He hiked on and grew hungry and thirsty. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast at Joy’s the previous day. When he emerged from the last alley he saw on the corner a convenience store and decided to refuel before continuing his journey.
He entered the 7-Eleven, which was as new to him as it was to the neighborhood where it had only recently opened. Murphy marveled at the variety of items the small store offered. Compared to the filthy back alleys he had been wandering through, the store seemed an oasis of sparkling lights, shiny floors, and glinting refrigerator glass.
After a few steps he hesitated. Dare he risk it? He checked his murphometer. Nothing registered, and then he remembered that it had broken down, that he had lost his song. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? His stomach rumbled and his mouth felt like it was slabbed with Elmer’s Glue. He concluded he had no choice.
With slow, deliberate steps, Murphy walked to the back of the store and examined the fare. He loaded up his arms with deli sandwiches and bottled water and carried them to the register, setting the items onto the counter as if they were the finest china.
The employee manning the register, a skinny young man in a blue, 7-Eleven uniform, observed Murphy’s slow, meticulous movements with interest. He took in Murphy’s scruffy appearance, and he concluded that the man before him was another in a long line of down-and-outters. At least, the young man thought, he wasn’t going to spend his panhandled money on booze. Plus, there was nothing threatening about the fellow. He appeared a gentle soul.
“Will there be anything else?” he asked.
“No, thank you.”
The man rang up the items and said, “That’ll be eleven dollars and seven cents, please.”
Murphy said, “That’s 7-Eleven backwards.”
The young man considered it a moment and chuckled. “Hah, you’re right! Can you beat that?”
Murphy pointed to the wall clock behind the cashier.
The man turned, glanced at the clock, and laughed. “Hah! Eleven o’seven! You beat it all right, mister. Heck, I wish you got a prize for this or something, but sorry.”
“That’s okay. It’s a little like cheating anyway.”
“Cheating?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“Tell you what,” the young man said. He reached under the counter and presented Murphy with a scratch card. “We’re running a little promotional game. If you’re lucky, you might win a $100 shopping spree.” He slid the scratch card across the counter to Murphy.
“I’ll consider myself lucky if your nice store looks the same when I leave as when I entered.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Thank you. You’re very kind.”
Murphy reached for his wallet in his right back pocket, and grimaced. He checked his other back pocket. He check the right again, and stuffed his hand through the tear that the bench had caused earlier.
“Sir, are you okay?”
Murphy turned his back to the man and wiggled his fingers through his ripped pocket. “I-I seemed to have lost my wallet.”
The young man frowned, but rules were rules. He’d have liked to have helped the poor guy out, but he had a car tank on empty and a date with a girl named Linda later that evening.
“Sorry, man,” he said with regret. “Can’t help you there.”
Murphy nodded in recognition of the obvious. “I’ll return the items to the shelves.”
“Leave ‘em. I’ll do it.”
“Thank you,” Murphy said, relieved that he didn’t have to chance some lurking disaster. “Sorry to have troubled you.” He turned to leave.
“Hey, buddy,” said the cashier. He pushed the scratch card to the edge of the counter. “Keep the card. Three stars in a row and you’re a winner. You never know, right?”
Murphy nodded. “Truer words were never spoken.”
He took the card, thanked and apologized to the young man again, and left the store.
Once outside, Murphy paused, expecting to hear a crash or some ruckus behind him, but to his great relief all seemed copacetic. He held up the scratch card, pondered its significance, and slid it into his shirt pocket.
Murphy crossed the street and picked up the alley on the other side. A short ways down he spotted another wayfarer like himself. Murphy waved to his fellow globetrotter in greeting, but the man acknowledged him with suspicion. It was only when the man’s little white dog trotted ahead to Murphy and demanded some petting did the man relax. Cliff, the man knew, always could differentiate between friend and foe.
When the two vagrants met in the middle of the alley, Murphy said, “What a nice dog you have.”
