A Late Night Distraction

 

by Travis King

I met Joe at the Fourth Street Diner, where I was enjoying a late-night slice of blackberry pie and a cup of coffee while scrawling notes for my latest novel in a legal pad. He walked in and sat down directly to my left at the counter, even though the rest of the seats were vacant. That could mean only one thing, I surmised: he wanted conversation.

 

Stealing furtive glances his way, I examined him, tried to sum him up. I looked at his shoes first; the shoes can tell a lot about a person. He wore Nikes, but they were old and worn. His blue jeans sported stains and holes. I would have guessed he was poor from this alone, but the rest told me even

more. He wore a tattered blue button-down shirt and an old tweed jacket. His sandy hair was kempt but grew well past his ears and possessed a greasy sheen. A couple weeks’ growth of facial hair framed his thin lips. His gray eyes peered out past wrinkles through sunken sockets. He was probably in his late twenties or early thirties, but he looked at least a decade older. The world had taken its toll on him. I guessed he was more than merely poor; he was homeless. At least he didn’t reek of body odor like many of the homeless people around here. Rather, he smelled strongly of cheap cologne. I tried not to judge him; I’d been poor myself before my career as a novelist picked up.

 

I didn’t want to talk; I was busy. But I knew what was going to happen. He was going to introduce himself, ask if I could spare enough cash for a cup of coffee, then strike up a conversation, probably by asking what it was I was writing.

 

Mary, the waitress, handed the man a menu and greeted him professionally, her nose twitching slightly in response to his noisome scent.

 

He pretended to scan the menu for a brief moment as Mary quickly withdrew to attend to other chores; then he cleared his throat and said, in a confident tone, just as I’d suspected he would, “Hi there. My name’s Joe. Joe Palmer. I don’t suppose you could spare some change for a coffee. That’s all I want. Just a coffee to warm me up on a cold night.”

 

I hesitated for a moment. Then I sighed, worked my wallet from the pocket of my khakis, flipped through the bills, found a couple ones. I tossed them down on the counter in front of him and put my wallet away. “Coffee’s a buck seventy-five,” I told him.

 

“Thanks,” he said. “What’s your name?”

 

“Franklin. Tyler Franklin,” I said, bracing myself for the conversation he was about to start while he waited for Mary to return. But he said nothing. I was both surprised and grateful as I continued with my writing.

 

Joe flagged down the waitress and ordered his coffee, which he then sipped for a while in silence from the plain brown mug.

 

“So,” he said, breaking the silence after a few minutes. I started, making a stray mark on my paper. “You a lawyer?” he asked.

 

I groaned. “Writer,” I told him.

 

He nodded. “What do you write?”

 

“Novels,” I replied. “The occasional short story. Thrillers and murder mysteries mostly. The kind of stuff readers want.”

 

“Tyler Franklin, Tyler Franklin, hmm. I haven’t heard of you.”

 

I groaned again and kept writing. “Well, that’s probably because I haven’t hit the bestseller lists. There are a lot of authors out there who make a decent living but never become famous.”

 

“What are you writing about right now?” He craned his head to peer at my chicken scratches. “Looks like notes.”

 

I looked at the man who had interrupted my thought process. “Notes, yep. For my latest novel. I’m fleshing out my main character. Her internal motivation, psychology, that kind of thing. Mostly trying to figure out how the character changes from beginning to end, what kind of situations to put her into to shape that change.”

 

An enigmatic smile cropped up on Joe’s face, and he said straightforwardly, “People don’t change.”

 

“Of course people change,” I protested. “Ten years ago, I wouldn’t have given you the money for that cup of coffee. I wouldn’t even have thought about it.”

 

“Let me guess,” he countered. “Money was tight. You had to budget every cent you spent. Few luxuries, et cetera.” I nodded, but he wasn’t waiting for a confirmation; he knew he had figured me out, and he continued straight through. “You’re still the same. Yes, you gave me the money, but you hesitated. You had to think about it, and you did it grudgingly. At heart, you’re still the same person. Still budgeting every cent, even though you’ve got a couple hundred bucks in your pocket. If you’ve changed, it’s only superficial.”

 

I hadn’t realized he’d been paying attention to the contents of my wallet. I tried to ignore it and continued with the topic at hand. “Change is what every story is about, fundamentally. It’s what life is about. Give me any story, and I can tell you where the change is.”

