Norton's Ghost

Norton’s Ghost

A Novel by R. Canepa

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Original Work © 2003 R. Canepa, All rights reserved. First Printing, January 2010 This is a work of fiction. Except where explicitly noted, any persons, places, events or characters are a product of the imagination or used in a fictitious manner and any resemblence is coincidental. ISBN: 978-0-9843454-0-3 Cover Image © 2009 R. Canepa Cover Design by Lila Sadkin Back Cover Image by http://istockphoto.com/RichVintage Interior Book Layout by R. Canepa A Skinny Wizard Media Book PO Box 358597 Gainesville, FL 32635-8597

This book uses the Garamond typeface for the main text. For reviews, promotional copies, and more information related to the book, contact the author at [email protected], http://rcanepa.net or Twitter (roncanepa).

First Dedication

To those who call the streets and the roads home, whether forced or by intent.

Second Dedication

To my (future) self: congratulations, you did it. Now get back to work.

Acknowledgements

To all the friends and family who encouraged me during the writing process. To Stephanie, for the above and more, and because she somehow summoned forth the mental fortitude necessary to slog through the awful (and much, much longer) first draft. To Lila and Jamie for their valued feedback and assistance in catching my many mistakes.

Notes From The Author

What you hold in your hands comes from a long effort on my part. That should surprise no one. What might surprise some of you is not that I published this book, but the why of it. I started this story for National Novel Writing Month 2003 (“NaNoWriMo” for short) and spent eight months finishing it afterwards because it was new in my mind. It was fresh. It had no baggage, unlike some of the other stories floating around in my head. The point of NaNoWriMo is to finish a novel (Neil Gaiman once said, “Most people can start a short story or a novel” and I tend to agree with him), and I wanted something that I could finish to the end, come hell or high water, without worrying about whether it was good or not. Two basic ideas drove the creation of this story. The first: travel calls to me. I have a terrible wanderlust. I love travel writing, too, for its ability to take us places we’ve never been. It gives us a new window into the world, new eyes with which to see the ordinary and extraordinary. The second: homelessness. Homelessness fascinates me on two

levels: a materialistic/philosophical level (who are we when we have no belongings? No place to call ours?) and at the basic level that it exists at all in one of, if not the, most wealthy and prosperous nations in the world. Some readers might find fault with my intellectual pondering of the issue when there are people out there who don’t have basic shelter or enough to eat, but I counter with this: the issue is more than mere supply and demand. Wrapped up within it are all of our hopes, dreams, preconceptions, judgements, and ideals. Just as stories can have baggage, so too can concepts. I wanted to bring these two ideas of traveling and homelessness together along with some other thoughts of mine and hopefully show them in a way that allowed us to get up close and personal in them without being wrapped up completely. Kyle, the main character in this story, did as well as he could in that regard. Any faults are mine. My goal at the outset of the work was to finish the damn book and then print it: a huge chunk of dead tree and glue that would serve as proof to myself, when the going gets dark and difficult, that I finished a novel. And that I can do it again if I work hard enough. Anything else that it accomplishes—sating wanderlust, bringing the issue of homelessness into the public awareness—would be gravy on top of that. That is why I printed it. There are bits that I like, bits that I’m proud of, and bits where I know I missed the mark I aimed for. In answer to those parts, I can only shrug my shoulders and promise to do better next time. The problem is that it’s all too easy to never stop editing. There’s a quote, often attributed to Picasso, that goes like this: “Paintings are never finished. Only abandoned.” And that’s what happened to this story. I wrote it during the last bit of 2003 and the first eight months of 2004. I set the story aside to let it cool off before I went back to it, but because life takes us in different directions than we anticipate, a number of years went by between the writing of it and the roughly three periods wherein I sat down to edit it.

