A Dollar Short

"A bet's a bet, sucker!" Hawk triumphed. "Pay up!"

"Screw you, Loogie." Tubbs shoved a reluctant hand into his XL 501s and withdrew a crumpled one-dollar bill. As Hawk had predicted, Tubbs was the only one in the frat who wasn't wearing a themed costume for Halloween; everyone else was dressed as a female pop star. There were plenty of Madonnas, Britney Spears-es, and Taylors Swift, but Hawk was dressed up as Aracely Cecily, in a pair of thigh-high silver boots. He smugly tucked the dollar into one of them.

"Aw, come on, Dwayne, you're a beautiful hunk of man meat," Hawk said, trapping Tubbs's head beneath a satin-gloved arm and administering a silky noogie. "We'll throw a wig on you and call you Janis Joplin. Let's go!"

The main bulk of the thoroughly pre-gaming frat was headed to the Phi Mu party across the sick-slicked lawn, but Hawk, Tubbs, Roach, and Baldie were all going to the ZipZap Diner to meet up with a couple of Deltas and head over to the haunted trail. Baldie was driving, and as Hawk's mini-skirted thighs stuck to the unwashed pleather, he did the mental math of how many laps would have to be donated to give the girls a ride. "I call shotgun back."

Roach, dressed as Arianna Grande, pushed aside Baldie's Tina Turner wig to say, "You can't call shotgun until you're in sight of the car."

"Dude," Hawk reasoned. "All I see is car."

"You know the rules, Loogie."

The diner was a jangling carousel of fairy princesses, Frankenstein's monsters, and stressed-out waitresses wincing through cat whiskers. The Deltas waved from their corner booth, one Elvis, one Elton, and one Jimi Hendrix. Hawk's long legs out-paced his brothers as he slid into the seat next to Jimi. "Talk about 'Foxy Lady'."

"Okay," said Jimi. "It's a single."

Hawk grinned. "Well, now you're playing my song."

Jimi snorted, toying with the straw in her drink. "That's music to my ears." There was a tap on Hawk's shoulder, and he expected to bawl out one of his frat bros, but his eyes opened wider as his mouth stayed shut.

In front of him was a face he had seen every time he flicked through his 'get psyched' playlist, occasionally featuring in unmentionable dreams, whose trademark make-up he had meticulously copied in the mirror that night. The shimmering, glittering star smiled at him with sweet, soft, delicious lips. "Excuse me," said Aracely Cecily, in a buttery Colombian lilt. "I must have a picture with my twin!"

Hawk's lungs defied his orders to breathe like a normal person. "I, uh, ye, er, yeah, totally!" he stammered, banging his knees on the table in his effort to extract himself from the booth in high heels. "Oh my god, I'm a huge fan!"

There was a snort of laughter behind him. Hawk could feel his brothers judging him, and pretty Jimi Hendrix, too, as he melted into a fan-boy puddle colored with a bright red blush. He could hear the impressions coming for weeks after this, crude photo-shops jamming up his inbox, the inevitable blow-up doll with a pop star's name scrawled across its inflatable head. Suddenly his outfit, which had seemed satisfyingly accurate and, yes, a little sexy, felt like a socially suicidal choice.

But all that went away when Aracely Cecily put her arm around Hawk's waist. Her body pressed into his, warm, supple, fragrant jasmine rising from her sun-kissed skin. She swept her glossy, silken curls over Hawk's shoulder, sending an electric tingle through him on its way south, and she raised her other swan-like arm into selfie stance. Then, as time stopped, her butterfly lashes fluttered closed, and she pressed her velvet cloud lips to Hawk's shocked cheek.

Time started again a few seconds after the photo was taken, and Hawk wondered what his face had been doing while the rest of him was in orbit. "Thank you, my love!" Aracely said, flinging her golden arms around Hawk in a hug that would change the way he thought about hugs for a while. She pulled back, holding onto his arms and turning her sparkling eyes up to his face. "Can I sign something?"

"Oh--oh, god, yes!" Hawk turned to the table, wild eyes bouncing futilely off the bemused faces of his brothers, the stoney expression from Jimi Hendrix. "I...oh, here!" He pulled the winning dollar from his boot.