 

Joe’s eyes gleamed. “I’ll do better than that. I’ll tell you a story in which neither the main character nor the supporting cast shows any evidence of change.”

 

“It won’t be compelling,” I said. “A story without change is a story without interest.”

 

“We’ll see,” said Joe. “Just give me a chance, okay?”

 

I shrugged, put my pen down, and devoted my full attention to the stranger.

 

“Once upon a time,” he began, and I tried my best not to roll my eyes at the clichéd opening, “there was a boy, thirteen years old. Let’s call him...hmm...Joe.” He smiled and took a swallow of coffee.

 

“Joe was a bright boy. When he was younger, he enjoyed reading. He still did, really, but he didn’t have much time for it. See, his mother had recently divorced his alcoholic father and was now working two jobs just to make ends meet. She didn’t have much time for Joe, and he felt ignored. He knew she loved him, though, and he figured if he could bring in some money, his mom wouldn’t have to work so hard, and maybe they could spend more time together, like a family should.

 

“So what he did, see, was hook up with a street gang. No one real dangerous, just a group of minor thugs, pickpockets mostly, though they occasionally did some muggings or petty theft.

 

“By the time he was fifteen, Joe was an expert pickpocket and thief and was well on his way to a lucrative career in crime, though his grades had suffered for it and he’d actually ended up spending less time with his mom than he had before joining the gang. But it gave him a sense of pride to know that he was good at something and to have the respect of the other gang members. He took the greatest pride in his intelligence, his ability to outwit his marks.

 

“Perhaps it was this pride, or perhaps it was just a chance turn of fate, that led to his downfall.”

 

“Oh, what happened?” I asked. Then, noticing that both our mugs were nearly empty, I gestured to Mary for the single free refill we each had coming.

 

Joe continued, “He tried to pick the pocket of an undercover cop.”

 

I chuckled. “Well, that’s a nice little twist in the plot.”

 

Joe pursed his lips. “Sure, I suppose. It was just a fluke. Joe was pretty good at spotting the undercovers, but either this cop was really good or Joe was having an off day. Take your pick, but whatever it was, it led to three years in a juvenile detention center.

 

“With nothing better to do, Joe returned to his studies and managed to get a diploma. When he was released, his records were sealed, and he decided to put his past behind him.”

 

“Change,” I interrupted. “Redemption.”

 

“A chance at redemption,” Joe retorted, shaking his head, and he picked up the narrative where he had left off. “Joe moved from New York to Atlantic City, where he became a blackjack dealer. He made pretty good money, got himself a nice apartment, a decent car. But he saw the high rollers that came in there, and he envied them. After a couple years, he quit his job and took up playing at the other side of the table.

 

“Remember how I said Joe was a bright kid? Well, he learned how to count cards, and he managed to make a hefty sum with that skill before the casinos and gaming commission caught on. He had a hundred grand in the bank when he was barred from the casinos for life.”

 

“Too bad,” I said. “But Joe has money now. He went from poor to rich, even if it was by less than honest means. That’s change.”

 

“Poor to rich...to poor again,” replied Joe, pointedly. “And that’s superficial change. See, inside, Joe’s still that same person he was on the streets years before, living for the thrill of duping others. He went from making money picking pockets to making money duping gamblers who know the odds are against them to making money duping the casinos by beating the odds.”

 

“I see your point. So, how’d Joe lose his money?”

 

“I can see in your eyes,” Joe replied, “that you’re hoping for something dramatic. Well, I’m sure there’s some drama in there somewhere, but long story made short, he got himself drawn into duping people again, this time by helping some mobsters with a Ponzi scheme.”

 

I shook my head. “That was a bad idea.”

 

“Yeah, tell me about it. But it’s in his nature, don’t you see?”

 

“I guess so. So, what happened?” I wondered, by now finding myself intrigued by Joe’s yarn.

 

“Joe got caught, had his assets seized, and spent five years in the pen.”

 

“I should have guessed. I’m going to assume he didn’t spend his time in prison repenting and trying to think of ways to better his life.”

 

“Wrong,” Joe corrected me.

 

I raised an eyebrow.

 

“It’s like you said,” he told me. “Life is about change. People try to change. They just aren’t successful. So it was with Joe.

 

“He kept to himself, read quite a bit, decided that when he finished serving his time, he might find a good job and save up a bit for college. He wanted a real career, see.”

 

“Sensible,” I said.

 

“Mmm,” said Joe, nodding. “But when he got out, he was penniless and without prospects.”

