Easy Come, Easy Go

All my life I dreamed of being rich. Not financially stable. Not “well off” or “comfortable”. Never once did I dream of having a moderate sized house, cute husband, maybe a dog or something, and a Honda. I always wanted a luxury car and a personal driver, a mansion the size of the White House, a yacht or something… maybe a personal helicopter or train car… I never really knew what I wanted per se, I just knew that I wanted to be rich.

And then it happened.

Let me back up. Three months ago, I lost my job due to a series of unfortunate circumstances. The most unfortunate, I admit, was that I was stealing money… allegedly. What actually happened was my stupid fat boss wouldn’t give us free lunch anymore. I also happened to know that it was company policy not to worry about a drawer being off until it was off by more than $5. So everyday I would… allegedly… take five dollars out of my till, buy lunch, and put the change back in.

Well, apparently, it might not be company policy to worry about a drawer being off until it was off by more than $5. But it certainly is company policy to investigate a drawer being off by the exact amount that that employee spent on lunch every single day for a month… so I suppose they outsmarted me… allegedly. Well I can’t really say “allegedly” in this case, because they actually fired me. And they fired me right before minimum wage was going to go up in my city. And they fired me two weeks before the entire country shut down because of Covid-19. And I couldn’t get unemployment because I was fired for a “just cause”.

So I went to a dark place. With no hope and like $80 bucks to my name I decided to go get as rickety wrecked as I possibly could. “It’s Friday night and any cock’ll do! Any dude I meet’ll be a dude I’m gonna screw, cuz tonight! Any cock’ll do!” I was singing to myself. I went out to the grimiest gay bar in town. It’s right by the park. They have 3-for-1 drinks, and there’s always a great chance someone’s going to fuck me. Somewhere around 100%, I’d say.

That night, I found a man. He looked like he’d spent over half his life locked up. I was feeling… well not quite confident… but I didn’t really feel like I had a lot to lose. I approached him. He seemed interested enough. I guess when you put it all out there, some men will just say “fuck it” and go for it. I’m not the cutest or prettiest girl in the room by any means, but I’m often the easiest.

I’ll spare you the details of the intimacy (or lack thereof) and just say that this was one of many men who will cum and immediately change their status on what kind of woman they’re okay with having sex with. I would like to say I’ve never seen a man disappear so quickly after the fact, but I have at least a dozen times before. This one was different, though. This one forgot something.

I stared at it for about 5 solid minutes. It was a little Moleskine notebook. It must’ve fallen out of his coat. Finally I decided to take a quick peek inside. Numbers. Just a series of numbers. I figured it must be a code or something and then put it back exactly where it was sitting before. I figured that ultra macho gentleman was going to return any moment asking about it, but as the evening progressed he didn’t.

I woke up the following day and decided to take another look inside. I was hungover, but my mind was certainly working a lot better than it had been the night previous. The numbers that looked so confusing last night suddenly made sense. They were GPS coordinates. “But for what?” I wondered.

I left my apartment with this little black Moleskine book and hopped in my car. My gas tank was pretty close to empty and so was my bank account. I breathed in and hoped for the best as I poured a third of my remaining money into my tank and drove out 143 miles into the country to chase a hunch I had about the coordinates. 46.49708 N 94.52539 W was the first one. A few cows and miles and miles of snow and cornfields in every direction. There was literally nobody around quite a ways, but I figured I should act as fast as possible. This is the region where people aren’t thrilled about strangers being on their land. They’re also not quite accustomed to women like me around here, either.

I got to my exact coordinates and dug through the snow. Here lay a waterproof container locked with a masterlock. I brought it back to my car. I looked at the Moleskine notebook. Right below the coordinates read 361704. I spun the freezing little knob and the padlock opened. Inside, as you’ve probably guessed from the beginning of this story, was several stacks of money in $20 bills. My head was swimming. I spent the next two days driving all over the state to as many of these locations as I felt comfortable with, only stopping for a few hours at a truckstop motel that definitely had a Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy with every customer.

