One Good Hustle

EIGHTEEN




SITTING NEAR THE back of the bus, I glance down the front of Jill’s dress at my chest. I tie the bodice laces a little tighter and then glance around me. Nobody’s looking. I’m not the cause of bugger-all.

Jill was peeved when I told her that I was taking off. But after that whole cause-of-another-chick’s-rape thing, I’d rather listen to a dog fart than Jill talk.

“I just remembered it’s Monday,” I told her. “I have to go visit my mom.”

Instead, I got on the bus and headed toward Vancouver. Just to move. Just to get the hell out of Burnaby.

Who does Ruby think she is? “Listen, you tubby little dyke,” I imagine myself saying, “why don’t you keep tabs on that cock-sucking virgin daughter of yours and leave me the f*ck alone?”

An old man facing me on the other side of the bus recoils a little and I realize that I’ve been snarling for real. I try to look gentle for him, smiling and harmless, but he lowers his eyes and turns away as if I’m a hooligan.

I look down at my dress and loosen the laces again. Nobody gives a crap about my chest; they’re all just staring out the nearest window. So I stare out my window too, and watch the stores fly past.

As the bus rolls through East Vancouver, I catch sight of a drugstore along Kingsway, nearly as big as a supermarket. I’ve been in that place before. A couple thousand people must go through that joint every day.

I ring the bell and get off at the next intersection.

Outside the drugstore, I surreptitiously check out the garbage can for an old receipt. Feels as if each person who comes in or out of the store doors gives me the once-over. My heart is a bird swooping around in my chest. I can see a receipt now but I can’t bring myself to grab it. It’s as if an alarm will be triggered—lights and bells will go off.

Sure, big words on the bus and now look at you. Some hustler you turned out to be.

I snatch it out of the can and march inside the store as if I’m late for an appointment. The total is thirty-two bucks and change: a hair dryer, a toothbrush and some shampoo.

A shopping basket with a discarded store bag sits a few feet inside the door and I grab it on my way.

There you go. You know what you’re doing. You’re Sam’s girl, aren’t you?

I drop the receipt into the basket so that I can read it without being too obvious. Down aisle 3, I grab the toothbrush. Two aisles over, I survey the shampoos while sliding the toothbrush inside the store bag. Just as I’m about to pick a bottle off the shelf, I catch sight of a guy a few feet over. He drops his head and looks down at the bottle in his hand.

Was he watching me just now? Did he see the toothbrush go into the bag? Wait a sec, was that guy just in the toothbrush section a minute ago?

I set the shampoo in the basket. He’s busy with hair gel. He’s not paying attention.

Hair gel? Seriously? He’s only got about ten hairs on his head. Why is he looking at gel?

Don’t be so friggin’ paranoid. He’s just a guy. Guys look. That’s in their job description.

Over in the hair appliance aisle, I run my eyes over the wall of electric combs and blowers. When I spot the right model and price, I pause and look around: just a couple of women nearby but no shampoo guy.

I force my shoulders back and it feels as if my bones don’t fit together properly.

Reaching for the box, I stop. Just past the end of the aisle, the balding shampoo guy walks by. The hair on my arms prickles. He pauses, lifts something off the shelf and then moves on.

My heart is banging around now but I set the blow-dryer box into my basket. Carefully. Quietly. Suddenly it seems important that I make no noise.

They say that breathing is the key to calm. So, I take big snootfuls of air. Slowly, slowly. No rush. Take it easy. No big deal.

At the end of the aisle, directly in front of me, the shampoo guy walks by again.

My guts rumble and squeeze as if I have to go to the bathroom. I look behind me. Beside me. Jesus Christ. Don’t know if I’m going crap myself or throw up.

See? See what living with these a*sholes has done to you? You’re gutless, witless and broke. Suckhole! Baby!

I clench everything I have, my jaws, my arms, my butt, and head for the Customer Service and Returns desk.

Two people in line ahead of me.

Heat runs up and down my limbs. My skin is melting off.

Breathe through your nose, for chrissake! Breathe slow.

Finally it’s my turn. I set my receipt and the box of blow-dryer, shampoo and toothbrush on the counter. The bag is in my hand.

“My mother bought this stuff yesterday,” I say. “We don’t need it.” The words echo in my ears. Did I actually say that or did I just think it?

“My mother bought it,” I try again. “We don’t need it.”

The clerk looks at me. “Okay.” She picks up the receipt.

A hand lands on my shoulder. I flinch, jerk around.

Shampoo guy. Bald. There’s a hard smirk on his face. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

I look at the clerk. She looks from the bald guy back to me and doesn’t say a word. I reach for the hair dryer.

“Leave it,” he says.

The store tilts. I’m falling, pouring through the floor. The muck of me—jelly and blood and all of it turning inside out on the Tilt-A-Whirl floor.

He leads me by the elbow to the side of the counter. The colours of the drugstore spin. Blood roars in my ears.

He stares into my face. “What’s your name?”

“What’s your problem?”

He takes a plasticized ID out of his pocket. “Store detective,” he says, and brings his face in close to mine. “You think I’m blind?”

“I never took anything!”

“Come on, kid. Seriously?” He still has my elbow.

“Prove it. I got a receipt!” I yank free. “You don’t know anything.” I bolt for the front doors, stumble out onto the sidewalk, and run.

Blocks and blocks. A car screeches to keep from hitting me in an intersection. I wish it had hit me. I go and go, panting and pumping hard. I wish something big and horrible would come down and crush me, just get it over with.

I am nearly back to Burnaby by the time I slow down. Wiping my face with the back of my hand, I look behind me. No one’s coming. Everybody can see through me, though, into all the dark crannies and mucky, dirty holes. Everybody can see first-hand what a dirtbag I am, what a lowlife.

Ruby has the goods on me. Drew’s mom too. Even Lou. Lou can see through my phony face; he can see that I don’t deserve any of the nice things he ever said to me.

I miss Marlene. I just miss her so bad all of a sudden. I want her to squeeze me hard and say that I’m okay, that I’m good and smart and clean.

On the other side of Boundary Road, I fish around in my pocket for change and catch the next bus to Oak Shore Mental Health.