by Julie Dill
Mid-life Crisis Guy gets up to go talk to a guy in a suit.
I slip out fast.
FLIGHT.
I trot, in my heels, to a cashiers’ window around the corner and get in a line with two others in front of me.
Faster. Faster. COUNT THEIR MONEY FASTER. I look around the corner to make sure no one’s coming then back at the cashier to see where she’s at in finishing her transaction. Corner. Counter. Corner. Counter.
The customer folds some cash and stuffs it into his back pocket. The next customer moves up to the counter.
Corner. Counter. Corner. Counter.
I move up in line and set my chips on the counter.
Corner. Corner. Corner.
The cashier moves in slow motion to count my money and fan it across the counter.
Mid-life Crisis Guy comes around the corner and looks around but doesn’t see me. A worker follows behind him.
I swoop up the cash as fast as I can and run to the nearest bathroom to hideout and regroup. The last stall is open. I take it.
Shit! Shit! SHIT!
My hands and knees are jolting. Trauma-level panic.
FLIGHT.
I leave the bathroom, trot through the casino, and exit into the parking garage. Cameras. Don’t forget the cameras. I try not to bring attention to myself, and walk through the garage to find the nearest exit. It leads to a parking lot, and I step out to get my bearings. There’s a Taco Mayo in the distance, two large parking lots over, and I fast walk to make it over there.
It’s almost closing time—chairs on tables—and I get a dirty look from the worker when I walk in.
“I’m not eating, can I just use your restroom really quick?”
The worker doesn’t reply, she just returns to her closing duties.
I go to the bathroom and squat in the corner to regroup.
Nate.
I start crying.
My wonderful weekend.
I cry some more.
I close my eyes as tears run down my face. Thoughts zoom through my head. I check my phone to make sure Nate hasn’t called looking for me, and there’s one missed call: Nate.
I’m panicked when I think about me mentioning his name to the cocktail waitress. Would they put it together? Find Nate and tell him what happened? Shit. Surely not.
I’m beyond screwed.
I think of a million ways to try and wiggle out of this so I can return to the casino, but I know I can’t risk it.
I’m in Tulsa.
Walking home is not an option.
There’s a knock on the door. The worker hollers on the other side. “Ma’am you’re going to have to leave. We’re closed now.”
“Ok, thank you. I’ll be out in just a minute.” I holler back.
I pull out the cash from the casino. It’s all a blur, and I couldn’t have even told you how much I have before I count it.
$250. I hate the fact that I had to leave some on the table and wonder how much it was.
I stand and stuff it back into my purse. I take off my heels and hold them with one hand. Couldn’t care less about the dirty floors because there’s no way I could take another single step in those things because my feet hurt so badly. The worker is waiting to let me out so she can relock the door.
“Thank you,” I say as I walk out. She doesn’t respond.
I take a step off the curb and look back at the casino.
Don’t cry.
Don’t cry, damnit.
I start walking toward a gas station. What the hell am I going to do now?
The street is busy so I walk along the curb. This time I hear my phone ring . . . it’s Nate, again. It rings for an eternity.
I keep walking, avoiding glass and random street stuff such as beer cans and a diaper. Cars zoom past me. Two of them honk. I get to the gas station, a busy one, and when I walk in the clerk hollers for me to put on my shoes. It’s one of those gas station/mini fast food places. Pain. I force one blistered foot in at a time then wobble over to a booth that’s occupied by an old man because all the others are filled with groups.
“Do you care if I sit here for just a second?”
“Go ahead,” he replies then wads up a candy bar wrapper and leaves. My phone rings, Nate again, and I don’t answer. I worry that he’ll find someone to replace me . . . meet someone new . . . since I can’t go back.
I think of a million ways to dig myself out of this hole.
No way that I’m calling Cassidy to come get me.
I’d call Ms. Stella, but I don’t think she should be on the roads alone this late.
No way in hell I’m calling Dad.
There are a couple of truck drivers meandering around the store. But no. Just, no.
I cry. Some more.
If I had a smart phone I could Google cab companies. At this point I feel so damn sorry for myself I buy a bag of popcorn and eat the whole thing. Why me?
After an hour of contemplating, I get up and ask the clerk if he knows of any cab companies in the area.
“Are you okay?” He asks in a gentle way. He’s wearing a baseball cap, and for some reason I trust him.
I pull my hair into a low knot.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I lie.
“Where are you trying to go?”
“Back to Oklahoma City.” I hold back tears.
“Yeah, I can call you a cab.” He pulls his smart phone from his back pocket and starts the search.
I take my shoes off and stand right beside them and wait a couple of minutes while he Googles around swiping his index finger across his screen. “Looks like it’ll be at least a couple hundred bucks.” He’s sympathetic.
I don’t think twice. “Call ‘em. I’ve got it.”
As I wait, I decide it would be best if I text Nate. I don’t want him to worry about my safety, and I certainly don’t need him filing a missing person’s report or something crazy like that.
“I’M OKAY. HAVE EMERGENCY AT HOME. WILL CALL YOU TOMORROW.”
