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New in Town

Westley O. Heine

    In 2002 all I wanted to do was get drunk. It wasn’t just because I was a freshman in college. I wasn’t in a frat. I was in art school. My heart was torn up from my high school girlfriend, and I had just got out of jail. I was in jail because of a fight I had with another guy over my high school girlfriend. I won the fight, so I went to jail. This was back in Wisconsin, but now I was in Chicago.
    The biggest drag was getting someone of age to buy the beer. If I could, I’d like to get a twelve pack just for myself. But drinking was still seen as a social thing to do. So whenever I got an older student to buy me booze it was expected that we would drink it together. The same charm I used when asking was hard to turn off after the beer was bought.
    There was one middle-aged guy in the dorms. He was in his forties and would buy for me if I threw in a pack of cigarettes for him. The girls though he was a creep. To me he was alright. After we got back from the store we went our separate ways. I’d go to my room and drink and play guitar. Trouble is that I had to share my room with another student. He was a black guy, but a total geek. His side of the room was comic book posters, fantasy books, and a pink piggy bank. My side of the room was blank except for my stereo oozing heavy metal.
    Finally my roommate moved out. He decided to move from our dorm on the edge of the city to the one downtown. I had a car, a used 1986 Buick, and was eager to have my own space so I decided to help him out. Even when you’re nineteen moving is hard work. It took three trips. Carrying all his childhood processions made my muscles ache. I craved drink.
    When it was finally over I stood on the curb on 8th Street and stretched. A young black dude was standing by the door to the dorm building.
    “Hey man.”
    I turned to see what the guy wanted. These days, as a rule, I ignore the voice of a stranger at least three times before I turn, because it’s usually a panhandler. But at the time I was more open. I wanted adventure. I wanted to learn about different ways of life. But mostly, I just wanted to get drunk.
    “What’s up?” I answered. I didn’t want the guy to think I was just some hick from Wisconsin.
    “Look’s like it’s going to rain.”
    “Yeah it does.”
    “I’ve been waiting out here looking for a good Samaritan.”
    “What do you mean?” The guy was young, in a hoody, clean cut except for a short goat. He didn’t look like a bum.
    “I need to deposit a check,” he said, “but I don’t have an account open at a bank right now. All the check cash places are closed.”
    “Huh, what can you do?”
    “Well if you have an account I could use yours to deposit the check. All you we need to do is go to an ATM. I’ll even give you twenty bucks from my check for helping me out.”
    It sounded like a good deal. I wanted to help him. Mostly I just didn’t want him to think I was a racist country bumpkin. Back home the only black guys I really knew I met in jail. They were usually imported from Chicago and Milwaukee due to over population in the corrections system. We got along fine. We played cards and told stories about women we knew. Now that I was in Chicago I felt like a guest. I wanted to be polite. Mostly, I just wanted to get drunk.
    So I told him, “Sure man. I’ll help you out. Twenty bucks, and then could you buy me a twelve pack?”
    “Yeah I could do that.”
    “Alright.”
    “There’s an ATM right around the corner.”
    “You mind if we go to my bank’s ATM? The other ATMs charge a two-dollar fee. I’m on a tight budget while I’m in school.” It was true. My folks were middleclass people and humbly gave me a small allowance. I had to live on about five hundred a month. Meanwhile, the student loans I blindly signed up for would put me into debt for most of my life.
    He hesitated for a moment, but then agreed to follow me to my bank. I was new in town and I only knew the one ATM for my bank in the Merchandise Mart. It was by my school. We walked to the parking garage, got in my Buick, and drove north across The Loop.
     “My name is Wes.”
     “Darrel Lewis.”
    We shook hands.
    At the Merchandise Mart I parked and we walked inside. When we got to the ATM he produced the check. I asked him to explain again how it worked. He did and I tried to follow his instructions. We filled out a deposit form and used the ATM prompts to feed it into the machine. I kept screwing up. Finally he said, “Here, I do it all the time. Just let me.” I let him take control of the screen. I didn’t want it to seem like I didn’t trust him. I wanted to seem cool.
    He feed the deposit slip into the ATM. Then he withdrew the amount on the check, which was three hundred and some change. When he had the cash in hand he handed me a twenty.
    “Cool, good deal,” I said.
    Then we walked back down the hallway, down the street, and back to my car. We stopped at the first liquor store I saw.
    “What kind of beer you want?” he asked.
    “Just MGD or some shit.” I handed him the same twenty-dollar bill.
    “Right.” Darrel got out and went inside.
    I sat in my car. It started to rain. I thought about how hard it was to get beer when you were underage in Wisconsin. Then I thought it was taking him a while to come back.
    Suddenly my car door opened and Darrel was back. He placed a twelve pack of MGD on the floor under the glove compartment.
    “Well,” he said. “Thanks for helping me out. I’m gonna bounce.”
    “Alright, take it easy man!”
    We shook hands again. I pulled away and headed towards the highway. As usual I got lost for a few minutes, but I was too proud to ask for directions. I went in circles for a couple blocks when I saw a sign for I-90. Getting on the ramp I said to myself, “Shit, I should have at least given him a ride to an L-station. It’s pissing out.”
    I went to my dorm. It was nice to have the room to myself. I sat on my bed and cracked a beer. It was quiet. It was nice to be alone.
    The next day I checked my bank balance. I was at an ATM off the Blue-line. It said I only had about eighty bucks in my account! I thought I had like four hundred. I went to my bank in person.
    I had the teller print off all my transactions. The check Darrel deposited didn’t go through, but the withdraw he made fucking did!
    The teller printed off a close up of the check he deposited. The damn thing didn’t even have his name on it. The name on the check said Earnest Wilson. There was an address on the check. I went to a phone booth and actually found Earnest Wilson with the same address. I used my phone card and called his number.
    Earnest sounded like an older black man with a southern drawl. We had trouble understanding each other. Slowly I explained the situation. Then Earnest said, “Did you say Darrel Lewis? Darrel Lewis was dating my niece. He stole my good jacket and the stereo in my den. I guess he stole my check book too!” Earnest couldn’t help me get my money back. I wished him well and hung up.
    Next, using the phone book I looked up where a police station was. Since I had took the train to school that day I found one right off the Redline and 35^th. When I got there the lobby was packed with people. Two cops dragged in a prostitute. She spit on the floor and screamed, “Feed me! Just feed me you fucking pig!” Her makeup was smeared like she had been crying. But she was laughing now.
    Suddenly it all seemed pointless. I gave up waiting and walked back towards the train station. All the phone booths along the street were melted as if someone had set them on fire.
    That twelve pack of MGD Darrel Lewis bought me was the most expensive beer I ever had. I was too proud to call home and beg for more money. I learned how to live on Ramen noodles and rice for a month. I might not have been a racist, but I was still a hick from Wisconsin. I vowed to never be taken for a ride again. I was too proud to tell anyone I got conned, until now.

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