Chapter Text
The first time Dylan sees him he’s stopping to hand Dylan a two-dollar bill out of the window of his hundred-thousand-dollar car.
A hybrid SUV.
Some kind of Lexus.
Dorky looking in seaweed green.
Not the kind of car Dylan typically expects to stop for him when he flies a sign at the superstore parking lot exit.
Mostly because it’s not the kind of car whose owner usually shops in this area at all.
Dylan quickly scrambles up from where he’s sprawled out on the wilted grass and tucks his crinkled cardboard sign under his elbow; he’d been bored enough to have it balancing on top of his head instead of held up to display the bold, sharpied on: HOMELESS PLEASE HELP.
He’s been here for a little over an hour, only hoisting himself up off the wilted grass when there’s a car on its way out of the lot. He hadn’t even heard this one coming, its engine was so quiet.
It’s early enough in the morning that the cars are few and far between. The sun’s just starting to rise in pink and orange behind the tall parking lot street lamps. Just after six in the morning, then.
Dylan’s been panhandling at this same spot for months. The superstore security guys don’t mind him because they know he doesn’t cause trouble and doesn’t sleep in the lot.
The spot’s easy to grab this early, there won’t be much activity in the area until after eight. There’s nothing out here besides the superstore and a few fast food places that share the huge desolate lot–Dylan likes mornings to catch the drive-thru coffee shop’s traffic. He usually stays until a little after noon to minimize his time in the sun.
His messy hair is still sun-bleached blonder than it ever has been, though. His skin tanned like the dudes that work construction on the side of the road all day. Dylan’s never worked a day in his life. Never expected to live this long.
Despite everything, he’d turned twenty last winter. Somehow.
Dylan ducks down to peer into the passenger window at the guy’s outstretched hand reaching across his center console to offer Dylan the single two-dollar bill.
“Seriously?” Dylan scoffs, eyes on the bill and then back up to the driver’s face, making no move to accept the money. The man is alone in the SUV. “I can’t spend this.”
“Why?” the man asks simply, staring stoically over at Dylan. He’s east asian, ink-dark hair swept to the side across his forehead slightly, short but not buzzed. His dark brown eyes pierce right through Dylan–not challenging, not offended, just… indifferent.
Dead.
Dylan’s eyes flick around the pristine car cabin with its fancy orangish-brown leather trim, gaze lingering on the work badge hanging from a lanyard around the rearview mirror with the guy’s picture on it. Some kind of hotshot doctor at the big hospital down the road, then.
There’s a white disposable coffee cup in his cupholder from the coffee shop drive-thru.
“It’s a two-dollar bill, man,” Dylan informs him, wrinkling his nose. “I can't spend it.”
The man’s stare doesn’t falter. Dispassionate expression unchanging. “Yes you can. I do it all the time. Any store should take them. Vending machines take them.”
Dylan knows that. “Yeah, but it’s like a gold dollar. They’re supposed to go in piggy banks or stay in your wallet or underwear drawer forever.”
He’d collected them as a kid, his parents presenting the gold dollars and two-dollar bills like they were treasure. He’d kept them all in the corner of the drawer of the plastic storage bin that his clothes were stuffed into.
He’d gone to count it all one day and found the stash missing. He was sure it had been over fifty dollars. When he’d asked his parents about it they had scolded him about late fees at the video rental store. That they'd needed the money and it was his fault for not turning in his cartoon DVDs on time. Like he was supposed to walk his seven year old ass two miles down the street to return the videos when his parents wouldn’t even let him out of their chain-link fence yard because the neighborhood was so bad.
It was a lie, of course.
They’d taken the money to buy more drugs.
Or food because they’d already spent their paycheck on drugs.
So–yep. Guess you can spend two-dollar bills after all.
The man’s brow is knit now, his frown a little deeper, like he finds Dylan’s philosophy on two-dollar bills distasteful, or perhaps childish.
