Charly's Epic Fiascos (10 page)

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Authors: Kelli London

BOOK: Charly's Epic Fiascos
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Charly paused for a second, trying to recall the scene in
Malcolm X
the boy was referring to. She nodded, finally understanding what he was doing. He was creating a distraction for her. The guy shouted for someone to get their hand out of his pocket again, making butterflies form in her stomach. She looked and saw no one was watching her. Her wrists were free of cuffs. “Thanks,” she whispered, easing backward until she was less than three feet from the corner. Dipping around the transit building, she took off like an Olympic track star, her adrenaline pushing her faster and faster down the street and between buildings in Chinatown.
11
S
he'd zigzagged through buildings, turned corners, and was now in Chinatown's shopping district, Armour Square. The wind was to her back, pushing down the wide walk flanked by stores on either side. A red patterned rail lined the second floor of the outside mall.
The sound of feet hitting the pavement made her move faster. Her semi crime wasn't bad enough for the cops to give chase, so she didn't understand why she was being sought like a fugitive. She'd only jumped the turnstile until she could find someone to give her fare to, and hadn't really seen a problem with it. She'd meant well but, obviously, Chicago police didn't care.
A red-and-white sign with Chinese and English on it caught her attention. WJ Bookstore had a selection of books in the window, and she could see a few people through the glass. Afraid to turn around, Charly pulled open the door, then stood on the side of it, heaving and peering out to see if the cops were coming after her.
“Can I help you?” an older man asked, his accent strong, standing behind the counter.
Charly bent forward, her hands on her knees, and tried to catch her breath. A bunch of kids ran by laughing and playing. One was on a skateboard. She exhaled. So it hadn't been the police, she thought. She'd become paranoid. “I'm okay,” she smiled at the older man. “I was just looking for something to do a social studies project on. Culture.”
The old man nodded, then turned away from her. “Let me know,” he said, then picked up a newspaper.
Charly perused the few aisles of the store as if she intended to buy something. She'd never actually been in a Chinese store before, and found the selections interesting. A green bottle with Chinese lettering on it caught her attention. She picked it up, turned it over, and saw it had an English description on it.
Chinese Green Tea. Ginseng. Stress Relief. Healthy Weight. Energy Enhancer. Best Concentrated Tea. Good for You!
Though she knew she had to save money, she needed more energy, and she needed relief from the stress she'd come to know in less than a day. On top of that, maintaining her figure for the television studio cameras would be a good thing too, she decided, taking the tea to the register.
“Dat all?” the man asked, ringing up her purchase.
She nodded, then thought better of it. “Does this really do what it says? And do you know if there's another bus around here that goes to New York?”
The man smiled. “Best, best tea. Strong. Portent.” He held up a finger and pointed outside. “Bus on Wentworth take you to New York.”
Charly paid for the tea, thanked the man, then made her way out. Her stomach growled as she passed Yin Wall City. There were so many restaurants around; she didn't know where to eat. Great Wall Restaurant was up on the left, and she noticed the B.B.Q. KING in the window. Barbecue reminded her of Smax's, and that's just what she needed. Reaching for the door, a voice stopped her.
“Char-lee!”
Solomon?
Charly smiled, then turned. Solomon was stores away, his hands cupped around his mouth. “Solomon? What are you doing here?” she asked, turning away from the restaurant and moving toward him.
Solomon bent down, then stood holding up his hands. He laughed. With his right one he had her luggage. “So you don't need these?” He waved the bags to and fro, lowering them to the ground as he swung them.
Charly smiled and shrugged, hustling her way to him, breaking into a slow jog. At least now she knew Solomon wasn't a thief. He'd had plenty of opportunity to dip with her luggage, but he hadn't.
“Come on,” he said as she approached him. “Me and my uncle have been looking for you. I thought I saw you hemmed up with the po-po, but then I thought
nah
. It couldn't be.”
Charly nodded. “Yes. It was. I ran.”
Solomon reared back his head. “Word? I guess you're more of a city slicker than you think,” he said, leading the way.
“How did you know I was here?” she asked, moving her legs as fast as she could to keep up with his pace.
He shook his head. “I didn't. My unc wanted me to grab him something to eat, then we were going to go back to the bus stop, then Amtrak. Don't worry about it now, though. You're coming with us.”
