Chapter Twenty
Jackson
December, 3 months ago…
Moments of desperation can lead a man to do really stupid things.
I’d already been having a rough day. Shit, a rough day? A rough week. A rough month. A rough life. Waking up with one hell of a hangover isn’t the worst thing, not in the overall scheme of things, but it still isn’t the best way to start the day.
I’m not even sure how I had enough to drink last night to end up with this doozy of a hangover. I’d gone into the bar—one I’d never been in before. One that was, frankly, sort of scary looking from the outside, what with the lack of one single, cohesive covering of paint on the splintering siding, with the dirty and cracked and blacked-out windows, with the seemingly unending row of well-maintained and aggressive-looking motorcycles lined up out front—with the sole intention of having one single shot of whiskey. I’d needed it, needed a drink, so badly.
Not badly enough that I could bring myself to ignore my need for keeping enough money in my pocket for my next meal or two, but… I’d rationalized with myself that I could afford to lay out enough for one shot. One measly shot of whatever the cheapest brand of whiskey this dingy bar had available.
You see…
For some reason, landlords are never very happy to only get part of a month’s rent. Especially when that happens more months than not. I can’t really blame them. They have a product, an apartment, and people are supposed to pay them for the use of that product. It’s how the world works. It’s how our economy works. And it’s not really their fault that most employers—the sort of employers that’ll employ somebody like me, at any rate—like to follow a system of last hired, first fired. I’m always able to get hired but…I also always get fired. A lot.
And that spotty work history, with its resultant lack of steady money coming into my pocket, is why I was booted out of my last apartment and have been living out of the backseat of my car for the past few weeks.
Now, I do have a bit of luck, in that I’ve lived all my life in the comforting, temperate bosom of the South, in the good old U.S. of A. I’ve lived all over parts of the South throughout my not-so-grand twenty-four years, although my current choice of habitat is the city of Chattanooga, Tennessee. And Chattanooga in November isn’t too bad. Chattanooga in the month of December isn’t even too bad. Even if it does dip down at night to almost freezing. Almost freezing still isn’t freezing. It’s not like I’m trying to deal with only the shelter of my old car somewhere horrible, somewhere up in the North or New England.
But…I hadn’t counted on a sudden, freak cold snap. A cold snap that sent temperatures plummeting. Plummeting to barely above freezing during the day. And at night…
My well-past-retirement-age-for-a-car car is mostly rust and duct tape and wishes at this point. It’s certainly not meant to hold out sharp, frigid winds or the swirling gusts of unwanted, unwelcome, unusual for Chattanooga, unexpected snow.
So, before I sucked it up and spent another uncomfortable, shivering night in the dubious shelter of my vehicle...I opted to treat myself with one single belt of liquid warmth. Jack Daniels or Jim Beam if I could manage it, but anything brown, strong, and alcoholic would do really.
But going into the bar, I already knew I only had enough cash I wanted to spare for that one solitary shot. Now I’m not sure how it was that I wound up having enough to drink of something to end up with a hangover. Granted, I’m not a heavy drinker. Food is hard enough for me to afford, I sure as hell can’t splurge on booze. Not normally. So, it probably wouldn’t have taken much. But one shot? No matter how strong the rotgut I could actually afford was...I shouldn’t have ended up with a hangover.
The sound of sharp, rapid-fire knocking on the glass of my window sounded like staccato bullets aimed at my poor, aching head.
The last time I tried to roll my window down, it creaked and squealed and got stuck only a couple inches down. And that was before there was a chance of ice or snow getting in there and making it much, much worse. So, I don’t even try to roll it down now to find out what the person knocking on my window wanted. I leave my keys in the ignition—the car’s off and I’m pretty sure I’ll notice if whoever it is tries to get past me so they can steal it. And really, only a moron—one in sadder shape than me, even—would think my car is worth stealing.
The car emits a few sad, feeble chimes as I open the driver’s side door, a reminder that I’m leaving the keys in the damn thing. Again, not that I can find it in myself to care overly much. The guy standing just a few feet away from my car doesn’t look like an asshole—he’s wearing jeans almost as grungy and worn as most of the pairs I own, a pair of dinged and nicked work boots, and a brown, padded and lined, work jacket, which has a neon yellow, hi-vis, reflective vest over the top of it. The letters on the vest declare that this guy works for the Public Works Department of the city.
“Hey, buddy,” he says. “Just needed to tell you that we’re going to be making our sweeps through here soon and plowing up all this snow.”