He immediately responds, “???????????????????”
__________
I’m scared when I get in the cab.
The car isn’t marked very well . . . just a number across the outside of the door that’s been put on by those big gold stickers.
It’s shady.
The guy doesn’t say anything to me at all since he already knows we’re headed to Oklahoma City. The car smells like something I’ve never smelled before—a weird combination of cigarette smoke and black licorice. He pushes buttons on a mini-computer meter, and I watch the dollars and cents increase as we merge onto the highway. My phone rings. It’s Nate. I silence the ring and just stare at the casino as we pass it. My phone lights up again—Nate. I lean my head against the glass and squeeze my phone. Goodbye, Tulsa.
__________
It’s four in the morning when the cab driver drops me off at my car that I left parked at Nate’s. I fight back tears when I look over at his apartment.
I pay the driver, which takes most all of my winnings, and then grab my heels that I’d kicked off on the floorboard.
“Thanks,” I say.
He grabs the money in a rush and speeds off.
I climb into my car, still in disbelief of how this night ended. I sit for a few minutes trying to figure out how to kill about five or six hours before it’s logical that I go home. A young girl sleeping in her car in a parking lot would look suspicious, and the last thing I need is some cop questioning me. So I drive to Ms. Stella’s, the one person who won’t ask questions.
I turn my headlights off before I pull into her driveway, and decide I’ll just stay in my car and sleep in her driveway. I grab a hoodie from my back seat, ball it up as a makeshift pillow, and lay my head on my console. I shift around for ten minutes, and with each
move I’m reminded of how much this sucks.
__________
I’m awakened by a knock on my window, and you would’ve thought there was a killer with a butcher knife standing outside my car the way I jumped.
It’s Ms. Stella in her robe, her hair a mess. She knocks again. “Chandra, what are you doing out here?” She says loud enough that I can hear her through the window.
I open my car door and she sticks her head in.
“What in the world?”
“Oh, hi Ms. Stella.” I put my palm on my heart to slow the pounding. “I’m sorry, I got really tired and couldn’t go home.”
She doesn’t ask why.
“Well get yourself in here, Miss Priss.” I fumble around and follow her to her door. The sun is barely starting to show itself; there’s a fog covering her lawn.
She goes to the kitchen and starts banging pots and pans around then pulls a carton of eggs from the fridge. I look at my phone. Five missed calls from Nate.
Ms. Stella makes small talk, but it’s so hard for me to concentrate. Thoughts of Nate swirl in my head, and I wonder what he did last night, and what he thinks.
She puts a full plate of breakfast in front of me, and I stare at a single fresh rose in a vase as I eat on her breakfast bar. When I finish, it’s still too early for me to go home.
Ms. Stella points to the throw on the back of her couch.
“You go back to sleep, hon.” She disappears for a moment then returns with a real bed pillow so I don’t have to use the throw pillows on her couch.
I take my plate to the sink and start rinsing. “I’ll get that,” she says.
Ms. Stella leaves the room, and I nest on the couch. Heaven.
A single tear drips off my nose and no matter how comfortable I feel, I just can’t fall asleep. I lie there for a few hours but only doze off for a few minutes here and there.
I decide to be proactive. The faster I resolve this shit-storm, the better.
Right before I get up, I shoot Nate a text:
“MY DAD WAS HOSPITALIZED FOR CHEST PAINS LAST NIGHT BUT TURNS OUT HE’S OK. I DIDN’T WANT TO RUIN YOUR NIGHT SO I JUST TOOK A CAB HOME WITH MY WINNINGS. TALK SOON. THANK YOU FOR UNDERSTANDING.”
I reread it four times before I hit send.
When I get home, it’s no surprise that Dad’s on the couch watching television. He strikes up conversation, but doesn’t take his eyes off the talk show featuring Jack Hanna and a little exotic monkey.
“Hey Chels. Do you know what happened to my gun? I was going to take it up to that gun show and try to sell it, but I can’t find it.”
I freeze and widen my eyes. He’s still not looking at me. “Uh, I don’t know. Did you check your closet?”
He twists around to face my direction. “It’s not in the corner where I usually keep it.”
“Then I don’t know, Dad,” I holler back as I walk to my room, “have you checked the attic?”
He hollers back down the hallway, “Why would it be in the attic?”
“I don’t know.” I close my door.
Shit. I’ve got to go get that gun back tomorrow.
One minute later, he opens my door.
“Chels, you don’t have any idea where that gun is?”
I look him straight in the eyes. “No, Dad. How would I know where it is?”
He scrunches his nose.
“I just think it’s weird that it disappeared all of a sudden.” Dad stands there, with sweat pants and hair that hasn’t been washed or combed all day. His face looks older today; it’s the gray tint of his whiskers.
I reiterate, “Well I don’t know where it is.”
Dad scratches his head, and I don’t know if the scratch is warranted because he’s perplexed or because his scalp itches. He glances around my room, as if the gun could be in here.
“I’ll find it tomorrow. It’s gotta be around here somewhere.” He walks out and closes my door.
