Life is tough enough as for a stranger in a foreign land, but when luck chews you up and spits you out, primal need can spin your moral compass.
Savage Night by Scott Daughtridge
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You wish you had a bed to go
to. It is past midnight. You looked for churches because they are safe, but
didn’t see any with a garden or driveway to provide adequate cover away from
the street. There are fewer people out now. Most people think it’s dangerous to
be out after midnight. They’re right. A pain creeps up your neck and you rub it
with your dirty fingers.
A drunk guy who looks twenty-one, stumbles out of a
bar onto the sidewalk and, without looking at you, slurs, “Sorry ’bout that.” He’s
American, which you could have guessed by his boat shoes, which are popular
with the preppy kids in the states. He’s wearing a blue gingham shirt and
khakis. In his back pocket you see his wallet. For two blocks you follow him as
he stumbles along. You imagine bashing him in the head and taking his money,
which would carry you for days. You could get a hotel room and an expensive
meal with good beer. Just the thought of doing it makes adrenaline course
through your veins. You sync your strides with his and you feel a foul
connection with him, like you are both cursed.
The fourteen-hundred dollars you saved washing dishes
at Ernie’s Steakhouse evaporated faster than you planned. Two days ago, you
emailed your aunt from the public library computer, asking her to send you
money and she wrote back, “You know we don’t have anything to send you. We did
all we could when we helped pay for your plane tickets. You were supposed to
budget your money better. I’m sorry.”
You wanted to breathe a foreign air, to taste a
foreign tongue. You wanted to feel fully emerged in this place and here you
are, fully emerged, broke and alone. You’re glad your shoes have held up. Your
jeans, which you’ve worn everyday for months, are stained and holes spread on
the knee and cuffs.
There are two alleys ahead, one to the left, one to
the right. You tell yourself if he goes to the right you will do it. If he goes
left you will leave him alone. Earlier in the night, you thought about stealing
one of the skiffs on the canal, steering it along the Amstel to the IJmeer,
then abandoning it, or sleeping on it. You kept your hands in your pockets and
continued walking. You called yourself a coward for wasting so many
opportunities to make legendary decisions.
The preppy guy slows down and looks left. Under his
breath he mumbles, then turns right.
You get close
enough to him to smell his cologne. You ball your hand tight like your brother
taught you when you were young: Tightly tuck the fingertips against the base of
your knuckles and roll your fingers down. Before you can tell yourself to stop,
you pull back and WHACK him above his right ear. His head feels like a brick.
He staggers left. “Go down,” you whisper. You don’t want a fight, you don’t
want a mess. You just want his wallet. You hit him again, closer to his jaw. He
falls in a heap near the wall. This is the proper representation of your
trailer trash family. You pry open his back pocket and take his wallet. He
looks asleep. The billfold in his wallet is empty. You look around to make sure
you’re still alone. In his right front pocket is his cellphone and hotel key
card, which you set to the side. You look in his shirt pocket, but it’s empty.
There are voices coming from down the block. You lift his left pant leg.
Nothing there. You lift his right pant leg and see a bulge in his sock. Clever
fucker. The voices are getting closer. Your hands are shaking. You grab the
folded bills, put them in your pocket and hurry out of the alley with your head
down. You keep walking and when the street opens up you are relieved it is
empty. From your pocket you pull the money and count two-hundred and eighty
euros. You stop, take off your shoes and put half of the money in each.
On the side streets, there are faces and red lights
from cigarettes scattered throughout the shadows. The thought of someone
accosting you and taking your newly acquired money is enough to make you want
to run, but that would draw attention so you walk normally, trying to look
bored.
After zig-zagging through a dozen blocks you find a
covered mall. There are four people already sleeping there. The street is
cobblestone and steel gates cover the store entrances. The temperature is mild
but you know you’ll wake up cold when the dew settles on your skin. You wish
you had a sweater. The other people are in sleeping bags or covered by
blankets. You wait to see if they become agitated by your presence. Nobody
moves. There is a siren in the distance. You see a doorway wide enough for your
body. The concrete is cold and covered in soot. It is a relief to rest. You
cross your arms and lean your head back against the door frame. Sleep comes
quickly. Your parents have passed along to you loyalty, wit and passion. You
had wanted to present some of your family’s positive traits to these foreign
people, but you have unraveled and, instead, it is the desperation, anger and
poverty, also born into you through genetics, that is on display here.
When the police officer kicks your feet, he says
something in Dutch. He is wearing clunky black shoes. Down the lane, the other
sleepers are exiting, casting long shadows that jostle side to side. They drag
their blankets behind them, and the cotton sweeping over the concrete makes a
sound like wind through trees. The officer keeps talking. You hold your hands
up and say, “Sorry,” and try to leave, but he steps in front of you. The inside
of your body jolts awake. Running doesn’t seem necessary because he let the
others go, so you think he’ll let you go also. Running is also not possible
unless you trample the man, but he is tall and thick necked.
You say, “I’ll leave, I’m sorry.”
The bills
press against your feet. Your hand is sore and you want to see if it’s bruised.
“You speak English?” he says.
“Why are you sleeping here?”
“I don’t have any money.”
“Do you know it’s illegal to sleep here?”
“I didn’t know that.”
“I don’t believe you cannot afford a room,” he says
flicking through the stamped pages of your passport. “You are here from the
United States. You have no money?”
“I ran out the
other day. I’ll be able to get a room tomorrow. I just couldn’t tonight.”
“Where will you get money if you have none?”
“I’ll get some wired.”
“Where will you go until then?”
“Somewhere else. I won’t stay here.”
“You know it’s illegal to sleep here.”
“Yes, you said that. I’m sorry. I’ll leave.”
“I should take you to the station so you don’t trespass
anywhere else.”
Your heart rate increases. You try to control your
facial expression. You’re sure the kid you robbed never saw your face.
“Please don’t. I’ll keep moving,” you say.
“I think I need to take you with me. Many crimes are
committed by people who walk the streets all night. Especially if they do not
have money.”
You imagine yourself knocking the cop unconscious and
fleeing. His radio blares with a Dutch voice. He says something into it, then
looks at you with renewed interest.
“I’m sure there are, but I’m not a criminal. I just
needed a place to rest.” A voice crackles through his radio again. He reaches
to his back pocket. “I’m writing you a citation for vagrancy.”
“Okay,” you say, surprised and relieved.
He copies the information from your passport onto the
citation. There is a court date.
“This must be resolved by this date. Do you
understand?”
“Yes.”
The officer hands you your passport and the citation,
and ushers you back onto the street. The sky is milky gray. The sun will be up
soon. You want to lay on the nearest bench and fall asleep. You wad up the
citation and throw it down a sewer drain. You’re not sure what to do with
yourself. You head toward the hostel, hoping they’ll let you rent a room. You
think you hear footsteps behind you, but when you turn around the streets are
empty.
