“I’m so sorry, my card has been stolen,” I stammer. “Can you take me back to where you picked me up from so I can collect it?”
“No.”
“No?” I frown. “What do you mean?”
“I not take you anywhere without money,” he replies in his heavy accent.
“But my card has been stolen?” I gasp as I keep pulling my wallet apart. Please be in here. “I can’t help it if my card has been stolen.”
“You can come and pay me tomorrow.”
“Yes,” I gasp. “I can do that. I’ll come and pay you first thing.”
“Give me your license.”
“What?”
“Give me your license, and I’ll give it back when you come pay tomorrow.”
I think for a moment. This doesn’t sound like a good idea.
“Or I can call the police right now and have you charged.”
“Fucking hell!” I stammer. “This is the worst day of my life.”
“Going to prison will be worse.”
My eyes widen. “I’m too pretty for prison.”
He holds his hand out for my license, and I slam it in his hand. “Thanks for nothing.”
“You’re welcome.” He hands me a business card. “Be at this address in the morning by ten, or I am calling the police.”
“Fine.” I get out and slam the door. I lean back down through the window. “Be careful with my license.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He drives off.
I take out my phone and instantly call my bank.
“Hello, this is banking online. How may I assist you?”
“Hi, I’m traveling, and I need to cancel a card that has been stolen, please?” I begin to pace on the sidewalk in front of the hostel.
“Of course, what is the card number?”
“If I had the card in front of me, I could tell you.”
Don’t mess with me, woman, not tonight.
“Do you know the account numbers?”
“I’ll log in to my online banking and check. Hang on.” I put her on speaker and quickly log in. I narrow my eyes as I stare at the measly one account.
BALANCE: 0000
“Um.” I frown as I try to work out what is going on here.
Where’s my $1, 800?
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“It’s saying zero balance, but I know there’s money in there.”
“What’s the account number?”
I tell her, and she types into her computer.
“There was a withdrawal . . . several withdrawals ten minutes ago in Barcelona. I’m sorry, sir, the account has been completely emptied.”
“Son of a bitch!” I cry. I pace backward and forward in the dark.
“Put in a dispute, and we will try and get it back for you.”
“Oh, thank god. How long does it take for the money to come back?”
“Twenty-eight days.”
“Twenty-eight days?” I cry. “I’m in Spain. I have no money. What am I going to do?”
“You will have to get some money transferred into your backup card until we send you a new one.”
“What do you mean, a backup card?”
“Everybody knows that when you travel you have to have a second card you don’t use in case this kind of thing happens.”
Damn it, I specifically didn’t do this so I couldn’t have spare cash. I didn’t want to have a slush fund.
You idiot.
“Everybody but me!” I cry. This is the literal day from hell.
“I’ve canceled the card and ordered you a new one. Where do you want it sent to?”
I stare up at the hostel. I don’t even know the address. “I’ll have to call you back with an address.” I sigh, utterly dejected.
“That’s okay.”
“Thanks.”
“Mr. Miles . . .”
“Yes.”
“It’s a good thing you weren’t hurt in the robbery, sir. A lot of travelers aren’t so lucky. Possessions can always be replaced.”
I stare into the darkness. “Yes, you’re right.”
“Good night, sir.”
“Good night.” I hang up and look around in the darkness.
It’s quiet and still. The sound of laughter can be heard in the distance.
I feel stupid, and so alone.
What am I supposed to do now? Call my brothers so they can bail me out on my first fucking day away?
And tell them that they were right, that I really can’t cut it without my family’s money. That I’m a big fat failure.
No way in hell!
I’ll starve before I ask them for a cent.
“You all right?” someone asks from behind me. I turn to see a boy. He’s young and struggling to carry two large garbage bags full of trash.
“Yeah.” I exhale heavily.
He walks over and unlocks a large bin and climbs up and throws the trash in and relocks the industrial bin.
“What are you doing?” I ask him.
“I’m on close.”
“Close?”
“I work behind the bar.”
“Behind the bar?” I screw up my face. “Aren’t you like twelve?”
“Fourteen.”
“Don’t you have school tomorrow?”
“I don’t go to school.”
I stare at him. He has black curly hair and is of Spanish descent. He looks so young, but he has an old-soul feel about him.
“Why not?”
“I support my household.”
“At fourteen?”
“Yep.” He smiles with a shrug. “You coming back in?”
“Nah . . .” I keep sitting on my step.
He lingers. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks.
I exhale heavily. “Have you ever felt like a complete failure?”
“Nope.”