My goal thus met, I can get the printed copy I wanted all those years ago and go on my merry way. Those people who’ve told me over the years that they want to read what I wrote can now also get their peek. Looking back on the story six years after I wrote it, I find that there’s still something there. I hope that it finds a wider audience. I also hope that the story changes the way people look at the world and those who inhabit it. Shall we go for a walk? Kyle has much to show us. R. Canepa June 2009

I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. “The Road Not Taken” Robert Frost (1920)

But the beauty is in the walking— we are betrayed by destinations. Gwyn Thomas

Norton’s Ghost

Prologue

People like me don’t write books. We read them, sure, when there’s time and money enough to do so. But write them? My name is Kyle Dearmond, and I’m sitting at a wrought-iron table outside of a small coffee shop. The weather is sunny and beautiful, the temperature cool enough for shorts and simple t-shirts. A slight breeze blows, carrying along a chill and the promise of colder weather to come. I’m writing this with a brand new fountain pen, the ink bold and black, in a hardcover journal full of lined pages. I purchased both mere moments ago in Jennings, a bookstore down the street. I wandered in, no real objective in mind, content to leave my backpack at the door and browse the isles. I picked up books at random if they caught my interest. How did the authors come to write the books that I picked up? What thoughts and experiences led them to commit word after word to the page or computer until there were no more words left to tell? Maybe one day I’d have a story to tell, I thought. Write a novel, or something. I imagined my name instead of the author’s on whatever book was in my hand. I chuckled to myself and put the book back.

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College dropouts don't write books. A plastic display labeled “Journals” caught my eye. There was a small pink one with a unicorn galloping across a rainbow (a gold key dangled from a thread tied around the book); a white one with the image of a beach and footprints in the sand, scripture printed below it in gold foil; a green one with a thoughtful faerie sitting on a mushroom by a forest pool. I’d almost turned away from the rack when I spotted another journal on the bottom shelf, almost hidden by the others stuffed in front of it. I knelt down and pulled it out from behind the others. It was the size of a normal sheet of paper and had a hard, tan cover. The pages were unadorned as well, just one pale blue line after another. It felt good in my hands. Heavy. Solid. Full of pages waiting to be filled. I thought of everything that’d happened over the past year, and wondered if I had a story to tell, after all. It wouldn’t be full of African safaris or heroic wartime rescues or detectives chasing murderers, but it would at least be my story, the story of what happened to me, put down one word at a time as best as I’m able. So I bought it. Starting something new is always difficult. Sometimes it gets easier once you get going, but not always. A steaming cup of coffee sat on the table next to my new journal. I would need whatever help I could get—the empty lines that seemed so full of promise in the bookstore stared back at me, challenged me, dared me. Would I fill them? Even if I did, would it matter? College dropouts don't write books, I’d said. Or do we?

PART ONE Searching

Chapter 1

My roommate Jason never intended to be the bearer of bad news. He was my dorm mate, and fetched our mail as we’d always done for one another in the past. “What’s up?” he asked, juggling a stack of papers as he tossed his keys on his dresser and his backpack and papers on his bed. “Trying to study,” I replied, “but not feeling like it.” The words in my textbook made no sense, no matter how many times I read them. In those days, I couldn’t have even explained why I was in school in the first place. Just seemed the thing to do. “I got our mail,” he said. “Anything interesting?” “Looks like the normal stuff. Catalogs, pizza coupons, nothing that—hey, looks like this is for you.” He was holding a large manila envelope in his hands. “You’re not in any kind of trouble, are you?” he asked. I got up and walked over. “No. Why?” He handed me the envelope. “The return address is in your home town, isn’t it? Some sort of law firm.” I wasn’t expecting any mail from anyone. “Yeah, it is. I have no idea what it is, though.” He went into his room. “Well,” he called, “I guess there’s one way to find out.”