She stopped in her tracks. “To the funeral?”
Solomon laughed. “If you want. But I was talking about to my fam's house. They're hustlers. They can hustle their way out of and into anything. I'm sure they can get you to New York.”
Relief whooshed through her. After a long trying day, she would finally be able to make some progress on her almost eight-hundred-mile journey. She took her luggage from him. “But if you were looking for me, why didn't you just leave my bags in the car until you found me?”
Solomon stopped in front of a take-out restaurant, then pulled open the door for her. “I just felt they were safer with me. Let's grab a bite. We have a long ride.”
12
S
olomon's uncle's passenger van was atrocious. Really over the top and ghetto to the nth degree. It was old school and beyond country. It was royal blue on the bottom, champagne on the top, and it had to have been made in the nineties, Charly thought. There were four lightly tinted windows on both sides with
ALL THAT
&
A BAG OF CHIPS
scrawled on them in gold. Inside there were raggedy drawback curtains on each window and prominent cup holders that swung around each seat, complete with pimpish drinking glasses that made Lil Jon's diamond-encrusted one seem infantile in platinum-and-bling comparison.
“Come on in, shorty doowop,” a man—Solomon's uncle, Charly assumed—said. “Ain't nothing to it. See what I'm saying, shorty?”
Charly nodded to please him, grabbing hold of the banister of the van's fold-out steps, then climbed the stairs to get inside. She handed him the plastic white bag with his takeout in it, then looked to the driver's seat, sure that he must fall under some classification of handicapped. What else could be the reason for stair steps in a vehicle? Then she thought better of it. If he was wheelchair-bound, he wouldn't be able to use the added feature. “Thanks for helping,” she said in reply to his question. She wanted to tell him that, no, she had no idea what he was saying. Nor did she know what was to it.
Solomon laughed, getting in the van behind her. He adjusted her luggage in a seat behind them, then elbowed her slightly. He shook his head when their eyes connected. “My fam's a bit . . . well, uh. Different,” he explained in a whisper. “But they're good people.” He removed a cell plug from a book bag, connected it to his cell phone, then plugged it into the floor.
Charly smiled, following suit. The van may've been a bit over the top, but she could appreciate the electrical feature. She needed to juice her cell too. “I get that. More than you know,” she admitted to Solomon. Her family—well, one person in her life—was a bit different too, but unlike Solomon's people, Brigette wasn't good.
“Buckle up, whoever you are. Name's Outlaw, in case you didn't know. Know why they call me Outlaw?” he asked, laughing. “Because I don't believe in laws. Speeding laws. Traffic laws. Which-side-of-the-street-I'm-supposed-to-drive-on laws. Oh, and don't let me forget, traffic-light laws. I'm too old to play red light, green light. See what I'm saying, shorty?” Outlaw turned to her, smiling. He had all his top and bottom front teeth, but huge gaps on the sides. Charly guessed if there was such a thing as dental laws, he definitely wouldn't believe in those either.
Her head banged against the headrest and her body jerked backward, slamming her small frame into the seat. Outlaw zoomed down West Twenty-second Street, swerving through traffic at full speed, banging on the steering wheel and cursing at every car in front of him. Without hesitation or caution, he veered onto the Dan Ryan Expressway, ignoring cars in his path and the blaring horns of angry drivers who didn't appreciate his almost running them off the road.
“Get outta the way! Outlaw's coming through,” he yelled, removing his hands from the wheel once the Dan Ryan became I-94 E, and used his leg to steer the van.
Charly's eyes bulged when she realized that he planned on steering with his leg while he ate his takeout. She almost shot out of her seat when she saw Outlaw reach over to the passenger side, dig into a black plastic bag, and pull out a huge bottle of liquor. It had to be at least a gallon, she guessed as she watched him unscrew the top, hold it up to his readied mouth, then drink it like it was water. The amber-brown liquid lowered at least an inch as he gulped. She yawned, then remembered the green tea she'd purchased at the Chinese store. The label said it provided energy, and she hoped it was true because she couldn't go to sleep. Not with Outlaw drinking and driving. She reached into the bag, took it out, then drunk it until the bottle was empty. She nodded toward Outlaw, who was taking a second swig of the alcohol. “You think that's a good idea?” she had to ask.
