Five Dollar Wrench

The Story You Tell

Legend has it, the Buddha was asked, "Who am I?" And he replied, "You are the story you tell of yourself."

Legend lies.

That conversation never happened. It's fiction that gets passed around as if it's wisdom.

Even the idea itself is a lie. Your story isn't you. It's your persona. It's your myth.

You are the culmination of the chances you've had and the choices you've made, regardless of the story you tell.

That seems like an appropriate way to wrap this whole thing up, because we've reached the end of the story I'm telling, but as I said at the beginning, this is not my story. It is my confession. And I said it would be a true one. But the truth isn't true if it isn't whole.

For the whole truth, we need to back up a bit.

Back to just before page one.

In January, 2021, I met Dandy Bowman.

But first, I met Destiny.

Destiny was one of the other girls working Broadway. She wasn't much older than me, but she watched over me like a mother hen, because she could tell I was clueless. And scared.

She saw me turn away john after john before, finally, she said, "Amber, if you can't do it, you can't do it."

"Yeah, well, I don't know what else to do. I'm out of options, Dez."

She gestured toward one of the cars. "Look, but don't make eye contact. Red Honda. Far end of the block."

"I see it. It's been there a while. The fuck's up with that? Who is it?"

The driver was Dandy. I'd seen her parked in the same spot the night before. I was pretty sure she followed me for a while.

"Her name's Hellen," Dez said. "She's been hittin' up some of the girls to partner on a two-chick scam. I tried it once, a while ago. It's not for me. Turnin' tricks is ugly, but it's honest. Her shit's just dirty. But if you can't do this, maybe try that. Careful though. Somethin' about her is off."

"How do you mean?"

"She robs dudes, but it's not about money. It's about pain."

"Oh. Shit."

"Yeah. Just... promise you'll take care of yourself. That's all I'm sayin'."

The future is a promise.

That's a promise kept.

They say the neon lights are bright on Broadway. Well, I don't know who they are, but they've never been to Broadway, in Gary, Indiana.

Broadway Avenue is a dark and depressing place, even during the day, but it's so much worse at night. Especially on a cold winter night.

I spent the next hour wandering along Broadway, watching Dandy watch me from the shadows. Each of us just watching the other. I kept expecting her to approach me, or wave me over, or something. But she just sat in her car.

Every now and then, I'd approach a john in one of the other cars and turn away. At one point, I made the mistake of leaning in the window of a john's old, beat-up, gray Cadillac. I knew it was a bad move the moment I did it. The guy grabbed me like he was going to pull me in, through the window. I decked him and he shoved me back out, sending me reeling across the sidewalk.

I hit the ground hard. It hurt like hell. I tried to hide the tears as I picked myself up, to walk away in disgust.

I saw Dandy look.

I couldn't stand the cold anymore, so I headed for the only place that was open. It was an old tavern called The Grand Cal, named after the Grand Calumet River that flows along the north edge of downtown Gary. One look at the sign said the place harkened back to Gary's glory days. It had history. We've all got history, not all of it good.

I didn't know what was going to happen, but as I heard a car door close behind me, I knew it had already begun.

I walked into The Grand Cal, slowly, and took a seat at the bar.

Dandy followed me in.

I ordered a drink. Whiskey. Neat. I heard her order the same. I nursed mine because it was a luxury I couldn't afford.

I finished it before she finally made her move. As I stared at my empty glass, not wanting her to realize I was waiting for her, she waved over the bartender.

"Gimmie another," she said.

"Got it."

"And one for my sister, too."

I tilted my head and looked her way, but she said nothing.

I raised an eyebrow to make sure she knew I took the bait. Still, she said nothing.

That's fine. She'd made her move. It was time for me to make mine. And I did.

"So, you're my sister," I said.

And you know the rest.

She had a two-person job worth a lot of money. It required a prostitute and a thief. She said, "I know what you are."

That was a lie. She didn't. But you know what I am.

I'm a thief.

Do it once? It's a thing you did.

Do it twice? It's a thing you do.

Do it enough, it becomes what you are.

I only did it once.

Once was enough.

The night I met Dandy, I said, "Bitch, I'm not robbing anybody."

I confess. I lied.

But I lied to her, not you, right? That's gotta count for something.