Shattered (2 page)

She actually made me a little uneasy. I got the feeling that she was always trying to figure everybody out. I hated people like that. Especially those people who actually
did
have you figured out.

I just wished I'd been smart enough to start my placement—any placement—when everybody else had started theirs. Somehow I'd just hoped that I could skate by without doing it. And when she didn't mention it to me, week after week, I thought that somehow she'd forgotten about it too. Now I only had three months to finish up what had taken other people six or seven months to do.

So here I was, heading to the Club. Obviously somebody's idea of a joke. Unfortunately the joke was now on me.

The time was tight. It was still one block down and one block over. There was a park on my right side. If I went through the park I could cut the angle and maybe I could just make it. I turned onto the gravel path that led diagonally across the park—exactly the direction I needed to go.

I'd travelled no more than a dozen steps when I had second thoughts. This wasn't the best neighbourhood and
it was starting to get dark. I looked around anxiously. I didn't see anybody. I guess even bums had better places to be than hanging around a park in the cold and dark. I'd keep my head up and my eyes open and—

“You got a smoke to spare?”

I jumped into the air, spun around, and stifled the urge to scream. There was a man standing in the shadows, just off from the path. I'd walked right by him and hadn't seen him at all. So much for keeping my eyes open.

The man stepped out of the shadows and into the open. My heart was still pounding but I took a good look at him. He was dressed in a large, dirty, green parka. He had a matching green toque pulled low on his head, a few days' growth of greying, gritty beard on his face.

“I didn't mean to scare you,” he said apologetically. He sounded like he meant it.

“You didn't scare me … I was just … just startled … that's all,” I stammered.

“Didn't mean to do that either. You got an extra smoke I can have?”

“I don't smoke.”

“Smart. Wish I didn't either. Any spare change?” he asked.

“Sure.” I unzipped my jacket and reached inside, pulling my wallet out of the pocket. I opened it up and—

“Put that away!” he snapped.

I looked up at him confused and a little scared. What was he talking about, what did he mean?

“Put that wallet back in your pocket,” he ordered. “But I was just trying to give you some change,” I tried to explain.

“I understand that—I appreciate that—but you can't be waving a wallet around here. You never know who's watching.” He looked stern and serious.

Slowly I looked around. There were trees and bushes casting long shadows, but the park was deserted except for him and me. “I don't see anybody.”

“Just because you can't see
them,
doesn't mean they can't see
you
.” He paused. “Just put it away.”

I stuffed my wallet back into my pocket.

“You just have to be careful,” he said. “You never know
who's around.”

I nodded my head. Did he really think we were being watched or was he just crazy? I'd heard about people like this—what was the word—paranoid, that was it, paranoid. I knew that a lot of the people who lived on the street were mentally ill—psychiatric patients—and that they heard voices in their heads, or saw things that weren't there or believed people were watching them, were out to get them. But this guy didn't seem crazy. Then again, how did I know what was going on inside his brain? If he really was normal, would he be out here begging for change?

“There are people who would split your head open for a couple of bucks and you have more than a couple of bucks—I saw the bills when you opened your wallet.”

I stepped back a half step.

“It's not me you have to worry about,” he continued.

“There's not enough money in any wallet to make me hurt another human being.”

I didn't know him—he was just some street person begging smokes and change—but somehow I believed him.

“I think I have some change in my pocket … not much, but some,” I said.

“Anything you have would be appreciated,” he said softly, looking down at the ground.

I dug into my pocket and rummaged around. There were a few coins jingling together. I pulled them out and looked. There wasn't much—a quarter, a couple of dimes, and three or four pennies. I dropped them into his outstretched hand.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You're welcome. I'm sorry there isn't more.”

“I appreciate what you gave. Some people, they don't even turn their heads—they act like you're not there.” He paused. “It's getting dark,” he said. “You shouldn't be here when it's dark.”

“I'm just cutting through. I have an interview in—” I looked down at my watch. “Right now. I got to get going.” I rushed off down the path.

“Thanks!” he yelled and I looked over my shoulder. He gave a little wave. “Be careful!” he called out. I nodded and kept going.

Strange. Not what I'd expected. A bum who was polite—and well spoken. He had a trace of some sort of accent … I couldn't tell what, but something. There was also something else about him. Maybe it was the manners—I hadn't expected that—or the way he stood. His shoulders were back, his posture perfect. Strange.

With his warning to be careful, I tried to be more aware of what was around me. Coming up to a bench beside the path, I realized that it was occupied. There was a man stretched out on it. He was covered by a tattered old
blanket pulled over top of him so only his head was peeking out. I shifted slightly over to the other side of the path as I passed by. What a place to sleep. The guy had to be crazy, or drunk, or both.

Up ahead, coming directly toward me along the path, was a woman pushing a shopping cart. The wheels were digging into the gravel and she was struggling to keep it moving. She was all stooped over and had a pronounced limp. Her clothing was a crazy patchwork quilt of colours and materials and items. The cart was piled high and as she got closer I could see that it wasn't filled with groceries. There were empty bottles, folded cardboard boxes, newspapers, and clothing—rags. She was pushing a cart filled with garbage.

As she got even closer I heard her talking to herself. It was a loud, profane rant about the government. I squeezed over to the very edge of the path to create as much distance between us as possible. As she got close her monologue got louder and louder.

She looked up at me. “Cold one, ain't it,” she said, and flashed me a smile.

“Yeah, cold,” I mumbled. Crazy but friendly.

I looked back over my shoulder and watched—and listened—as she continued both her journey and her rant. I couldn't help but wonder what was going on in her head. What demons were driving her? But I didn't have time to even think about that. I had to get going as fast as I—

“Hey!”

