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 start, this is not my story. It is my confession. And I told you it would be true. 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, Dez. I'm out of options."

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

"I see it." I told her it'd 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 was following me.

"Her name's Hellen," Dez said. "Every now and then, she comes around, lookin' to hit up one of the girls."

"For what?"

"She's got a two-chick scam and she's lookin' for a partner. 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... If you try it... Promise you'll take care of yourself. That's all I'm sayin'."

The future is a promise.

That's a promise kept.

Until this moment, I never thought of Broadway Avenue in Gary, Indiana, as a promising place. Broadway is dark and depressing, even during the day, but it's so much worse at night. Especially on a cold winter night.

I spent the next hour of that winter night wandering along Broadway, shivering as I watched Dandy in her car, as she sat in the shadows, watching me. I kept expecting her to approach me, or wave me over... or something. But she just sat in her car. Watching.

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

I hit the ground. It hurt like hell. I tried to hide the tears as I picked myself up to walk away in disgust. I flipped the guy off, but it was just for show. I was disgusted with myself.

Out of sheer desperation, I thought about walking over to Dandy's car. I almost started to, but I didn't. I decided she needed to come to me.

I looked at her car as she sat in the distance. I looked her in the eye. I stared her down and I didn't blink.

Then, I slowly turned around and headed for the only place that was open. It was an old tavern called The Grand Cal, named after the Grand Calumet River which runs along the north edge of downtown Gary. One look at the faded 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 open behind me, I knew it had already begun.

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

Dandy followed me in. She sat next to me, but said nothing.

I ordered a drink. The kind of drink meant to imply that, despite my situation, I was to be taken seriously. Whiskey. Neat. Dandy ordered the same. I nursed mine because it was a luxury I couldn't afford. She pretended to not wince as she sipped hers.

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

"Gimme another," Dandy said. "And one for my sister."

I slowly tilted my head and looked at her. Inspecting her. Expecting her to say something, but she didn't.

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

I understood why. 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 plan. She needed a partner for a two-person job worth a lot of money. "It requires a prostitute and a thief." That's what she said.

That was a lie. She didn't need a prostitute. She needed bait.

She said, "I know what you are," but that was a lie too.

She didn't know what I was, and she certainly didn't know what I could be. How could she? There's a difference between what you do and what you are.

I am what I chose to be when I did what I did.

That night, I chose Dandy.

I chose her for everything I wasn't. Reckless. Rich. And free. She already had the freedom she was desperately searching for, and she was too greedy to see it.

I needed her because she was desperate. I was too, and I knew, a desperate person will do desperate things, but I couldn't say it that way. Not even to myself. Not after I heard her pitch.

"One year or one million dollars," she said. "Whichever comes first."

Or all of it, for whoever laughs last. And I don't deny why.

You know why. And 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 told her, "Bitch, I'm not robbing anybody."

So, this is my confession.

I lied.

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