The Pregnant Attractive Homeless Runaway Scam Artist

I'll never go to the dog park hungover again.

Bucky’s tail thumped against my blanket. I squeezed my eyes shut. It was still early, and my head was pounding. Bucky let out a dull whine. I pretended not to hear him. He crawled to my face and nudged me with his nose. My stomach gurgled. I’d throw up if I moved. Bucky slathered me with his tongue. I scratched Bucky’s brindle back all the way down to his corgi butt.

“Good morning to you, too.”

Bucky didn’t stop bathing my face. “Alright, alright, we can go to the dog park.”

He let out a bark and hopped out of bed.

I sparked the half-smoked marijuana bowl on my dresser. Chugged a water bottle. Waited a minute. Packed more weed into the bowl. Lit it. Accidentally took a big hit. My throat burst into a fit. Coughing meant I’d be really high. Which could only help me forget my debilitating headache.

I headed for the fridge. Bucky paced around our tiny studio, whimpering. I downed another water bottle. And that’s how I cured my hangover. At least to a functional level.

I threw a leash on Bucky and left my place in what I wore last night.

The street stunk like trash and piss. This was a part of San Diego not on social media. Jimmy, one of the recovering crack addicts who lived in the halfway house next door, struck up a chat with me on my way to the dog park. Something about his old job and how the man fucked him. I could relate. He wore one of his standard dirty white T-shirts, torn jeans, and beat-to-hell boots. He smoked a pack of cancer sticks a day, which was obvious when he spoke. Bucky loved the way Jimmy scratched him. I endured his rants in exchange. Even if I wanted to stick a power drill into my temple to relieve the tension in my head.

Bucky and I walked two blocks to a rich neighborhood. Luxury apartments, fancy restaurants, and eventually, the dog park. Dogshit was smeared all over an overflowing trash bin. I could taste it. It was too much. I folded in half, clutched my stomach, and threw up. My guts forced themselves out of my mouth. I was sure I was on the verge of death.

A decent pile of yellow vomit and colorful chunks covered the side of the street. I’d be damned. What did I eat last night? What were those chunks? I couldn’t figure it out. An older woman and her husband didn’t hide their disgust at me admiring my puke art.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked.

“Get yourself together, young man!”

Bucky sniffed the vomit and went to snag a bite, but I pulled him away before he got a taste. The Sunday breakfast crowd made aggressive sounds of disgust as they hurried by me. I imagined some rich housewife would peek down from her penthouse window, speed-dialing 9-1-1: “Someone puked outside my home! We don’t tolerate that type of behavior on Front Street. He’s a hooligan. Oh my God! He’s getting closer to it. Arrest him!”

If I were back home, I could have paid a homeless guy five bucks for each correct thing he named in my puke. But these fuckin’ California snobs.

Damn.

I was staring at my own puke in the middle of a crowded street. I used one of his poop bags to clean my mouth. If I didn’t move soon, someone would call the cops. I was high and maybe still drunk. Not ideal for a conversation with an officer of the law. Bucky and I hustled away.

By the time we made it to the dog park a half block away, alcohol oozed out of my pores. If we ran another foot, I’d have puked again. I freed Bucky from his leash and found a bench in the back corner, away from everyone.. I wish it were night. Civilized people weren’t out then.

My stench screamed, “Leave me the fuck alone.” I slouched down and avoided eye contact with both humans and animals. I couldn’t handle engaging in California dog park small talk anyway.

Out here, everyone said hello and expected you to listen to them brag about their lives. People confessed their passions and dreams in a five-minute dog park conversation. In Jersey? Anything more than “How are you” was offensive. For the first time since moving, I wished I was back home.

Someone approached me. Fuck. I didn’t feel like playing nice today. A nice feminine perfume had me sneaking a peek. The human was a she, with smooth, toned legs that led right up to a short white sundress. She had a gold cross necklace, long blonde and brown hair, hazel eyes, and a diamond stud in her nose.

“Which dog is yours?” she asked.

The attractive woman showed me her perfect teeth when she smiled. I guess I could deal with humans today.

“Bucky,” I pointed at him as he chased a dog four times his size. “That brindle corgi mix over there.”

She giggled. “He’s goofy-looking.”

“You have no idea.”

“In a cute way, I mean.”

The recent dad-bod craze helped my cause, but she was too sexy to be sitting next to someone in my condition. I wasn’t entirely sure I had cleaned the puke remains from my beard. I took a subtle whiff of my armpit. Yikes. But she didn’t seem to mind.

Her name was Hannah. Charles Barkley was hers. It was an awesome name for a bulldog. I told her how I rescued Bucky from Alabama. She told me how she got Charles Barkley from a friend’s accidental litter. She was from Davenport, a small town outside of Chicago. Her family was very religious. She had more issues with cold weather than me, and rightfully so. She was a big Kurt Vonnegut fan. She pretended to get mad at me when she found out I hadn’t read him. I forgot about my hangover, mostly. Every so often, a shooting pain would fire through my brain, but I could handle it.

Hannah pointed at our dogs a few feet away from our bench. “Look, our dogs are friends.”

Oh shit. Bucky. Right. I was at the dog park. I forgot about the little guy. Hannah slid closer to me.

“What brought you out here?” Hannah asked.

My alarm bells went off. She wanted something.

“You don’t want to hear that sob story.”

“Maybe we can compare.”

Hannah paused and gave me those sad eyes-only women, children, and dogs can pull off.

“You first,” I said.

She paused. “My boyfriend broke up with me before I could tell him I was pregnant.”

“I’m sorry. That’s awful.”

“I asked my parents what to do. They told me to…” Hannah cradled her flat stomach. “…end the pregnancy. They even offered to pay. I thought about . . . you know . . . taking care of it. But it felt wrong.

