I.D. (4 page)

I chucked the rest of my hot dog at some ugly pigeon. It took off. Even a stupid pigeon could get away whenever it wanted. I was stuck in my frigging life. I had to just sit there and watch other people make money, get girls, have fun, be somebody.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't my fault my parents couldn't get their crappy lives together. It wasn't my fault my mother had to quit hairdressing school when I was born. It wasn't my fault my father took off. It wasn't my fault Ron was a jerk, we lived in a hole, school sucked. I didn't ask to be born. If I did, I sure wouldn't have asked to
be born into that screwed-up family. This was their fault—but I was the one who had to live with the consequences.

Well, frig that. No more. I'd had enough.

I realized what I was going to do. I should have thought of it earlier. I opened the wallet. I looked at that picture of Ashbury again. I counted the money I had left.

I'd passed a drugstore on the way here. I was going back to find it.

It's all about looks. That's how people decide what they think about you. You look poor, they think you're stupid. You look rich, you're the smartest guy around. You look like Chris Bent, your life is crap. You look like Andrew Ashbury, who knows? I was ready to find out.

I was only going to buy the blond hair dye, a razor and a pair of scissors, but I saw some cheap reading glasses up by the
counter. The brown ones were kind of like what Ashbury was wearing on his driver's license. I bought those too. Glasses make you look intelligent. The saleslady told me how to get to the public washroom.

I cut my hair. It was pretty much a hack job. Once I found work, I'd go to a barber and get it done right. I shaved off my beard. The razor was toast by the time I was done.

It felt weird. I'd had a goatee before, and a mustache, and even just a soul patch for a while, but I hadn't been clean-shaven since I was a kid. My skin felt really sensitive, as if I'd just taken off a wet shirt on a cold day. I liked it.

I'd watched my mother dye her hair for years. It wasn't that hard. I took off my T-shirt, put on the plastic gloves and squished the stuff all over my head. I rubbed some into my eyebrows too. Mine were too dark for someone blond.

I didn't want anyone to see what I was up to. I sat in a cubicle and waited for the dye to work. It was pretty boring. After a
while, I took the wallet out again. If I was going to start applying for jobs, I needed to find out everything I could about Andrew Ashbury.

I already knew his address and his size. I memorized his birthdate and his postal code. I took a pen out of my backpack and practiced his signature, just in case I needed it. Four loops and a line. It was almost too easy.

What else did I need to do? I figured I should know something about his family, what he did for a living, stuff like that.

I looked all through the wallet again. There was nothing about his family. It didn't matter. If anyone asked, I'd just make something up. Joanna and Blake, those would be his parents. He'd have one brother, Bryce, and a sister, Ann-Marie. No, Marina. Bryce and Marina. When I'm rich, that's what I'm going to name my kids.

I thought about giving myself a dog too, but what I really wanted was a Doberman. Andrew wasn't the type to have
a Doberman, and I didn't want some wussy little rich-kid dog. JJ probably had a cat. I could talk about her cat, how it bugs me, sheds on my clothes, hisses when I kiss her. Guys never like their girlfriends' cats.

I needed a hobby too. I thought of sailing, but I didn't know anything about boats. That was okay. I knew everything about cars, and now I was rich enough to own a couple too.

That stopped me. Who was I kidding? I wasn't rich enough to own anything yet. I had about three bucks in my pocket—but nobody needed to know that. Someday it would be different. I'd laugh about this.

I kept looking through the wallet. The business cards, baggage claim, key—they wouldn't help me. The dry-cleaning receipt, though, was for a suit and a shirt. It was marked “Paid.” I checked the address. The dry cleaners wasn't far from here. Things were looking up. Maybe I could get rid of this old jacket.

I checked my watch. Fifteen minutes had passed. It was time to wash the stuff
out of my hair. I put the cards back in the wallet. The ATM card was flipped over. I picked it up and noticed something scratched on the back. I moved it around in the light to see if I could make it out: 2-5-3-7-9.

Or was that an eight?

As in 2-5-8-7-9. It was one or the other.