Yeah. Probably childish. This guy is at least thirty if he’s a doctor who drives a car like this.
Dylan glowers. “I just can’t spend it.”
Because his parents stole his collection when he was a kid or because he liked collecting them in the first place–he doesn’t know. Trauma or nostalgia. Who fucking knows. It doesn’t matter.
“Just take it,” the man asserts impatiently, leaning further across the console, gesturing with it. “It’s all I have on me.”
Dylan inhales deeply. Holds it. Reaches in the car to take the bill. Exhales. “Alright, whatever.”
The moment the bill’s in his hands his attention snags on something written on it in felt-tip marker in a child’s handwriting. Each letter is a different color.
To: Morgan
From: Julie :) <3
Happy Lunar New Year.
1.24.2001
There’s a crude drawing of a snake on it, too.
Huh.
Dylan has no idea what Lunar New Year is, but…
This is from 2001?
He huffs. “See? It’s not just me. This was sentimental to someone.”
The man doesn’t acknowledge that, simply lifting slightly out of his seat to wrangle his wallet back in his pocket.
This was all the man had in his wallet?
Less and less people are carrying cash these days, but…
Dylan shifts his gaze back down to the child’s handwriting. Flicks his eyes over to another car pulling impatiently around this man’s car, a strange feeling coming over him.
People give sentimental things away when they don’t think they need them anymore.
And that’s usually when they–
“Hey–” Dylan starts, apprehensive, not sure how to ask someone are you okay or are you planning to drive off a cliff or something?
He sure hopes not. That drive-thru latte is one hell of a shitty last meal.
But if it was Dylan he’d probably just straight up go for a McDonalds Happy Meal. So he sure as hell can’t fucking talk.
Before Dylan can get any question out at all the man cuts him off.
“I just moved here,” he informs Dylan, as if this information can possibly matter to him. “This is the closest drive-thru coffee place to my work. I’ll bring something else next time.”
With that, he drives away.
Dylan stands there for a long time, frozen, mouth slack, unable to shake the feeling that the man really, really isn’t okay.
It’s not Dylan’s problem.
Mechanically, he goes back to sit against the grey electrical box sticking out of the ground and turns the two-dollar bill in his hands.
Eventually, he puts it in his pocket with the red McLaren F1 hotwheels car he’s kept on him since he was a kid, instead of with the bundle of money in his crew sock.
His tiny, maroon toy car.
The only sentimental possession he has.
He supposes if the man said he’d bring something else next time, that implies the existence of a next time and he’s not going to go home tonight and hang himself in the closet.
That’s good enough to shed most of the uneasiness the encounter left Dylan with.
Most of it.
It’s not like there’s anything Dylan can do about it if the guy was planning to off himself, anyway.
He doesn’t have anything of value to offer anyone.
Can’t even give himself a reason to keep going, let alone someone else.
Whatever.
True to his word, there is a next time.
Thank god.
But this time it’s–
“A fifty?” Dylan blurts, shocked by the amount and the bill itself–he hasn’t seen a fifty since he lived with his parents and his dad would keep stacks of twenties and fifties and hundreds for deals with whatever random guys would come up to the fence to buy weed while Dylan was out playing in the yard. “No one carries fifties on them unless they’re a drug dealer–”
“I’m not a drug dealer,” the man informs him flatly before driving away without so much as a goodbye.
Rude.
“Just bring twenties next time like a normal person!” Dylan shouts after his car in the early morning air, not sure if the guy can even hear him.
Next time the man brings three twenties instead.
“Touché,” is all Dylan can say.
The man, of course, says nothing.
It’s a lot of money. Most people give him the sticky change from their cupholders or a couple of ones or fives they scrounge from their wallet. A lot of people don’t give him money at all, just a hot as fuck plastic water bottle from the footwell of their car or a bag of chips that came with their lunch.
“You know, I knew you weren’t a drug dealer because a drug dealer would never drive that car,” Dylan informs him the moment the man’s passenger window rolls down the next morning.
