The Mormon Renegade

Chapter 4

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The therapeutic lull of a reversing bus soothes me as I wake up, my muscles ache from the contorted positions I've held them in the last few hours.

Massaging the sore limbs I trudge to the bus front as the last passenger, the suns final shine is swallowed by grey storm clouds blanketing the previously blue sky. Have I been asleep that long? "I'm sorry again, for the sneaker incident. I don't make it a habit to damage every bus I see, just so you know." I add as an after thought sounding groggy.

"S'all right. I know you didn't mean it but...can I ask you something? Honestly?" He asks leaning forward in his creaking seat. I prepare to tell him a made up story to cover his suspicions no doubt assuming I'm the person Sheriff Barney was seeking.

I nod uncertain trying to mask the tremors shaking my hands. "Did you rob someone for this money?" He holds up the bill, a knowing smile crossing his lips. The tension held in my shoulders release as I respond, "No, that's just hours worth of chores around the neighbourhood." 

"I can't accept it." He says bluntly, unblinking.

"Sorry sir, I have a strict no return, no refunds policy." The driver's hand hovers between us and I can visually see the internal fight he has deciding whether or not to accept or decline the offer.

Opening his mouth to rebuke I speak more firmly. "You deserve it more than I do." Which is true and not what the blue uniformed man expected. A final display of gratitude and I limp onto the footpath, waving farewell as he departs returning the favour.

One down. I don't care how I get there now, even if I have to board another thirty buses but five more will do according to my sources. By 'sources' I mean a scrunched sheet of transport timetables I abducted from the bus depot.

I'm finally here, the bus terminal. This is real.

*

Thunder rumbles faintly in the distance triggering a slight sprinkle of rain. I'm thankful for stealing this jacket, although it's personalised with spots of my blood. I raise the hood, tightening the elastic opening to better shield my disheveled appearance and block the rain.

Six Greyhound bus trips and what I assume is almost a day or so later I arrive at my desired destination.

Exhausted. Wet and starving.

Wrapping the hoodie tighter I continue walking, attention forward and head down. I've never stolen anything in my life. It's thrilling! 

But I will never do it again.

My trembling hands find comfort inside the huge pockets, overwhelmed by the countless apartment blocks that stretch into the clouds. Better get used to the view, this will become my home soon.

Alright. Observing the busy scene in search of a... found it. White Stain gentleman's club, known for it's exotic dancers. Bright neon signs on the buildings external surface are reversed in several puddles mirroring the image, disturbed by my footsteps. Right past the gypsy beggar. "Spare change?" Her voice shakes like the bangles dangling from her narrow wrist. 

When I was sixteen my mother gave me a locket they found on the road during their travels to Utah while attending the Mormon Church at Temple Square.

I was abandoned in the house over that long weekend, trapped in my room until I scaled the walls out the second storey window where I returned before they did. They found me two days later outside, having thrown their belongings onto the brown yard in a fit of rage.

Of course they locked me up again but unlike before I had prepared with snack bars which I retrieved from a local vending machine in their absence. Unclasping the locket on my neck I droop it on her wrinkled palm, neatly folding the chain atop the silver oval. 

"I don't know how much it's worth but you can do what you want with it." She gasps, bowing her head repeatedly muttering a gummy, "Thamp-oo." I take as, 'thank you'.

The rain intensity increases further drenching the thin material of my hoodie, darkening the colour a black shade. Three blocks straight till you see, "Tonight ends the Queen's reign after sixty-two years on the throne." Marv the street Prophet preaches to passers by while balancing on a wooden block.

I angle my head downwards focusing solely on the water ripples encircling my shoeless foot, the ankle swollen to the size of a tree trunk. "You there! Child in the black jacket--" Keep moving, keep moving, don't look back.

Weaving through the congested crowd I can't remember the next instruction, entranced by the dazzling lights that glow brighter in the extending darkness. There's so much to take in, I'm not sure know where to look.

"You're going to hell chika! Te Maldigo!" An enraged Mexican spits on a pair of scarlet heels not expecting the pointy toe to hammer his crotch with such force.

"Suck it up, Ronaldo! Idiota!" A fishnet knee rams his chest, knocking him backward into a puddle as he curls in fetal position protecting his lap.

I recognise those boots anywhere. "Scout?" I call hopefully, praying it's her. 

"Tristan?" It is! She says my middle name in disbelief. A chin length bob is slick to her face in the rain, everything is just how I remember.

One last stab in whining Ronaldo's gut we charge at each other, crashing in a heap of arms and legs our hysterical laughter barely audible over the heavy rain.