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I turned the envelope over in my hands. There was nothing special about it. Jason came out a moment later. “I’m headed off to meet the group for coffee. Wanna go? It’s on me.” “Nah. Thanks, though.” Poor though I was, I didn’t like to be a mooch. “You sure? Rachel will be there.” He grinned. “Who?” I asked. He groaned. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember her. Geezus. Long brown hair, really cute, you met her last week.” “Oh, right,” I lied, still not remembering but not wanting to admit it. I sat down with the envelope. “I think I’ll sit this one out. Maybe next time.” “Your loss.” “Yeah.” I waved him off. I quashed my second thoughts as Jason slipped out the door. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the return address of the envelope. There was a large sticker with “Howerson Gregory and Peters, PA” printed in a fancy script, followed by the address. I’d never heard of them. I slit the end of the envelope open with some scissors from my desk and pulled out a small stack of papers, then checked inside the envelope to make sure I didn’t miss anything. What would have happened had I thrown the whole damn thing into the trash, unopened and unread, and gone out for coffee with Jason? Would things have turned out different? I read the cover letter, and then read it again. The contents of the letter didn’t magically change before my eyes. It sat there, content in my hands, an innocent messenger whose job had been done. It was up me to deal with the news it carried. My father was dead.

Chapter 2

The letter was like a punch to the gut: “Kyle, It is my grievous duty to inform you that your father, Stephen Dearmond, passed away three days ago. All attempts to locate your phone number have failed, otherwise I would have phoned you instead of sending this letter. I was fortunate to find your address on the University’s website. You have my sincerest condolences. Please call me at your earliest convenience, day or night, at the numbers listed below. Michael L. Howerson.” A quick glance at my alarm clock showed 9:14 PM. I picked up the phone and dialed the home number listed on the letter. It rang three times before someone picked up. “Hello?” said a tired voice on the other side. I tried to say something, but the words caught in my throat. I swallowed and tried again. “Hello?” asked the voice again.

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“Mister Howerson?” “Yes?” “This is Kyle. Kyle Dearmond. I got your letter. I’m sorry if I woke you up.” “I wasn’t asleep. You can call me Michael if you want. I’m really sorry about your father, Kyle.” My entire body and mind felt numb. “What happened?” I wasn’t sure that I wanted to know, but my brain asked the question before I had a chance to stop it. “I’m told that he had a heart attack. Four or so days ago. By the time his neighbor found him, it was too late. I’m sorry.” Dad died alone, I thought. Just like that. If only he could have reached a phone. “You still there?” Howerson asked. I shoved those thoughts aside. “Yeah, I’m here.” “Services are scheduled for Friday morning.” That was two days away. “I’m sorry that it’s such short notice. Do you have a car?” “No, but I can take the bus.” “I’ll call ahead and see that there’s a ticket waiting for you. “ It hadn’t registered that a bus ticket would cost money I didn’t have. “Thanks.” “Keep my number with you and give me a call if you need anything, okay? And call me when you get there, I’ll pick you up.” “Thanks again. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I hung up the phone without waiting for him to say goodbye. I was still cycling through feelings of anger, frustration, sadness, and disbelief. I wanted to yell and scream, I wanted to punch something, I wanted to cry. Shouldn’t you cry when someone dies? I did none of those things. I set my alarm for early in the morning and reclined on my bed without changing. I lay there, staring at the wall, thinking and hurting. Time crawled as memories passed before my mind’s eye. It was well past one in the morning before I slipped into a dream-filled sleep that offered no real rest.