“What cars do drug dealers drive?” the man asks dubiously.
“Cooler ones than yours,” Dylan answers like he has any idea at all. He’d never actually met a drug dealer that wasn’t poor as shit. “Unless you’re my dad, then it’s an ugly as fuck GMC that costs more to fix when it breaks down than it does to buy in the first fucking place.”
That gets a snort out of the stoic man.
Dylan actually feels a little proud of that.
“I still haven’t spent your two-dollar bill by the way,” Dylan informs him, just to try and get a reaction. Or some conversation. Something. Fuck, god, he must be lonely.
The man simply shrugs and… yeah–drives away.
The man brings him a couple of twenties almost every fucking day at the same time for weeks. Like clockwork. Just after sunrise. Four days a week. Friday through Monday. He must have Tuesday through Thursday off of work.
Dylan’s eyes start scanning for his stupid seaweed green SUV every morning. Watches the way it comes down the road. Turns into the superstore parking lot. Waits in line for an expensive latte or someshit.
Dylan’s used to seeing the same cars come and go on occasion–employees that work in the shopping center, people who always get their groceries early, people who hit the coffee place before work. Those people don’t stop to acknowledge Dylan at all usually.
This man rolls down his passenger window to give Dylan money every single time. It’s too much fucking money. More than Dylan would get in an entire day sometimes. He doesn’t know what to do with it all. He does know what to do with it all, but… he hasn’t worked up the nerve to do it, yet.
Dylan’s been spending his nights in the shade of the trees in a wooded area down the road where his single-occupant tent has been up for a couple months, obscured under some brush. He takes out that toy McLaren and turns its familiar shape in his hands, thinks about what kind of life a probably-doctor who drives a seaweed green Lexus has. What kind of life his parents and three siblings have, now. He hasn’t seen them in three years.
In the dark of his sweltering tent, still not cooled off from the summer heat radiating through the air all day, Dylan stares unseeingly forward and thinks of what he’ll say to the man the next time he sees him in the handful of seconds he gets before the man inevitably drives away.
The guy is unflappable, usually. Doesn’t respond to conversation in more than a few clipped exchanges. Sometimes not at all.
“So, what kind of drink do you get from the coffee place?”
Cold stare.
“About that two-dollar bill–”
Cold stare.
“So, hey, this is a lot of money every day–”
Shrug.
“Hey, why do you keep handing me all these twenties if you obviously find me annoying?”
Pointed look.
“Look, I know the two-forty a week you’re giving me seems like a lot and you’re probably thinking one day I’ll just stop showing up to this parking lot to beg for money, but I can’t actually rent a place to live without a job, and hotels are like two-forty a night so, I don’t know what you expect–”
“I don’t expect anything,” the man replies tonelessly.
“If you’re trying to get rid of me, like hoping one day I’ll just stop being homeless and you can pat yourself on the back and say–”
“I’ve never patted myself on the back for anything,” the man informs him.
That shuts Dylan up. Makes him frown. Neither has he, honestly. But this guy is like, obviously a doctor–
He has like… things to be proud of, right?
Dylan doesn’t get a chance to inquire further because the next thing he knows he’s staring at taillights, standing there like an idiot with his three crisp twenty dollar bills in his hands straight from the bank.
So–
That’s another point in the this guy is suicidal column.
Dylan doesn’t know why he keeps trying so hard to talk to him.
Boredom, maybe.
You get used to talking to people when you live on the streets for as long as he has, when the difference between eating and not eating on any given day is whether or not strangers want to give you money. Sometimes that means trying his best to be pleasant and likable.
He doesn’t think the man in that car gives two shits if Dylan’s pleasant and likable.
And since Seaweed Green Lexus started showing up, Dylan hasn’t had trouble eating at all.