“Yeah,” the man replied. “Cliff has been with me for almost three years now. He’s my eyes and ears at night, and I suspect has saved me from a number of dangerous situations.”
Murphy noted the man’s hobo stick and satchel. He pointed to it and said, “That’s a dandy idea. I ought to get myself one of those.”
“Dandy?” the man said, finding the word comical.
Murphy nodded amiably and then noticed that the man held in his free hand an unopened bottle of water. He licked his parched lips.
“Sir, do you think I could trade you something for that bottle of water? I’m very thirsty.”
“Trade, huh?” the man replied, considering Murphy with the eyes of a trained mendicant. He saw nothing of value on the man. “Like what?”
Murphy patted all his pant’s pockets and realized he had nothing but the shirt on his back. Not even a spare rabbit’s foot. And then patting at his shirt pocket he felt the scratch card that the cashier had given him.
“A lucky scratch card?” he said, withdrawing the card and offering it to the man. “It’s from the convenience store at the end of the alley. Three stars in a row and you might win a $100 shopping spree.”
“Hell, man, those things are always duds. Just a stupid gimmick for gullible losers.”
“Really? I didn’t know.”
The man considered Cliff and his tail-wagging affection for Murphy, who had kneeled to scratch the little dog behind the ear.
“What makes you think it’s lucky?” the man asked.
Murphy stood up and shrugged. “Just a feeling. When I was in the store I was going to buy some items that totaled eleven dollars and seven cents. That’s 7-Eleven backwards, and it was the first time I had ever been in a 7-Eleven.”
“Are you serious?” the man snorted. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Murphy didn’t reply, but the man perceived in Murphy’s equanimity a curious confidence, maybe even conviction.
He said, “If you had the money then, why didn’t you buy your own water?”
“Because I had learned too late that I had lost my wallet.” Murphy turned and waggled his fingers through his ripped pocket.
The homeless man grunted, contemplated his day, and put a metaphorical finger to the winds of fate. He said, “You know, today is my birthday.”
“Well, happy birthday!” And then Murphy asked the man what the date was.
“July eleventh,” the man answered. He paused, then exclaimed, “Seven-eleven, can you beat that!”
“Maybe,” Murphy said. “It’s my birthday too.”
“No shit?”
“Only what’s on my shoe,” Murphy replied innocently. He lifted his foot with the poop-smeared shoe as evidence to his honesty.
The man laughed. “You’re a trip, pal. Aw, what the hell. I’ll swap ya. If you ain’t lyin’ to me, then maybe there’s some luck in that thing after all. Ya never know, right?”
“That’s what the cashier at the 7-Eleven said.”
“What, that you’re lyin’ or that there’s luck in that thing?”
“He said you never know.”
“Oh, gotcha.” The man nodded like a philosopher. “Well, take it from a guy who’s experienced some weird shit in his life, truer words were never spoken.”
“That’s what I said.”
“You�
�ve known some weird shit too, huh?” The man said, as if in validation of the many conspiracy theories he had formed during his event-filled life.
“Actually,” Murphy said, “I meant that I told the 7-Eleven guy that truer words were never spoken.” He smiled and pointed at his shoe. “But I guess I’ve known some poop too.”
The man stomped his foot and howled with laughter. “Man oh man, you’re a riot, pal. A real cuckoo bird. I like you. Gimme that thing.” He snatched the scratch card from Murphy’s hand and waved it in the air. “Two strangers meetin’ up in a stinky alley on the same day as their birthdays? It’s gotta mean somethin’, right?”
“I’d have to say so,” Murphy agreed.
“Hell,” the man said, “maybe I’ll at least win a bag of donuts. Cliff here has recently taken a liking to the things.”
The man slapped the water bottle into Murphy’s hand and wished him a happy birthday. The two drifters waved goodbye to one another and the man strolled off, Cliff the dog at his side with a cheery departing yap for Murphy.
Murphy leaned against a wall in the shade to rest and savor his water. He downed half the bottle with his first gulps, unable to restrain his thirst. Momentarily quenched, he sipped the rest of his treasure.