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* * * * * I woke before my alarm went off, and my thoughts were right there waiting for me, as if they’d never been interrupted at all. One minute thinking, the next moment sleeping, and the next moment thinking again, all in a cycle so smooth it didn’t miss a beat. I passed the time watching the red numbers of the clock count upwards and silenced the squawk of my alarm clock by smacking the big “off ” button with my palm. It was four-thirty. The last time I remembered looking at the clock was around one. I’d slept for three hours. I sat up, ran my hands through my hair, and hoped that it had been a dream. But the letter on my desk quashed any hope in that direction. I flipped through the rest of the papers to find a copy of a report by the EMTs who responded to the call, an announcement of funerary services that my mind refused to read, and another letter signed by my father stating that in the event of his death he wanted his will read aloud to all friends and family, with Michael Howerson acting as the executor. I scooped up all the papers and put them in my backpack. Jason’s bed hadn’t been slept in. I could tell because he never made his bed and the covers were still bunched up just as they had been the day before. I think I preferred it that he was gone. I wasn’t ready to talk. I stuffed a few pairs of jeans, four t-shirts, my deodorant and some underwear into my backpack. In went some spare change that I had sitting on my desk, along with the rest of a box of apple cinnamon granola bars. I turned over an old homework assignment on my desk to scribble a note to Jason: Jason, Gone home due to a family emergency. Not sure how long I’ll be gone. Take care, Kyle

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I turned out all the lights, locked the door from the inside and pulled it shut behind me. The catch clicked into place as I gave the door a hard tug to make sure it closed all the way. I would never see my dorm room again. Downtown was a thirty minute walk away from the building I lived in. Sunrise was still an hour or so away. The morning had that serene, untampered feeling, though I found no peace in it. I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, left then right then left again, and tried to ignore the thoughts that popped into my head with each footstep. Left foot, (I never got a chance to talk to him again) right foot, (We never got to say we were sorry) left foot, (It’s too late now) right foot, (I wish I could tell him that I love him.) left foot. Even still. I tried to avoid thought. All thoughts led back to him, and my mind was happy to race ahead, linking one thought to the next in a long, unending chain. I found my way to the station and retrieved the waiting ticket from a girl at the counter. The station woke up around me as I waited for my bus. Mothers, fathers, children, young couples, and even one guy my own age in formal military dress scurried about. Muted TVs flashed news reports. The conflict in Iraq was escalating.

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I was the first one to board my bus when it arrived. It wasn’t long before other people got on board and took their seats. What kind of person would I end up sitting next to? Would they be a Talker (annoying but not bad), Smeller (the worst), Sleeper (okay until they start slumping over into your own seat), Reader (the best, in my opinion), or something else? You never know. It’s a gamble, a matter of luck, and I’d been most unlucky in the past. A girl my age boarded and walked past me. Damn. A man in what looked like his thirties with something brown and rectangularish in his hands hopped on the bus next, smiling and energetic. I sent a silent please don’t sit here, please don’t sit here thought at him as he wandered down the isle, and wasn’t too surprised when he sat down next to me. “Hi there,” he said. He offered me his hand. “I’m Mike, what’s your name?” “Kyle.” I’ve never understood the violation of personal space that is shaking hands. I never initiate it, but will return the shake if someone else offers since they think it’s rude if you refuse it. It was then that I noticed the cross worked into the front leather cover of a bible he was holding. Luck of the draw, I thought. Ah, shit. “So, where ya headed?” My forced companion asked. “Home for the weekend. But if you don’t mind, I didn’t get much sleep last night so I’d like to try to catch up on it.” “Hey, no problem.” He flipped open his bible and read. I leaned my seat back as far as it would go (which wasn’t much at all) and turned my head towards the window. I was tired, but sleep was elusive. At least it would excuse me from conversation. I didn’t want to answer questions as to how I was, where I was going, or why I was going there. The station in my hometown was a building off to the side of a combination gas station and diner. In front of the station building was a bench and a pay phone. The town itself is small, as I’m sure people who’d never been there

