Thin Luck

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Connecticut - Section 53a-252

Computer Crime

"HEY, YOU CAN'T sleep here," a man said. I looked up at him into the bright sunshine. He wore reflective gear and reflective shades. In them, I could see a twisted fun-house mirror version of my face, but for a moment I thought it was real.

"Yeah. Okay," I said. My lips tingled. Sharp pains stabbed me from anonymous places throughout my body.

He wandered off as I pulled myself up from the heavily etched wood bench.

My right hand was sore. My knuckles were raw. The pain in my neck felt like I'd been stabbed with a dull steak knife. I smelled like sweat and urine. I hoped it was my own.

I had no idea what time it was, but it was daylight, and I had an urgent appointment with my parole officer at eight. As I pulled myself off the bench, my head throbbed. I tried to squeeze out the sunlight, but I knew I had to get moving. I squinted to block out the sun and found my purse.

I had felt this dizzy, confusing fight against the sun before. I didn't know who drugged me then, but I was pretty sure this time it was 'Mike' from the dive bar. Did he really have a wife and special needs kid, or was that just a way of gaining sympathy and getting me into his car? Why did I fall for it? Why did my paranoia fail me when I most needed it? At least this time I didn't wake up next to a dead body. But the way my hand and head felt I must have put up a good fight this time.

To my surprise the hundred-dollar bill in the side pocket of my purse was still there. That would certainly be useful once I figured out where I was and where I wanted to go.

I stepped out into the street and just started walking. I'd figure out where I was based on landmarks, eventually. I'd lived in every corner of the Northeast United States, but in the last eight years I had made Connecticut my home.

A few blocks down the street I recognized the clock from Keney Tower, but I couldn't make out the time. So I was in Hartford, not too far from Wayne's after all, since he lived in the West End. A taxi drove by, and then another. I stuck out my hand and flagged the next one driving by.

"Where to?" he asked, his accent thick, like marbles took up most of his mouth.

"What time is it?" I asked back.

He looked at his plastic digital watch. I remembered Mike's bulky watch. The taxi driver said something in response, but I couldn't understand it. I looked down at myself again. I was a mess, and I needed to clean myself up before walking into my PO's office. I didn't need to risk looking like I'd spent all night out on the street high on drugs, even if that's what I had been doing.

I gave the taxi driver the address to Wayne's. I couldn't understand him, but when I saw we were headed in the right direction-west-I leaned back in the seat. I took a candy bar from my parka's pocket. The chocolate was already warm. The bite-sized candy swirled in my mouth, invading my taste buds. A smile formed involuntarily.

When the taxi driver pulled up to the house in West End, I held out my hundred-dollar bill.

"No," he said.

"What do you mean?" I'd heard him and understood what he said for the first time, but I couldn't understand why he would say "no" to money. I pushed the money back his way.

"No hundred," he said. Although the 'hundred' sounded a lot like 'hunner.' He pointed at the sticker plastered on the window with his gnarly finger: "WE DO NOT ACCEPT $100 BILLS."

"I don't have anything else," I said.

"Visa," he said. "Masta-card."

I looked down at my purse. The expired credit cards taunted me. I handed him a gold card, a useless piece of plastic. He smiled as though I handed him a glass of water in the desert.