Aracely Cecily laughed, and that laugh put to music would instantly go platinum. She pulled the cap off a silver sharpie with her perfect teeth, plastered the bill across Hawk's chest, and scribbled over George Washington's lucky face. Then, she hooked a finger under Hawk's costume bra strap, and snapped it against his skin. "I think you wear it better, no?"

"No," said Hawk. "Absolutely not. You're amazing."

"Bye, my love!" Aracely Cecily walked away from him, back to the table she'd been sharing with a bunch of serious-looking people who were certainly not in costume. Hawk watched her, the retreating figure burning into his memory, then he looked down at the dollar bill in his hand. It was her signature. It was her phone number!

"Sit down, stud." Tubbs took hold of Hawk's shoulders and steered him into a seat. "Gonna have to close your mouth eventually."

"I understand now why you wanted shotgun," Roach smirked.

"Shut up!" Hawk re-adjusted his skirt and shoved the dollar back in his boot. "Jesus! Can I look any more like a complete and utter moron?"

Jimi Hendrix sucked her teeth. "You really can't."

They piled into Baldie's car, Hawk in the front, Jimi in the bitch seat, and Elvis and Elton each taking a lap. Somewhere in the back of Hawk's mind, he knew he was blowing any chance he had with the Deltas, a fact that put Tubbs in a pretty good mood as he re-calculated his odds. Hawk slipped the dollar bill from his boot, tracing his eyes over the looping signature, marveling at those ten digits, with little curls in the twos, promising a boundless future, where anything could happen. Hawk tucked the bill away again, but he kept his hand on it, reassuring himself that it was still there.

The haunted trail was not for children. Along nearly a mile of packed earth through the shadowy woods, there were crypts and mausoleums, haunted bridges and sinister fun houses, woven through a maze of ensnaring spider webs. It was too dark to see the ground beneath their feet, and Hawk was seriously regretting his choice of footwear as he stumbled on the uneven terrain. A hand caught his elbow, and Hawk saw Jimi Hendrix holding onto him, maybe in an effort to be a gentleman, maybe just because she was scared. "They're not allowed to touch us, right?"

Hawk followed her eyes to the next trap up ahead. There was a black and white checkerboard platform with psychedelic swirls and a strobe light throwing sudden shadows over three leering, monochromatic clowns. They were standing still as statues until the first brave souls came close, then the three heads turned in unison to track their prey. Hawk put an arm around Jimi, hoping that would hide his own shivers. "They're not supposed to."

The clowns burst free of the checkerboard wall, leaping into the screaming crowd, racing and howling as their victims ran for cover. One of the clowns was armed with water balloons, slapping them down to burst over fleeing feet in sprays of machine-washable blood. Another clown had a silly string gun, held at crotch height, and cackled maniacally as he sprayed the stragglers. Hawk squeezed tight to Jimi's shoulders and shielded her as they ran, ducking under the burst of carbon fog that chased them down the trail.

Past the danger, Hawk looked up into the familiar faces of his brothers, just as slack-jawed and breathless as he was, and started to grin. Baldie recovered first, his Tina Turner lips twisting into a smirk, while Tubbs tried and failed to keep his chuckles un-chucked. Elvis and Elton clung to each other, still too rattled to see what was so funny, but Roach had his hands on his knees, doubled over in laughter. Jimi smiled up at Hawk with an offer in her eyes.

Without really thinking about it, Hawk reached down to touch the dollar bill in his boot. "Wait a minute," he muttered, letting go of Jimi so his other hand could join the search. "Shit!"

"What? Are you bleeding?" asked Tubbs, squinting through the darkness.

"No, my dollar!" Hawk's head snapped back to the black and white wall. "Those asshole clowns stole my dollar!"

"Uh, it's a fucking dollar," said Jimi, hands on her hips. "And they're not allowed to touch us, remember?"

"One of them fucking did!" Hawk straightened his bustier and marched back toward the clowns. "Hey! Bozo!"

"Let it go, Loog!" commanded Baldie in his darkest Dad voice. "We're leaving. Now."

