Charly's Epic Fiascos (9 page)

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Authors: Kelli London

BOOK: Charly's Epic Fiascos
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Solomon scratched his head. “She said something about a second butterscotch, and to remind you that God only takes care of those who take care of themselves.”
Charly's heart raced and dropped. Her head turned left, then right, looking for Grandma Anna. Then her attention turned to the bags in front of her.
One
.
Two
, she counted. The wheeled ones set where she'd left them, give or take an inch or two, and her purse setting on top. The tote bag was gone. Charly blinked slowly, knowing something was wrong. She gulped, grabbed her purse, but was afraid to look inside. But what choice did she have? she questioned, picking it up and unzipping it. She took out her wallet, and saw everything was in its place. Identification. Pictures. Folded pieces of paper. All was there. All except the money. Where the cash once was, there was a note in its place.
1 PIECE OF BUTTERSCOTCH—$100.00
 
BILL PAID IN FULL
9
C
harly banged her hand on the counter. She couldn't have been hearing correctly. Not today, not now. Raking her fingers through her hair, she batted back tears. “So there are no other seats?” she asked the reservationist, who'd been less than accommodating, and certainly didn't seem to like her job.
The lady, dressed in a dull uniform, popped her gum like a streetwalker and scratched her needed-to-be-tightened braids with overly designed acrylic nails. “Look. I just told you, and I'm not telling you again. All ninety-seven-dollar seats are booked. For days. Now if you want to go to New York today, it's gonna cost one-hundred-ninety-five dollars.”
Charly nodded, feeling a bit better. If she could leave tomorrow, it wouldn't kill her to stay overnight in the train station. She'd heard of people bunking in airports all the time, so how much different could it be? A bum walked by, and his presence and stench explained the difference. But she didn't care. She was Charly St. James, and she'd survived Brigette, so she could and would handle anything. “Okay. So how about tomorrow? I want to book a ninety-seven-dollar ticket for tomorrow.”
“Uh. Let me see,” the rude reservationist said, then paused for a second as if in thought. “No! And no again. I told you, all ninety-seven-dollar seats are gone. Today, tomorrow, the day after, yadda, yadda, yadda.” She leaned forward, resting her arms on the counter. “And before you ask, the difference is a twenty-hour straight ride versus a long ride with a layover in between. Oh, and business class.” The woman rolled her eyes at Charly, then dismissed her with, “Next! Can I help the next passenger?”
The dirty sidewalk was under her feet and her remaining two suitcases were behind her before Charly knew it. She didn't know where she was going or how she was going to get there, but she would. And from that “didn't know where” she'd make it to the Big Apple. That, she was sure of. Vehicles blurred by, her shoulder bumped against people walking in the opposite direction, and the wind was to her face. She didn't care. Anger and hurt fueled her determination. Now she didn't just hate her hometown; she couldn't stand the whole state. Her pride in hailing from the South Side, as if it were her coat of arms, lost all valuable meaning.
“Where are you rushing off to?” Solomon asked, appearing from behind.
Charly looked at his legs and decided they were longer than she'd believed. Here she was hustling, moving as fast as she could without running, and he was keeping up with her without breaking a casual stride. “I'm getting out of here. I hate it here!” she ranted, still moving.
“Where is here?” he asked, his arm suddenly holding her back from entering a busy intersection and getting run over by cars zooming through the green light. “Slow down. It can't be that bad. Not bad enough to die.”
A crowd was gathered at the corner, encircling them like a crescent moon, but Charly didn't notice. “Die? Who said anything about dying?” A gust of polluted air whooshed in her face, courtesy of the tailpipes belonging to a huge oil truck. A vehicle that she would've walked right in front of if it weren't for Solomon, she realized. “Point taken, but you're mistaken. I love myself too much for that—
and
to stay here. And the here I'm referring to, for your information, is
here
! Chicago. Illinois. The middle of nowhere.”
Solomon nodded. The smile he'd worn before was now replaced with quiet strength. He had no words, and his face was minus expression as his eyes bore into hers.
“I'm tired of cornfields, bootleg mothers who can't see past working at car factories or men with thick wallets, and thieves . . . let's not even speak of the thieves,” she began, her venting turning into a rant. Another truck zoomed by, almost-black smoke spurting from a stout on top that resembled a train from another century. She stomped her foot. “And all this friggin' pollution!” she yelled.
