Mitch Sparrow

Mitch Sparrow had made a habit of sleeping in dumpsters; needs must and all, so when he cosied up to a bin bag stuffed with wads of cash, it was hard not to believe his luck was changing. 

Mitch’s circumstances would have been terrible for most people, and to begin with, this was the case for him too. But after nearly three years on the streets, the hum of sirens, the squawk of cats and the smashing of glass composed the perfect lullaby for Mitch. The dumpster, no - definitely not ideal, but after a while, even that formed a cocoon of comfort.

It was late when Mitch settled in for the night, the rumble of the city blaring on beyond the thin steel wall. Tucked up in his ragged sleeping bag he curled his legs up to his chest and settled his hands under his head. His hair had grown long and it flopped over his face, he was only minutely aware of the grease that streaked from his roots. With his eyes closed he pictured the lake, the same as every night; the way the shadows of the Summer sun chased along the dock, the sickly sweet smell of honeysuckle in the air. 

Mitch smiled at the thought and shifted his weight, he was usually a dab hand at getting comfortable, but tonight something wide and dense jarred against his back. After a further five minutes or so of awkward adjustments, Mitch sat up, scooching his sleeping bag down around him revealing a Van Halen hoody underneath. What a pain in the ass, he huffed to himself, yeah literally. 

Rummaging in his backpack, he pulled out a torch and clicked it on. Shocked by the brightness, he rubbed his red rimmed eyes and twisted to chuck whatever it was that was bothering him back out onto the street. 

The bin liner was ram packed with something heavy and hard, later he wondered if he knew straight away, as if some sixth sense had driven him to that particular dumpster, to lie in that particular position. 

“Woah,” Mitch breathed. The hundred dollar bills were wrapped so tightly they were hard as bricks. He took one out, then another, turning them over in his hands in silent disbelief. There was so much. The wads: surely one hundred bills in each, and the number of wads - too many to count. 

Mitch’s brow was moist with perspiration, his hands fidgety and confused. He scratched his beard. They must be counterfeit. He stretched forward again and took a single wad out, easing the first bill free. He handled it as though handling a new-born baby; delicately, nervously - all senses heightened. Holding the light close, he examined the markings. Franklin was there, front and centre, surrounded by the usual markings, but when Mitch noticed the holograms, his stomach lurched. Shit just got real. 

What now? How could he possibly sleep now? There was no way, but also - what should he do? He couldn’t take the money, could he? That would be stealing, but then - stealing from who exactly - the dumpster? It belonged to no one, surely, otherwise it wouldn’t be here. That was another question, though wasn’t it? How did it end up here? No normal person would chuck this kind of money (or any money he supposed) away like this, would they? 

Mitch turned the thoughts over in his mind, his heart pounded so much it drowned out the city noise. He deserved a bit of luck didn’t he? Something to go his way for a change? He sat with his back against the cold metal and regarded the open bag, now happy and welcome near his boots. 

He lost his job first - the chain of stores had gone into administration and that had been that. The market was tough - the recession didn’t help that - and a guy like Mitch Sparrow, ex-military - come shelf stacker, was never going to be any employer’s number one choice. 

His landlady was kind and let him stay six months for free before apologising and telling him she couldn’t afford it any more. Mitch had understood, it was tough times and everyone had to find their own way. A hop to the men’s refuge, a failed skip to the social housing line and a final jump to the homeless shelter, and bam! Here he was three years later actually used to his dumpster life. 

Mitch was never one for a pity party, no Sir - the army had long since knocked that out of him. Yet, something about that bag of money, lying there unclaimed in that most bizarre of places told him, hey Mitch maybe this is your time? Mitch, who prided himself on being a level, calm type of person felt a wave of unfamiliar exhilaration. I am doing this, he thought. 

Dawn was the time when the city was the most peaceful. Mitch stayed awake all night waiting. His brain ran over a plethora of scenarios, many of which ended with him getting into trouble, but some of which ended with him sleeping in an actual bed. He shuddered at the thrill of it. As the sirens muted, Mitch eased the dumpster lid open and jumped out. He looked both ways up and down the street, and started walking - there’s no going back now. 

He knew where he was headed, but also knew he had to be careful - better clean up first. The public toilets in the park opened at seven, perfect. Mitch locked the door and placed his bags on the broken tiles. Seemed wrong, somehow, leaving all that green down there on the piss stained floor. 

The bulb flickered dull light reminding Mitch of the start of a predictable horror movie. He regarded himself in the cracked mirror, he really did look terrible. The years had taken their toll. His cheek bones were prominent against hollow cheeks, his beard; rough and wiry had turned almost entirely gray. His hair, at least, remained black - albeit long and scruffy. 