I look past him and, while the sunlight reflecting off all of it really feels like knives needling their way through my eyes, I can see that, overnight, several inches of snow have somehow accumulated. This is highly unusual for this part of the country, even during December, which usually doesn’t even see us getting one full inch of snow for the entire freaking month. To have more than an entire month’s worth of snow fall all in the span of 24 hours? And, naturally, while I’m stuck living out of my goddamn car? Somebody, somewhere, must be having a right old fucking good laugh over this.
When I don’t say anything, the DPW guy keeps going, prodding me to work out what he’s trying to tell me. “You’re currently parked in the plow-zone…we’re going to be coming through, really soon, and plowing…” I’m still not reacting, blame it on the hangover. Or my only average smarts not functioning well through a hangover. The guy from the Public Works drops his attempt at being polite and friendly, his voice becoming no-nonsense as he bluntly states, “Look, buddy. The sign’s right there. You can’t stay parked here. You’re gonna have to move, or else I’m gonna call the tow truck and your car’s goin’ bye-bye so we can get on with our work and get this snow plowed. I’ll give you five minutes to get yourself moved, but then you’re getting’ towed. We’ve got a lot of city to cover and I don’t have time for you to fuck around.”
“Okay. Yeah, I’ll…I’ll get it moved.”
The man nods his head at my words, then he gives me one last lingering, slightly disbelieving look before he turns and plods through the drifted ankle-deep snow, surely off to assess how many other people were foolish enough to park their vehicle in a snowfall tow-away zone.
The sky is laden with dense, cold gray clouds as if the weather is seriously considering dumping even more snow on the city and its unlucky inhabitants, so it’s difficult to determine the time of day, although it feels early. Early or not, since I’ve got to move my car anyway, it may as well be time to make my way to the nearest gas station where I can do a quick and barely satisfying wash up in their bathroom sink. Maybe I’ll even scrounge up enough change in my cup holder or rolled under my seats that I can splurge on a microwaved breakfast burrito.
But my feeble hope that the rest of my morning can only improve from where it started dies a fast and spluttering death as nothing, absolutely nothing, happens when I turn the key in my ignition. Not a chug, not a whir or a whine or a squeal. Just a hollow click…and then nothing. My car’s better days are far, far behind it and now…looks like all of its days are over.
I turn the key in the ignition again. And again. Again. Back and forth, I twist my wrist, my grip on the keys hard and biting, as I hope that this time, this time, the click will be accompanied by a chugging vroom as my engine finally fires to life. But each time brings the same result. Nothing.
I can’t even summon up the wherewithal to cry. I just let my head thunk against the steering wheel as I mentally say goodbye to my car.
All the money I have left, since I lost my job, I’ve been carefully budgeting, hoping it will stretch while I go through the tedious and often fruitless process of filling out applications for a new job, then calling and hounding hiring managers when I don’t hear back from any of the places I’ve applied. I’ve been making due with only two paltry meals a day, wearing my few sets of clothes more than is probably sanitary before taking them to the laundromat, and only depositing ten bucks at a time into my fuel tank.
I don’t have the money to pay for parts to fix my car. And that’s without even considering that I know nothing about vehicles or how to go about figuring out what’s wrong with mine and how to fix it. Add in the additional cost of having it towed to a repair shop then paying for them to get it back to running and… The cost of that would’ve been tight even when I had been working almost forty hours a week. Now that I’m not working and I’m not sure when that’ll be changing…
Like I said, all I can do is bid my car a forlorn goodbye.
I leave my keys in the ignition, figuring I might as well. If anything, maybe they’ll be a fun surprise for the people at whatever impound lot the forewarned tow truck takes it to. I also don’t bother to lock the doors as I resignedly climb out of my car. Again, why bother?
My belongings are somewhat neatly stuffed into one small carryon bag and one large, black garbage bag, sitting on the backseat. I always tried to make it not look as though I was living in my car–I didn’t want to attract any sort of unwelcome attention from the cops or any criminals who wouldn’t have any pangs of guilt over robbing somebody who had nothing to spare.
I’m almost tempted to leave all that shit behind, too. Lugging around all that I’ve left in the world while I figure out what I’m going to do next, where I’m going to go next, feels like more effort than it’s worth. But some small portion of me, stubbornly nurtured and bred into my bones by the poor, struggling, never-succeeding generations that came before me, doesn’t let me give up what little I have left. Numbly resolute, I loop the strap of the carryon over my right shoulder then hoist the black garbage bag over my left.
The wintery wind is still swirling cold air and snowflakes through the air and, after I slam the trunk of my car closed, it slaps and stings right at my face. But there’s not much I can do about that, or the way my lined fleece isn’t exactly up to the task of keeping me warm, other than to pointlessly curse out Mother Nature.
