Wednesday, 8/11/10 - Money For Nothing

"Ron, why are we turning left when Gypsy told you to turn right?"

"Because there must be something wrong with Gypsy. She's had us driving in circles for the past ten minutes."

Before he finishes making the turn, Gypsy speaks, "Recalculating."

"Shut her up, please."

"OK, but do you have any idea where we are?"

"There's the highway right over there. If we run parallel to it, there has to be an entrance ramp. Once we are on it, we can call Jack and ask which exit to get off on."

He starts navigating toward the highway. When the street dead ends, he turns right. A few more turns and the highway can no longer be seen.

"Should we stop and ask for directions?"

"No, we'll be fine. Besides, take a look at where we are."

She had been pressing buttons on the GPS hoping to get an idea of where they were and hadn't noticed the decline. "Are the doors locked?"

"They lock automatically when you put it in drive." But, even as he says this he is reaching down to depress the door-lock button.

The area is too dark and deserted for a Saturday afternoon. There is no sky here, no trees, only tall sooty-black buildings that have crumbled up from the earth and are now falling back down. Torn and twisted chain-link fences lean like drunk men against buildings or lie sprawled on the ground as if tripped by the cracked and craggy sidewalks.



Garbage, glass and gaping doorways watch them pass.

He knows he is lost and reaches over to adjust the GPS. The car is only a few weeks old and had cost him more than most people made in a year. It had every conceivable option installed and, as a result, required a PhD just to be able to operate it. GPS's were nothing new, he's owned them for years but this one was not as intuitive as the others, there were just too many damned options.

Now, all he wanted was a map and he was stabbing at the menu options looking for a way to zoom out. There had to be a way.

"Look out!"

He instinctively slammed on the brakes. As he looked up from the dash, a dark blur moved in from his left, hit the side of the car, bounced back and fell into the street.

"You hit him! Oh, my God! You hit him!"

In one move he forced the car to a stop, threw it in Park and was out the door and leaning over the man lying face down, unmoving. "Are you OK?"

He kneels beside the man but is afraid to touch or move him. Is he dead? Did I kill him? He turns to yell to her to call 911 but she is already moving toward him with her phone in her hand. "Call 911."

A voice from behind them, "That won't be necessary."

The man lying in the street rolls over and jumps up, unharmed, as if he had not just been hit by a car.

"Wha..." she starts but stops abruptly when she sees the small crowd that has appeared around them. She quickly realizes what is happening and takes a step closer to Ron. Before she can take a second, a young man moves between them and just stands there with folded arms.

Beyond the man in front of her she can see two men move in beside Ron as he straightens up from his kneeling position. Like the man in front of her, the two beside Ron say nothing, they just stand with their arms folded.

Eleven. She counts eight in a circle around them, two by Ron and one in front of her. These men - or are they boys, she wonders - move with muscles rippling like stiff copper cables beneath loose t-shirts and tank-tops.

She knows that if she dares to look into their eyes she will see the same emptiness that occupies the buildings around her. She can probably handle the emptiness but she won't look because along with the emptiness is a hunger, fierce and primal, that will tear her flesh, snap her bones and consume her, hair, teeth, everything.

No one is moving. Her breath is coming faster and she can feel herself starting to shake. Tears gather in her eyes. "Don't hurt us," she pleads. To everyone, to no one, to herself. She is not sure.

"You could have seriously hurt my friend." A man in a red tank top moves from the circle around them to stand in front.

"But we didn't, your friend looks..."

Ron's words are cut short. "Are you a doctor?"

"No."

"Is she a doctor?"

"No."

"Then how would you know if my friend is hurt?"

Ron stammers then stops.

"You could have hurt my friend. Do you agree?"

"Yes."

"You could have killed him, no?"

"Yes." Ron is not sure where this is going. His is afraid and thinks that if he agrees then in no time they will be back in their car on the way to Jack's house.

"And you, miss, do you agree that you could have killed my friend?"

"Yes, yes," she whimpers.

"Very well, then." The man walks around to stand on the other side of the circle. "Since you both agree that you were at fault and that you could have killed my friend what do you think is a fair price for a man's life?"

They say nothing as the man in the red shirt looks slowly back and forth between them.

Ron quickly reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet and removes the cash. "One hundred and eighty dollars. I have one hundred and eighty dollars."

"Miss, do you think that one hundred and eighty dollars is fair?"

Tears slip from her eyes. She tries to say something but can only manage a breathy squeak.

Ron takes a step toward her fearing some resistance. When no one moves to stop him he takes two more tentative steps and puts his arm around her.

She wraps both of her arms around him and burrows as much of herself into him as she can.

"How much money do you have in your purse?"

Her response is unintelligible.

"Let's look, OK?" He says this softly to calm her but loud enough for these young men to hear.

The circle of men around them silently parts as he walks her over to the car's open doors. He considers jumping in and driving away until he sees the broken circle reform around the car.


He reaches into the car and retrieves her purse.

---

---

Ron takes the papers from her, signs them and hands them across the desk. "So, officer, what do we do now, pick them out of a lineup?"

"No, no lineup. The best thing for you to do is to go home, relax and forget that this ever happened."

"And, you'll let us know what happens, I mean with the trial and what not."

"Mr. Roberts, there will be no trial."

"But,"

"There was no crime committed."

"No crime! They stole our money."

"No, you gave them your money."

"But, they threatened us!"

The response was calm but firm. "Did they have a weapon? A gun or a knife? Anything?"

"No, but..."

"Did they do or say anything that made you feel threatened?"

It was her turn to speak. "They didn't have to say or do anything, they looked like they were going to hurt us. They looked ... mean."

"I'm sorry but looking mean is not a crime."

"Whose side are you on?"

"Please, Mrs. Roberts, I am not on any one's side. I am just trying to determine if a crime had been committed."

"This is ridiculous! We were robbed!"

"Not according to what you've told me. If you will allow me, let's review what happened. You got lost. You hit a pedestrian. His friends came out to see if he was hurt. They stood around and you gave them all of your money."

"They told us to give them our money?"

"That's not," he flips through the papers in front of him, "what you told me earlier. You said that they asked what you thought a life was worth. Is that correct?"

"Yes, but they meant that if we didn't give them our money they would kill us. They weren't happy with what was in Ron's wallet, they made me give them what was in my purse, too."

The officer scans the page again. "It says here in your statement that they said nothing after asking what you thought a life was worth." He flips through the rest of the pages. "Oh, wait, they said 'Thank you' after you gave them all of your money."

"You don't get it do you? We were threatened and we were robbed! This is insulting and we're leaving." She jumps up, grabs Ron's sleeve and takes a step before realizing that he has not moved. "Come!"

As they make their way out the officer hears her jabbering on about hiring a lawyer and laughs to himself, "Boy, they sure like to throw their money away, don't they?"