20/20

A few years ago, I saw this article on some site, talking about one-in-three kids who run away from home, are more likely to get snatched by traffickers within the first 48 hours.

Really wish I would have read past the headline, because maybe it said something like, “Whatever your dumbass does out there, don’t ever steal from creepy old white dudes that eat raw steak and doodle in little black books.”

But you know hindsight is 20/20, and I was hungry in a little diner called Pitt’s. Wondering how I’m going to pay for the worst pancakes I ever had.

I looked up from my undercooked but somehow crunchy pancakes and saw the cook singing some religious shit in the back, then thought, Maybe he should focus on one thing at a time.

Laughter from my right interrupted my scathing review.

It was a happy couple telling the waitress about how they’re digital nomads working on some artsy-fartsy web series about how the homeless are treated like garbage in this town.

Which before two days ago, I would have agreed with them, but after getting chased through a tent city by two bums, trying to make $20,000 off my head. I can honestly say, there might be a good argument for some of them being garbage.

However, I guess I’m getting ahead of myself, because to the left of me. Was the reason I had $20,000 hanging over my head.

In the corner of the diner, sat an old man paler than the plate he ate his bloody steak from, doodling ferociously in a little black book.

The brim of his black fedora covered his eyes, but I knew from the moment I walked into Pitt’s and ordered my shitty pancakes.

That he was watching me.

When he finally decided to leave, I turned towards the happy couple laughing without a care in the world. Eliminating any chances of interaction between me and the old man.

I fucked up though, because out of the corner of my eye, in the reflection of the dirty metallic napkin holder. I saw the most horrific smile looking back at me.

The old man tipped his fedora and said, “Good luck.” With a voice that sounds like it gargled razor blades for fun.

Good luck? I thought as I watched the old man walk away, then shifted my attention to the envelope he left in his booth.

Hindsight really is 20/20 though, because if I would have known picking up that envelope would have led me down a path where I’m hiding behind a dirty-ass dumpster in an alleyway from a cop I thought would help a fourteen-year-old black kid.

Well, I might have rethought some decisions.

Especially since the first time I ran into the pig was at a massage parlor off the highway.

I was getting shot at by some gangbanger trying to collect on my head and needed a place to lose him.

I burst through the front door, causing a ruckus among the masseuses and their Johns, as I bee-lined through the depressing hallways of the parlor to the back, only to find the pimp standing between me and the backdoor.

He had a fat-ass gun pointed at my head and was about to blast, but before he did, I noticed something in his eye.

Familiarity.

It didn’t last long though, because the gangbanger sent the pimp’s nose through the back of his head.

I hopped up and froze as I stared down the barrel across the hallway.

My spirit left me as I heard the click from the gun, and felt reality fall beneath my feet because as crazy as this might sound, me and my executioner had a moment that one could almost describe as hilarious. Seeing that he chased me for little over a mile through town, and finally cornered me in a seedy massage parlor, only to realize he wasted his last bullet on the wrong target.

Not hearing any more gunfire from outside, the cop popped out of his room in full glory with both his peashooters flailing wildly at me and the gangbanger.

Before he can stop yelling freeze, he already shot the gangbanger dead, and I had already hit the floor before he could yell at me too.

Screams from the girls echoed across the narrow hallway, as I picked my head up from the sticky ground and saw the cop bounce between states of, What the fuck have I just done? and What the fuck am I going to do?

He caught me staring, and was angry at first, but then his face changed.

The cop also knew who I was too, and it was at that moment I realized how deep this shit really was.

He pulled his gun on me, and like a fat Jesus, a man hopped out of another room taking the bullet for me.

As soon as Fat Jesus hit the ground, the masseuse that was relaxing the cop before the ruckus, ran out of their room and knocked over the pig.

Which gave me a window to run out the backdoor.

By the time I left the massage parlor, about 24 hours might have passed since I left Pitt’s.

I didn’t really know where to go and also didn’t really care. I just wanted to get some distance between me and the cop and have some time to think about how all this got started.

“Sounds like it started at the motel,” the girl with the fake name I’ve known only for five minutes said.

While trying to figure out my problems, I aimlessly walked into a tent city filled with human beings and garbage.

That’s where I ran into the girl and she started talking to me.

She reminded me of someone I knew at one of my old foster homes.