A minute later he heard a distant, but unmistakable yodel, followed by the excited barking of a dog.
“Woohoo! Three stars…!”
Murphy smiled in satisfaction. He pictured Cliff with all the donuts his little heart desired. He dropped his empty water bottle into a nearby dumpster and continued on his way to Kansas.
Murphy followed the alleyway about fifty yards, crossed another street, and continued down the next alley. He figured he’d run out of alleys eventually, and then he’d have to ask another local which way the cuckoo bird flew.
About midway down the alley he noticed that the shoelace on his left sneaker with the dog poo on it had come undone. He stopped and bent to tie it. The lace snapped. He removed his shoe to tie a knot and redo the laces.
Just then, Murphy heard the sound of panting and running footsteps. He looked up and saw a masked man come wheeling around a corner holding a grocery tote bag. The man vaulted over a trash dumpster, and like an Olympic gymnast, stuck a perfect landing. He started running again and headed right for Murphy.
“Happy birthday!” the man called, and chucked Murphy the tote bag. Out of reflex, Murphy dropped his shoe into a dirty puddle of rainwater to catch the sack.
Surprised, Murphy said, “Thank you. How did you know?”
The masked man breezed past Murphy, whipped off his ski mask and pitched it over his shoulder, where it landed by Murphy’s feet.
After tossing Murphy bag and cap, the man continued racing down the alley. Then, like a parkour expert, the fellow scaled the walls of two buildings in ricochet fashion, grabbed onto an exposed pipe, swung twice around, and then flung himself through the air to land on top of the roof of one of the buildings, where he vanished from sight.
Murphy nodded, impressed. He had discovered a new hobby. He thought back to his obstacle course at home and how with some additions it could double as a parkour course.
He peered into the bag. His eyes bulged. “Oh boy,” he said. “This can’t be good.”
Murphy retrieved his sneaker from the puddle and dumped out the dirty water. Looking about for something to wipe it dry, he spotted some windblown newspaper. He picked it up. His eyes were immediately drawn to a curious sight. He looked skyward, laughed, and said, “Good one! Three stars!”
Murphy crumpled up the page with the farewell column by the Hobby Guy and proceeded to clean up his shoe. He was happy to finally rid it of the yucky dog poop.
Just then, Officer Sarich came charging around the corner.
He spotted Murphy with the bag under his arm, drew his gun, and shouted, “Freeze!”
Sarich ran up to Murphy, his gun trained on him. He jerked away the tote bag and shook it in front of Murphy’s face. “I wonder what this might be.”
“A birthday present,” Murphy said.
“Or a jail sentence,” Sarich rejoined. He looked inside. “Eureka.”
Murphy giggled. “Eureka is small, but it’s not that small.”
Sarich gave Murphy a queer look and noted Murphy wiping his left shoe. A white Nike. Clearly the culprit was trying to wash off the give-away mustard stain. Sarich grinned and took Murphy’s shoe.
“But…” Murphy stammered.
“Evidence,” Sarich said. And then he noticed the ski mask on the ground. He picked it up. “Another birthday present?” he snarked.
“I guess so,” Murphy answered.
“Uh-huh,” Sarich said. “Well, I know a couple of detectives who will just love to celebrate your birthday with you.”
“Really?” Murphy said hopefully.
Sarich smirked and cuffed Murphy. “You have the right to remain silent…”
Jailbird
Officer Pete Sarich flicked on the brew button to the precinct’s coffee maker, turned, and bumped up against an attractive female cop with big brown eyes. “Oops, sorry,” he said.
“You’re off to a pretty good start,” she purred.
“Nah,” Sarich said. “Beginner’s luck.”
She arched a flirty eyebrow. “What makes you think I was talking about the arrest, Sarich?”
“I brew a mean pot of coffee?”
The cop flipped back her hair and flashed him a coy smile. “See ya around, hey.” She sashayed away and Sarich shook his head and sighed.
