New York hit us like a train. Horns blared. Jackhammers juddered high above. Briefcase people charged, head down, right for us, like we weren't even there. An obese woman pushed past, attempting to walk four gigantic dogs through the crowd. I had my backpack strapped, ready to roll. We were on the corner of 34th Street, with Broadway stretching away from us forever – a long, narrow canyon of concrete and glass shooting up into the sky. It was supposed to be spring but, in the shadow of the 'scrapers, it was freezing.
I fed a bunch of quarters into a payphone and punched Speed's digits. Then Tony's. Both went to message so I called home. We didn't have a phone in the bus. Mr Kim, the owner of the Arts Estate where we lived, always had to run down from the office with his walkabout phone. It was nearly midnight in Australia.
The phone rang. And rang. I looked around me. There was an old guy sitting on a box playing blues guitar. He had a harmonica on a neck-stand. There were a couple of uni student-looking chicks filming a mime artist who was painted red from head to toe. The phone kept ringing. A super-hairy dude wearing three watches and a court jester's hat walked by, sucking a metre-long licorice strap into his mouth. I was about to hang up when I heard a voice.
'Mr Kim? ... Yeah, it's Mac ... Yeah, good ... Thanks. Thanks.'
A bunch of quarters dropped, Dad gave me another handful and I fed them into the phone as quick as I could. A few minutes later I heard my mum's voice.
'Ma,' I said.
Paul's ears pricked up.
'Sort of,' I said. 'I mean, yeah, everything's cool, but we sort of can't find the Coolhunters guys. They haven't called, have they?'
Paul stared at me hard, waiting for a response.
A massive truck groaned by. 'Sorry, Ma, what'd you say?'
Paul strained to hear, mouth open.
'Oh, right,' I said when she told me. I shook my head at Paul.
'This sucks!' he said. 'These guys are a joke.'
My dad looked semi-stressed, in his own laid-back way. He pulled at his beard. I could tell he wanted to be home with his dogs. He was so not New York.
'No, we'll be okay. We'll find them. I'm sure –'
My last quarter dropped and the phone went dead.
'I knew they were scammers,' Paul said.
'Oh, poor you. You're lost in New York. I feel so sorry for you, man.'
Paul shoved me in the chest.
'These guys paid for our flights, didn't they?' I said.
'Yeah, on the worst airline in the history of Earth, making us stop seventeen times on the way,' Paul yelled at me over the roar of a bus.
'Why would they pay for our fares and then just strand us here? It doesn't make sense. We'll be fine. Relax.'
'Well, I hope you've got plenty of money,' my dad said. "Cos I don't. Everything was going to be laid on, wasn't it? I've got about a hundred dollars left in my wallet. What have you got?'
I did some quick calculations in my head.
'Nothing,' I said.
'So what do we do?' Paul asked.
'Mug someone?' I offered. 'Recycle some cans? I read somewhere there's a good soup kitchen down on 9th Avenue ...'
Dad and Paul didn't seem to jump at my ideas.
'Let's just go to Imaginator,' I said. 'We'll think of something.'
They both snorted and shook their heads like I was a meatbrain. As the light changed and we followed the crowd across 34th Street, I sent out a prayer that these freaks wouldn't make us go home early.
I needed to come up with a solution, fast.