With a quick motion, Solomon pulled her into his arms. “Shh.”
Charly tussled, past angry, beyond hurt and disappointed. “Let me go!” she yelled, her face pressed to his chest. “Let. Go,” she begged at first, then gave way to her emotions and relaxed. She couldn't remember ever being held before by anyone except her dad, and that she couldn't even be sure of. The memory could've been a dream like so many others she'd imagined until they seemed so real that she couldn't distinguish fantasy from truth.
“Shh,” Solomon said again. “It's going to be all right.” Charly stood there in his arms while passersby made their way around them without complaint. She hadn't realized how big and imposing he was until that moment, and, for minutes, she felt safer than she ever had. No longer did she worry about being robbed or how she was going to make it to New York. With Solomon, she just knew that it was all possible.
Solomon released her. “Better now?”
She nodded, then pursed her lips together. “Depends,” she admitted, needing to be sure that her feeling was genuine and not something her imagination made her believe. “Aren't you supposed to be going somewhere too? I mean, you were in the train station.”
He half smiled. “I'm already here. I just got in from New York, and was waiting for my folks to pick me up.” He shrugged. “A funeral.”
Charly nodded, sad about his reason for visiting what she now considered the prison she was trying to escape—the Midwest—and able to empathize. She was more familiar with death than she'd ever been. As she was stuck without enough money for a train or plane to take her to her destination, life was trying to kill her dream. She wouldn't allow it though. Not so easily. She forced a smile, telling herself it'd be okay. There was some light in Solomon's words.
“New York, huh?” she asked rhetorically. “That's good. That's where I'm going . . . if I can find a way to get there for less than a hundred and ninety-five dollars.”
He reared back his head, drew his brows together in disbelief, then spread his lips into a full smile. He waved his hand as if swatting a fly. “That's easy. There are plenty of ways to get to New York. I should know. I'm originally from The Chi, and I used to take the dragon wagon there all the time before I moved there.”
Charly lit up. “Dragon wagon? Really? What is it and how far is it?”
Solomon scratched his head. “It's just a bus, and it's not too far. I remember it being on Went . . . something. Sorry, it's been a long time since I caught it. Call me Missouri; I can show you better than I can tell you,” he said, meaning he couldn't prove what he was saying with words.
“Cool. I so appreciate it,” Charly exclaimed, taking him literally. She grabbed his hand and pulled. “Which direction?”
Solomon stood like a strongly constructed temple and didn't budge. “I wasn't serious, Charly. It's an expression.”
This wasn't happening, Charly told herself. There was no way that she was going to let Solomon and his knowledge slip from her grasp. He had what she wanted, and was certain she could offer him the same. “Please, Solomon. I can pay.” She let go of his hand and reached inside her shirt, peeling back her bra. She had to get her money.
“Okay. Okay,” he said, staring at her exposed skin. “I'm sure it's a nice view, but there's no need to strip out here on the street.” He grabbed her arm, stopping her, then took his phone out of his pocket. “I'll just have my folks pick me up from there. I'm sure they remember where it is.”
They'd walked down South Canal Street, turned left on West Seventeenth, made a right on South Stewart, then made another left on West Eighteenth, then hightailed it toward Wentworth Avenue, where the bus station was. Charly pressed SEND on her phone. She'd texted Stormy and Lola and Mason her every move just in case something went wrong. The dragon wagon bus station, as Solomon had called it, was located in the heart of Chinatown near Chinatown Square, Charly discovered, her eyes wide from all the sights. They were by the Three Happiness restaurant and Chinatown Market, not far from the fire department. The hike was long in thought, but quick in travel. She assumed they couldn't have walked more than two miles, but it'd taken them almost forty-five minutes.
She looked around, eyed the chain-link fence behind the building. From her view, all she could see was discarded litter lining it, and it looked like it had once held a parking lot. To her right was a busy intersection with Chinese architecture on one side and, on the other, was the Red Line Cernak-Chinatown train stop for commuters traveling to 95/Dan Ryan. She nodded. So it wasn't the airport or the Amtrak. It wasn't even a semblance of a Greyhound facility. The dragon wagon bus station wasn't really a bus station at all, she discovered. It was just an office housed in a painted red brick building.