My resigned sigh puffs a cloud in the cold air as I turn and trudge my way to the sidewalk, a few extra curses leaving me as the snow clings to my tennis shoes and sneaks its way inside my now dampened socks, chilling my feet and toes. Reaching the sidewalk, it’s only the vague notion that I might as well head to the gas station as I’d intended, that has me turning to the right. What would’ve been only a couple minutes driving is going to be much longer, and infinitely more miserable, walking, but it isn’t like I have anything else better to do with my time. Besides, the time spent walking to the gas station is time I can use to put off thinking about what I’m going to do after that.
Maybe I’d even walk right on by that gas station and walk to the next one. Or the one after that. Or on and on. Maybe I’d just keep walking and walking. Let my feet carry me to…somewhere. Anywhere. Maybe I should just turn my brain off, turn off all my worries and fears, and let my feet and fate guide me to what it would.
Hunching my shoulder and huddling inside my fleece does little to keep me warm or stop the shivers that wrack and tremble through me before I’ve even walked a block. But it almost feels as though fate heard me or does have sort of plan in mind for me when I shove my right hand in my pocket and my fingers brush up against a crumpled-up piece of paper tucked inside.
I have no memory of putting any sort of paper in my pocket, although, just like the memory of how I ended up with a hangover this morning, most of my recollections of last night are pretty fucking hazy and disjointed. I don’t know what has me nervously casting glances to the left and right as I pull the piece of paper out of my pocket. Fear? Hope? Even though I could’ve sworn that I don’t have even a kernel of hope still left in me. Whatever it is, I don’t turn my eyes to the paper until I make sure that there’s nobody else nearby to see what it is I’m holding in my hand.
The slip of paper isn’t much larger than an index card and it looks as in rough a shape as I feel. It’s wrinkled in multiple places, although I’m not sure if that’s from being tucked away in my pocket or if that’s the state it was already in when I found it, one corner is torn off, the edges are slightly frayed, and, based on the multiple small pinprick holes jabbed into it, it looks like it has spent most, or all, of its existence tacked up on a bulletin board.
And it seems to be a job ad.
Handwritten in neat, carefully spaced, black ink are the words:
HELP WANTED
One dependable individual for the task of accompanying a certain individual on a multi-week, international vacation.
Job applicant must be: friendly, discrete, calm under pressure, and able to follow directions without question or fuss.
No particular level of education or prior work experience needed, but a current passport is required.
Only serious applicants need apply.
Unlike the normal website or link that I’m used to seeing on job ads, there’s only a phone number listed on the paper underneath the job description. That’s unusual enough, but what really catches my eye, and the thing that takes me from mildly curious to the territory of what-the-hell and why-the-fuck-not, is what’s at the very bottom of the slip of paper, below the phone number. And that’s one very pretty, very large number after a dollar sign.
$10,000
That’s…that’s…a shitload of money. Too much money. For one job, one that even advertises itself as only lasting a couple weeks, that’s way too much fucking money. There’s no way this job could be real. Or if it is, there’s no way it isn’t illegal, or immoral, or both.
Honestly, illegal and immoral aren’t always the same thing, not for people like me. Not for most people, really.
But $10,000… That’s more than anyone like me could ever hope to make in just a couple weeks. Hell, I would’ve had to have worked at my last shitty, minimum-wage job for almost nine or ten months to take home that sort of money, especially once Uncle Sam took his overly greedy bite out of it. So, the lure of that sort of money… Is it any wonder that I’m sort of hoping that the job would be illegal and therefore paid under the table?
If it’s even a real job opportunity.
For $10,000…a life changing amount of money… Wouldn’t that be worth the cost of one little phone call?
Desperation can make a man make stupid, stupid choices.
The bar I was at last night isn’t really sort of the place for college kids, but I’m almost convinced that the phone’s going to be picked up by a frat-boy, college kid ready and eager to laugh their ass off at me as I hold my cell phone up to my ear, listening to the ringing and waiting for someone to answer.
But to my surprise, it’s a mellow, fully-grown adult male voice that answers my call with a brief and to the point greeting of, “This is Jones. If you’ve dialed the correct number, then I assume you’re calling about the job.”
It’s because of my surprise—that somebody picked up, that there is a job—that I splutter out, “Yes. I…yes. I’m calling about the job.”
“Fantastic. And to think, we were all just about to the point where we thought nobody was going to reply to the adverts we put up,” the man replies.