I jerked my head to the side. Two men—really, older teenagers—were cutting across the grass toward me. I
turned away and kept walking. Maybe they weren't even talking to—

“Wait up, kid!”

There was no doubt now. Should I stop or run or—

Another man appeared on the path directly in front of me.

“He told you to wait,” the third man said.

A shiver went up my spine as I skidded to a stop directly in front of him. He stood there in the middle of the path, blocking my way. The path was narrow at this point, boxed in by hedges on both sides. It was sheltered … and isolated. I looked past him, up the path. There was nobody in sight.

I turned around. The other two were closing in and there was nobody else in sight in that direction either. Even the shopping cart lady had disappeared around the corner. Quickly they closed the space until they were right behind me and I was caught in the middle, trapped. I felt a wave of panic sweep over me. What did they want? Had they seen me pull out my wallet? Were these the people that guy had warned me about, the people who were watching?

They were all dressed in black, leather jackets, thicksoled boots. They looked like thugs, not people living on the street. I felt scared—no, worse than scared. I almost felt sick.

“Nice shoes,” one of them said. He was clearly the biggest of the three—not just taller but thicker, more muscular. The other two weren't much bigger than me.

“Um … thanks,” I mumbled. They were practically new, top-of-the line Air Jordans. They were a Christmas present from my grandmother.

“What size are they?” asked one of the two guys who had caught up to me from behind.

“What size?” I repeated.

“You don't hear so good, do you?” said the one standing in front—the biggest of the three. “What friggin' size are they?” He spoke low and slow and there was an ominous quality to his words. This wasn't somebody I wanted to screw around with.

“Size eleven.” Why did he want to know what size? I suddenly got a terrible feeling I knew why he was asking.

“Size eleven. This is my lucky day. That's
my
size. Take'em off.”

“You're joking, right?”

He stepped forward and with lightning speed reaching out, grabbed me by the jacket and practically lifted me off my feet. “Do I look like I'm the sorta guy who jokes around?” he demanded angrily.

“But they're my shoes,” I said, trying to sound defiant. “They were your shoes,” he said as he tightened his grip on my shirt.

My feeble attempt at defiance dissolved. “But … but … I need my shoes,” I stammered.

“As much as you need your life?” he asked. “Take off your shoes!”

I wanted to run, I wanted to fight, I wanted to say something back, to argue. There was no way or no point in any of those. Instead I pleaded.

“But, you can't just leave me standing in my socks.” “You got a choice. Either we leave you
standing
here or
lying
here. You take'em off or we do it for you.” He pulled me even closer, so close that we were practically
nose to nose, so close that his stinking, foul breath was all I could breathe. “Me, I don't care which way it happens … might be a little bonus to bust your head first.”

“I'll take them off,” I mumbled, trying to look away. There was no point in fighting. If there'd been just one of them, maybe I could have put up a fight, but all three? There was no way. Big deal, so they got my shoes. I had a dozen other pairs at home and could replace these easily.

“Smart.” He released his grip.

I hesitated for a second. This was like some sort of bad dream. This wasn't—I stumbled forward as I was shoved from behind and jolted back to reality.

“Hurry up!” one of the guys behind me ordered.

I bent down and undid the laces on the first shoe, pulling my foot free. It felt cold and exposed. I put it down on the gravel and the cold and wet radiated up my foot and into my leg. I looked past them, hoping somebody, anybody, would be there on the path coming toward us—there was nobody.

“Give it here!” he yelled as he jerked the shoe from my hand. “Now the other one.”

I used my sock foot to push off the second shoe. I bent down, grabbed it, and handed it to the guy holding the first shoe. He held them up over his head, like he was showing off some prize that he won. He started to chuckle and I felt like an even bigger fool.

“You got any money?” he asked.

“Nothing, I don't have anything,” I lied, shaking my head.

“You lyin'? I don't like liars. You lie to me and we'll be layin' a beatin' on you.”

“I'm not lying … honest … I gave away what I had to one of the panhandlers,” I explained. My mouth was dry and I could feel my hands trembling, but I still wasn't going to hand over my money to these jerks.

“How nice. You gave some bum your cash and us your shoes. What a nice guy you are,” he taunted and the other two began laughing.

“Don't worry about it, man,” one of the two behind me said, “the night is still young. We might get that money anyway … if we roll the right bum.”

They all started laughing, but there was no joy or happiness in the laughter. It was mean, evil. They weren't just after my shoes or my money. They were enjoying this.

“Now, let's have your coat,” the big guy, who was obviously the leader, said.

“Come on, not my coat … please.” It wasn't just my coat. It was my wallet in the inside pocket with all of my ID and money. What would they do when they found out I'd lied to them and really did have money?

“Give us your coat!”

“I think he probably wants to keep his coat,” came a voice from behind. We all spun around. It was him—the man I'd given the change to.

“If you got half a brain you'd stay out of this,” snarled the leader.

“Leave the kid alone,” the man said, sounding very calm.

“This ain't your business, you old rubby. Just go away and find yourself some aftershave to drink.”

“I'm not leaving without my friend here.”

“You stupid or drunk or both?” demanded the guy holding my shoes.

“Just leave the kid alone. He hasn't done anything wrong.”

“We'll leave him alone after we get his coat!” the biggest of the three snarled.

“Do you want my coat instead?” the man asked. “You can have it if you want.”

“Yours? You think I want to wear something you've worn? Probably filled with lice.”

“I don't know about lice, but what about this?” He pulled a long piece of metal out of his sleeve. It was half as long as his arm and as thick as a thumb. The man held the metal rod up, turning it around, like he was examining it for the first time, like he had never seen it before. As it turned, the rod caught some of the fading rays of the sun and glistened.