When I was driving back to the city, it hit me that I couldn’t return to my apartment. I couldn’t go back to doing anything I did before. I suddenly had more money than I’d ever dreamed I’d have and I couldn’t do anything with it. I had a feeling that this gentleman wasn’t going to tell his fellow criminals the exact truth of the situation as most men in that lifestyle don’t like to admit to going home with women like me. But I suppose he was dangerous enough by himself and I’m sure it was going to be either his head or mine. I prefered his.

A big part of me wanted to leave town, but where could I go? I couldn’t just relocate to Carrington, North Dakota or whatever. People don’t like people like me outside of cities like mine. People don’t even really like people like me in cities like mine. Also, how long was this guy's reach? I guess he didn’t need to admit to fucking me, he could just tell his people that I stole his Moleskine notebook and nothing else. When they find me with a duffel bag full of their money are they going to care HOW I stole it?

I decided the best course of action for the time being was to move across town and lay completely low as I contemplated my next move. Looking back, I’m not entirely sure why I did that. I certainly regret it now. I regret not just continuing to drive until I hit the ocean. My city is not a big city and I, apparently, am not too hard to find…

I laid as low as I possibly could. I parked my car across town on 50th and France and took a taxi to my new room on the West Bank. I never left my building. When Covid-19 lockdowns began, my life didn’t change even a little bit. I survived off of delivery. I always paid cash and I always requested no contact delivery, leaving an envelope of cash at the door for the delivery folk.

I decided, around the end of May, that I needed to skip town. I figured the best place to be was New Orleans. I’d drive straight down the river and start a new life in the Crescent City. Nobody cares where you’re from or what you’re running from in New Orleans.

It was this moment I really wish I had put my car into storage or something. No doubt in my mind that it had been towed by now. On the off chance it hadn’t, it was probably being watched.

It was as I was making my preparations that George Floyd was murdered by police. The city erupted into chaos as protests turned violent and all the pigs in town decided to take a holiday. In another life I would’ve been marching and chanting and smashing with the rest of them, but this was my opportunity to get the hell out of town.

I left my apartment and walked through the remains of my neighborhood as swiftly as I could. The walk to the train was tense, to say the least. It was my first time outside since March 5th. I got to the train and hopped on. I was four stops away from the bus terminal. I was about to disappear.

I saw a gentleman across the train who seemed to be looking at me. I was wearing an N95 mask and the grungiest dirtiest clothes you’ve ever seen on a person with a roof. Was he staring at me because I looked disgusting? Or did he know who I was? Unfortunately, for me, I decided it was the former. And I was absolutely wrong.

I arrived at the Hennepin station and began my quick-paced walk to the bus terminal. The man was behind me keeping pace. I decided there was no holding back and just decided to start running. Why did I do that? Was I going to get to the Greyhound station and just hop on a bus like a moving train in some old Depression era movie? I suppose he wouldn’t be able to harm me at the Greyhound station… But I suppose he could do whatever he wanted.

It didn’t matter, because I couldn’t run more than a block. Something about sitting down for three straight months doesn’t exactly help keep you in shape. A van pulled up and the man caught up to me. They dragged me into the van, called me horrible names, and put a gun in my mouth. One of them opened the bag and confirmed that, yes absolutely, I had stolen their money. He asked what I was planning on doing. I said I was going to the bus terminal. Actually I said a bunch of H sounds and vowels until he pulled the gun out of my mouth, and then I said I was going to the bus terminal. He asked what I was planning on doing when the police decided to check my bag and it was full of cash. I admitted that I hadn’t thought about that.

We drove for a while until we ended up in a cabin in the middle of nowhere Stearns County. Waiting for me was that charming lover from so long ago. I saw my chance, and I took it. I said, “Hey! Do you guys know HOW I got this guy’s notebook?” I must have miscalculated my opportunity. Instead of giving me the floor and letting me expose this guy’s sexual escapades with me, he just pulled a pistol out of his holster and shot me in the face.

This is how the story ends. No glamour, no fun, no rebirth in New Orleans. Just a dead bitch in the middle of the woods. But at least for three short months, I got to be rich!