Strong, "day in the life" story, very effective.
This isn't a genre I normally read, so take this for what it's worth.
Some grammar issues, but I mostly only noted things that looked like typos.
Two Hundred
814Am. Rapid knocks on the wood door annoy me enough to jerk me out of my uneasy sleep. My shoulder and neck ache, and my elbows are rug burned from sleeping on the harsh carpet. I look at the door, hoping the knocks will cease and I can get another hour or so to sleep, but three more knocks, even harder, beat against the thin walls of my unfurnished apartment. I get up slowly because I want them to wait. I stretch out the sore kinks all over my body and haplessly step on a soda can on the floor. The pain doesn’t register. I just feel angry at the lack of sunlight forcing its way through the windows of the next apartment over that leaves me in a dark cave that’s not really my home.
8_:_14 A.M. or at least AM
Generally, I understand what you're getting at, but “the lack of sunlight forcing its way through the windows of the next apartment over” is confusing. Is he angry not only because he doesn't get any sun in his apartment but also because his neighbor does?
“This ain’t your mother’s house, Robert. You pay to stay, that’s how it works. Your days are up man. If you don’t have the rent by the time my office closes, I’m gonna have to give you the boot buddy.”
Normally I wouldn't worry about the grammar, but I think this is just a typo. “Your days are up_,_ man.”
He turns and walks down the hall. I almost follow him so I can argue my case some more, but I know it’s no use. I swing the wood door shut with all my might, but it rubs against the carpet and barley touches the door-pane. Where am I gonna get two hundred dollars? Keeps running through my head like a broken record. There’s nowhere for me to go if I get evicted, I don’t have a job or drugs to sell, and if I get caught stealing while I’m on bond, that’s a one way ticket to the pen. Where the hell am I gonna get two hundred dollars? I snatch my pants up off the floor and put them on. The only shirt I have is the wife beater I’m wearing, so I remind myself to be grateful it’s late in the spring. I know there’s somewhere to get two hundred dollars.
_barely_ touches the door pane.
I think “Where am I gonna get two hundred dollars?” should either be in quotes or italicized.
I was hoping now he would return the favor. I’m not going to ask him for money, but I’m hoping he can point me in the right direction. I walk down the alley between my building and the one next to it, and sure as the sunrise he’s there. He said his name was Luis, but his friends call him Nutty. He’s leaning on a brick ledge wearing Cortez Nike’s, long socks, and Dickies shorts. He’s a true homie and I like that about him. He knows who he is and who he wants to be. I wish I had money or drugs or an electronic devise of some kind to give him, but I’m dry. I hope he takes sheer will as collateral.
device
I really like the last line.
He passes me the cigar and looks in my eyes for a long moment. Then he strokes his chin, pulling at strands of mature hair.
I don't get the “mature hair” part.
Its 11:15
It's
Waiting is a mental game. I’m anxious and nervous, but I know what I have to do. I can almost smell the money, and feel it in my hand. The feeling is almost like a strong hate, frustration and anger to the fact that I can stop at nothing, or I’ll be on the street. It’s the way it is. You live to pay bills and die, and you might as well get it, or just sit on the street with a blanket. I’m angry that the world has brought me to this. I wish I could claim some land, get a gun and protect myself. I would grow my own food, and live simply. Instead I have to rob gangsters in order to survive another day.
This part is very effective.
I sprint back into the building and up the stairs. I know they won't be gone long, there’s a liquor store on almost every other block in Denver, with my heart racing as fast as my feet I stop in front of 214 and press my ear against the door to take a quick listen. I don’t hear anything so I step back and lunge my foot into the door. It swings open, slams into the wall divider and shuts by the time I slide my body inside. The living room is on the left. I rush in and stop right next to the small coffee table in the middle of the room.
I'd put a period after “Denver” and start a new sentence with “With my heart racing as fast as my feet. . . “
Time slows down when your heart beats faster than your thoughts can contemplate. In a time span that feels much longer than a minute I turn and look at the man. I study his facial features, his thin goatee, his sharp, slanted jawbone, and his upturned eyebrows.
Great first sentence.
I turn a corner at the end of the alley and peek to see if I lost my tail. He’s still behind me, but far enough that I know I can lose him with another block or so. I cut through the parking lot of my building and walk in the back entrance. Without stopping, I run to my apartment, close it, lock it, throw the weed in the closet, sit down next to it, close the door, and close my eyes to wait for a couple hours or so.
Closing the closet door after he sits down seems weird. I'd expect he'd do all that and then he'd crash.
I don’t see anything just outside the door of my apartment, and there’s nobody loitering in the halls. I walk to the exit door of the complex and look outside through the glass. There are small groups of people scattered about. They’re all Hispanic and they all look the same to me. I step outside into the bright sun. Every voice I hear sounds like someone calling to me to stop, but I ignore it all and keep walking briskly, confidently, and as incognito as I possibly can. I see a group of people standing where Luis was earlier so I walk up slowly and study the faces. None of them are Luis.
Instead of “incognito” I might go for 'inconspicuous.'
4:07 PM. After helping Marky’s mom haul an excessive amount of needless junk into her van, like old typewriters that don’t work, a dresser halfway torn apart, and boxes and boxes that she had no idea of the contents herself. She paid me 50 dollars, and I dialed my apartment manager to tell him I’m coming with the money. He says hell stay until 6PM so I figure I’ll be okay as long as Luis keeps his end of the deal.
_he'll_ stay
I go back to the alley. Every Mexican I’ve seen looks just like the guy I was fighting earlier, so I figure paranoia has been getting the best of me. I decide that it Luis isn’t there, I’ll just wait until he comes back. To my elation, he’s standing there with two other guys, so I walk up.
_if_ Luis isn't there. . .
“You what’s up foo, what you up to?” He asks with the suspicious sneer of an untold secret.
Should the first word be “yo” ?
“Hey bro you gonna need protection out here no doubt. Do your thing bud, but come see me in the alley, ok? I don’t want them S.A’s to come after you. Plus, you did me a favor, and I did you two favors. Now you owe me a favor,” he reaches his hand out for me to shake. “Okay?”
S.A.s?
When I shook his hand, I knew it wouldn’t be long before I had to return the favor, and some favors, well sometimes they’re your demise in disguise.
Great closing.
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