I couldn't believe it. Was this guy really stupid enough to write his pin number on the back of his bank card? Nothing like this had ever happened to me before. I saw a whole bunch of new possibilities open up.

My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my teeth.

I had to pull myself together. I couldn't screw up now. I stuffed everything back in the wallet. I needed to wash the dye out right away. I sure wouldn't look like Ashbury if I went bald.

I tucked the wallet into the front of my pants, where it was safe. It was like a winning lottery ticket now. I couldn't lose it. I bent over the sink and washed my hair. I had to use that gross pink hand soap from the dispenser. It stunk, but it worked.

I used a ton of paper towels to dry my hair and a ton more to clean the place up. I shoved them all into the garbage can. I didn't need anyone wondering what had gone on in here.

I took out Ashbury's driver's license. I looked in the mirror. It was pretty close. My nose was a bit bigger than his. I needed an earring. I had a zit on my chin. He didn't. I put on the glasses. I looked at the picture again. I looked at me again.

Or was it me?

It was kind of hard to tell.

The lady at the dry cleaners didn't even blink. I handed her the receipt and she just handed me back the suit and shirt.

“Have a nice day,” she said.

I looked at the suit and went, “Yeah, you bet!”

Nice day? Nice life, more like it. I'd never had a suit before. No one in my family had one. Ron had to borrow a jacket from the guy next door for my
grandmother's funeral. It didn't help. He still looked like a piece of garbage.

Not me though. I wouldn't. A black suit. A blue shirt. That would suit me fine. I'd look good in it. Successful. No one would think I had bummed it off a neighbor.

That suit was my ticket out of there. No more crappy jobs for me. With a suit like that on, I could go for a sales position. I had Ashbury's id. With the glasses, I could pass for twenty-five. I could maybe even sell cars.

That would be right up my alley. I'd make lots of money. I'd buy myself lots of suits. Get myself lots of girls. Someday I'd come back here and call Alexa up, just to say hello. There was no way I'd ever ask her out again though. She'd missed her chance. I'd love to see her face when she figured that out.

I felt good. It was all going to happen. I just needed to get some cash, get this thing started.

There was an ATM in the mall. I waited until there was nobody around, and then I
tried it. I checked the number on the back of the bank card. I was pretty sure it was 2-5-3-7-9.

I inserted the card, punched in the number and waited. It took a long time. Or at least it seemed like a long time. Everything seems to take a long time when you're scared.

And—I admit it—I was scared.

As soon as I keyed in the PIN, I realized that I didn't know what happened with stolen cards. What if Ashbury had reported it missing? Would an alarm go off? Was there a camera taking my picture right then? Would I be on
Crime Stoppers
that night?

The ATM beeped. I jumped as if I'd just got tasered or something. The screen read “Incorrect PIN. Cancel or try again?”

I could barely breathe. I didn't know what to do. It was like my whole life depended on which button I chose.

I could hit cancel and leave. That would be the safest thing. I could just forget about the cash, throw the wallet away like I had planned to.

But then what would I do? Where would I go? Not home. Not school. Not anywhere I knew, that's for sure.

I could hide my suit somewhere and live on the streets until I found a real job. I could just lie when I filled out applications and put down my grandmother's address. In the meantime I'd need some money though. I knew some squeegee kids who did okay. They always had more cash to throw around at the Big Slice than I ever did. I could do that for a while until something better came along. It didn't seem like a bad idea. I was a good cleaner. I liked cars. And it would be nice to have some money in my pocket. You get more respect with money in your pocket.

I suddenly had this image of myself. I'm at the stoplights. A BMW pulls up. I squeegee the windshield. I look inside. Alexa's driving. She tosses me some change and says, “Sorry, Christopher, that's all I've got right now.” I don't believe her but I still scramble to catch whatever I can. That's how desperate I am.

No way.

I couldn't do it. I'm no squeegee kid. I've got more self-respect than that.

I couldn't stop now. I needed to make something out of my life. The bank card was my only hope.

What difference did it make anyway? It was too late to turn back now. If there was a camera on the ATM, it would have already taken my picture.