“Where does the bus pick up?” she asked.
Solomon laughed. “Right there,” he said, pointing to the street. “Curb service at its best.” He shrugged. “You get what you pay for, right? Let's go in and get you settled.” He led her through the red door, then whipped out his iPhone and began texting. “My fam,” he explained, then paused, looking at the cell screen. “They're a couple blocks away, but it's cool though. I won't leave you until I know you're good.”
Once Solomon was outside with her bags, and not a man was in sight, Charly fished out the cash from the handkerchief pinned to her bra, not caring who saw what. She was safe, and her time had come.
“One ticket to New York. First class!” she joked to the woman at the counter, knowing classes didn't exist on buses. Or did they? she wondered when the surprisingly tall Chinese lady began punching keys on a computer.
“That'll be one-hundred-ten dollars. Date?” the lady asked in a crisp British accent, killing Charly's assumption that most people in Chinatown would be working with broken English.
Charly wasn't surprised. She wasn't in Small Town U.S.A. anymore and knew all sorts of stereotypes people believed weren't true. Just as all white people weren't good at baseball and all black people didn't shoot hoops, all Asian people didn't speak alike. People varied. She'd learned that in social studies class and from her friends of different ethnicities. Lola, for one, was a great example. Who knew of a black girl born with natural ocean-blue eyes and extremely blond hair?
“Today. I'm leaving today,” Charly said.
The Chinese lady shook her head. “The bus departs to New York on Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays only. Let me check tomorrow's schedule.” She began punching computer keys again, making Charly's hope rise. “I'm sorry.” She shook her head. “I'm not sure what's going on on the East Coast, but we're booked for the week. Amazing. I've never seen this. . . .”
10
S
he could feel herself turning into one of the many homeless people the Illinois news stations were always broadcasting about on television. Exiting the makeshift bus station, she jetted full speed across the street toward the Red Line train. Digging into the bottom of her purse for the money she'd just put into it, she felt for change she knew wasn't there. She didn't know how much train fare was or where she was going, but she had to go somewhere. She couldn't just stay in Chinatown, and, as far as she was concerned, she had no home to return to. The only thing in front of her was space and opportunity. She was free to go wherever she wanted and take advantage of every good possibility life had to offer.
“Yo, Charly!” Solomon's voice called from behind. “Char-lee!”
Charly zipped around the back of a passing car, then took a quick look over her shoulder. Solomon was standing on the other side of the street in front of the dragon wagon station. His hands were cupped around his mouth, and he was still calling her name. When her foot stepped onto the sidewalk and she knew she was safe from passing traffic, she turned. Solomon was so cute and helpful, but that wasn't enough to make her change direction. She didn't want him to think her ungrateful or, worse, someone who disappeared once they'd received what they wanted, but she didn't want to go backward. Backward was equivalent to past tense in her mind, and all she wanted to see now was what the future held for her. She shrugged her shoulders. “Sorry, Solomon!” she yelled, hoping he could hear her over the flow of traffic. “But I gotta go. No buses are leaving from there.”
He was yelling something she couldn't make out when she entered the Red Line station. Other traingoers flanked both her sides, going through the turnstiles, then heading to the platform. She didn't know exactly where she was headed to, but there had to be another alternative to get her to New York. The dragon wagon couldn't be the only bus. “Here goes,” she said, pulling out cash to pay the fare. Her heart dropped, then sped when she noticed there were no coin or dollar slots for her to insert the money. A sticker on the turnstile caught her attention.
Farecards only—main entrance 1 block south
 
CTA Red Line
Charly grimaced. She was no geographer or astrologer; she had no idea which direction was south. She shrugged, keeping the fare money in her hand, and ignoring the impatient complaints of a few people behind her.
“Okay,” she said, looking to her left, then right. She knew what she was about to do would be considered wrong, but, to her, consider was the operative word. Her intentions were good and she had every intention of paying, and would do so. She'd just pay the fare to the first CTA employee she saw, then her entering without a fare-card wouldn't really be stealing.
Not at all
, she assured herself, putting her hands on the top of the turnstile and lifting her body over it.
Hands were gripping the back of her arm before she could jump the turnstile completely. “Come with me,” a female Chicago transit cop said from behind, pulling her back.
Charly held out her hand once her feet were planted firmly on the ground. “Here. I have my fare right here. I swear.”
