I choose not to get the bus home despite my new found wealth. I’m in no particular rush to get back, I know Jimmy will be waiting for me. Instead I amble along, taking my time, enjoying my last moments. I’m busy ignoring my impending doom when I spot an old lady across the road struggling to load shopping bags into her car whilst holding an umbrella. Several people walk right past her, either oblivious or too busy trying to escape the rain. Normally I’d walk right past like the rest of them, but something about her reminds me of my Nana, the Scottish one that was always trying to fatten us up with biscuits. I’m already soaking wet and keen to procrastinate so I stroll over and say, “Excuse me, do you need some help?”
She starts with, “Why thank you…” but as she gets a closer look she changes her tune, “I don’t want to be a bother. I can manage.” She looks around anxiously to see if anyone else is nearby. I can hardly blame her, I must be quite the sight in my bedraggled, dripping wet clothes. Still, I’m annoyed at her assumption that I’m trying to take advantage so I say, “It’s no bother at all,” whilst scooping up the bag nearest to me. As I place it gently into the back of her car she visibly relaxes. I load up the others and she reaches in to her purse and says, “Thank you for the help. Please let me give you something.”
As she opens her purse I notice it’s nearly empty and I already have two hundred pounds burning a hole in my pocket. I wave her away, “No need, just glad I could help.” I turn to keep walking but she calls after me, “Which way are you heading? Perhaps I can give you a lift?”
“I’m heading south towards Covent Garden.”
“Perfect. I’m going right past. Hop in.”
My general rule is to stay out of the cars of strangers, but the rain is getting heavier and she’s clearly no threat to me. The worst I’m going to suffer is a long car ride with an overly chatty old lady. I hop in and prepare myself for painfully slow driving that barely gets out of 3rd gear.
Unfortunately for me she’s not the only one making incorrect assumptions about people today. Her actual driving style is more akin to a speed obsessed teenage boy. She accelerates out of the car park like she’s running late for her own funeral, which might be pretty soon if she keeps driving like this. I quickly lose count of the number of times I find myself bracing for impact, knuckles gripping the dashboard and teeth clenched. She should teach an offensive driving course because her driving is certainly offensive, as indicated by the multitude of honks, fingers and loud expletives we receive from fellow road goers. I expected to be making polite conversation about corgis and doilies for forty five minutes, but instead I am home in twenty with half a dozen near death experiences and an unexpected cardio workout. I fight the urge to kiss the ground as I fall out of the car. I don’t get a chance to wave goodbye, the second the door is shut she’s gone in a cloud of tire smoke and a cacophony of car horns.
My knees start wobbling as I walk back to my Casa de Cardboard. I’m so shaky I pull a can of lager out of my emergency stash and down it on the spot, tossing the empty can over my shoulder. It takes the edge off, but not enough. I reach for a second one before I remember I’m not supposed to be drinking. Suddenly two hundred pounds just doesn’t seem like enough.
I’m about to jump in to my humble abode for a much needed lie down when I remember I am supposed to be keeping a low profile. As the thought crosses my mind, right on cue, a voice echoes over my shoulder, “Hey shit for brains. I can’t believe you were stupid enough to come back here.”
It’s Jimmy and I’m on the wrong side of a dead end, which I hope isn’t about to live up to its name. I’m trapped, but I run anyway because why make it easy for him. I reach the wall and turn to see him lumbering towards me, a large red gash above his eye and tightly balled fists. I know this isn’t going to end well for me. There’s nothing nearby to throw at him, nothing to shield myself with, it’s just me and him.
He gets within swinging distance and his fist arcs gracefully towards me in slow motion. I grit my teeth and brace for the pummeling. My knees, already shaky after the drag race home, decide they have had enough for one day and buckle unexpectedly just as his fist is about to connect with my face. Instead it connects with the brick wall where my head used to be. There’s a loud crunch and a scream of pain, which against all odds isn’t mine. I look up to find Jimmy stumbling back clutching his hand, tears in his eyes. His expression is now torn between anger and distress.
He’s not the sort to give up so easily. He runs at me whilst I am still trying to get to my feet, trying to drop-kick me into an early grave. He doesn’t quite make it though. As his foot is about to connect with my ribs he slips on my recently discarded lager can and cracks his head off the large metal wheelie bin next to my makeshift home. There’s a second cry and when he stands he has a matching gash on the other side of his face. He reaches up to his head and stares in disbelief at the resulting bloody hand. His face goes bright red and he viciously attacks the pile of crap I call home, tearing it apart. I yell at him to stop but he’s totally lost it. It’s only a matter of time before he turns his attention back to me, I have to escape now while he’s distracted.
I’m about to make a run for it when something black and brown leaps out of the rubble of my former abode. It makes a feral noise that speaks directly to the primal part of my brain and says, “I am not to be fucked with.” Jimmy’s not as quick on the uptake and he goes with his standard approach, which is to attack. The black and brown ball politely informs him that this was the wrong decision by biting him no less than five times in rapid succession. Eventually Jimmy’s brain wrestles control away from his fists and into his legs, which wisely turn and run away as quickly as possible. The matted beast chases him as far as the end of the alleyway before turning to face me, as if realising I am there for the first time. It hesitates and then approaches cautiously, low to the ground and ready to pounce.
As it gets closer I determine its not a wild beast but a very scruffy dog that’s stalking towards me. We used to have a family dog so I know enough to not run away, dogs can’t help but chase something that’s moving. Instead I puff out my chest and take a step towards it. A quick check confirms that ‘it’ is a he, and not a castrated one. He growls menacingly. The sound intensifies as I reach out my hand, but he doesn’t snap when I touch his head. Instead his growl softens and he crawls past me and back into the crumbled pile of sheets I call a bed. I try to kick him out but he gives me the gooey eyes, not in the traditional soppy sense but because he has terrible conjunctivitis. Somehow it makes me feel a little better that I am no longer the most pathetic creature in this alleyway.
I can’t look after a dog right now. I can barely look after myself. What am I going to feed him? Where is he going to sleep? What’s he going to do whilst I am out taking money from morons all day? It makes absolutely zero sense for me to have a dog.
These are all valid points that I completely ignore and instead say to a creature that is clearly almost as dumb as I am, “Thank you for saving me. I’m going to call you Lucky.”
YOU ARE READING
Getting Lucky
HumorWhen a homeless man saves a young boy from a savage beating he stumbles upon a life changing discovery. Unfortunately it doesn't change for the better. Now he's up against powerful forces that are trying to make him be something he's not, a decent h...
