At 9:48 a.m. on Saturday morning, Mr. Schwarzkopf pulls his large white Buick up to the bus station in Springfield. He gets out of the car to help me pull my bags from his trunk. I thank him and Mrs. Schwarzkopf profusely for the ride.

Mr. Schwarzkopf tells me, “You take care, Crystal-Light. And if you need anything, you just call Judy or me. Keep your guard up and don’t get taken by some shyster. You’re too beautiful and kind for your own good, but remember you are smart. A lot of people don’t believe that beautiful people can also be intelligent. Prove them wrong!”

I hug the couple and thank them again, promising to ‘keep my wits about me and outsmart anyone who thinks they are smarter than me.’ Mrs. Schwarzkopf is too emotional to talk. She just smiles and cries at the same time. I look at the two of them, and, not for the first time, wish they were my real family.

I buy my ticket, a whopping twenty-eight dollars and fifty cents plus tax, and a fifteen-dollar fee for my second piece of luggage and then stuff my two duffle bags in the storage area under the bus and climb aboard with my backpack. As I take a seat about halfway back in the vehicle, I have flashbacks to the last time I took a Greyhound bus. To this day, it haunts me—getting scammed by my very own boyfriend, the shame I felt for leaving my mother, and the shame of returning home a failure.

But that was then, and this is now. I am not a failure. I’m a winner.

I hadn’t just ‘left’ my mother this time. I had a few more years of experiencing her lack of caring about getting better. And her not returning the favor of the more than ten years I had given taking care of her. Besides, I took care of her financially, as well.

I think about how I left my mother this morning. She was still passed out in her bed, her mystery man thankfully having crept out around five-thirty—I don’t know if I would have left had he still been in the house. I went through my normal routine of the coffee, water, and aspirin on her side table. The bucket, thankfully, was still empty. Although this morning, there was an extra little something on her table—a letter.

I tell her as much as I can without telling her that I’ve won the lottery. I tell her that I am going to Chicago because of a job opportunity that I couldn’t turn down—never mind that I don’t know of a job specifically. I explain that I found some grant to cover her mortgage payments. I explain the budget we’ve been living on and when she’ll need to make what payments. And I list some local AA meeting groups. I wish her the very best and tell her I will be in touch. I could only do so much.

I feel guilty. But if I’m really honest, if I’m ‘Al-Anon Honest’ with myself, she’s the one who should feel guilty. She is the one who has forever chosen alcohol and men over me. I’ve been paying the bills because she can’t seem to keep a job for longer than three months at a time, and in between each job, she takes a few months’ break. I’ve been working at odd jobs—raking, shoveling, walking dogs, and babysitting—since I was eleven, and I’ve always used my money to help pay bills because my mother would make a statement about ‘that’s what families do,’ something no child should be put in a situation to do. But I still feel guilty keeping this from her. I know that she will still get her welfare checks. And because I’m taking care of her mortgage for her, the welfare check will cover most of what she will need for food and utilities. But I also know that I have to take care of me. She never has. And I don’t know if it’s possible for her to change unless changes are made for her.

Jude is supposed to be released in a few weeks. I have also mailed a letter to him at the correctional facility. In my letter to him, I ask him to step up. Help get Mom sober and help her learn to be responsible. I think it might be a good thing for the both of them. It will give Jude something positive to work toward, right? I really want to stay for him, to hug my brother. Deep down, he’s really a good person, but ‘there will be time for hugs later,’ I say to myself. He’ll probably be stronger if I’m not there for ‘clean-up duty’ for him too.

With the city of Springfield behind us, I turn my focus to my future. I am so excited about seeing Chicago for the first time. I can’t wait to visit the museums I’d only heard about and seen pictures of. There was a high school senior trip to Chicago. Practically the entire class went. Leo and I were the only two kids in the class who didn’t go because it wasn’t just a day field trip, but a three-day stay with nights in the hotel, and neither of our families could afford it. When everyone got back, they couldn’t stop talking about the sights—the aquarium, the planetarium, the history museum, the food consisting of hot dogs and pizza. They had seen a show at a place called the Goodman Theatre. They went to the Sears Tower, which is now called Willis Tower, and had an impressive view of the entire city.

As the bus heads north, I stare out the window. The view is mostly corn and soy fields with an occasional billboard. These giant advertisements ‘sell’ anything from bail bonds, to restaurants and diners, to healthcare, to ‘gentlemen’s clubs.’ Lots of gentlemen’s clubs. And, not for nothing, but clearly ‘gentlemen’ don’t go to these places. They’re strip joints. But one board, in particular, grabs my attention—one such club named ‘Gentlemen’s Fantasies.’ On the board is a pretty girl wearing nothing! She is lying on her belly and looking seductively at all the drivers racing down the highway with her full, wavy brown hair hiding the nipple on her breast that would have surely been showing. The caption on the soft-core porn billboard reads ‘Let Crystal fulfill your every fantasy.’

