope, needs his steady hands. Syd’s head turns to me.

“Get me the cat.”

In the hall I look left and see a tail disappear around the corner, headed to Syd’s office. The door’s open, I go in, and two wide-eyed kids in shorts freeze in place. Repeat eighth-graders, could be. Dumbstruck stupids, probably their usual look. One’s got his hands jammed in Syd’s desk drawer, the other’s gripping a fat wad of twenties, probably real.

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