A kid named Tyler with buzzed red hair and too many freckles usually wanders up around two in the afternoon if Dylan’s not out of his spot at the parking lot exit by then. He’s nineteen. Dylan doesn’t tell him about the regular in the green Lexus that’s been giving him way too much money. They're on amicable terms but Dylan doesn’t trust like that. He does hand the kid a handful of his lower bills from the day, though, enough to definitely get him through his next two meals.
“Hey, thanks, you sure man?” Tyler asks, already pocketing the bills. “You loaded lately or something? Got a rich benefactor that’s looking for variety? Hook me up, dude.”
Dylan frowns–he… hadn’t thought of that actually, that the man might be trying to get sex out of the exchange, eventually. The man has been so standoffish. So disinterested in Dylan personally. It hadn’t even crossed his mind.
He’s never actually had to resort to sex work to survive like some of the other drifters he’s talked to.
He gets cat-called sometimes, though. He hasn’t been able to tell if it’s a joke or if the guys in the cars really want to fuck him. Either way it makes him bristle, stomach clenching like he’s in danger.
It must be how women feel all the time when strange men look at them too long.
“Hell no. Just some guy in a Lexus that gives me a twenty sometimes,” Dylan lies smoothly.
“The asian guy in the green SUV?” Tyler asks.
Dylan blinks, surprised that Tyler would know the car. “Yeah, might be–”
“That guy never stops for anyone when he comes through in the evenings.”
“He comes through in the evenings?”
“Yeah, through the coffee drive-thru. Like, four days a week at least. Around eight or nine at night.”
That guy gets two stupid expensive lattes a day?
Dylan tries to hide his surprise. Shrugs. “Maybe he figures giving a twenty to me is enough to get him into heaven or some shit.”
Tyler laughs. “Yeah, like your ass got a personal relationship with the big man at the pearly gates.”
“I might soon if I find a high enough bridge,” Dylan jokes.
Another startled laugh from Tyler. “You don’t go to heaven if you kill yourself, dumbass.”
“My mom was too busy getting high to take me to church,” Dylan quips in self-defense.
Tyler’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really? She selling?”
Tyler isn’t joking anymore.
Dylan’s stomach drops. He smacks Tyler good-naturedly on the arm. “You don’t need that shit. You need a winter coat.”
“It’s summer, man.”
“Not for long, you ain’t been out here as long as I have. Trust me.”
Tyler’s new to the streets. Parents kicked him out for not going to college or something.
Dylan wishes he had Tyler’s parents.
His own had told him college was a waste of money.
Dylan would be halfway to graduating college by now if things had been different.
They aren’t different.
He’ll never have any other kind of life.
“Why do you really think he only stops for you?” Tyler asks after a moment.
Dylan wrinkles his nose. He hasn’t had time to process that Seaweed Green Lexus guy only stops for him.
It… might be unsettling if the guy didn’t seem so wholly disinterested in Dylan personally.
Dylan shrugs heavily. “Beats me.”
“Maybe he wants to fuck you,” Tyler suggests again. “Sure looks like a Pretty Woman situation to me.”
Pretty Woman? That movie where the rich guy falls in love with an escort? It’d been one of the old ‘90s movies Dylan’s parents had on DVD.
“I’m not a prostitute, jackass,” Dylan scoffs.
“Yeah, but how much would he have to pay you to sleep with him?”
Dylan’s never even kissed another person. Doesn’t know when he would’ve had time between trying to take care of his siblings when his parents were high–which was always; and working himself to frustration trying to get his homework done over the sound of the TV blaring and the smoke in the air, making his head fuzzy–
“Yo, don’t act like you don’t have a price,” Tyler scoffs.
Dylan thinks of the serious man in the Seaweed Green Lexus. His nice white dress shirts tucked into his black slacks. A belt around his waist. Shiny black shoes beneath the steering wheel, probably. His straight black hair and his silent, piercing stare.
He bristles. Shrugs. “I’d do it for free if he told me what his fucking deal was.”
