From Riches to Rags Read online

  The first three months, I spent what little cash I had on liquor, but the money dried up fast, along with my rich friends, and I had a decision to make. Either I prostitute myself for booze, or I sober up and get a job. Finally, after waking up in the gutter beside a drunkard who reeked of feces, I decided to sober up and get a job.

  Although I went to college, I dropped out every other year, and never got my diploma. The sober, disgusting part is that I only needed a few more credits to go for my degree. Because I didn’t have it to fall back on, I was turned away from jobs that actually paid something. So I got a job as a waitress at a restaurant. It didn’t even pay minimum wage, and I was so horrible at it that the tips were practically non-existent. But at least I could take home the leftover food at the end of the day. Until I got myself fired, that is. Tomorrow I will go down to Beale Street and look for a job. I hear they’re always looking for help down there.

  Anyway, sitting in my tiny apartment, stone cold sober for six months, I realized that I wanted to do more than just exist. My first compelling thought was that I needed to make amends for almost killing someone when I was drunk a few years back. That realization has begun to eat away at my heart. Even though I was jailed, and my parents were sued, I still need to, at the very least, apologize to the victim. I didn’t have to serve time because my parents settled out of court for a cool two million and the charges were dropped. If I had been the victim, I would have asked for a hell of a lot more than that.

  They tell me that it was only by the grace of God that he lived. Perhaps it is God’s grace now that compels me to do something to make amends? I don’t know. All I know is that having had a taste of debauchery, I am now ready for a taste of benevolence, with the understanding that I am the one who will have to be benevolent if I am too make up for my past misdeeds.

  I’m not sure how I can make amends with the man I ran over when I was drunk. I never bothered to learn his name or where he lives, and now, with my parents not taking my phone calls or writing back to me, I will not be able to find him. In the meantime, I want to pay it forward wherever I can, with what little I have. My parents taught me at a very young age, that a kindness produces a kindness, but cruelty only produces sadness. I don’t want to be sad anymore, and I so desperately don’t want to be alone anymore.

  ***

  Paying it Forwards, Christine Livingston — Meg Bumgartner

  Written report on Christine Dolores Livingston

  Client is her father, Carl Livingston

  Meg Bumgartner, Private Investigator

  Case #210, Christine Dolores Livingston

  Subject is a twenty-five-year-old lesbian, long sandy blond hair, green eyes, medium height, very thin.

  Ms. Livingston was a spoiled debutant who threw one too many tantrums and her parents kicked her out on her butt. But in my conversations with the Livingston’s, I find that they are not cruel people, they just didn’t know how to help their daughter any longer. This seemed like the last desperate alternative to having her committed to a psych ward. However, they did retain my services exclusively for a year, to keep an eye on their daughter, including protecting her, should the need arise. But their specification is that I am not to let her know this, because they are trying to teach her a lesson. That might seem harsh now, but hopefully, it will bring her back to her senses.

  Chris grew up in Collierville, Tennessee, which is just a few miles East of Memphis, and had the normal, small town adventures, and friendships. But when her father, Carl Livingston, made some good investments for himself, they paid off, and overnight he was rich. He took his expertise a step further and began investing for the Memphis Investment Funds, an international firm known for its return percentage. Once his finances were secured, he moved the family to a mansion in Memphis, and put Chris in an expensive private school.

  Her teen years are when her troubles began. Mr. Livingston was forthcoming about his daughter; his wife, however, was not. I got the feeling it was too embarrassing for her, and also to painful.

  When Chris was sixteen, she came out, literally, at the debutante ball, where the young southern women are formally introduced to society as adults. Chris got drunk, announced to the world that she was a lesbian, and left the ball with three other debutants. The next morning her picture was on the cover of the Memphis social magazine. So began her wanton ways, as her mother tells it.

  I got the feeling, although he didn’t come right out and say it, that Mr. Livingston blamed himself for his daughter’s sudden change. The Livingston’s were thrust into the high society life. In an effort to be sociable and fit into the perceived rich circle of important people, they drank, partied and encouraged their guests to do the same, when they hosted parties in their own mansion. Livingston believes it was because he let Chris attend those parties, she learned that drinking was acceptable and expected. He didn’t see what it was doing to her until it was too late.

  As I said, they are good parents who only want their daughter whole again. They are not above public ridicule because of their daughter’s actions, and as a consequence, must also rebuild their reputation, which was somewhat tainted after the drunken car accident, but not irreparably. I believe that Mr. Livingston was shrewd in paying off the victim quickly, before his case could go to court. In doing so, it was just a blurb on the back page of the newspapers, where it was whispered around the water coolers, and forgotten quickly.

  In observance of Chris since the night she was turned away from her parents’ home, I have seen a complete three-sixty change in her behavior. The Livingston’s hired me the day before they showed Chris their tough love and kicked her out, so I have been, for lack of a better word, spying on her since that dramatic day when she begged them for forgiveness.

  The first night she checked into a hotel and drank until she passed out. She continued that behavior over the next three months of exile. Quite frankly, the way Chris drank, I was sure she would be dead or raped by now, although I made sure I was nearby to try and prevent both. The fact that her parents had kicked her out and cut her off from their money had only encouraged her to drink more. I believe it was due to a mixture of heartache and stubbornness that drove her to drink. I don’t believe she is an alcoholic.