“It's cool,” Solomon said, scarfing down his takeout like he hadn't eaten in days. “Unc is an alcoholic. If he doesn't drink, he can't function.” He shrugged. “Believe me. You don't wanna see him sober. It's cool,” he said again, which made her worry. “Here,” he said, extending his Styrofoam container. “You want some fried rice, lo mein or barbecue pork? It's good.” He licked his fingers.
“I'm okay,” Charly said, her eyes on Outlaw as she ignored her empty stomach. She hadn't eaten and would've loved nothing more than to have a good meal, but she couldn't afford to take her eyes off Outlaw for that long. She yawned, then sucked her teeth in irritation. The green tea label had lied. It wasn't giving her energy and exhaustion was moving in, and it was too heavy for her to fight. But she was afraid to close her eyes.
“You sure we're okay?” she asked Solomon, who nodded. “Are you tired?” He stuck a plastic fork full of food into his mouth, shaking his head no. “I only need a quick power nap. Maybe twenty minutes,” she said. “I'm tired.”
Solomon nodded. “Go ahead. I'm up, and I ain't gonna let nothing happen. I swear, Unc does this all the time, and ain't never had an accident.”
Staying awake for as long as she could manage, Charly watched the traffic from the curtained window next to her. They zoomed down the expressway, passing cars and trucks, leaving them behind like the trees flanking the highway. She inhaled deeply, breathing in the smells of takeout and alcohol until she didn't smell them anymore. A partial smile formed on her face. Yes, the ride wasn't what she'd planned, but at least she was on her way, she told herself, then gave in to the heaviness of her exhaustion.
“Aw. Aw. Oh God!”
Charly opened her eyes and grabbed onto the armrests.
“Oh. God. Stop! Stop!” Solomon yelled from the captain's seat next to her, one of his hands on an armrest, the other over his mouth. He was half standing and the color of his face was off. He was no longer brown, but grayish.
“What is it?” she asked, unbuckling her seat belt and scooting to the edge of her seat.
The van swerved, then jerked to a stop. From behind she could see Outlaw throw the gearshift in park and open the driver's door. He stuck his head out of the door, made a weird noise, then released the contents of his stomach onto the pavement. Charly winced. The color, the smell, the sound of splashing vomit sickened her. She turned her head toward Solomon.
“Oh—” he began. Then his insides pushed up and out of his mouth too, but he didn't have a door to open on his side of the van to stick out his head like Outlaw had. The takeout food he'd eaten earlier was now on the floor and running down the back of the driver's seat, looking like brownish pea-green baby poop.
Charly's hand was over her mouth and her stomach was churning. She retched, but had nothing to throw up. “Oh,” she said, then opened the door and hopped out. She paced, taking in the fresh air in quick spurts.
“Your turn,” Outlaw said, meeting her on the side of the van, and wiping his mouth on the back of his shirtsleeve. The bottle of liquor was in his other hand. He lifted it to his mouth, threw back his head, and took a long drink, audibly gulping. “Ahh,” he said, then screwed the cap back on, signaling he was finished.
“My turn?” Charly questioned, then saw perspiration building on Outlaw's now-graying face. His complexion turned sullen, and almost immediately, he was bending forward, regurgitating all he'd just swallowed.
He heaved, and chunks of whitish goop hit the ground. “Your turn . . .” He continued to vomit. “Your turn to . . .”
“You're gonna have to drive, Charly,” Solomon said, appearing from the other side of the van, and taking the same bent-forward position as Outlaw, and throwing up too. “I.” Retch. “Think.” Retch. “We.” Double retch. “Got food poisoning.”
Charly's heart raced. Food poisoning? No way. They couldn't possibly have that. Drunk, yes, she saw every reason for Outlaw to be so, but he couldn't be sick. Solomon also couldn't be ill. Neither one of them could be for safety's sake. “Maybe if we just stand here for a few, you guys will be okay. The air will help.”
“Like hell!” Outlaw said between heaves. He retched loud and strong and long, then doubled over, holding his stomach.
“Yes, Charly. You have to drive.” Solomon leaned against the back of the van, wrapping his arms around his middle and grimacing.
“But I don't—” Charly began, trying to tell them that she didn't know how to drive, but was drowned out by the violent sounds of Outlaw and Solomon retching and vomiting, and Outlaw's cursing.

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