Jumping Doesn't Pay

He was tossed three dollars - one for each of them - and then they left him be. The drunk one offered to let him sleep there, but he refused. He put on his clothes as robotically as he took them off and left with the bills in his pocket.

He was lucky enough to reach his home and fall asleep before he regained full awareness of what he had done.

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His old team were playing their first match against his new team. After a miserable game curled up on the bench, long legs tucked into his chest, Addie made his way to the hotel where the visiting team was staying. He needed to talk to his old manager. He needed to say something - apologize - do something. He needed it to stop.

He swore he could still taste come on his tongue, and he was horribly sore. The three dollars felt physically heavy to carry. He had to leave them at home. He wasn't sure he'd ever spend them. He could hardly stand to look at them. It wasn't worth it - it wasn't worth it. He was wrong - he wouldn't do anything to get paid. He only realized that once he was forced to.

When Addie knocked, it took an agonizing few seconds for Strickland to open the door. When he did, he did so expressionlessly, betraying no feeling whatsoever. "Johns," he said as greeting, stiltedly referring to Addie by his last name. "Come in."

He did, and the door was shut behind them. As soon as the door was shut, Addie put his hands together, begging. It was like a dam broke - as he spoke, tears came to his eyes. "Please. Mr. Strickland. I don't know what you've done, but I'm sorry. I shouldn't have jumped the team. I shouldn't have done what I did. I'm sorry. I made a mistake. I'm sorry I betrayed you. Please."

Strickland looked him dead in the eyes. Despite the fact that the manager was looking up to see him, Addie had never felt smaller in his life.

There was a long silence, and then suddenly, Strickland laughed. It was a harsh, barking, mean-spirited laugh, and made Addie want to curl up and hide. When he spoke, it was in a similarly unforgiving tone. "You could have returned the money you took. I trusted you with half your salary up front."

"I know. I'm sorry. I'll give it back. I just - I'm sorry." His voice cracked. "Please undo this. You don't know what I've had to do."

"Oh," said Strickland, "I think I do. When everyone is so eager to give you work, I think I know what a drunken man's idea of work for you would be. I imagine you've been taken advantage of. How does that feel, Johns? Unpleasant?"

Addie nodded tearfully.

"Then you would understand how I felt. No, I have no intention of undoing it. As a matter of fact, I can't. There is no canceling a curse one has cast. I can only set an ending point for it - an amount of money you can earn that will satisfy it. And maybe I will. One day. But I won't tell you if I do, or when I do, or how much I've set it for. I suppose you're just going to have to keep earning money until then. How does that sound?"

Addie shook his head desperately. "No. Please..."

"You can't plead with me. What I've said is final."

"But I can't do this. I can't leave like this."

"Woah - who ever said anything about you leaving just yet?" Addie watched as Strickland reached into his pocket and pulled out a penny, holding it up between his fingers. "You can't leave when I've got a job for you."

Addie's eyes went glassy, and he nodded robotically. Something in the back of his mind was fighting for control, screaming at his brain to understand that it was a penny, a penny, that it wasn't worth it, but it didn't help him any, couldn't break the mental spell. All he could think about was money. He wanted the money so badly it hurt, and it was so hard to care about anything else. He could turn around and leave, could choose never to think about Strickland again in his life, but if he did - if he did, he wouldn't get paid.

It was one penny. One cent.

He wouldn't get the money.

He had to get the money.

He watched Strickland place the penny back in his pocket and unbutton his pants, and Addie couldn't do anything but fall to his knees. He didn't need Strickland to give him instructions. He knew what he had to do. No matter how degrading, it was a job.

And, after all, as he kneeled, picturing the gleaming penny in the manager's hand, he remembered what he'd told his teammate. The standard his ex-manager was now holding him to. The standard he'd be under for who knows how long - until one day the man might decide to take pity on him.

He had no limits. When he was offered money, he'd take it.