  She had money of her own and burned through as if it grew on trees. And when the hotel where she was staying, cut up her credit card right in front of her, because her father had stopped credit on it, she didn’t bat an eye. She kept drinking.

  I watched her that morning, when she woke up in the gutter, lying next to an unconscious drunk. She was broke. She was terrified. She was sober.

  Her mother called me daily the first couple of months. The woman was distraught, but hopeful that she was doing the right thing. It wouldn’t have taken much for her to have changed her mind and demand that I bring her daughter home. But each time she got close to doing just that, her husband talked her out of it. It was he who asked me to give only positive reports to Mrs. Livingston, telling her what she wanted to hear, to shield her from the depths their daughter had sunk to. But he wanted the complete details, including my analyses that I thought Chris was acting out in order to punish them. He agreed with me and said that with all things considered, it seemed the normal thing for her to do.

  With absolutely no money left, Chris wandered into a restaurant one day, hoping for food and landed a job instead. I sent up a silent prayer of thanks for that restaurant manager, because he had probably saved her life that day. Unfortunately, I was also in the restaurant when Chris got herself fired. It might be biased on my part, having witnessed her struggle to pull herself up by her bootstraps, but Chris was totally justified in standing up to the insufferable Melinda Blackstone. I know Melinda by reputation only, and she is not even in the same league as Chris.

  When I report to the Livingston’s that Chris was fired from her first job, I will temper it with the kindness Chris showed a beggar just an hour before she was let go. The man was dirty, grungy, and reeked of alco
hol so bad that I could smell him from my table back in the corner. He was quickly shown the door. Chris told the manager that she was going to break for supper, and then offered her meal to the homeless man instead. When she came back in, I saw a tear in her eye, as if she knew how close she had come to being just like that man. How close she still is.

  Chapter Two

  The Haunting ‒ Melinda aka Blackie Blackstone

  “Leave me alone!” I heard myself scream, and then realized I had been dreaming.

  “What is it, Blackie?”

  I looked at the stranger in my arms, asking me something I couldn’t answer, even to myself. “I think you’d better go now. There’s some cash on the nightstand, take what you need.”

  “I’m not a prostitute. Did you think I was?”

  “No, don’t be silly” I said, as I sat up and waited for my head to stop pounding, “I’ve got a bitch of a hangover and just want to be alone now. The money is to make sure you get home all right.”

  “Oh, well, um, thanks.”

  She got up and dressed, then grabbed up the wad of bills I had lying on the nightstand and left. She’s going to piss in her pants when she counts it, I thought. But even thinking made my hurt head, so I laid back down and pull the blankets over my burning eyes. “I’m not having any fun,” I said out loud to my empty hotel room. I must be doing something wrong, because it use to be all about the fun. I didn’t have fun getting drunk and I didn’t have fun screwing that girl, not even when she brought me to climax. “What is wrong with me?”

  I closed my eyes, adding to the darkness under the blanket, and instantly that waitress came to mind. It was her that I had been dreaming about, and she haunts me still in my consciousness. Ah, there’s the problem, I’m conscious. I tried to empty my mind, so that I could sleep, but she wouldn’t let me. Why did you let her get to you like that? George had asked me, but I couldn’t answer him. Why did I let her get to me? Was it her sad celadon green eyes that pierced my very soul with their depth, or the way her eyes sparkled a deep forest green when she got angry at me? Perhaps it was her prideful indignation that was an equal match to my own? Probably it was, because I couldn’t let her have the last say. No one dresses down Melinda Blackstone, no one. I heard the little voice in my head laughing at me. This time my little voice was right. How asinine of me to talk about myself in the third person, as if the first one wasn’t good enough. The little voice laughed even harder. No, wait, that wasn’t what I meant either. Shit! I’m having an argument with myself and I’m losing.

  Okay, so how do I purge the skinny wench from my mind? What would make me feel better? What would get me out of this funk and back on track to the fun times? “And Christine Dolores Livingston does not appreciate having your snot thrown on her apron.” That’s it! Her name is Christine Livingston. Find her, screw her, or give her some money and I’ll feel a whole lot better about things.

  ***

  The Haunting ‒ Chris Livingston

  I woke up exhausted. I worked at that restaurant all day until I thought I would fall asleep on my feet, and then I came home and had to exhaust myself again, in order to fall asleep. My demons followed me into the darkness of sleep, and I would wake feeling exhausted… again Somehow I must find a way to end this cycle, prove to my parents that I am worthy of their love again, and make amends to a man I almost killed. That’s a tall order for a short order waitress, without a job, chased by an enormous guilt.

  I rolled over on my back and stared at the cracked, dingy ceiling. I can’t believe I got myself fired already. Not a good way to start out my make amends mission.

