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“What are you doing here?” Alma was suddenly embarrassed, not by the fact that she’d attacked an innocent stranger, but because she was only wearing a long t-shirt and panties. She pulled the t-shirt down further to cover herself as she backed around the breakfast counter from the stranger.

“Paul needed some sleep.” Jacker inspected his hand after holding his nose, seeming to expect blood. He sniffled and then rubbed his nose with the palm of his hand. He was a rotund guy, tall and boyish looking. His whiskers were scant, but he seemed to be trying to grow a beard anyhow. He wore small, round glasses that would’ve been more suited for a German scientist than a man like him. He was embarrassed by what he’d done to the door and his cheeks were turning red, which gave him a cherub appearance.

“Sleep?” asked Alma. She shook her head in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

Jacker pointed in the direction of the parking lot. “He’s down in my van, getting some shut eye and I came up here to keep an eye on you. Well, I mean, not actually keep an eye on you; not spying or anything. I’m not a peeping tom, or my nickname would’ve been Tommy.” He chuckled, but Alma didn’t reciprocate and he continued to try and explain. “All right, I’m striking out here. You’re obviously okay, and I obviously, well, over-reacted a little.” He motioned at the broken door. His mannerisms were frantic, as if he’d taken caffeine pills to stay awake.

Alma nodded and stared at him with wide eyes. “Yeah, ya think?”

“Sorry about that.”

“Why are you here? Why is Paul sleeping in a van in the parking lot?”

Jacker was baffled and he scratched at his sparse, scraggly whiskers. “He said we had to keep guard; didn’t say why. He just said to keep an eye out for creepy old guys around the complex, and to listen for you to scream for help or something. So that’s why, well, yeah,” he motioned at the door. “That’s why that just happened.” He rubbed his nose again.

Alma finally relaxed and put the kitchen knife back into the butcher’s block. “For crying out loud, you scared the living shit out of me.”

“Well, you paid me back with a swift kick to the nose.” Jacker wiggled his nose back and forth and then snickered.

“Sorry, but you kind of deserved it,” said Alma, but her harshness softened. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, I’m fine,” said Jack. “Although, swear to God, I think you got your pinkie toe like straight up in there.” They both laughed and Jacker continued, “Seriously, I think you scratched my brain. When I pay for your door I’ll make sure to throw in a couple extra bucks for you to get a pedicure.”

Alma laughed, but then pointed at him as if in warning. “Watch it, mister. I don’t know you well enough to put up with jokes about my feet.”

Jacker put up his hands in defeat and then walked to door to inspect it.

“Everything okay down there?” asked the widow that lived upstairs as she peered down from the stairwell. Alma walked around the breakfast counter and past Jacker so that she could see Mrs. Peterson. The old woman was in her slippers and a pink robe. She was crouched near the top of the stairs and was bent down just far enough to peer into Alma’s apartment. “Should I call the cops?”

“No, Mrs. P., everything’s okay. I’m fine. Just a silly misunderstanding.”

Mrs. Peterson looked at Jacker warily. She was a fragile, spindly old woman, but was fiercely protective of Alma. The two of them often had long conversations in the stairwell, and Mrs. Peterson was always concerned about Alma’s love-life. It was as if the old woman was trying to keep Alma from ending up alone in an apartment, just like she was.

“You’ve got men beating down your door in the middle of the night?”

“He’s a friend of Paul’s,” said Alma.

“Oh, Paul,” said Mrs. Peterson with a hopeful inflection. “Are you two back together? I always liked Paul. He’d be handsome if he cut his hair.”

“He did,” said Jacker as he ran his hand over his own head and pulled back his black, curly hair. “He shaved it bald.”

Mrs. Peterson looked at Jacker and grimaced, unwilling to communicate with the stranger that had just broken down Alma’s door. “Alma, you just yell if you need me. Okay? I’ll have my phone ready.”

“Okay, will do,” said Alma as she waved. “Thanks, Mrs. P.”

“I’ve got your back, sweetie,” said the old woman as she went back up the stairs.

Alma tried to close the door, but it drifted open now that the trim was broken. “That’s not good.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jacker as he sheepishly shook his head. “I’m an idiot.”

“It’s okay,” said Alma. She’d already started to like the giant oaf. He was affable, like an awkward little brother, and she felt sorry for him despite having no reason to. “Come on in and have a seat. Want a beer?”

“You just said the magic word.”

“What’s that? Beer?”

Jack snapped his finger and pointed at her as he nodded. “Bingo. You don’t turn into a ton of fun like me by turning down free beer.”

“Considering how much it’s going to cost you to fix my door, I’d hardly call the beer free.” Alma went to the refrigerator to get him a Milk Stout.

Jacker sighed as he looked at the damage he’d caused. “Gosh, I’m real sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Alma. “I’m just joking with you. I’ll make Paul pay for it.”

“Shoot, he doesn’t have any money. Not after getting canned.” Jacker plopped onto the center of the sofa with his long arms stretched to either side along the backboard. He looked comfortable, as if the seat was a familiar spot for him despite never having sat there before.

“Paul got fired?”

Jacker’s posture stiffened and he grimaced. “I guess I should learn when to keep my mouth shut. I thought you knew that.”

“No, I didn’t. What happened?”

“It’s a long story, and one I’ve got no business telling.”

Alma got a glass out of the cupboard to pour Jack’s beer into.

“I don’t need a glass,” said Jack.

Alma sneered. “Yes you do. This is a good beer, and it tastes better in a glass. How long have you and Paul been friends?” She asked because of Jacker’s unfamiliarity with Paul’s preferred way of drinking beer.

“About six months. I met him at the shop under his place.”

Alma handed the beer to Jacker and suddenly remembered that she was only wearing a t-shirt and panties. “Hold that thought,” said Alma. “I’m going to go get some pants on. I want to hear why Paul got fired.”

Jacker spoke loud enough for her to hear as she retreated down the hall to her bedroom. “I’m not going to tell you. I don’t care how much delicious beer you give me.”

“Yes you will,” said Alma as she got to her bedroom. “I can be pretty persuasive.” She started to walk over to her dresser, but stepped on the kitchen knife that had been on her nightstand. The sharp blade sliced into the arch of her foot. She gripped the edge of the bed and cursed as she lifted her foot to inspect the damage. “Fuck!” She screamed in anger and pain.

“You all right?” asked Jacker from the other room. “Is this for real, or are you fucking with me?”

Alma cursed some more and tried to hop to the hallway as her foot bled. The wound gushed and droplets of blood quickly started to fall to the floor. “Mother fucker.”

“Okay, it’s for real?” asked Jacker. “I’m coming in there. Okay? Don’t be naked or anything.”

Alma met him at the door. She propped herself up with one hand on the threshold and the other holding her foot aloft. He stopped dead in his tracks and stared at the blood. His face turned white and his jaw drooped.

“I stepped on something. Can you get me a towel?”