And there it is. My name up there. I know I’m not her, but my classmates have continually let me know that Crystal is one of the top names for strippers. Specifically, there were three boys who teased me mercilessly all through junior and high school—Mike Lambert, Steve Jones, and Demitri Papolos. They never missed an opportunity to tell me that the name Crystal sounded like I should be working a pole or stage for money. ‘Singles,’ Demitri used to clarify, insinuating, I guess, that I’m so ugly or whatever that I wouldn’t earn five- or twenty- dollar bills. Jerk. I like my name. I like the sound of it. I liked the fun that Mr. Schwarzkopf had with it with all the beautiful nicknames, and Mrs. Schwarzkopf always said that I sparkled just like my name. But when it came to school, I wished I could change my name.

Why not now? I wonder to myself. I’m heading to a new town. No one knows me there. I can be whoever I want to be. I think about pieces of my name. Heather always called me Crys, but some people will hear Chris and may think it’s more of a boy’s name. One thing I like about the name Crystal is that no one ever thought I might be a guy. I consider the name Jude used to call me, Crys-Talia or just Talia. A character from a TV show he used to watch, Babylon something or other. Talia Jameson, I roll it through my head. I like it. It sounds feminine yet strong. It also sounds like my name could be Natalia. When it’s published that Crystal J. won the Win for Life Lottery, I would be even further from suspicion, at least outside of Harton. I make a note in my new phone to let Rose know.

Feeling more and more resolved in my steps toward a new life, I try to sleep on the bus a little. I hadn’t gotten much sleep last night—nervous about my mother and today. However, sleep is impossible. Not just from the jostling of the large, creaky vehicle, but I’m also nervous about some of the sketchy people sitting near me. Furthermore, I’m wondering about my mother. Some habits never die.

Seven and a half long, bumpy, and smelly hours—courtesy of the guy who sat down in front of me when the bus stopped in Urbana hours later—I get my first glimpse of Chicago. The bus snakes into the city, and alongside the sidewalks, I see people of all shapes, sizes, colors, and trends walking along, many talking on their phones or listening to music. Some are small groups of people laughing and looking like they are heading out to an exciting night on the town. The bus finally pulls into the terminal only half an hour behind schedule.

I collect my bags, stop at a brochure stand in the terminal where I collect a map as well as about fifteen brochures of things to do in Chicago. I’m so thrilled and overwhelmed all at the same time. It’s going to be hard to keep focused on what I have to do, which the first order of business is to find somewhere to live. What I found online last night searching about the cost of hotels in the city, I won’t be able to stay in a hotel as my permanent home with my winnings.

Just outside the bus terminal, I look for a taxi. Following the example I see of the other people on the curb sticking a hand out into traffic when they see a yellow car coming down the road, I mimic the gesture and am rewarded when a cab stops for me. I confidently ask the man with a thick foreign accent to take me to the post office on West Harrison Street.

The ride is a short one. As the cab snakes through the blocks, I’m bubbling with both excitement and nerves. I can’t believe I’m in Chicago! And I still can’t believe things will work out. Will the key for my post box work? What if it does, and I open the box only to find a letter retracting everything, that some error was made with the ticket, and it really wasn’t a winner after all. Then what?

I’m so engrossed in my anxiety I don’t notice the cab coming to a stop until I notice the cab driver staring at me. I look to my right and see the massive building and a blue sign announcing the entrance to the post office.

“Oh! Right!” I look at the display on cab’s dashboard and see the fare is $6.75. I pull eight dollars from my wallet and pay the driver hoping $1.25 is enough of a tip.

I get out of the taxi and take a deep breath, nearly coughing on the exhaust fumes in the air—such a difference from Harton—and head into the lobby of the post office. It’s after five, and the main part of the post office is closed, but thankfully the area for the postal boxes is still accessible. After figuring out the layout of the mailboxes, I find mine and slip in my key. I hold my breath before turning the lock still fearful that everything is fake. That this is all a dream. That I’ll open this box and inside will be one of those spring snakes like in those joke cans of peanuts. When the key rotates easily and the door opens, my stomach jumps in excitement. There are several pieces of mail inside, and I pull out the stack. When I look at the addressee on the envelopes, and they all say Crystal Jameson, a grin breaks out across my face.

I close my box and make my way to a table so I can see what kind of mail I have. Not only is my very first credit card in the stack, I also find several pieces of mail from the Lottery Commission and bank statements. It’s nice not to see ‘Final Notice’ bills or bills of any kind.

I had searched online last night for hotels with kitchens in case my search for an apartment takes longer than I hope and found a Residence Inn in Chicago. The address is on LaSalle Street. Looking at a map, I see that LaSalle Street is just a few blocks from where I am. I’m almost tempted to take a cab again since my bag with my books is getting heavier, but the man driving the last cab made me nervous.

After walking only the few blocks, I head inside the Residence Inn and head to the desk where I am immediately greeted by a beautiful black woman with tidy braids all twisted and mounted on her head. How glamorous.

I find my voice and say, “Hi. Is it possible to get a room for tonight and maybe two weeks? I’m not sure how long I will be staying.”

“Let me see,” she says as she starts to type into her computer. “Anyone staying with you?”

“Just me.”

“Of course.” She clicks about on her computer and runs down the rates for the only two rooms they have available. I select the one with a small kitchen and a king-size bed.

