Kid Extorted

I'm reading a book*, and the main character is Jake. I think about the name. Jake. I don't think I've ever known any Jakes. Then I think back to Miami. In 9th grade (14 years old) the guy who sat behind me in Algebra II.

Wasn't he Jake?

I had a crush on him. He had dark hair and long eyelashes and the kind of ruddy skin that tans easily. After I moved away I heard his father had hired a hit man (actually an undercover FBI agent) to take out his mother.

Only in Miami.

I want to say his name was Jake, but I hesitate, and suddenly I remember: he was Josh.

Another 4 letter biblical name starting with J.

I'm almost convinced now that I've never met a Jake. I'm ready to stake my life on it, and then I remember my little cousin. He's actually my cousin's son.

Is that a second cousin or a cousin once removed?

My cousin isn't even really a cousin, but a step cousin.

So, a step second cousin or a step cousin once removed. Sheesh this gets complicated.

When thinking if I knew anyone named Jake I didn't immediately think of my step second cousin or cousin once removed because he generally goes by Jacob. Only his mother, my step cousin, calls him Jake.

He came to visit us when he was 19 years old. He'd never been to Europe; I don't think he'd ever been outside the United States - unless maybe he'd been north to Vancouver. His mom sent him to us as a high school graduation present. Straight off the turnip truck** from Walla Walla, Washington. A skateboard under his arm and a defined budget in his pocket, Jake (or Jacob as I knew him) made it to our flat in SW London with little travail. I was at work when he arrived; The Man was working from home and encouraged the boy to go explore the city, which he dutifully did. After that first day, Jacob seemed to have lost interest in exploring London. He spent the remainder of his trip skating through our neighbourhood park.

On Jacob's last day in The Smoke, The Man took him for a beer and teased out the details that explained his seeming lack of interest in London Town.

He had taken the 14 to Piccadilly Circus. He wandered up into narrower streets snuggled up behind Regent Street and Shaftsbury. He must of strolled by backstage doors of various West End theatres and up by the Windmill, London's version of the Moulin Rouge. He was buying a cheap slice of pizza when he was approached by a beautiful girl with a French accent. It wasn't even noon, but he agreed to go with her to a club. Inside the lights were low and most of the tables were empty. He was presented with a menu, which alerted him to the fact that this club was a actually a bordello. He apologised to the waitress who had presented him with the menu.

"I'm sorry. I'm in the wrong place." He stood to make his exit.

At which point, Muscle approached. "You want to leave? You've got to pay first."

"Wh ... wha ... excuse me ... for what?"

"The club fee. You haven't paid the club fee. You have to pay the club fee before you can leave."

My step second cousin (or cousin once removed) didn't have the £350 club fee, so Muscle generously offered to escort him to a cash machine where Jacob extracted the club fee and blew his entire graduation present budget before he'd even been in the country a full day.

Falling off the turnip truck can hurt.

* A fellow blogger's book. I'm not very deep into it yet, but it's got me hooked.
**I like using this expression in the UK. It strikes me as very American, and I have a sense that British people listen to it with bemusement. Could be I'm just imagining bemusement.