“That's good,” the small-framed female cop said. She was smaller than Charly in stature, but her presence was huge, especially because she carried a firearm. “I'm sure your mother will be happy to hear that. I'd just love it if my child had money to pay for something and then stole it,” she said, walking through the turnstile herself, then sliding her arm through Charly's. She led her down a walkway to an inconspicuous door. “You just gave me something to do. I'm just getting here, and already I have paperwork to process, thanks to you.”
“But—” Charly began to protest and explain.
“But nothing,” the officer said, removing a key ring from a loop on her pants, then searching for one. “I can't believe this,” she complained, still looking for a key. “I left it in the cruiser.” She took a walkie-talkie from her hip. “I need assistance. . . .” she began, then went back and forth with whoever was on the other end. “Not locked? Really? Okay,” she said. “I'll try it.” She holstered her walkie-talkie, then turned to Charly. “Don't you move,” she warned, then let go of Charly.
“Okay,” Charly said, then watched as the officer pulled on the doorknob, struggling to get the stuck door open.
The officer held the knob with both hands, put the heel of her foot on the brick wall, then pressed her weight against it. The door rattled, but it was obviously very stuck. Charly watched as the officer struggled with the door, and admired the tenacity of the small cop. No matter how much the metal door refused to give, the cop didn't let up, but instead tried harder, muttering here and there. A loud noise, followed by a barrage of curses, sliced through the air, then glass bottles flew past Charly's head and crashed to the ground. Shards of glass flew and ricocheted everywhere. Charly ducked, barely escaping a cut or two, and saw a group of teenagers passing by with alcohol and cigarettes and bottles in their hands. They were yelling and singing and, obviously, inebriated.
Suddenly, she felt a burn on the back of her arm. “Ow!” she said, realizing that the glass had hit her.
“What the hell?” the officer said, looking at her arm. A trail of blood moved from her bicep to just above her wrist. “Wait here. And don't you move,” she said to Charly, whipping out the walkie-talkie with one hand and unlocking her firearm holster with the other.
Like a deer in headlights, Charly stood in place, afraid to move. She gripped her purse to her side, then thought better of it as more teens ran past, followed by a couple of adults who seemed to be running late. Chicago surely wasn't Belvidere, and was too dangerous to let her bag be so free. She took it off, draped the strap around her neck, fed one of her arms through it, and crisscrossed it over her midsection. One of her hands stayed inside it, keeping the money in her wallet safe. Yes, she still had a stash in her bra, but she needed all the cash she had. Teenagers still shuffled by, some loud and boisterous, others looking as innocent or intimidated as she. Her phone vibrated in her pocket, scaring her. She'd forgotten it was there.
“Hello?” she said breathlessly.
“Charly! What's good, baby girl?” Mason's smooth voice asked, giving her a dose of home that she needed.
“Baby girl?” Charly laughed, despite being so rattled. “That's a new one . . . but nothing's good, Mason. Nothing.” She gave him a rundown of all her happenings, including waiting on the platform for the cop.
“Serious? You're waiting on the po-po to come get you?! Nah! Don't do that.” He was silent for a moment. “Where's your ID?”
“In my purse. Why?”
Mason exhaled on the phone. “Listen to me, Charly. Listen to me carefully. You're a teenager, no one can search you without your ma dukes' permission. Hide your ID in your panties, and whatever you do, don't give them your government.”
Charly's face twisted into a look of confusion. What was he talking about? “I don't get it.” A group of cops now ran past her, one slowing down and looking back at her. “I think one's here to get me, Mason. He just turned around. Maybe the lady cop told him—”
“Don't give them your real name, Charly. That's your government, what's on your birth certificate. And hide your friggin' ID in your panties or bra, and don't talk. Don't say anything! You hear me? And if you give them any name, give 'em Brooklyn Mason. I'll be calling and checking, and if they detain you under that name, I'll be there to get you somehow.”
 
The officer who'd slowed down and was looking at Charly was now clearly headed her way. He had a walkie-talkie up to his mouth, talking into it. From the look on his face, she knew he was coming for her. She gulped. “Another one's coming to get me.”
“Power off your phone and do what I said. I got'chu, Charly. I got'chu. Remember Brooklyn Mason.”