They both were pretty but had a deadness in their eyes that tells you nothing and everything at the same time.

This chick has seen or done some shit that would probably make me regret telling her my situation, but you know.

Hindsight is 20/20, and I needed all the help in the world.

So, as we walk through the tent city, we introduce each other, and I tell her everything except the old man in Pitt’s and his money in my jacket pocket.

Instead, I made her laugh by telling her about Pitt’s shitty pancakes and made up a story about how I bailed on the bill then stole the tip jar to pay for a motel room and a large pepperoni pizza.

I don’t think she bought it, but she laughed anyway.

It was a nice ugly laugh that was kinda’ loud.

Loud enough for two pieces of garbage to hear.

However, before they could recognize me, I moved on to the truthful aspects of my story where in the middle of the night I heard keys jiggling. Which always sets me on edge because of a story my old friend at the home told me.

I hopped out of the bed and moved to the darkest corner of the room.

When the door finally opened, I saw the motel manager walk through with a revolver.

That was the first time in these 48 hours, I thought I was going to die.

However, like a message from Fat Jesus himself. I was blessed with a room that had walls thinner than paper, and a neighbor who must have eaten at Pitt’s too because he ripped the nastiest fart ever.

It was so loud you could hear it clearly in my room, which made the manager think I must be in the bathroom because lucky for me, I forgot to turn the bathroom lights off.

So, as the sonofabitch went to go investigate that shit.

I sprinted out the door without him knowing and ran into the night.

“Holy shit,” the girl said trying to act surprised, “so you think the manager is doing all this?”

“No,” I tell her as the two bums try to sneak up on us, “but I think we better get out of here.”

She became genuinely surprised as she turned to see what I was looking at.

I grabbed her hand before the bums could grab her, then ran through the tent city screaming, “They’re trying to take us!”

Most people didn’t give a shit because they had their own problems, but thankfully there are still a few good folks around.

The good folks attacked the bums which gave us the time to get out of dodge.

We were both physically and mentally exhausted, which made the girl get sloppy.

She asked about the $20,000 and how there might be a clue in the envelope.

I acted like I wasn’t suspicious and took the money out.

She was right.

There was a note from the old man written on the inside that said:

Leave the money if you wish not to play my games.

However, for the brave ones please return this book to me.

I’ll be watching.

The old man’s smile and the book’s eyes popped into my head.

Then the religious cook and his shitty pancakes.

I returned to Pitt’s with a knock in my stomach, and not because of the food, but the fact that I didn’t pay for said food.

I wanted to wait but the girl pushed on without me like she was on a mission.

Before she could enter the building, I stopped her because I noticed the waitress reading something behind the counter.

We already knew what it was, so I surprised the girl again by pulling out the pimp’s gun and told her to stay behind me.

I was sick of playing games and wasted no time retrieving the book.

The waitress screamed and the cook kept silent, as I took the book and their tip jar.

I wasn’t a killer at the moment, but I wish I was because then I wouldn’t have the waitress calling the cops, and giving the parlor pig a heads up on my location.

“Smile for the camera, kid,” the cop said as he inched closer to my dumpster.

I looked up from my pistol and I saw the security camera for some furniture store focused on me.

“This is my favorite part,” the old man said as he watched me on one of his many monitors. Each one showing the places I’ve been to in the last 48 hours.

“Look, look,” he cried as I watched the girl hop onto the furniture store security cam.

He cackled then called the girl a loser as she yelled for the pig’s attention, which gave me enough time to get him, but not enough to save her.

After seeing both the girl and the cop drop on camera, I nearly fall to my knees, but instead, I was caught by the old man’s two henchmen from hitting the floor, who then forced me to look at their boss.

On the hundreds of monitors glowing behind him, I saw a screen for viewerships grow as wide as his horrible smile.

The old man reached over the envelope and my gun to grab his returned book from his desk, then turned to the page of his warehouse’s address and said, “Well done kiddo.” He flipped through more pages as he said, “You’re not the first to forget the book,” he stopped on the eyes, “but you are the first to get it back and win the game.”

My attention shifted from the old man to me crying over the dying girl who in her dying breath, told me her real name and thanked me for freeing her from his games.

I asked him why is he doing all this?

The old man shrugged then asked, “Why did you take the money?”

I looked at me looking at me on the computer screen and said, “Hindsight is 20/20.”