“We already figured out what is deal is: he wants to fuck you,” Tyler supplies helpfully.
No. It’s been like two months. If that was it he would have tried to get Dylan in his car already.
Dylan shakes his head. “No, you don’t understand. This guy is weird. He gave me this two-dollar bill the first time. Said it was all he had on him. But it had a kid’s like, writing on it like it was a gift.”
“Like from his kids? Maybe he’s going through a divorce.”
“No, it’s dated from 2001. I’m thinking like, friend or a sibling.”
“Unless it wasn’t actually his,” Tyler dismisses. “But why don’t you just ask him?”
Dylan frowns. “He’d probably just roll the window up in my face and drive away.”
“Doesn’t hurt to try,” Tyler shrugs. Then, after a beat, “...You totally sure this isn’t a Pretty Woman situation?”
“Yes. You don’t get it–this guy barely fucking speaks to me even when I try to talk to him.”
Tyler pauses for a moment, thinking. “Maybe he’s gonna kidnap you, then.”
That actually manages to make Dylan laugh. “Now, that seems more likely.”
Seaweed Green Lexus definitely seems more like the creepy serial killer type than the douchebag rich guy who fucks escorts in secret type.
On the third month of routinely receiving money from Seaweed Green Lexus guy, Dylan decides he’s allowed to annoy this guy on purpose for once, instead of just as a default state of being.
“Hey,” he says, throwing himself into the open passenger window enough to fold his arms on the edge, making it impossible for the man to pull away without risking running a moving vehicle over his feet. “Is this you?”
The question is punctuated by presenting the man with that two-dollar bill he’d given Dylan the day they met, the one he said had been the only thing in his wallet.
To: Morgan
From: Julie :) <3
Happy Lunar New Year.
1.24.2001
Dylan points at the first line. To: Morgan. “You’re Morgan?”
The man behind the steering wheel says nothing. Simply glances at Dylan, and then glances away.
“I’d ask if Julie is your wife but it looks like a kid wrote this,” Dylan goes on. “Is it your kid?”
Dylan knows based on the date that it’s definitely not this guy’s kid. He’s just trying to make his guesses as wildly incorrect as possible in hopes of provoking this guy into correcting him.
Nothing. No response. The usual three twenties he’d had ready to hand Dylan rest in his hand on his lap, forgotten.
“Rocky divorce?” Dylan prompts, knowing he’s being too pointed, too provocative, but there’s just something about the man’s cold exterior that Dylan can’t help prodding like a hornets nest that he’s not sure has hornets inside it at all. “Wife take the kids or something? You don’t want anything to do with your own kids now, man? Giving away the two-dollar bill they gave you? Sounds pretty cruel, dude–”
“Oh, please, I was seven years old in 2001.”
Ha. Got him.
Dylan grins. “So you gave me a bill you’d had in your wallet since 2001–”
The look Morgan casts him is scathing.
Dylan only grins wider. “Who’s Julie? Elementary school girlfriend?”
Morgan actually recoils a bit in disgust. “No. My brother Julian.”
Oh. That’s quite the nickname for a boy, Dylan hadn’t even considered that Julie was a boy–
“So your name’s Morgan, then?” Dylan asks, not really needing confirmation, now.
The man deflates somewhat. Shrugs.
Dylan takes that as a yes.
Dylan chuckles, a little giddy at goading the man into having a conversation with him that lasts more than five seconds. “Hi Morgan–my name’s Dylan.”
The man only eyes him wearily before handing him the usual three twenty dollar bills like his heart really isn’t in it this time.
Dylan takes the money, beaming like a kid at a carnival who just tossed the ring on the right bottle. “Hey, you’ve obviously had this thing a long fucking time, you sure you don’t want it back?”
He waves the bill in Morgan’s general direction.
“No,” Morgan deadpans, voice full of loathing. “Spend it.”
And with that, he shoos Dylan away from his window and drives away.
Dylan lets him go.