Full Circle

The ‘dead of night’ is an apt term for those fleeting few hours of early morning when the world stops because right now, even though I’m beside a highway, it’s quieter than a cemetery. The darkness around me is thick enough to touch. A waxing crescent moon hangs high in the sky. I continue walking.

This is what I needed. I’m a few kilometres out of Los Angeles, but you’d never guess it if you saw this deserted stretch of Route 27. My surroundings are serene. Inside, I’m more conflicted than opposing magnets.

You graduate, get an associate job, work your way up to manager and then eventually director. That’s it. That’s the blueprint. So why am I acting like Genette offered me a pay cut rather than the Project Manager position?

My current colleagues would become my reports. But it is more money. The weight of the project would fall on me. But it is more money. I run a hand through my hair. If I was more dramatic, I’d yell at the sky like they do in movies.

I should take the promotion. Of course I should! I’ve done enough to stunt my career already. Instinctively my right hand falls to the inside of my left elbow. I still wear long sleeves more days than not, even though the tracks are long gone. Most women my age are well ahead of me career-wise. Am I seriously going to turn this down and regress even more?

My thinking is disrupted by a colossal engine roar. I snap around. Bombing down Route 27 is a pair of headlights. I suddenly get the urge to hide. The only people that double the speed limit at 2:14am on a Tuesday morning are people that are up to no good. My car is parked nearby, but I’m never reaching it if these people decide to chase me. Maybe that’s me being anxious, but I hide anyway.

I’m wearing all black, so I should be hard to spot. I step behind a tree on the highway’s edge and bring my shoulders close to my body. I’m thankful now for my stick insect-like frame. Still, my hiding spot feels laughably overt, and I tremble as the car zips closer. It’s a low-down coupe with a silver body. I can’t discern which make.

Then, like a sudden crash of lightning, police sirens erupt from farther down the highway. A blue sheen flickers manically across the trees in the edge of my vision. That’s why the silver car is driving like the grocery store is about to close. The tightness in my chest eases, before shooting back up. The silver car’s passenger window is rolling down. They must have seen me. And here I was thinking a tree would hide me. Idiot.

Faster than I can comprehend, a black shape flies out of the window like a pitched football and lands on the grassy descent to my right. It rolls a few times before coming to a stop. The car is parallel to me now, and for an instant I feel the hum of its engine vibrate the ground beneath me before the car whizzes past, leaving me with the smell of gas and weak knees. I breathe out. I’ve no idea how long my breath was held, but I’m gasping for air.

I stare at the object that was thrown. It’s a plain black backpack. What’s inside? Dare I look? The flashing blue lights from down the highway materialize in the form of two police cruisers, and once more I hug the tree. Better not to be found with the bag until I know what’s in it. The cruisers fly by. There’s a second where all I see is their headlights, and then a second later I’m looking at their rears.

The noise from the police sirens hovers for a moment before receding. The valley returns to its crypt-like state. I walk towards the backpack. I can’t not look inside at this point. I unzip it. Gingerly, I put my hand inside. My fingers brush a rectangular strip of paper. It’s something I’ve felt a thousand times before, but never this firm. I widen my hand, wondering how much money I’ve just found. I pull the wad out and use my phone’s torch to illuminate it.

$5,000 is printed on a small paper strip encircling the notes. I gasp, then put my hand back in the bag. There’s another wad. My heart stops. I search the bag thoroughly. Four wads, each identical in size. I’m knelt on the side of a road with $20,000 in my hands.

My first reaction is joy. $20,000! That’s a new car or a string of lavish vacations that was, quite literally, thrown into my lap.

My second reaction is panic. It was thrown into my lap by people evading the law. Where’s this money come from? Extortion, trafficking, or something else? The people in that car will be back for it, either personally or through an associate. Which means I have to get out of here.

But what about the money? I could hand it into the police. I could leave it, forget this ever happened, and be in bed within 45 minutes. I thumb through the notes, amazed at how many there are. Then it strikes me. What kind of people travel around with $20,000 and nothing else? People who have just sold $20,000 worth of goods.

My blood boils. I squeeze the wad of notes in my right hand until they crinkle and crease. I’ve been around drugs enough of my life to know the money that’s in them, the damage they cause, the lives they ruin, the-

I stop. Breathe deeply. Run my fingers across my left arm. I know the sort of people who profit from drugs, and I’m not about to let them find this money. I also know the sort of people who suffer from drugs — losing their lives to finance somebody else’s sneakers. I put the money back in the bag, sling it over one shoulder and hasten to my car.

I’m taking the money, but not to the police.

