It takes me the rest of the evening to put my shelter back together, mainly due to the fact I am building it around a sleeping dog. When I’ve finally finished I step back to admire my handiwork. It’s not perfect, but then it was hardly the Taj Mahal to begin with. I give it a couple of firm shakes to make sure it’s not going to collapse and kill me in my sleep. Then I curl up next to Lucky and doze off, sleeping with one eye open incase Jimmy returns.
I’m startled by an unusual sound until I realise it is Lucky snoring and farting rhythmically. I can’t decide which is worse, the noise or the smell. Usually I would solve a problem like this by drinking until my senses shut down, but as that’s not currently an option I tear up an old napkin and jam it in my nose and ears. Eventually I drift off to sleep.
When I awake it’s morning and Lucky is nowhere to be seen. At first I wonder if I imagined the whole thing, but then I notice there’s a large fresh dog turd an inch away from my domicile. I take it as a sign that he’ll be back later, he’s probably gone to see a dog about a man.
Normally I’d drag myself to work, but I already have money. I’m not really sure what to do with it though if I can’t buy booze. Just the thought of alcohol makes my throat feel dry and gets my hands shaking. This is officially the first time I have woken up sober in five years. I should be celebrating, but I feel terrible. I try to control the trembles by focusing on something else, but I immediately start thinking of my past. Experience tells me the best thing to do is to distract myself, and if I can’t do it with booze I might as well do it with work. We are right back to where we started. I throw on my work clothes and head off to setup my table.
One of the advantages of being homeless is you quickly learn the shift nuances of the local coppers. When there’s a police officer who is much less of a dick than his colleagues he often finds himself mysteriously bumping into the same homeless people no matter which shift or route he gets for the day. Word spreads quickly, it’s the homeless equivalent of broadband. I affectionately call it Bumband.
With the power of Bumband it’s not hard to find out where a particular bobby is or isn’t going to be for the day. A couple of quick chats and I know that Copper Penny was seen working Leicester Square this morning. If I’m quick I can get a handful of punters in before he pops by to check on me during his lunch hour, because he’s just the sort to do something sneaky like that. It’s not long before my table is up and the cards are shuffling.
Remember the part where I said I don’t cheat customers? Well I meant it. There is technically always a Queen on the table, all I do is help steer my customers away from her and towards the Jokers. Of course I occasionally get the odd customer who’s oblivious to my subtle suggestions, and wouldn’t you know it my first customer of the day is just such a person.
He’s a big guy, built like a fridge and just as dense. I can normally spot the shifty ones, their eyes give them away. For them I try extra hard to move the cards around, but this guy is giving me no such vibes. In fact he’s only half paying attention as I rearrange the cards, he’s too busy eating a Cornish pasty. He looks like he’s still half asleep. Once I finish my little dance he points a big sausage finger at the left most one and says, “That one.” In the process he showers me with pastry. I know for a fact it’s not the Queen, so I say, “Are you absolutely certain?”
“Yep.” More crumbs. I’d best finish this quick before I start eating his sentences. I flip over the card and automatically say, “Bad luck old chum.” For some reason he’s grinning so I glance down and notice the Queen staring back at me. I am quick enough to hide my surprise. I must have miss-shuffled. I reach into my pocket and pull out a crisp ten pound note. He says, “Again,” and I breathe a sigh of relief that I’ll be getting my money back.
That doesn’t happen. In fact quite the opposite happens. Through a combination of dumb luck, a stubborn refusal to change his mind and my repeated fumbling of the cards I am quickly down fifty quid. He’s too dumb to know he shouldn’t be winning so he keeps playing again, and every time I end up handing over another tenner. My windfall is diminishing rapidly, so I say, “Thank you sir, you’re clearly a genius at this game. I’m afraid I have ran out of money and am going to have to call it a day.” He shrugs and wanders off, probably to buy more pasties with his winnings. When I am sure he’s not coming back I shout out, “Step right up and find Lady Luck!” I need to make back the seventy pounds I have lost and quickly.
After the third customer I am down to my last twenty pounds. Either everyone in London got much better at this game overnight or the experimental drug is messing with my hand eye co-ordination in a big way. I make a note to mention this to the egghead and ask for compensation. He neglected to mention this drug could impede my ability to earn a living. There’s no sense in continuing, I can’t afford to anyway, so I pack up my stuff and head back home.
I find Lucky curled up in my bed. In the harshness of daylight he looks terrible, his ribs are showing and his hair is matted. He’s also covered in small cuts and bites. Despite all of that there’s an air of grace about him, like if I could somehow bathe him and feed him up he would look like a fancy hunting dog or Crufts champion. The cuts and bites are fresh and there’s no sign of scars, so I’m guessing he hasn’t been on the streets more than a couple of months. Probably grew too big for the spoilt rich kid that owned him and got tossed out to fend for himself. I reach out and give him a stroke, wishing he could tell me his story. He whimpers softly and I recognise the sound. He’s hungry. My stomach rumbles in sympathy. I speak gently so as not to disturb him, “Don’t worry, I’ll go grab us some grub.”
It’s a short walk to Blind Betty’s but it takes me a while because I’m checking every alleyway and corner for Jimmy. There’s no way he’s going to let sleeping dogs lie, both figuratively and literally. It’s only a matter of time before he comes back to finish what he started. It’s small consolation that the punters have already bled me dry, so when he does finally catch up with me he’s only going to get twenty quid for his trouble.
As soon as I enter the store Betty fires me the usual greeting, “Good afternoon, is there anything I can help you find?”
I’m about to brush her off when I realise there is, “Do you sell dog food?”
“Of course, I’ll show you.” She moves out from behind the counter and something feels different that I can’t quite put my finger on. She looks younger and her movement is quicker than I remember. She leads me to the back shelf of the store and points at the measly selection, “Anything else I can help with?”
I wave her away and wait until she is back at the counter. The dog food is pricey, but I’m planning on getting the rather generous discount of buy 1, get 5 free. I pick one and stuff the others in my jacket. They are bulkier than a couple of sandwiches, but I’m pretty sure I could steal the counter from this place without Betty noticing.
I stroll nonchalantly to the front and place the dog food on the counter with a clank to get her attention. She says, “Just the one?”
I can’t help but give her a sincere smile even though I know it’s wasted, “Yes please, I just want to try this flavour out to see if he likes it.”
Something is definitely different. Did she get a haircut? Maybe she lost some weight? She stares me right in the eyes and says, “I see, and how will you be paying for the ones in your jacket?” I finally realise what’s different. She’s not wearing her glasses. It’s so obvious I can’t believe I missed it. All I can say is, “What happened to your glasses?”
Her expression immediately tightens, “I got laser eye surgery you despicable thief. I suggest you put those back now and never return, or I’ll call the police.”
I panic and run. I’m pretty confident I can outrun her, even if she’s got laser vision.
I make it out the door and run smack into a wall of blue. I stumble back to see P.C. Penny brushing himself off. He says, “Watch where you’re going!” Then not so blind Betty bursts out of her store waving a TV remote and shouting, “Stop thief!” I try to run for it, cans of dog food flying everywhere, but I don’t get more than a few feet before there’s a sharp pain in my back and suddenly my whole body is on fire. I fall to the ground and it takes me a few seconds to realise the TV remote is in fact a taser, and Betty is hammering the shock button like a hungry woodpecker. Waves of pain roll through my body. The last thing I remember is emptying my bowels into my nice clean work trousers, and then everything goes black.
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...