“So, I packed my things and headed west. I didn’t know what was right. You know? My first night driving, I tried to make it to a rest stop, but I pushed too far. I didn’t want to double back, but I couldn’t go any further. I found the perfect spot to sleep. It was on a quiet road in the middle of nowhere. You should have seen the stars. I’d never seen so many in my life. I fell asleep smiling. I can still see them when I close my eyes. That night, I saw God in my dreams. He told me to keep the baby.”

“Jesus Christ,” I said.

“When I told my family I was keeping the baby. They told me not to come home.”

My heart sank. “That’s fucked up.”

“Their daughter having a child out of wedlock would make them look bad.”

“Are they the Jesus types?”

Hannah glared.

“I mean, the religious types,” I said. “Catholics.”

“Devout.”

“I haven’t read the good book in a bit, but I’d argue that killing an unborn child would piss off Jesus even more than having a child out of wedlock.”

“Getting away from them is what’s best for me. And my family.”

She looked down at her nonexistent belly, but the story seemed too insane to be fake, and I was too hungover to find out if she was full of shit.

“Your baby is lucky to have you.”

“My little princess, Hope.”

“Are you alone out here?” I asked.

“A couple people I grew up with moved out here. Anyone who escapes Ford Heights moves to San Diego. It’s like a tradition.”

“Ford Heights? I asked. “I thought you were from Davenport.”

Hannah’s eyes widened. She played it off with a laugh. “Technically, yes.”

“Right.”

She was full of shit. Who mixes up their hometown? A scammer who can’t get their script straight. The weed was wearing off. My headache went from dull to forcing me to squint my eyes to ease the pain. Bucky flopped down in front of me, panting like a maniac. The perfect excuse to leave. Bucky was good like that.

“My guy is dying,” I said. “I have to get him home.”

“I appreciate you talking to me.”

“Best of luck out here to you…” I stared at her slim belly. “And your baby.”

“Thanks.”

Hannah rose to her feet. “I guess I’ll be going too.”

Was Hannah full of shit? Curiosity got the best of me.

“Need an escort back to your car?” I asked.

“I can manage.”

“I could use a few more minutes to sweat out my hangover.”

Hannah had a beat-up silver four-door hunk of shit from the late nineties. Two hubcaps were missing. It had its fair share of dents and scratches. She stuffed the back seat with clothes and things. The front seat was empty, but the floor held two big cardboard boxes. Exploding out of some boxes were baby clothes and toys. A struggling rope barely held the trunk shut.

“Are you living in your car?” I asked.

“Not every night,” she said. “Tonight’s a car night.”

I hated knowing a pregnant woman was sleeping in a car, but still, something about Hannah was off. But I couldn’t just leave a homeless, desperate, pregnant woman on the streets. I hated the idea of a stranger, no matter how homeless, desperate, pregnant, or hot, being at my place without me there. No way. Fuck. Why did she have to sit next to me?

“Listen, I want to help, but it’s a bad time.”

I pulled out my wallet and gathered what cash I had.

“I have, like, sixty bucks.”

“I’m fine,” she said.

“I can send you some more.”

She took the cash. “You don’t have to.”

I felt like such a dick for thinking it was a total scam. I sent her a hundred bucks from my phone. It was all I could afford to lose.

“You got a job?” I asked.

“I’ve been doing deliveries for cash. I had a few waitressing interviews, too. I should hear back from one today or tomorrow.”

“Keep me posted,” I said.

“There’s one more thing,” she said.

Her words made me uneasy.

“I hate to ask,” she said.

But she was going to anyway.

“I could use a place to stay,” she said.

Hannah noticed my jaw hitting the floor.

“You won’t even notice I’m there,” she said.

What if she was a con artist? And she robbed me and stole Hank while I was at work? What if she was really alone? Or tried to kill me in my sleep? What if she texts her accomplices, gets them into my place, and robs me? What if I smoked too much weed and then I’m paranoid? I need to stop watching serial killer documentaries. And to stop getting high and going out in public.

“I have to get to bed early for work,” I lied.

“I’ll clean. Cook. Walk the dogs. Take care of them.”

What if she wasn’t lying? Look at her car. I couldn’t just leave her on the streets.

“I can’t.”

She paused and looked between my legs. “Take care of you.”

Then again, I didn’t really have anything valuable she could steal. Well, besides Bucky.

“You won’t even notice I’m there,” she said.

Hannah took a step closer to me. Her caramel scent made me want to give in. I imagined she’d do anything to keep her and her baby safe. Allegedly. That was chaos I didn’t need in my life.

“It’s a small place.”

Hannah caressed her fingers on my wrist. “I’ll sleep on the couch if you want.”

I looked down at her stomach. She had no baby bump. Didn’t know where she was from. I pulled my hand away. If it were a guy who approached me at the park, I would have ignored him from the get-go.

“Let’s hang tomorrow,” I said.

She took a step back and looked down at her feet. “Oh. Okay.”

“After I’m done work.”

“I have to take this.” Hannah pulled her phone from her purse. I didn’t hear it ring. “It’s a friend. Might be a job.”

She got into her car and drove off. I used my phone to research Davenport and Ford Heights. The towns were more than a hundred miles apart. Hannah was full of shit.

It was the last I heard from her. For months. Then I got a text from an unknown number.

Hey! How you doin? It’s Hannah from the dog park.

What did she want? Was she still homeless? How was her baby?

Don’t mean to intrude, but I have no one else. Is it cool if I send a package or a few to your place?

I should have ‘sucker’ tattooed on my forehead. Maybe she was a new mom in need, but I couldn’t save everyone. I damn sure couldn’t risk some stranger sending drugs or contraband to my address. I deleted the texts from Hannah and blocked her number.