Part Three
Shoulders hunched and eyes down he made his way to the park, glancing at the entrance sign with three letters missing ELVILE__ARK. Melville Park, somehow he knew that, he must live around here, he must be a local and he had expected the locals, the druggies obviously either looking for a score or on a high to greet him by name with an offer.
Or maybe, anyway.
Then he'd at least know his name. Unless he'd just read the park's name somewhere. Maybe he'd gone to school around here. Maybe he worked here. Maybe he had a girlfriend who lived in the neighborhood.
Maybe he was a returnee from an UFO abduction. Crap, who knew?
Reluctantly he accepted the simple fact that he was probably some kind of criminal because nothing else added up. He'd been beaten, he'd been robbed (no wallet, no ID) and if he'd been an innocent victim then someone would be looking for him. Innocent people had families and friends who worried and called the police if one of their own went missing.
His name probably didn't really matter all that much because no one had the scars he did without being in deep shit more than anyone who had a normal life would. He could have been in a bad car wreck, sure, but those scars? They'd been acquired over years, not in just one or two bad days. He hung with violence and that's how he'd gotten hurt.
Sitting on a bench in the sun he suddenly smiled. Maybe he had it all wrong. Maybe he was a war hero from, from—let's say he was in Iraq for (what the hell) three tours and he was a frigging war hero. Hell, he'd probably taken down half the Taliban single-handedly, been captured and survived six months f torture to protect the whereabouts of his entire covert company of Rangers, escaped by the skin of his teeth and walked out across the damn desert.
Shit—he probably had a drawer full of medals and was on the short ,list for the goddamned Medal of Honor. He'd be meeting the Joint Chiefs, let them hang the damn thing around his neck—if only he could remember where he'd put the damn invitation.
Right, that was the ticket. He was a hero. People should be walking up to him in the street just to shake his hand.
Yeah, right. He had hero written all over him, it was just writ small.
Laughing to himself before he sobered, he made an effort and pushed the panic to the back burner and sorted out what he really knew—not much—versus what he didn't. He might not be a genius, but he thought he was pretty smart, but doesn't everyone think that about themselves?
Okay, he knew squat about his stats—no name, no address, no memories about school or friends or a job.
He knew somehow he'd ended up in some scummy alley in Bludhaven with the crap beaten out of himself.
His clothes were pretty generic; worn Levi's, a light blue Hanes tee-shirt with nothing written on it. He was wearing a basic pair of white Nike's, stuff that could belong to anyone. No watch, no jewelry...and no tan lines indicating that they'd been stolen or lost.
It was almost as if he was trying to be anonymous.
Of course he had no idea what might have been in his wallet, assuming that he had a wallet.
He leaned back and looked at the people nearby; a family eating ice cream, the twin toddlers laughing at the dripping chocolate, their parents taking pictures. An old man walking slowly with a footed cane, a couple of girls, maybe high school aged, looking at him and giggling, a young couple holding hands as they strolled, kids tossing a Frisbee and skateboarding.
He should check a computer, see if there were any missing people reports on the Internet.
Shit—that seemed like a good idea but where did that come from? Maybe he'd gone missing before. Maybe this was normal for him.
He was still sitting there, the shadows were growing as he realized that he was getting hungry and he knew he had no money to buy food. Getting up he walked over to a couple sharing a large pretzel on the next bench.
"I'm sorry to bother you but could you spare a dollar or two so I could eat?"
The young couple exchanged a look, the man stood up, holding his girlfriend's hand and pulled her away. "Get a job, loser." They disappeared around a corner.
He went over to a woman sitting with a book, her free hand holding a woman's magazine. "Excuse me, but do you have any spare change?"
Annoyed, she handed him a quarter, put the magazine into the stroller and left quickly without speaking to him.
It was starting toward dusk and the park was emptying as people went home to dinner. The temperatures dropped without the sun. Standing by the main exit he asked more people, speaking softly, politely and thanking the very few people who handed him a few coins. His total take was two dollars and twelve cents in an hour. Sighing, he jaywalked across the street to McDonald's, bought himself a burger and a cup of coffee from the value menu, eating slowly so he could stretch the warmth of being inside a bit longer.
He didn't have a jacket.
After an hour the manager came over. "Okay, if you're not eating you can't stay here, buddy. You have to move along." The guy seemed almost apologetic.
He did as asked without protest, knowing there was no point.
Walking aimlessly along the emptying streets, hands stuffed in his front jeans pockets, he wondered where a homeless shelter might be and had a thought that he would be opening himself to another assault if he went to one, assuming he could find one that had an empty cot. Those places were notorious for violence, the stronger picking on the weaker and with his injuries he was a small fish to be eaten.
And his headache, in the background all day, was back with a vengeance.
Maybe he could get himself arrested for the night. If he got drunk enough he could...no, liquor cost money so that was a non-starter.
Screw it.
Making his way down a residential side street, he started trying car doors, finding an unlocked one after about three blocks of trying. Opening the back door he climbed in, lay down on the back seat and closed the door as quietly as he could, hoping that the owner was in for the night and he could sleep here undisturbed until morning.
"Buddy. Hey in there, c'mon, wake up."
He struggled to open his eyes. It was dark, he was cold and stiff from sleeping curled up on the bench seat. There was a cop knocking on the window.
"C'mon, outta the car."
He did as he was told.
"You got ID? That ain't your car, I'm gonna hafta run you in."
"I, uh, I think I misplaced my wallet."
"Sure 'ya did. Someone worked 'ya over, din't they? Okay, come with me." The cop didn't look like a bad guy, just a Joe doing his job, getting the bums off the street so the honest citizens wouldn't be hurt.
He sat up, not quite awake and suddenly close to tears; this wasn't the way he lived, this wasn't the way it was supposed to be but he couldn't explain and..he got out of the car. "'Sorry."
"C'mon, I'll take you to the shelter, you can warm up, get somethin' to eat."
"No, thanks, I'm okay."
The cop was looking at him, staring at his face in the bad street lighting."What's your name, buddy?"
"..."
"You look familiar, you been in trouble before?"
"No, uh, no. I never..."
"Yeah, I've seen you before. C'mon, we're gonna take a ride down to the station."
He took off at a dead run, rounding the corner and ducking behind another car, crouched down when the policeman came looking. He stayed still, didn't move, didn't breathe, just stayed low. He heard the cop walking back and forth, down the street and back again then heard the muttered ''Screw it" as the footsteps disappeared.
He stood up. It was cold, maybe forty or forty-five degrees, too cold to sleep. Looking for an all night coffee shop or something, he moved off, finally ending up at the bus terminal. The security guys made him move every half hour or so, but it was warm and that was a lot.
Around five in the morning with the first commuters starting to trickle in, hurrying to wherever they had to be, a social worker found him sitting on the stone floor, his back against the wall, his butt on a scavaged newspaper. She put a paper cup of hot chocolate and a greasy fast food breakfast sandwich beside him. "Eat this and then come with me; you look like you could use a friend."
He was hungry, tired, stiff and felt like crap—any port in a storm, right? He had nothing to lose.
* * *
"He's not answering his phone; bastard stood us up."
A shrug. "You know him, 'probably just busy."
"Yeah, c'mon, let's go—he must have gotten a better offer."
TBC