Hawk turned to glare at him, hoping his anger would penetrate the darkness and explain what was at stake, but Baldie wasn't playing. He pulled the car keys out of his purse, staring Hawk down with the tight-lipped resolve of a high noon gunslinger, a light breeze tossing his tumbleweed wig. In that moment, Hawk could have followed his friends, gotten back in the car, and ever after lament what could have been, if anyone would believe him.

Instead, Hawk turned on his heel and marched back toward the clowns, brushing off the jet of fog that wasn't frightening anymore. "Hey!" he barked. "Which one of you assholes took my dollar?"

One clown turned to another. "Is this dude for real?"

The third clown said, "Nobody took your dollar, Aracely. Nice tits, by the way."

"Well, I had it before I walked through here," Hawk snarled. "And now, it's gone. So now what?"

One of the clowns jumped down from the platform, and would have intimidated Hawk if he wasn't a head shorter than the frat fatale. "So, now you get back in your car and get lost."

"Leave him alone, Keith," another clown cautioned.

"Yeah, she's probably just on her period," said the third.

Hawk's hands squeezed into tight fists. "I want my dollar."

The clown in front of him crossed his arms, looked Hawk up and down, and said, "I'll give you a dollar. For a lap dance."

Hawk punched the clown in the face. Thick greasepaint stained his satin knuckles as they connected with the clown's nose, squeaking slightly as the clown fell hard on his backside. The other clowns hurried down from the platform as the downed clown scrabbled up on all fours, grabbed one of Hawk's boots with both hands and yanked, toppling Hawk as the other leg buckled under him. His skirt rode up as he was dragged over the ragged leaves, and Hawk lost his wig entirely as he lunged forward, seizing two fistfuls of the clown's jumpsuit, and launching into a vicious head butt.

The clown dropped Hawk's leg, stumbling backward and clutching his head, but four hands latched onto Hawk's arms, restraining him as incoherent words competed for attention against the blood rushing in his ears. Just ahead of him, the strobe light flashed over a leaf that was different from the others--a rectangular green leaf marked with a silver sharpie scrawl!

Hawk struggled against the clowns grappling him, eyes fixed on the phantom dollar, until a white glove grabbed him by the throat, its double socking Hawk across the cheekbone. The other clowns dropped their hold to subdue the enraged triplet, and Hawk managed to dive forward, snatching the dollar and a fistful of leaves, then lurching away down the darkened trail.

Baldie's car was gone. It was a long walk to the nearest bus stop, and Hawk picked the crushed leaves from his prized bill, with the beautiful curves of Aracely Cecily's signature gleaming like a polished star. His feet hurt, he was freezing, and a tender spot beneath his eye was blossoming into a world-class shiner, but Hawk tried clinging to his dignity as every single car honked at him as they drove past. He pushed a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, enjoying a healthy scratch of his wig-free scalp, and predicted no girls in his immediate future. Although...he did have a phone number.

Hawk heard the sound of breaking glass behind him. Over his shoulder, Hawk could see a shattered beer bottle in the wake of an unshackled clown.

High heels clicking on the concrete, Hawk picked up the pace, moving a little closer to the safety of the street lights. The menacing squeak of oversized shoes was gaining on him, the clown catching up to Hawk's hobbled steps. Hawk could see the bus stop up ahead, and an ocean of sidewalk between them, but over a ridge in the diminishing distance, the bright lights of a blessed bus were cresting the hill.

Putting on a burst of speed, Hawk pounded the pavement in his costume boots, the precious dollar clutched in his fist. He could hear the clown in hot pursuit, and didn't know if he could reach the bus before the clown reached him, but breath after ragged breath was tearing up the track, racing, desperate, until a betraying high heel cracked beneath his weight.

The bus stopped. The doors opened. Hawk flung himself up the steps, collapsing on the sticky floor as the doors, inches ahead of the clown, pneumatically gasped shut.

The clown slapped a flat palm against the unyielding door as the bus rumbled forward, pulling away from the isolated stop, impervious to the greasepaint handprint on the glass. Hawk watched the clown shrink and vanish into the night, the scenery speeding toward safety. Pulling himself up on the plastic seats, his twisted ankle throbbing, Hawk gasped to the bus driver, "Thank you!"

"'S alright," said the bus driver, staring straight ahead at the rolling road. "Fare's a dollar."