  My thoughts were interrupted by a sudden banging in the hallway, and then someone turning the door knob to my apartment. I reached under my pillow for the baseball bat that I kept there. It was my most expensive purchase since I sobered up, but it was well worth skipping a meal for. I pulled it out and sat up, gripping it in both hands, ready to swing. Thank God I played softball in junior high school and knew how to swing a bat to connect with a ball, or in this case, someone’s head. But the noise finally moved further down the hallway, and I knew it must have been a drunk, looking for a place to pass out. Been there, done that, wish I could forget it.

  I left the bat on the bed, just to make me feel more secure, as I got up and slipped my cold feet into my slippers. As I do every morning, I shuffled over to look out the tiny window, look past the diagonal security bar bracing the window shut, past the fire escape, to the rising sun on the horizon. Seeing the sun come up every day gave me beauty where there was none, warmth for my cold soul, and hope that there would indeed be a future for me.

  My attention was diverted when I heard a soft mew, coming from under my window. I looked down and saw a small ball of fur, with the tiniest face and largest eyes I’d ever seen on a kitten.

  “Aw, you poor thing. Where did you come from?” I asked, knowing there would be no answer.

  There was no collar on the kitten, no way of telling if it belonged to someone. There were no other cats around, so it must be weaned from its mother, though it looked like it had just been born. For some reason that I will never understand, I opened the window, reached my arm through and scooped up the kitten, bringing t it and all its fleas inside.

  “How did you come to be on my fire escape, little one?” I held it up and saw it was a girl.

  I had a half a can of tuna left over in the tiny box that served as a refrigerator, so I brought it out and set the kitten and the can of tuna on the floor, and set crossed legged in front of them. I watched as she devoured whole chunks of tuna at once, until the can was empty, and her belly was full. She was content, and began purring, rubbing her tiny cheek across my slipper.

  “I’m not keeping you, you know.” The kitten had begun to bathe when it looked up at me with those huge yellow eyes.

  “No, I can’t keep you. Don’t you understand? I can barely afford food for myself. You’ll starve living here.”

  Her soft brow curved up and her eyes grew large and I swear, she looked like she was pleading with me. She crawled up in my lap and nudged me with her head, and that was it, I was in love. It’s hard to admit, even to myself, and ludicrous to think, but that kitten was my only friend now.

  The kitten had mostly black fur, with a fluff of white on its chest, a patch of white on its nose and paws. I’m not sure exactly why, because I didn’t want to be mean to the cat, but I named her Blackie.

  Reporting in Person — Meg Bumgartner

  “Is she warm enough? Does she have enough food to eat?”

  Mrs. Livingston inundated me with questions the minute I was shown through the heavy oak doors to their mansion. It was the same questions she always asked me, and I gave her the same answers.

  “She’s thin, but eating regularly, and yes, she’s warm enough.”

  What I didn’t divulge was that Chris ate like a bird on purpose, to stretch her money, and she wore layered clothes while in the apartment, because it was colder inside than out. I feared that she might not have enough heat this winter, as thin as those walls were. I couldn’t tell Mrs. Livingston these things because she would insist on taking blankets and food to her, and as soon as that happened, Chris would know who the benefactor was. Mr. Livingston had warned me of this ahead of time, and though he didn’t ask me to lie, which I have not, he did ask me to ensure that Chris stand on her own two feet, without handouts from Mrs. Livingston or her staff.

  “She’s found herself a roommate,” I said, then quickly explained that it was a stray kitten, not a human who could help with expenses.

  “A pet? She never wanted a pet before.” Mrs. Livingston declared, as if this was some kind of miracle.

  “Yes, the stray had apparently been born in the apartment above Chris’s floor, and fell out the window onto Chris’s fire escape stoop.”

  That was the best assumption I could make up. In fact I had put the kitten there myself. I didn’t want to tell Mrs. Livingston that Chris was lonely, so lone
ly that she cried herself to sleep every night. I thought she just needed something to love, and something that could love her back, and in a moment of weakness that I don’t regret, I went to the pet store and bought a kitten for her.

  Admittedly I had never done anything like that before on one of my cases, but I also had never watched a subject’s every move for nine months either. I had come to know and admire Chris, and didn’t want to see her fail.

  “Is it diseased? Does it have the mange, or worms, or something horrible like that?” Mrs. Livingston asked, as she shivered at the thought.

  And now we know why Chris never wanted pets. “No, ma’am, it seemed healthy to me.” The kitten had had all its shots at the pet store.

  “How is it you know these things, Ms. Bumgartner?” She asked me curiously.

  I answered her honestly, “After Chris moved into her apartment, I secured a similar apartment across the street from her, and up one floor so that I could see into her apartment.”

  What I didn’t tell her was that I had a pair of binoculars with a camera monitor, mounted on a tripod, aimed into Chris’s apartment. With the two buildings separated only by a back ally, I really didn’t need the binoculars, but it could be programmed to snap infrared pictures at night, so that I could check how she fared while I slept. I had long since lost any awkward feelings when it came to spying on a person like that, it was simply my job, and I am very good at my job.

  But the quizzical look on her face made me want to explain to Mrs. Livingston that I was very discreet about a person’s privacy, and would not divulge, even to the mother, what her child might be doing in her own apartment. I wanted to assure her of that, but I did not. Instead I handed her a stack of photos of Chris with the kitten, thinking that would alleviate her concerns.