You Got Three Fifty?

Word Count: 1,529

It was just past 11 PM. Charlie was on his fourth beer (seventh drink in all – he had also consumed a jack and coke, a Pimm’s cup, and a tequila shot taken in secret by the bar), and feeling pretty toasted.

Charlie needed to be drunk to tolerate Frenchmen Street. Just four years ago, it had been a haven of funk, the locals’ Bourbon Street – but then the secret got out, hordes of tourists swept downriver, and before you could say “urban renewal,” the Spotted Cat was charging Charlie a ten-dollar cover to see a mediocre band out of Charleston, West Virginia.

The band was called Scatatat, and they were playing a punk-rock cover of “Mexico” by Jump Little Children.

Charlie’s OkCupid date, Vicky, leaned over to him. “Man, they’re mangling Shovels and Rope. Cary Ann Hearst must be rolling in her grave.”

“Cary Ann Hearst isn’t dead,” Charlie said, feeling a twinge of annoyance. On her profile, Vicky had described herself as a “music geek,” but they were about an hour into their first date and Charlie could definitively say that it was not the case. “Besides, this song was originally by Jump Little Children.”

“Yeah?” She took a pull on her Abita Strawberry.

“Yeah,” Charlie said. “Y’know, they went to my music school. In North Carolina.”

“Oh, that’s cool,” Vicky said, as though the opposite were true.

“But you’re right, this band sucks,” Charlie said, feeling her interest in him slip. “We can get out of here if you want.”

Vicky shrugged. “The beer is cold. I like the vibe.”

“Okay,” Charlie said, and they fell into silence. He nodded his head along to the music, and even tried a few half-hearted dance moves, but his limbs felt wooden.

I’m probably making a fool of myself, he thought, and glanced over at Vicky. She was bopping to the beat, eyes half-closed, with graceful and deliberate movements. Her lips looked very full in the red light of the club, and the skin of her face was clean and blemish-free below perfectly sculpted eyebrows. Charlie thought her piercings were a little trashy, but she was pretty enough. Sometimes you gotta settle, he thought, and let blood rush to his groin.

It may have been the seven drinks, or the fact that he could think of nothing else to talk about; whatever it was, young Charlie felt bold. He took Vicky by the waist and pulled her close. Her look of pleasant surprise satisfied and aroused him.

“Move them hips, girl,” he heard himself say, and she giggled.

They danced intimately for the next two songs, not speaking much, kissing occasionally, until Vicky said, “Listen, I gotta pee, but I’m down to leave. Maybe hit up another bar.”

“Meet you outside?” he said.

She nodded and disappeared into the crowd, trailing a hand over his shoulder as she went. Charlie pushed through the throng of dancing tourists and emerged from the Spotted Cat onto Frenchmen Street. The humidity of Louisiana summer struck him like a wave of steaming water, even after the heat of the dance floor. His fingers twitched toward the phone in his pocket – the millennial’s muscle memory – and he checked his messages.

“Hey man,” said an impossibly hoarse voice. It sounded like gravel going through a woodchipper.

Somewhat startled, Charlie looked up. Standing a few feet away was the filthiest homeless man he had ever seen. The hobo had a milky eye, patches of long, tangled hair, and a jacket that looked like it had come off a dead man. Hell, it probably had.

“You got three fifty? I need some money for the bus,” the hobo said through a few methamphetamine-stained teeth.

“Sorry man, no,” Charlie said.

“That’s too bad. In that case, I’ll take your phone.” The hobo reached into his dead man’s coat and brandished a seven-inch knife.

Charlie froze. His testicles retracted – his rectum tightened. He looked around him and saw no one. Why was Frenchmen so empty all of a sudden?

“Now, fuckface!” the hobo said, jabbing the blade forward.

Charlie handed him his phone, and it disappeared into the corpse-coat. The hobo scanned the area for witnesses, jerking his head from side to side in a motion that reminded Charlie of a pigeon or a rat. Seeing no one, the hobo limped off toward Elysian Fields Avenue with a snarl and vanished into the darkness near Washington Square.

“Hey.” Vicky appeared and laid a hand on Charlie’s back.