My brain quickly devises a plan: On Monday, go to morning classes. Get the gun at lunch. Go back for afternoon classes. But how will I get it in the house? Dad is always at home now. Always.
I’ll stick it in my trunk until after school. I’ll figure it out somehow. I’m not stressed. I have this gift lately of making things magically happen.
I sit up, but lean back against my pillow and make a to do list for tomorrow:
-Get the gun
-Finish accounting packet
-Go pay electric
-Look for job (always on my list)
-Laundry
-Clean out car
The list gets me straight with the world. Everything’s in order.
I hear Dad cracking up. There’s probably another monkey on TV or some shit like that. I get under the covers and close my eyes. I think of Nate for a few minutes then I fall asleep. I sleep hard and peacefully. The kind of sleep when you don’t even think you dream.
Chapter 30
It’s hard to get out of bed for school. I’m not used to a night of blissful slumber, and I just don’t want it to end.
Dad doesn’t get up to wake me up any more. I’d guess he doesn’t even get out of bed until elevenish. This is what happens to people who stay up until three in the morning watching exotic monkeys on television.
I wait until the very last possible minute, and at 7:15 I finally get up and get moving. I have to rush around, but that extra ten minutes of stillness makes it worthwhile.
The bad thing about not arriving to school at a decent time is you wind up with a sucky parking space. Waaay out in the back. I weave in and out of the rows of cars, hoping for a miracle. Just when I think I’ve won the lottery—an empty space—I realize a champagne colored Mercedes SUV is double parked. I’m irritated that people are driving such high-end cars to school, and that they think they deserve two spaces instead of one. Without a choice, I drive to the second-to-last row and park. I grab my bag, my to do list off my console, and do a brisk mall-walkers walk to the building.
When I walk through the doors I check the digital clock to find I have two minutes before the tardy bell rings. I don’t need anything from my locker so I continue the fast walk to first hour. It’s Rayna, a cheerleader, who stops me in the hall first.
“Well that was fast!” She says as she looks down toward my foot. Her eyebrows are raised. I’m confused. She elaborates, “Must have been a miracle doctor to heal your foot so fast.”
I forgot to put on the damn boot!
I shift my weight and lift my foot off the ground, remembering it was the left one that’s injured. “I . . . He . . . I . . . My doctor said that I need to take off the boot some while it heals.”
She’s hateful.
“Why?!”
I give it my best.
“Because, well . . . because if I wear the boot constantly it may damage the muscles in the arch of my foot.”
She laughs sarcastically.
“Huh. Well I’ve never heard of that before.”
A few stragglers left in the hallway begin to pick up speed and run. Beeeeeeep.
I’m tardy.
Another cheerleader, Leslee, joins us. “Where’s your boot?” She asks point-blank.
I roll my eyes and start hobbling toward the door. I hobble all the way back out to my stupid second-to-the-last-row car, open the stupid trunk, and grab my stupid boot. I put it on and Velcro the straps, then grab my STUPID crutches. This is so damn stupid.
I hobble through my morning wondering how I’m going to deal with this for four more weeks.
When the lunchtime bell rings, I go all the way back out to my car. There are a million people squeezing into shiny cars together. Groups of kids are laughing, talking, and gathering around being social. For most of them, their biggest concern in the world is what combo they will order at lunch. I, on the other
hand, will skip eating to retrieve a gun and, if time allows, swing by and pay the electric bill. This makes me crave a burrito.
But, like always, I take care of business. Gun—check. Electric bill—check.
When I pull back in at school I have plenty of time to get a good parking spot and wobble down the walkway. When I reach the door I look back and notice the police are here with their K9’s. Just a normal day of high school . . . something they do a few times a month.
All the blood rushes to my head when I think about there being a gun in my trunk.
I know they’re here for drugs, but can they sniff out weapons?!
It all plays out in my head.
Expelled.
Handcuffed.
Sent to jail.
Nate sees my mug shot on the news.
I look out the window and watch my car for a few minutes as they start unloading the dogs.
Should I leave? I’d look guilty of something if I left.
I should leave.
No.
Surely they can’t sniff out weapons.
Or can they?
My story if I get detained: It was a family heirloom that I inherited and forgot to take out of my trunk.
No . . . My dad went hunting this weekend and must’ve forgotten to take it out.
I can see the media circus now: “Police Find Shooter Just in Time.” With my picture.
God help me.
I turn around and walk to class hoping, PRAYING, that a dog can’t sniff out a rifle.
I get to fifth hour feeling like I’ve somehow escaped death row until my teacher, Mr. Daggs, calls me to his desk.
He looks over his glasses to read his computer monitor then looks back at me. “Chelsea, they need to see you in the office.”
My knees go weak. I can’t breathe. “Okay.”
I walk slowly out the door. I can’t help but start crying when I get to the hallway. I stop in the bathroom to collect myself, and the thoughts won’t go away. Mug shot, police car, my dad trying to convince the officers that it’s all a big mistake—his girl wouldn’t do anything like this.
I blow my nose then wet a paper towel and place it on the back of my neck. I sit on the floor for a minute until I think it’s safe to stand without passing out.