I spend the following morning before work separating the money into 20 piles, $1,000 in each. I do so with resolute focus, jaw set and teeth clenched. Then I wrap a hair band around each wad and place them in a large handbag under my bed. They’ll be safe there until I get home this evening. I’ve trashed the black backpack.

Work drags. Genette asks if I’ve made a decision yet. I tell her I haven’t. I put my head back down and ally what little focus I have towards producing a pitch deck for a client. When 5pm hits, I’m straight out of the door. No doubt Genette noticed and bit her lip like she always does when she’s irritated.

I take the subway home to retrieve my handbag. Then I drive back into the city, parking just off Hollywood Boulevard. Tourists might know it for the Walk of Fame and Chinese Theatre, but I know it for the number of homeless people who settle here because of the footfall. I was never homeless myself, but I know what drives many people to the streets. A needle has meant more to me than a bed in the past.

I clutch my handbag tightly as I walk. The $1,000 wad that I stuffed in my jacket pocket presses against my ribcage.

Within 30 seconds of stepping onto Sunset, I see a man in far too many layers for summer huddled under a porch. His cardboard sign reads, “Treat people well.”

I walk over. He barely lifts his head when I approach, so I kneel down until our eyes meet. His are misted over, cobalt blue turned grey. “Hi,” I say. “What’s your name?”

“Reg.” His voice is gravelly and hoarse.

“I want you to have this, Reg,” I say as I withdraw the wad from my jacket. No sooner has he seen it than he’s beaming, ear-to-ear until it reaches his eyes. Then his glee fades, as though he thinks I’m joking.

“Really? You’re giving me all that?”

“Yes. Whatever you’re going through, I want you to know people still care.” I nod at the sign. “Treat people well, right?” He begins to blink rapidly like he’s holding back tears. “You don’t need to say anything. Just, look after yourself, yeah?”

Reg nods and clutches the bills to his chest. He mouths the words ‘thank you’ over and over. I smile, on the brink of tears myself, before squeezing his hand and coming to my feet.

We share a look, a pain-filled second where more is said than could be in one thousand words, before I move down the street.

I speak to five more homeless people: Jackson, Mimmie, Leonard, Chip and Laura. I’ve not made it one block. I turn onto Highland and see a man leaning against a vacant electronics store. He’s scribbling in a black notebook, leather-bound and withered with age. He doesn’t notice me approaching so I clear my throat. He hears it, but spends a good ten seconds finishing his drawing before looking at me. His hair is wiry, his skin rough. I kneel down and ask for his name. “Spencer,” he says.

I withdraw another wad from my jacket and offer it to him. “I want you to have this.”

Spencer’s lip starts to quiver. He looks at me, then the money, then back at me. “What? Why?”

“Because. I want to do some good with my life.”

Spencer doesn’t speak for a while. Then, “You can’t give me all that. What about yourself?”

I almost laugh at how selfless he is. “Please. It’s my gift to you.”

Tears fall from Spencer’s eyes and his voice trembles. “You, you really mean it?”

“Yes.”

Spencer wipes his eyes on his fleece’s sleeve, then takes the money. “Thank you. So much. Take this, please.”

He rifles through the pages in his notepad. He smiles at one, then gently tears it away. “This is for you. I know it’s not…” He holds up the $1,000 awkwardly, “this, but it’s all I have.”

On the page is a graphite drawing of Santa Monica pier in spectacular detail. It’s a work of such beauty from a man in such hardship that tears threaten me. In fact, it’s so beautiful and so evidently precious to Spencer that I can’t take it. “Spencer, I can’t.”

“Please, you must.”

“I’d feel bad. This is amazing.”

A hint of a smile spawns on Spencer’s face. “Thank you. I used to be an aspiring artist, you know. Before… this.” His smile fades, and my heart sinks for this man I’ve just met. Then a thought strikes me. I pull out my wallet and extract two $20 bills and hand them to him.

“For you,” I say. “For your artwork.” Spencer smiles again, wider than when I gave him the $1,000, wider than most smiles I’ve seen. He stares at the bills in wonder. “You’re a talented artist, Spencer. I’d love to buy more sketches from you in the future.”

“You’re...too good to me.”

I smile. “It’s my pleasure. Can I sit?”

“Of course,” he says, and I set myself down next to him. The electronic store’s uneven surface digs into my back.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what led you here?”

Spencer speaks, and I listen. As he talks, I see the happiness he feels being able to speak to someone, person-to-person. It makes me question what I value, and the answer I come up with is people and genuine connections.

The corporate ladder, ego and everything else could never compare with a conversation where two people see each other as equals. And as the sun sets I lean back, totally at ease with the feeling that I’ve made a friend for life.