“You got old, Sir,” he laughed at himself as he ran the facet. The water was fresh on his cheeks and he relished the sensation - it had been a pretty wild night all things considered. No razor, but a pair of nail scissors and his beard had a sort of trim; far from the chiselled guy he once was, but beggars can’t be choosers as mom used to say. 

He took his jacket off and attempted to straighten his shirt; it was crumpled and slick with a light film of grime. He tucked it into his loose jeans and moved his belt over to the final buckle hole. Using an elastic band, he pulled his hair into a high bun. The taut exposed his skinniness even more. Not bad, he thought, giving himself a smile, he stopped short of a wink - don’t be weird Mitch.

***

Checking in was easier than he thought it would be, maybe he didn’t look so bad after all? Too nervous to go completely mad, he went for a King room with a terrace, and man wasn’t it something? Maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t experienced real comfort for years, or maybe it was simply the incredible magic of being in The Plaza - whatever it was, Mitch was totally spellbound. 

Ornate ceilings, sparkling chandeliers, curved French furniture and the most gigantic looking bed Mitch could ever remember seeing. At the closing of the door, he placed his bags on the sideboard, stripped off and ran over in one dramatic motion, leaping onto the soft sheets - he had always wanted to do that. After the longest shower of all time where the water sprayed delectably from all angles and the soap puffed up into pleasing bubble towers, he slipped under the sheets and was instantly smothered in a blissful, dreamless sleep. 

It was morning when he woke up. The shades were open and the crimson sun pooled from East Manhattan into the cream-gold room. That moment of confusion diffused rapidly, replaced by unbelieving pleasure. He pulled on a luxurious robe and slippers and dialled for room service - pancakes, fries, berries, milkshake - amazing.

With only the thick robe to keep him going, Mitch enquired with the concierge service about finding him some new clothes. It was no problem, Sir. It appeared to Mitch that with enough money, there would never be a problem. The concierge appeared at his door two hours later having followed his instructions deftly; two shirts, one tee, a pair of jeans, a pair of shirt trousers, a jacket; five sets of underwear. Simple was fine. 

Mitch had tipped the guy handsomely using a few notes from his stash which was now stuffed tightly into the safe. Alone again and Mitch performed a single person fashion show; enjoying the feel of the crisp material against his life worn skin. He thought he could almost pass for normal now, certainly the concierge hadn’t batted an eye. The shirt was slim fit and hugged tight to his shoulders which somehow still held their old musculature. He rolled the sleeves part way to reveal his bronzed forearms. His beard now fully gone and his hair trim and neat - hell, he looked handsome.

On the terrace, he soaked in the familiar sounds of the city below. How they still sang to him even up here, above it all. He sipped hot coffee from the most petite of mugs. All day he had been mulling over what to do. The truth was, for Mitch, this kind of luxury was one thing, but it wasn’t really his thing. His heart ached for the simple pleasures of life; fresh air, space, quiet, time. He closed his eyes and thought of the lake; how still it was in the Winter, teasing ice, steaming in the mornings; holding promises of the day to come. He reasoned that he didn’t need all that money - who did really? Maybe he could just keep a little and be on his way, but what to do with the rest? 

Having come to no real conclusion, Mitch decided it could wait until tomorrow. After a bit of self cajoling, he braved the downstairs lounge. Maybe he could be a real person - grab a beer, get some food - and who knows? Maybe he would even strike up a nice conversation with a stranger? The thought made Mitch feel both exhilarated and terrified all at once.  

The woman across the bar has been making eyes at Mitch for the last thirty minutes, he was sure of it. He sipped from his long neck beer and gave her a smile that he hoped wasn't creepy. In the background soft jazz played, warm lights were low and the careful sound of chatter filled the room. Mitch sat on a high leather stool, one with a solid back that he could lean into; he swigged from his beer and exhaled - maybe the money was OK actually. 

He would finish this one then go round there and talk to her; buy her a drink, yes. Mitch didn’t want anything from her, no nothing like that, but it would be nice to have some company; especially from a lady with a nice smile. 

Placing a note on the marble countertop, Mitch’s stomach churned as he pushed back his stool. He could feel something cold and solid against his back. 

“My boss needs to speak to you.” The voice next to his ear was low. 

“What? I-” Mitch tried to turn but the man held him with a subtle force. 

“Come with me and don’t make a fucking scene.” 

Mitch walked steadily away from the relaxation of the lounge feeling the disappointed eyes of the woman on him. This was more like Mitch’s luck, yes Sirry. 

In the lift he could now see a big brute of a man in a dark suit. His skin pale, his features dark. Black hair was slicked deliberately back. 

“What’s this about?” Mitch’s voice was steady.

“Talk to the boss, not to me.” The big man replied, staring ahead.