 

“He turned back to a life of crime, did he?”

 

“He set up shop as a street magician. Prestidigitation was one of the things he studied in prison—a hobby to keep his mind occupied—and he found he quite enjoyed it. Shell games, card tricks, and the like. Levitation, making things disappear and reappear, passing solid objects through other solid objects. That sort of thing. All done with a hat on the ground for people to toss their money in.”

 

“Didn’t pay well? Or did he lose his earnings again?”

 

Joe flashed me a quizzical look. “What makes you ask?”

 

I grinned. “This is obviously an autobiographical tale. I mean, the character has your name, for pity’s sake, so I’m fairly certain of that. You certainly don’t look like you have much money, so...”

 

Joe grinned back. “Well, I’ve only been doing it for three months. And looks can be deceiving.”

 

“I suppose. So, is that it? That’s not much of an ending.”

 

“Oh, I’m not done yet. But first, how about I show you a card trick?”

 

I looked at him, confusion contorting my face.

 

“Consider it part of the story, leading up to the end. Trust me, you need to see this to really get it.”

 

“Um, okay, sure.”

 

Joe reached into his frayed jacket and pulled out a pack of playing cards. I could see that it was already open, and I made my concern known.

 

“Feel free to examine them yourself,” he said, and he handed over the deck.

 

I took the cards from their box and inspected them carefully. They were well shuffled, not in any order that I could discern, and they didn’t seem to be marked in any way. I indicated my satisfaction.

 

“Shuffle them anyway,” said Joe, “for good measure.”

 

I did as I was told and then handed them back.

 

He fanned the deck out horizontally, faces down, and told me to pick a card from the deck, look at it, and then place it back in the deck anywhere I wanted to. I picked a joker, which I placed about two-thirds of the way down the deck. He then shuffled the cards once more, and with a flourish, he tapped it against the counter with one hand. The cards disappeared.

 

“What the—”

 

He held up a hand, cutting off my speech. “Can you hang on a minute? I know this is quite unorthodox, but...well, I really need to use the john.”

 

I looked at him, stunned. “Well, I really want to see the rest of the trick, but, yeah, I mean, if nature calls, what are you gonna do, right?”

 

He left his seat and headed toward the restroom. I watched him for a few seconds and then went back to scrawling notes to pass the time.

 

Minutes passed, and he didn’t return. More minutes passed, and still he didn’t return. After a full fifteen minutes had gone by, I wondered what he was up to. I got up and went to the restroom myself. It was empty. Just like his cards, Joe had disappeared.

 

I went back to the counter and flagged Mary over from her workstation. She flashed me a smile that reached all the way to her emerald eyes. “What’s up, Ty?” she asked.

 

“Joe, the homeless guy. Where did he go?”

 

“What? Why, he left about five minutes ago.”

 

“But—he—I don’t get it.” I scratched my head. Why hadn’t he finished his card trick? Or his story? What was his game? I thought for a moment and then said, “I guess I’ll be going too. What do I owe you?”

 

“Don’t worry about it, Ty. That man paid for your pie and coffee.”

 

“But he didn’t have any money. I gave him money for coffee. Two bucks.”

 

“So, you paid his bill, and he paid yours. You got the better end of the deal. Yours was five bucks. He did say you would leave the tip, but still you come out ahead.”

 

“Sure, I suppose. I just don’t know what the point was.” I stroked my chin, and then I said, “Well, here’s your tip.” I pulled my wallet from my pocket, opened it up to pull out a couple dollar bills, and found that all my money was gone.

 

“What the hell?” I exclaimed, frantically wondering where my money had gone. I opened it wider and found that the pocket where I kept my money was not completely empty. It held one of the cards from Joe’s deck. The very card I had chosen during his card trick: the joker. I took it out, played with it for a second, and tossed it down on the counter. It landed face down, and I could see that something had been written on its blue diamond-patterned back in black ink. I was pretty sure I knew what, but I picked it back up and read it just to be sure. It was one of those times I was pissed to be right, and I realized that Joe had finished his story and proven his point with the words he had written in clear capital letters on that card: PEOPLE DON’T CHANGE.

 

 

Author’s Bio

Travis King is a poet, fiction writer, and essayist from the Pacific Northwest. His works have been published in such venues as the literary journal Waves and at Everyday Fiction. He is currently a contributing writer for Paradise Tossed, a blog about poetry and technology. Learn more at http://grailseeker.wordpress.com/.

 

 

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