Brock Parker strolled up and said, “Good job on the nab, Sarich. What do we got so far?”
“Nothin’.”
“Whattaya mean, nothin’?”
Sarich shrugged, sharing Parker’s confusion. “Squat. He had no ID on him, and fingerprints didn’t turn up a damn thing. It’s like the guy never existed.”
“Did he ask to see a lawyer or make a phone call?”
“No.”
“Well, what’s his name?”
“He wouldn’t say. It’s like he wants to be in jail. He’s an odd bird.”
Sarich looked up and saw Johnson enter the station and inquire with a woman clerk. She pointed towards Sarich and Parker.
Sarich waved to Johnson.
Johnson lifted his chin in acknowledgement and mumbled, “Aw, crap.” He approached the two cops.
Johnson said to Parker, “I just found out.”
Parker said, “Your man Sarich here made the arrest.”
Johnson turned to the beaming Sarich. He slapped Sarich on the back, but said nothing, offering a handshake instead. Sarich’s sunny smile wilted.
Parker said to Johnson, “Let’s go have a look.” To Sarich he said, “Catch you later, Sarich. Good job.”
Johnson nodded in agreement and gave Sarich the thumbs up.
Parker and Johnson strolled down the hall towards the cells. Parker said, “You okay?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Dunno. Thought maybe a little congratulations was in order. I think Sarich looks up to you.”
“Don’t want it to go to his head,” Johnson stated. “Enough cocky cops around here already.”
Officer Mitch Locke, a stern-faced, shaven-headed guard with boulders for shoulders, escorted Parker and Johnson into the temporary lockup. The officer was the no-nonsense custodian of the precinct’s outmoded six-cell jail.
“The perp is sharing the large tank with two other losers,” Locke said.
“What are they in for?” Parker asked.
“The big one tried robbing an ice cream truck. Stuck him up with a plastic squirt gun. It was shaped like an Uzi with little flashing lights on it. The stubby guy was picked up a few days back for embezzlement and money laundering. We’re waiting for his lawyer to show. Keep your distance from them.”
Parker said, “Dangerous?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes?”
“The
y’re, um, bad luck.”
“Locke, what the hell are you talking about?”
“Never mind. Just keep your distance, that’s all.”
They approached the cell and its felons: notorious bank robber, Murphy Drummer; bumbling bandit, Leroy Monroe; and Morris Lifshitz, a crafty but ill-starred fraudster. Leroy was a big, hulking African-American man in his late-thirties, and immersed in a crossword puzzle. Morris, a short, pudgy, and balding middle-aged accountant of forty was brushing his teeth in front of a tiny mirror. Murphy sat on a steel bedstead, a gymnasium floor mat as a mattress. He was toying with something white and small, and beside him laid a tablet of paper.
The guard opened the cell and Parker and Johnson entered. Officer Locke shooed Leroy to the end of the cell and ordered him to stick close to Morris.
Murphy looked up and recognized Brock but said nothing.
“I’m Parker and this is Johnson. Who are you?”
Murphy ignored them and continued what he was doing. Parker snatched the item from Murphy’s hand and held up a little origami animal.
“What’s this?” Parker asked.
“A North American whooping crane,” Murphy answered. “It’s on the endangered species list.”
Parker gave Murphy a scrutinizing look, and then he noticed that under Murphy’s cot was a line of little paper statues: a dog, a turtle, a giraffe, an elephant, a rabbit, and what the hell was that thing? A Velociraptor?
“Endangered species list, huh?” Parker said. “Well, now he has company. You’re in big trouble, pal. You know that?”
“Yes, sir. I sure do.”
“And do you know where troublemakers like you spend their miserable lives?”
“A Zen monastery?”
“Something like that, wise guy. Only we call it prison these days.”
“Okay,” Murphy said.
Parker and Johnson exchange glances. Parker said, “Did you rob those banks?”
“No.”
Johnson said to Parker, “Ask him to explain the bag of money he was holding.”
Murphy’s Luck Page 13