“I just got fucking mugged,” Charlie said.

“What?”

“Yeah! He took my phone!”

“Oh my God! Who?”

“Some fucking bum.”

“Oh my God.”

“Could you call the police?”

“Uhh … sure.”

No sooner had Vicky whipped out her phone that they heard a raspy voice from behind them. “Hey, man. You got three fifty? I need some money for the bus.”

Charlie and Vicky whirled around. It was the same hobo – complete with milky eye, long patchy hair, and cadaverous coat.

“That’s him,” Charlie said in a small voice.

“That’s too bad,” the hobo said. “In that case, I’ll take your phone.” Again he drew the long, shimmering knife, and pointed it at Vicky’s chest.

What the hell? Charlie thought.

“Here’s your fuckin phone, you fuckin piece a –“ Vicky said with a ferocity that surprised Charlie, and batted the hobo’s knife away with a karate-chop swipe of her hand.

The hobo’s arm moved with the blow, but the rest of his body did not react – in fact, it was bizarrely immobile. The hobo wasn’t breathing. His milky eye was staring at nothing.

Bewildered, Vicky lifted her boot and kicked the hobo square in the gut. His body teetered, still frozen, and collapsed onto the street. As it did, his head smacked the pavement and burst open.

Vicky gasped and buried her face into Charlie’s shoulder. Charlie could only stare, transfixed.

Within the hobo’s head – beneath a skin-like mask that appeared to be made of latex – was a mess of wires and circuit boards. Sparks flew from the breach in his scalp, and a small fire caught in the tangles of the hobo’s stringy hair.

A heartbeat later, a white van tore down Frenchmen Street and screeched to a halt in front of them. Charlie and Vicky watched with wide eyes and limp jaws as the van door slid open and four men in black coveralls leapt out. One of them produced a fire extinguisher and sprayed the hobo down, dousing his flaming hair.

Another man, this one bald and wearing a sharp tan suit, threw open the passenger door, peered into the hobo’s ruined robotic head, and said, “All right, boys. Get him in here.”

The men in coveralls hoisted the hobo up and placed him gingerly in the back of the van, then closed the door behind them.

The man in tan lifted his wrist to his mouth. “Faulty asset acquired,” he said. “Two witnesses.”

He pulled a sleek black device, about the size and shape of a pack of cigarettes, from his pocket and extended it toward Charlie and Vicky. He was aiming it, Charlie thought, in much the same way that Harry Potter would aim a wand. The device clicked, briefly emitting a small blue light, and the man jumped back into the van.

“Go, go, go!” he said, and with a spurt of smoke from the exhaust, they peeled away into the night.

A moment of total silence followed. Vicky was gripping Charlie’s arm tight enough to bruise. Then the band in the Spotted Cat started playing again, audible to them only as muffled guitar riffs and drum beats. It was that “Mexico” song again, but this time the tempo was slow and its tone was mournful.

Drunken laughter echoed down the street, distant at first, and then louder as tourists with go-cups in their hands came up the street. They were going about their normal touristy business of tripping over cracked sidewalks and complaining about the heat. Within a minute Frenchmen Street was hopping again, as busy as it ever gets on a Friday night.

Charlie and Vicky caught an Uber back to Charlie’s apartment in the 7th Ward, and there they fucked like rabbits.

The sun woke Charlie at around eight the next morning. He felt wonderful – no trace of a hangover at all. Vicky was still asleep next to him, the sheets down to her belly. He watched her for a while, admiring her breasts as they rose and fell with her slow breath.

You did good, Charles, he thought. She’s gorgeous. He wondered how he ever could have thought she was annoying. So she didn’t know too much about music – whatever, at least she appreciated it. He could work with that.

Sleep beckoned to him, and he decided to give in. It was too early to get up, anyway.

Through his half-closed eyelids, Charlie saw his phone sitting on his nightstand, plugged into its charger and neatly arranged next to his glasses.

That’s odd, he thought. He had a vague memory of losing his phone. Maybe he had just dreamed it.

He threw his arm around Vicky’s waist. Within seconds, he was fast asleep.