When she asks for a credit card, I rifle through the mail from my post office box. I open the envelope and pull it from the glue on the paper. The sticker catches my attention, and I see that I need to call and activate the card. After a quick automated call interaction, my first credit card is ready to go. With trepidation, I hand over the card for my first credit-card transaction.

She swipes my card through the reader, then hands me my card as well as a blank-looking credit card with the hotel logo and tells me all about the free breakfast in the morning as well as the Wi-Fi the hotel offers. I’m giddy that I’ll be able to use the Wi-Fi on my laptop, something I have only been able to do at school the couple of times a week I’m there. It will make apartment hunting so much easier.

Five minutes later, and after figuring out how the key card opens my hotel door, I step into a clean room with a king-size bed! It’s nothing like the motel room Leo and I had rented years ago.

I shudder as a wave of nausea crashes through me recalling memories that still haunt me. A cloud of guilt threatens to settle in, and I almost want to turn back and head home. How is Mom doing? Did she wake up? Has she read the letter?

Recalling the past seven years since my last leaving, and her unwillingness to change, even with my support, I dismiss the guilt. She had her chance. Many, many times.

I didn’t cause it. I can’t control it. I can’t cure it.

I flop down on the comfy bed and take deep cleansing breaths and focus until the sounds of the city right outside my window call to me. I grab my copy of Little Women, put it in my bag, and head out to explore and find some dinner.

She’s breathtaking. I watch the simple beauty play with a tendril of her reddish hair while she reads. I note that the book she’s reading isn’t a new paperback. No, this is a hardcover, and from the looks of it, even in the dim lighting of the restaurant, the pages aren’t new. It looks to be a well-loved book loved over generations.

I wonder… Who comes to an upscale restaurant by themselves and reads? And Has she eaten already? If she has, what did she order? Did she like it?

Watching her, I can think of nothing else. I’ve been watching her since I spotted her about thirty seconds after I got here.

Which is a bad thing because I’m on a date. I feel like an ass for looking at another woman, but the vapid, bottle blonde in front of me is a total bore. She thinks I don’t notice her eyes darting all around the dining room wondering who is seeing her dining with me.

I’m not vain. It’s happened all my life as the son of one of Chicago’s wealthiest families. It has gotten worse, though, over the past month when I was named one of Chicago’s 20 Most Eligible Singles. It’s almost enough to drive a man to the altar, but I’ve been there, done that. Not planning on going there again.

“Isn’t that just hilarious?” my date asks.

I look at her and wonder what in the hell she’s said this past few minutes and draw a blank.

“Absolutely. Hilarious,” I echo.

“We are so simpatico, David,” she says. “You get me. Not many men do.”

I cringe. If I had a dollar for every time a woman has said something along these lines over my time of ‘eligible bachelor’ dating… well, it wouldn’t touch the interest I earn in my accounts, but it’s significant. And she’s telling me this after only knowing each other for an hour, a blind date set up by my well-intentioned mother. It's ridiculous. Can you ever know if someone ‘gets you’ after only an hour? I have yet to experience such a feeling.

“My parents will be taking the boat out tomorrow if the weather holds. Would you like to join us? My parents would love to meet you.”

“Oh, Victoria, I wish I could, but I have pressing business tomorrow.”

“It’s Veronica, and tomorrow is Sunday. What business could you have on Sunday?” she asks, her voice oozing with playfulness that I’m not willing to engage in.

“Ah, but our Sunday is Australia’s Monday, so…” I explain. I feel a bit like a heel since I’m lying through my teeth. Well, not the time zone part, but that I have business to attend to tomorrow or that any of my business dealings are with Australia. I don’t, and they’re not. My business is to manage my family’s wealth. It is a full-time job, though. And that wealth is significant. Whoever says that if you have substantial wealth, you don’t have to work is either poor, a moron, or both.

“Well, next Saturday, maybe?” Vanessa asks, batting her glued-on eyelashes.

“I’m actually booked next weekend, but thank you for asking.”

“Well, if things free up, you just need to call.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

The waiter arrives and offers us the dessert and after-dinner drinks menu.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” Valerie says. “I’ll already have to spend an extra two hours in the gym just working off what I’ve already eaten tonight.”

Oh please! I’m at a crossroads myself. I don’t really want dessert, a drink I could totally do. But I want this date to be over with. Now, if I were sitting with the simple girl with the book over there… I glance to the corner where the Book Girl is… was. She’s gone. When did she leave? My heart sinks.

“But I could go for a drink. How about you? The Remy Martin XO sounds like a nice way to cap off the evening,” she suggests. Of course, it does. It’s only the second most expensive option on the menu at thirty-two dollars a drink. Frankly, I’m surprised she didn’t suggest the Remy Martin Louis XIII at $150 a glass. “Or we could go back to your place, or mine. Have a nightcap there?” she offers while running a finger along her lower lip.

I decide that I'm done with this date and say, “I’m good, but thank you for the offer.” It’s only nine-thirty, but I explain that I still have prep work for my nonexistent meeting with ‘Australia’ and will have to call it an early night so I am clear-headed. I give her my most dashing smile, and she seems placated.

What an airhead.