My name is Zara. Don't ask me for my surname—I don't know who my father is. I usually go by 'Voltaire' because I like the sound of it. I'm a thief, and I'm always late for the train. Today is no exception. I greet the booking clerk and dig my hands into the pockets of my faded, torn jeans. Nothing comes out. Casually, I stroll away from the booking clerk's window and steal the 20 euros hanging out of an old man's pocket as he waits for the next train.
"Back of the line," she snarled, her purple-tinted lips curling. "But I was just here," I mumbled, walking to the back of the line. I was on my way to town for another day of fun. I had no food left, and my rent was due. I hoped to find at least three rich women with heavy purses. When I was five, I would sneak into people's homes through their windows to survive. At first, I mostly stole food. As I grew older, it became shopping sprees in the drawers and wardrobes of aristocrats and people with impeccable taste. It cost me a few sleepless nights on the floor of a prison cell. Some days, I would sit in a hyacinth tree and watch the drug dealers in my block sell poison to people like myself. Other days, I just wanted to sit in the rain until I sobered up to face yet another streak of daylight.
On this particular day, I walked into the corner store in town and asked Al, the man behind the counter, for my usual cigarette. "Sorry, all out of Stuyvesant," he murmured. Al and I had robbed together once, and ever since I stole his wife's flowers, he had low-key been refusing to sell me cigarettes. "Fuck you," I replied, walking out of the shop. It was getting too stuffy in there anyway. Why don't they get a damn air conditioner? I thought to myself, a bit too loud. Loud enough for Al to respond with curses in Spanish. 'Puta' was all I heard. Was it weird that I found pleasure in a man calling me a prostitute in Spanish? Or was it just that I was not used to getting any consideration from men that I thought an insult was actually a compliment? Or maybe I thought Spanish to be a wonderful language.
Five blocks down from the corner store, a vehicle slowed down beside me. Good, now I don't have to walk all the way to the city in these stolen platforms. The car, which turned out to be an old Toyota, swerved in front of me. Okay, maybe not exorcists because I'm certain my own supposed 'evil spirits' would have been expelled if they were. "Hello pretty gyal. Mek mi tell unuh bout mi love fuh yuh," he said. Okay. Not Nigerian, but Jamaican. Fuck me. "Bombaclat" was all I could manage before I walked around the Toyota and continued my painful itinerary. "Ahh gyal, yuh tink seh mi a ramp wid yuh," he called out, promising to bother me the next time around.
I had completely forgotten that I initially wanted a lift to avoid bumping into the veritable owner of the shoes I was wearing. Fuck it. I was already standing in front of the bus, wondering how the hell I got there so fast. Must've been my train of thought. See what I did there? You're a fucking idiot, Zara, not a literate. Headphones in, I zoned out, gazing out of the window, wondering what the next character in my lucid dreams would be called. Amsterdam was a beautiful city, at least for those who didn't have to sleep in train stations and backrooms. Before my theft rampage, I had a meeting with a "client."
The man I was going to meet was named Adolf Milan. I met him on a dating site. Yeah, go ahead, roast me. But I just needed a few more euros to hold my spot in that Quaker's house. I got off the bus and already smelled the tulips and marijuana in the air. Amsterdam was a city known for its beautiful flowers but also notorious for its mass intake of marijuana in its little coffee shops and pubs.
I was to meet Adolf in a similar pub called the '420 Café.' It reeked of Irish and Gaelic men who were never shy to smack a woman's ass when she walked past them. It didn't bother me, and occasionally, I'd throw in a wink if I was high enough. There he was. Blonde, and well, just blonde. I know you were expecting some charming Channing Tatum look-alike, but I'm sorry to disappoint you. This toad looked more like Ric Flair but minus the sunburn. If you don't know who that is, then I'm also sorry. "Zara," he said with a thin smile. Formal, aren't we. "Hey Dolfie, it's nice to finally meet you," I replied, trying to keep a straight face. I swear that 'Dolfie' sounded less funny in my head. He blatantly ignored my attempts at lightening the mood and cut straight to the chase after what seemed like an eternity. "I vil give you 70 euros for 5 hours," is what I thought I heard him say. Are you fucking kidding me? I was about to protest when I remembered that I only needed 50 euros to keep me from being homeless and an additional 20 euros to get me back home.
The meal I was hoping to receive courtesy of Adolf was not even included. We just walked right out of the café and straight into his Lexus. Great, another night without a hot plate of something, anything. The drive was long. I thought of this old man pounding away, straight into a heart attack, for 5 hours. Sweating on top of me and making grunting noises that would startle an actual pig. By the time I got home, my feet were aching, my chapped lips no longer had lipstick on, I smelled of Old Spice and Cuban cigars, and my rent was paid. After taking a cold shower, I lay in bed and closed my eyes.