The wispy old man was sitting on the velvet sofa in Mitch’s hotel room. He smoked a long cigar and wore dark glasses with red rims. If Mitch wasn’t so pissed he might have laughed; what a cliche. Next to him a young woman sat awkwardly. Her face was pretty and perfectly shaped; her hair a cascade of chestnut waves. She sat with legs crossed tightly in front of her, her dress; black and small, had ridden far up her slender thighs. The old man held his veiny hand there. Mitch looked away. 

“So you’re the guy that’s stolen from me?” The man regarded Mitch with a certain authoritative directness that was at odds to his frailty. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mitch met his gaze, his stance wide. The gun still lodged in his ribs. 

“Let’s not mess around now, Junior here, he saw you - this is our guy Junior?” 

“Sure is boss.” The large man replied.

The woman shifted in her seat, Mitch noticed the old man’s hand had crept even further up her leg, her face battled revolt. 

“I don’t think she wants you to do that.” Mitch felt the jab of the butt twist against his back.

“You don’t tell the boss what to do.” The man named Junior hissed. 

“That’s ok Junior, it’s good he said it, now we know the best way to convince him to give me back my money.” He thrust the young woman off the couch and onto the rich rug below, nodding to Junior to take hold of her.

For Mitch, who knew all he had to do was wait for his moment, it was like putting on an old favourite pair of jeans; easy, natural. His perspective slowed. Junior stepped out from behind and Mitch; swift and silent, rounded - driving his foot into the outer edge of Junior’s shin. Junior cried out - with the shock of the thing as well as the pain, and tripped over himself towards the ground. Mitch, who had always been deft at handling such scenarios during his special forces years, always had the knack for knowing what would come next - the art of anticipation. But even Mitch did not see this coming. 

As Junior fell, the big oaf that he was, he caught his arm under himself and a ferocious crack rang out, cascading around the room. Mitch ducked and covered his head at the sound. A second later, and after determining he was fine, he regarded the scene in front of him. 

Junior lay, a crumpled mess on his front, a dark bloody stain torn through his upper torso. Only a meter in front of him, the young woman gawked eyes wide, chest moving rapidly. Behind her, on the couch, the old man with his wicked smile now slumped forward - a perfectly circular hole had appeared in the centre of his forehead. What remained of his brains, now scattered across the back wall. It seemed to Mitch that his luck really had changed. 

The girl turned to look and started to scream. 

“Hey, it’s ok,” Mitch said, taking a step towards her and holding out his hand. She looked up at him with almond eyes, and tentatively took it. He gave her a little tug and she was back on her feet, smoothing out the creases in her satin dress. 

“Thanks.” She said, wrapping her arms around her slender torso - she really was young.

“Forget it,” Mitch replied, “What are you even doing with that guy anyway?” 

“Girls like me, we ain’t got much choice.” She replied with a shrug. 

Mitch nodded understanding - he knew a thing or too about being desperate. 

Her name was Loretta, she lived in Queens with her mom, who was sick, and her teenage brother. It hadn’t taken much - only a cold Coke from the minibar, a comfortable seat on the terrace and an outlook other than two dead guys to get her chatting. Mitch mainly listened, relishing the company of another. 

Once he knew the adrenaline had settled, Mitch told her it was time to go - there was only so long a person could comfortably hang around in these circumstances. Loretta nodded understanding and Mitch wondered if she ever got the chance to relax and shoot the breeze like this. What a bitch life could be, he thought. 

It was discussed that Mitch needed to leave town, and pronto. Loretta had once again shrugged in her laissez-faire way and told Mitch he could take her dad’s old truck if he liked - they had no use for it now.

The house was tiny; he knew it would be. White paint peeled from the walls and the slats of the front porch cracked and splintered. He waited there as Loretta grabbed the keys. Inside he could see grey concrete walls and flies circling dishes. On the low couch a skeletal woman lay sleeping, a rag pulled over her. Mitch could hear the soft rattles as she breathed. 

“Here you go,” Loretta returned, her smile innocent. “And, well, thanks I guess.” 

Mitch nodded, looking beyond her shoulder back into the dank room. 

“You take care now,” he said finally. for some inexplicable reason it felt hard to leave this girl, here, in this place. 

“You too Mitch Sparrow.”

***

Window down and the warm air tickled against Mitch’s bare arm. Heading West; the lake was waiting for him, tranquil simplicity. He exhaled relief. In the forces they called him Hawk. The guys said Sparrow didn’t quite cut it. Nowadays, though, plain old Mitch suited just fine. 

He thought of Loretta, then. Often things are out of our control; life one long, weaving adventure, but sometimes, just sometimes, we get by with a little help from a stranger. He smiled wide and started to laugh. He imagined her; maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow - stepping out onto the porch to find a bin liner that could change her life.