I just had to go for it.

I punched in 2-5-8-7-9.

The ATM beeped right away. The screen said
Deposit
?
Withdrawal
?
Account Balance
?

I started shaking. I was happy. I was proud. I was doing it. I was taking charge of my life.

I hit “Withdrawal.” Then I hit “Checking.” How much did I need?

I should have phoned around first. I should have found out how much a bus out west would cost. It would take a couple of days at least to get there. I'd need some money for food on the way. If my cousin couldn't
pick me up at the station, I'd need to pay for a taxi. I'd need some cash when I got there too. Brandon could probably lend me a razor until I got a job, but I couldn't ask for more than that. I couldn't let him get pissed off at me. I didn't want him kicking me out too.

Two hundred dollars? Two hundred and fifty dollars? It sounded like a lot of money—but it didn't sound like enough either. Maybe I should just take two hundred dollars now and get another two hundred dollars later. I didn't want to withdraw too much at once. The bank might get suspicious.

Then again, I thought, this could be my last chance. Ashbury might just be getting around to reporting his wallet missing. The next day the card might not work. The next day I might have lost my nerve.

I split the difference. I punched in three hundred dollars. I worried there might not be that much in the account, but then I heard the ATM doling out the money. Two seconds later, it spit out a big wad of cash and a receipt.

The twenty-dollar bills were all warm and smooth, as if they were just fresh from the laundry. I couldn't help myself. I flicked the end of the wad with my thumb as if I were shuffling cards. I had to bite my lips to keep from grinning like an idiot.

I pulled myself together. I didn't have time for this. I couldn't hang around and have someone notice me. I needed to get out of there. I put the card and the cash in the wallet, just like any normal person would. Like it was no big deal. I glanced at the receipt and threw it in the garbage.

I picked up my suit and my backpack and turned to go. Then I stopped. The number I read on the receipt flashed in my mind. Could it be right?

I ran back and pulled the receipt out of the wastepaper basket. I looked at it again. I had to say the number out loud, just so it made sense.

“Account balance: $67,482.72.”

The suit fit perfectly. It looked great with the blue shirt. I didn't have a tie, but I didn't care. Lots of guys wear suits without ties nowadays. It looks more casual that way.

My old brown shoes would have to go though. I mean, there's casual and then there's crap. They were crap. They made the suit look bad.

There was a shoe store in the mall. I'd get something there. I stuffed my old clothes and my backpack into the garbage
can. I wouldn't be needing them anymore. I was lucky. I left the washroom without anyone seeing me go in or out.

A black shoe made the most sense. It would go with anything. The sales guy brought me a few to try on. I liked the loafers best. I shoved my old shoes under the bench and put the loafers on. I was going to wear them out of the store.

I said, “I'll take them.” I didn't even ask what they cost.

He said, “That will be ninety-two dollars and sixty-four cents, sir. How will you be paying for that?”

I understood what he meant, but for a second I thought he was saying, “How the hell would someone like you have ninety-three bucks to spend on shoes?” It pissed me off. My head jerked up. I almost said something, but then I saw him smiling at me. He wasn't worried about me having enough money. I could tell he thought the suit was pretty sharp.

I went, “I don't know. Cash, I guess.” I pulled out the wallet. It was so fat. I snapped
the five twenties onto the counter, one by one. I said, “Just want to make sure no bills got stuck together.” The sales guy told me some story about losing a fifty that way, and then he gave me my change. I stuffed the five-dollar bill in the little donation box they had for the children's hospital. There was no way a guy like that would be carrying two fifties around. I smiled at him anyway and left.

It must have been after six. I was starving. I was close to the food court. I could smell it. I smiled. Everything was so easy now. If I wanted something, I just got it. I was hungry, so I was going to eat.

The food court was crowded. I stood in line at the Barbecue Pit. I'd just about decided on the half chicken with the spicy dipping sauce when I changed my mind. I didn't want to get grease on my new suit. I could always buy another one of course. I
would
buy another one—but I still didn't want to be walking around until then with a big stain down my front.