The number on the paper, the number I called, has a local-to-Tennessee area code, but the guy who answered, who identified himself as Jones, he doesn’t sound local. To anywhere in the South. The roundness of his vowels, and particularly the way he said the word ‘about’, brought to mind any number of comedy bits I’ve seen about people who hailed from Canada. But do I care, or even wonder, just a little bit, about why someone who may or may not be from the country of Canada would’ve posted a job listing—a handwritten job listing—to a bulletin board in some shithole dive bar in Chattanooga, Tennessee? No. No, I sure as fuck do not.
“Er…yeah. So…the job is… The job’s still available, then?” I ask.
“Yeppers, it sure as shining is,” Jones answers cheerfully. Then his voice turns more businesslike as he says, “We’re confident all the information you need to know about the job is listed, but is there any other information you’d like before we start going through getting all of your information?”
Is there…is there any other information I’d like? What the fuck? Is he kidding? The ad has almost no information on it. Not much useful information, anyway. Not the sort of information I’m sure most people would want before applying for and taking a job, especially for people they don’t know and have never met before. For fuck’s sake, all I know about the people who made the ad is that one of them goes by the name of Jones, and that’s not very much fucking information at all.
“Oh, um, well…the ad said ‘multi-week’ but it didn’t, uh, it didn’t exactly say when those weeks would be,” I say. Not that the when of the thing will matter to me a whole lot. In fact, if I actually go through with taking this job, assuming they go through with offering it to me, the sooner it happens, the better.
“No, yeah, and so it didn’t. That’s because the timing of the trip you’d be accompanying this individual on is still a bit up in the air,” Jones states. My heart sinks and my stomach, which I’m convinced doesn’t even know what it feels like anymore to not be constantly rumbling with hunger, feels even more empty. But then Jones continues, “However, there’s no reason not to hire you and have you start working for us right away. There’s some…uh…training we could have you go through,” Jones trips over his words. “While we’re waiting for the trip to kick off.”
The rush of relief at what he said nearly makes me stumble from lightheadedness. Of course, some of that could be the cold, the wind, the sudden shock of losing my car, the after-effect of too much alcohol on a perennially undernourished stomach…anything, really. But it feels like the disorientation of relief. Something I’m not too familiar with, but that I’m certainly not going to deny.
That relief is only strengthened when Jones adds, “You’ll be paid, of course. Say…ten bucks an hour while you’re, um, training? On top of the ten grand, naturally; that’s just what you’ll be paid for accompanying the individual on his trip.”
Jesus. Fuck.
If I weren’t worried it could cost me the shot at this impossible, most-definitely-must-be-illegal job, I’d totally start laughing hysterically. Ten dollars an hour? That’s decently above minimum wage for these parts. And on top of the $10,000 payday?
But a job’s a job, right? Right. I don’t care that the whole thing feels a million shades of shady. I don’t care what I’ll have to do for this too-good-to-be-true amount of money they’re offering. I can’t care. I can’t afford to care.
So, I won’t.
What’s the worst that can happen?
“Yeah, yes. Yeah, shit. I’ll…I’ll take the job,” I hurriedly say, before Jones has the chance to snatch it away. “I can start whenever. Tomorrow. Now. Whenever.” It doesn’t even matter to me that Jones now has to know how desperate I am to have this job.
“Wonderful.” And Jones actually sounds as though it is wonderful that I want the job. “Oh, I do just have one question for you before you tell me all about yourself and I let you know where and when to report to for your first training session.”
I’ve been mindlessly plodding my way onward to the garage station while Jones and I have been talking on the phone. The sound of slow-moving cars slogging their way through the snow and slush in the street, now that I’ve reached a busier section of town and have almost reached my destination, joins the still-present swoosh of the wind in filling the air as Jones pauses.
“Are you familiar with the name…Phoenix Wilding?”
Now, I might be poor. I might have just barely graduated high school, thanks to teachers who weren’t paid enough to give a shit that I had little comprehension of what they were teaching and administrators who wanted my ass out of a desk that could seat some other kid in an overcrowded school system. And I might have, so far, spent my adult years bouncing from shit, dead-end job to shit, dead-end job. But I have not been living under a fucking rock.
Phoenix Wilding might as well be royalty. American royalty. His folks are loaded. He’s loaded. The sort of money that’s like stars in the sky—impossible to count or comprehend. He’s got the sort of slick, generational good looks that means he’s photographed at parties and galas and…all the other sort of shit that richer-than-rich people go to. His name is splashed across magazines and tabloids and TMZ .
Still… Moments of desperation will lead a man to do really, really stupid things.
“Nope,” I lie. “Never heard of the guy. Should I have?”
It’s just a job. Phoenix Wilding will just be a job.