It was Wednesday, so I thought my dad should be at the office. I stood up, stretched, and jumped to the bathroom in the house. I listened carefully, then peered around the corner. Nobody. I jumped to the kitchen and looked out at the driveway. His car wasn’t there. I used the bathroom, then, and had breakfast.
I can’t live off my father forever. The thought made my stomach hurt. What was I going to do about money?
I jumped back to the hotel room and sorted through my clothes for something clean to wear. I was running out of underwear and all of my socks were dirty. I considered going to a store, picking out a selection of clothing, and then jumping without paying the bill. The ultimate shoplifter.
Real class, Davy. I shook my head violently, gathered up all my dirty clothes, and jumped back to my father’s house.
There—more and more, I was thinking of it as his house, not ours. I considered that a good step.
Well, he had left some of his clothes in the washing machine without moving them to the dryer. From the smell of the mildew, they’d been there a couple of days. I piled them on the dryer, then started a load of my clothes.
If it was his house, then why was I there? He owes me at least the odd meal and had of laundry. I refused to feel guilty for taking anything from him.
Of course, while the washer ran, I paced through the house and felt guilty.
It wasn’t the food, or doing laundry. I felt guilty about the twenty-two hundred I took from his wallet. It was stupid. The man made good money but made me wear secondhand clothes. He drove a car that cost over twenty thousand dollars but kept me, so he wouldn’t have to pay my mom child support.
And I still felt guilty. Angry, too.
I thought about trashing the place, tearing up all the furniture, and burning his clothes. I considered coming back tonight, opening his Cadillac’s gas tank and lighting it off. Maybe the house would catch fire, too.
What am I doing? Every minute I stood in that house made me feel angrier. And the angrier I got, the more guilty I felt This is not worth it. I jumped to Manhattan and walked through Central Park, until I was calm again.
After forty minutes, I jumped back to Dad’s house, took the clothes out of the washer and put them in the dryer. Dad’s mildewed clothes I put back in the washing machine.
There was something else I needed from the house. I went down the hall to Dad’s den—his “office.” I wasn’t supposed to go in there, but I was a little past caring about his rules and regulations. I started in the three-drawer filing cabinet, then moved to his desk. By the time the clothes were finished drying, I was finished, too, but I hadn’t found my birth certificate anywhere.
I slammed the last drawer shut, then gathered my dried clothes up and jumped back to the hotel room.
What am I going to do about money?
I put the clothes on the bed, then jumped to Washington Square, in front of the park bench. There was no sign of the sleeper from the night before. Two old women sat there, deep in conversation. They glanced up at me, but kept on talking; I walked down the sidewalk.
I’d tried to get honest work. They wouldn’t take me without a social security number. Most of them also wanted proof of citizenship—either a birth certificate or a voter’s registration. I had none of these. I thought about illegal aliens working in the U.S. How did they get around this problem?
They buy fake documents.
Ah. When I’d walked down Broadway in Time’s Square, several guys had offered me everything from drugs to women to little boys. I bet they’d also know about fake IDs.
But I have no money.
I felt very third world, caught in a trap between needing money to make money and no superpower’s loan in sight. If I didn’t pay my hotel bill the next day, I was also back out on the street. I would need some form of debt relief.
The shriek from the Forty-second Street burglar alarm seemed less frightening in broad daylight. I thought about stealing VCRs or TVs and hocking them at pawn shops, then using the money to try and buy fake ID.
The thought of carrying a VCR into a pawnshop frightened me. I didn’t care that I was uncatchable. If someone was itchy enough I might take a bullet. Perhaps I was being paranoid. If I stole something worth more? Jewelry? Go to the museum and rip off paintings? The more expensive the item, the more chance I had of not making any money from it, getting ripped off or killed.
Maybe the government would hire me?
I shuddered I read Firestarter by Stephen King. I could imagine being dissected to find out how I did this thing. Or drugged so I wouldn’t do it—that’s how they controlled the father in that book. Kept him on drugs so he couldn’t think straight. I wondered if they already had people who could teleport.
Stay away from the government. Don’t let anyone know what I can do!
Well, then—I guessed I’d have to steal money itself.
The Chemical Bank of New York is on Fifth Avenue. I walked in and asked the guard if there was a bathroom in the bank. He shook his head.
“Up the street at the Trump Tower. They have a rest room in the lobby.”
I looked distressed. “Look, I really don’t mean to be a problem, but my dad’s meeting me here in just a few moments, and if I’m not here he’ll kill me, but I really got to pee. Isn’t there an employees’ rest room somewhere?”
I didn’t think he’d buy it, but the lie, plus any mention of my father, was making my distress real. He looked doubtful and I winced, knowing he was going to send me away.
“Ah, what the hell. See that door there?” He pointed to a door past the long line of teller’s windows. “Go through there and straight back. The bathroom is on the right at the end of the hall. If anyone gives you a problem, tell them Kelly sent you.”
I let out a lungful of air. “Thanks, Mr. Kelly. You’ve saved my life.”
I went through the door as if I knew what I was doing. My stomach was churning and I felt sure that everyone who passed me could read my intentions and knew I was a criminal.
The vault was two doors before the bathroom. Its huge steel door hung on hinges larger than myself, open, but a smaller door of bars within was shut and a guard sat before it, at a small table. I paused before him, looking past him to the interior of the vault. He looked up at me.
“Can I help you?” His voice was cold and he stared at me like a high school principal looks at a student without a hall pass.
I stammered, “I’m looking for the bathroom.”
The guard said, “There are no public rest rooms in this bank.”
“Mr. Kelly said I could use the employees’ rest room. It’s kind of an emergency.”
He relaxed a little. “End of the hall then. It’s certainly not here.”
I bobbed my head. “Right. Thank you.” I walked on. I really hadn’t gotten a good enough look. I went into the bathroom and washed my hands.
On the way back I stopped and said, “That sure is a huge door. Do you know how much it weighs?” I stepped a bit closer.
The guard looked annoyed. “A lot. If you’re quite through using the bathroom, I would appreciate it if you returned to the lobby!”
I pivoted. “Oh, certainly.” I stared at the door again from my new angle. I saw carts and a table up against one of vault’s interior doors. The carts had canvas bags on them, as well as stacks of bundled money. Another step and I glimpsed gray steel shelves against another wall.
Got it!