Wreck Me (2 page)

“This is my fault. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll make sure you are okay.” I am confused by the big boy. I don’t know what to say. It’s just a car. Maman and Papa will get another one. I just stare at him. Michelle would make fun of me if she knew what I was thinking. This big boy is kind of cute. He has pretty eyes for a boy. The ambulance people are messing with me. They have me laying on one of those rolling bed things.

“What about my mom and dad? Where are they?” I sit up to look around for Papa and Maman, but I don’t see them. The man in a uniform that is taping wires to me won’t answer me. I look over and see four people with matching uniforms on. They aren’t cops or the firemen. They have rolling bed thingies like what I am on.
Here they come. They are bringing Maman and Papa.
I don’t feel so scared when I see the rolling beds go over to our new car. There are two men to each bed and I know they are getting Maman and Papa out of the wrecked car. Wait. That isn’t right.

“Wait!” Why are they taking those beds on wheels to another car. Why can’t I see them? My maman and papa aren’t moving or saying anything and I can’t see their faces. I’m scared. Something isn’t right. “Maman! Papa! Come back!” I am getting really scared. I need to run to them, but the men that are helping me aren’t letting me go. They have put these straps over me. I can’t budge. I feel something warm inside my arm where they put that needle thing. He called it an IV. My arm feels warm and now I’m really sleepy. I feel like I am moving and I want to ask where we are going, but my mouth won’t work. I need to sleep. I close my eyes. I can ask questions later.

I’m standing here doing the same shit I do every year on this very day. But this just feels more crappy than normal. That isn’t saying much though because complete crap is practically a staple in my life. Don’t get me wrong, I lead a decent life. I work. I pay my taxes. My bills are on time. What little credit I do have is good credit. I may not have the some plush, high paying job. I absolutely loathe my apartment, but all in all, my life is comfortable. God knows I have endured far worse. I refuse to complain about things.

Complaining is possibly the absolute most useless expenditure of energy known to mankind. I stopped complaining and feeling sorry for myself years ago when I realized exactly how useless it was. Complaining wasn’t going to change my circumstance so I said to hell with it and just quit. Now, I am not trying to wear my shit life around like some badge of honor or anything. I’m simply stating facts. No one knows my story. Not even ass-wipe Sutton and he is the only long term relationship I have going. I keep it like that purely out of convenience. I don’t like explaining the whole tragedy that is my life, and I damn sure don’t feel like answering a million questions from some curious jerk-off. The last thing I expect, or want, is pity from others. I’ve had enough pity and condolences to last me two lifetimes.

I work hard to keep things organized and simple. My life has not always been so agreeable, and I am not proud of my past. However, I can say with complete confidence that I did what I had to do out of necessity. I may have stolen food or a drink from a gas station a time or two, but I make no apologies for that. Did I pay for those items? No. I couldn’t. I rarely had two pennies to rub together.

I stole those things out of basic, fundamental, human need to survive. The alternative was to starve, and what human chooses morals and values over life? No one, that’s who. Morals and values won’t fill my stomach and hydrate my body, but stolen food and drink certainly will. I used the resources available to me on most days, but homeless kids are treated similarly to criminals. If I went to a shelter, I was usually tricked into staying put long enough so some lousy volunteer could call social services. Those schmucks would show up, I'd get crammed into the back of some government car, and hauled off to a homeless kid's prison. It was really an orphanage, but that’s what I called it anyway.

The orphanage was usually far better than foster care. Well, in my experience that was the case. The folks at the orphanage were simply doing their job. They were earning their pay. They didn’t care about us one way or another. If they didn’t care enough to be kind and compassionate to us, they damn sure didn’t care enough to waste time and energy on abusing or raping us unfortunate kiddies.

I preferred the people at the orphanage to all others. They did their job. They left us alone minus what they had to do, and that was that. The orphanage was always a short stay though. They shuffled kids in and out of those doors just as quickly as they could.

After the orphanage you were usually placed with some foster family who couldn’t care less. All of this is done out of charity. It’s done out of obligation to do ‘the right thing’. Is it really that damn difficult for people to see some kid on the street even if that kid is better off fending for themselves there than in the crap place they came from? I suppose it messes with their heads and makes them all uncomfortable. So they’d rather those kids be placed somewhere out of sight, and out of mind. That makes things easier for everyone, right? Wrong.

Back then I preferred being on the streets instead of fighting off sexual abuse in one of the many foster homes I went through. I wish people would stop being so damn charitable. What these volunteers don’t get is that their fucking charity causes more damage than people like me could afford to bare. All for what? So that Suzy-Q, the once a month volunteer, can sleep better at night because she dished out crappy free soup to people like me. People whose sentiments are that they would rather be dead than trudging through their shitty lives every day.