She was sliding her ID and powered-off phone into her panties and bra, respectively, as she walked with the tall male officer who'd snatched her up by one arm, and was semi-dragging her down the walk toward the exit of the station.
“So you like to throw bottles, huh?” he barked. “Juvie's got spots for trash like you.” He pushed her through an entrance/exit door used for the handicapped and commuters with strollers.
Charly almost fell, and she wasn't happy about it. Mason may have given her good advice, but being shoved gave her temporary amnesia. This man, an officer of the law or not, couldn't just push her and get away with it. “You better keep your hands off me,” Charly snapped. “Push me again and see what happens.”
The cop yanked her by her arm, half drug her to a brick wall, then threw her against it. “A threat? And you have a smart mouth too? I'll show you what's going to happen.”
Both of her hands were behind her back and cuffed before she knew it. Like a common criminal, she was escorted out of the station and to the end of the line of the group of juvenile offenders who'd thrown bottles and cut the woman officer. They were forced face-first against the wall. Chicago Transit Authority police cars and paddy wagon vans were parked on the street, and cops, transit authority and city, were gathered around. Some wore riot gear and had their guns exposed. Others had what looked like metal batons, and a few had cups of coffee and were laughing. Charly didn't understand what they thought was so funny when her life was crumbling.
“Turn to your left and stay in a straight line,” one of them instructed Charly and the other teenagers. “Roger, how many do you want to a van?” the cop asked another.
Charly turned left and saw the woman officer who'd snatched her for jumping the turnstile. She bore her eyes into the lady, trying to get her to look at her. “Hey!” she yelled. “Hey! Tell them it wasn't me. I wasn't a part of this mess.”
“Shut up. You're going with the rest of 'em,” the officer who'd pushed her said.
“Wait, Kaminski,” the female cop finally said, then pointed to Charly. “She wasn't with them. You can uncuff that one. She's not a runner, and we probably should have her checked out. I think she got cut too.” She looked at Charly. “But you better not move until someone comes to get you. We have unfinished business.”
Reluctantly Kaminski freed her wrists, then spat on the ground in front of her. “You're still a delinquent. Trash like you will never be nothing.”
“Whatever!” Charly said, rubbing her wrists.
Locking up inebriated teenagers wasn't going to be an easy task, Charly realized. The offenders couldn't stand in a straight line or be quiet. Some yelled curses and insults; others just flat-out threatened the cops. The few who stood directly in front of her seemed to forget that they were going to jail. They started crunk dancing, jerking their bodies in all sorts of directions, while a few cheered them on, making music with their mouths.
“Do that ish. Do that ish. Do it!” someone sang from a small crowd of other teens who'd stopped to enjoy the crunk dance show.
“Disperse! Disperse!” some officer yelled to the decidedly deaf onlookers, while a couple of the bystanders became a part of the show that had become a competition.
Charly watched the whole thing play out in front of her like a movie. The officer who'd snatched her for jumping the turnstile was in the middle of the block by one of the jail vans. Kaminski, the big dude who liked to shove teenage girls, was trying to settle the teenagers at the front of the line, pushing them, one by one, to another officer who was shoving them inside police cruisers and paddy wagons.
“Why are you still here?” one of the teenagers asked her, not turning all the way around.
“Huh?” Charly asked. “Turn around. I can't hear you.”
“I can't. If I do, they'll know we're talking. You must be innocent. You're green.” He paused as another officer passed them. “I said, why are you still here?”
Charly looked at the side of his face, wondering if he was drunk and crazy. Hadn't he heard the female officer tell her to stay put? “She told me to stay here,” she said through clenched teeth to the side of his face.
“And the big dude said you were trash and would never be nothing. Is that true?” He turned quickly, gave her the side eye, then turned away.
“Uh, no!” Charly said.
“Get yo hands out my pocket!” the dude in cuffs suddenly yelled.
Charly looked at his pockets. No one had their hands in them.
“I said, get yo hands out my pocket!” he yelled again, swooping back his leg and kicking Charly's shin.
“Ouch,” she whispered. “Why'd you kick me?”
Again he yelled at the top of his lungs for someone to get out of his pocket. Suddenly, like dominoes falling, the teenagers lined up in front of him began screaming the same thing. “Malcolm X,” he said to Charly. “Think of the Malcolm X movie. A distraction . . .”

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