The least people like Suzy-Q can do is be honest about things. Don’t stand in front of some kid who is exactly like I was with pity written on your face and tell them life will work out. That things will start to look up for them. That one day their luck will change. That kind of bullshit does nothing but give false hope. If my twenty-five year old self had met the sixteen year old me back then I would have looked me in the face with not one ounce of sadness and said “Look girl, you have a choice: you can stay like this and hope for all that bogus bullshit that people tell you to come true, or you can work your ass off and turn things around for yourself. No one is going to fix things for you. So get to it.”

I refused to be a victim ever again so I made my way through my teen years on the streets. At least out there, I was in charge of me. Kids like me don’t usually last long. Most end up as junkies, prostitutes, behind bars, or dead. A few of us luck out and make it, but for the most part, life simply is not that damn wonderful. Maybe I get my determination and perseverance from my parents. They came to this country essentially with nothing.

My dad was a French chef, and he and my mom managed to get over here from Paris. They came to Las Vegas while my mom was still pregnant with me. My dad was a fantastic chef and he got a job at one of the five star restaurants in town. I was only nine when they died so I have limited memories, but I do remember that they were pretty driven people. I like to think that my ability to push forward with my life came from them not from the years I spent avoiding being raped on the streets, or having to locate food to avoid starving. I like to think that I come by my ambition honestly. In truth, no one will know for sure. They’re dead and my limited memories fade more with each passing day.

I always do this on this day every damn year. It is exhausting really. I would rather not think about my life and how things have turned out, but the anniversary of the accident always stirs up the past. Those particles seem to stay suspended in the waters of my mind for a day or two, then I manage to clear the murk and lock it all away where it belongs. For another three-hundred-sixty-four days. I stop staring mindlessly at myself in the bathroom mirror and drag my weary ass out the door to partake in my normal routine. Stop by the diner. Order coffee and a bagel from Noni. Head in to work to deal with another day. It’s always the same routine.

I know that joker in the corner is up to no good as he has shady written all over him. I know the type. I use to be that type. I have made sure to watch him since he walked into the store. I like my job and I want to keep it, but people like him are making the prospect of being unemployed in the near future all the more real. We are so far away from being in the black it’s sickening. We are supposed to be selling books, but it seems no one is reading printed books anymore. Technology has been a selfish, monopolizing bitch. Mr. Sutton’s ancient ass was in here this morning moaning and groaning about not turning a decent profit since 1979 or some garbage along those lines. I wasn’t really listening. He likes to come into the store and bicker about things, but he would be up shit creek without a paddle if it were not for me.

I have single handedly run this place for years. I am a one woman staff in this old store. I landed this job seven years ago and haven’t left since. He is a real piece of work, that Mr. Sutton. I’d plant my foot square in his old ass if I ever decided to quit. Truth is I love this damn store way more than even Sutton does. I dread the day that I don’t get to walk in and feel greeted by the smell of ink and paper. I have come to depend on the hordes of authors who bled out a portion of their souls onto paper for others to enjoy. They are one of the very few mainstays in my life.

“Hey, bud. Can I help you?” This guy just stuffed a book inside his disgusting sweater. That book costs a whopping four dollars and ninety-nine cents and he wants to steal it. What an asshole! Who the hell steals a book that costs less than five bucks? Who the hell steals a book in general?

“Hey, I asked you a question. Oh, hell no! Come back!” I take off running after the joker. He hauls ass for the exit and I scramble behind him. He trips on the rug at the door and crashes into a tacky display of trinkets that Sutton insisted on putting out. “HA! I’ll take that, thank you very much!” I snatch the book from under the sweater. The thief scurries out of the store and makes a run for it. I let him go. He’s obviously homeless and was likely stealing the book for himself. Entertainment is limited for the unfortunate. I kneel on the floor with the recovered book in my grips, dusting it off and doing my best to straighten the creased corners that my scuffle with the thief caused.

“Ahem.” I shoot to my feet and whirl around to see a man standing in the entrance to the store. The sun is still low in the morning sky and the rays of light pouring in behind the man keeps me from seeing him clearly. Damn, it’s bright today. “Are you alright ma’am? I saw someone running out of here.”

“Jo. My name is Jo. Ma’am carries an implication of being something I’m not. So yeah, just call me Jo.” I’m busy gathering the shit that has scattered all over the place thanks to my quarrel with the thief. The man squats down to help pick up tacky trinkets and I get my first look at him. Hello, Greek God of all things masculine and sexy.

“An implication of what exactly?” His voice is all curious and velvety. I shrug my shoulders and try my best to get to the point so this cat will either show some interest or leave me the hell alone in my floundering book store. I prefer the former.