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before noticed when they stepped off the bus to get a bite to eat or stretch their legs. It’s full of upper-middle-class people in rather nice houses— usually made of brick, two stories tall and flanked by trimmed hedges and grass so green it seemed to ooze color. All signs that the inhabitants were doing well for themselves. Though not all of us were. As a single parent who was neither doctor nor lawyer, my dad fell into the bottom income bracket of the area. Well-to-do neighborhoods did not by default make exciting opportunities for bored kids. The local high school hangout was a small coffee shop. There were a few movie rental places and a movie theater, but no malls or arcades or anything that might appeal to the younger crowd. The closest mall was a half-hour drive away. We kids were left to our own devices and imaginations to occupy ourselves. Could we be blamed when we got up to no good? I’d always felt at odds with the area I lived in. I don’t like people looking down their nose at me, and the folks there did that often, no matter who it was they were looking at. Bottled water, shiny BMWs and Mercedes in every driveway, golfing on the weekends—the people there would accept no less. I stood outside the bus for a moment, looking around and taking everything in as childhood memories surfaced in my mind. Mike came up next to me, stretching. “Well, we’re gonna be here a little while. Won’t take off for at least forty five minutes. You gonna get something to eat?” I shook my head. “This is my stop.” “Oh, I see. Was nice to meet you.” He opened up his bible and flipped to the back. “I have something for you, as well.” He withdrew a folded piece of paper from a small stack and handed it to me. “I wanted to give this to you earlier, but didn’t because you fell asleep pretty fast. You must’ve been tired.” The pamphlet was for a church in a town to the north, with service times and workshop dates and times listed on the inside. “I was at the university for a seminar,” he said, “and I’m trying to give these to people who might be interested. The church itself is too far to make a visit for services practical, but we have seminars and workshops

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on campus often. Those are listed on the second page. Anyone is welcome to join us if they’re interested.” “Maybe I’ll look them up once I get back.” I turned away and made for the pay phone while I dug in the bottom of my backpack for a handful of the change I’d thrown in there. I scooped out whatever I could grab, along with Howerson’s business card. I finally got Howerson on the line. “Hey Kyle, are you at the station?” he asked. “Yeah, just got in a moment ago.” “Okay. I had a last minute meeting come up, but I arranged for someone else to pick you up. His name is Brad, really nice guy, a friend of your—er, a friend of mine. He’ll take care of you.” He followed with a brief description of Brad so that I could recognize him and an assurance that he would meet me later. We hung up and I moved over to the bench to sit and wait for my ride. I’d caught the slip he’d made and tried to cover up. As much as I appreciated the effort to avoid mention of my dad, it didn’t do any good. I thought about him pretty much all the time. The hollow feeling in my middle wouldn’t go away. I watched the bus load up for departure. Mike turned and waved to me before he got on. A tan Lincoln pulled in and parked in front of the station building moments after the bus left. A man matching the description Howerson gave me got out of the driver’s seat. He came over to me and offered his hand. “Hi, you must be Kyle?” Another handshake. “Yeah”, I replied. “Thanks for coming to get me.” “No problem at all. Michael asked me to pick you up, guess he got busy all of a sudden and couldn’t make it. I’m Brad, and that’s my wife Michelle sitting in the car.” We walked over to the car, and Brad opened the back door for me. I slipped into the back seat and pulled my bag in after me, then introduced myself to Michelle. The car was a smooth and quiet ride, much different from my pre-

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vious four hours on the bus. I spent my time looking out the window. The differences between my memories and the way things looked were clear. I saw new buildings that I didn’t recognize. The whole place had changed. “Michael set you up with a room for tonight,” Brad said. “Windy Meadows Motel. Not too bad of a place at all.” I couldn’t tell if he was a chatty person or trying to fill the silence. “Did you want to go out for breakfast or something, or did you want me to take you straight there?” I still wasn’t hungry, though I hadn’t eaten yet that day. The thought of food was the furthest thing from my mind. My stomach churned. “I’d like to go to the motel,” I said. We pulled into the parking lot of the Windy Meadows Motel around noon. Both Brad and Michelle came inside the office with me. There was a small waiting room with hard plastic chairs and fake, cheap wood paneling on the walls. One of those twenty-five cent gum ball machines stood by the door. A layer of dust coated the top of it. We were greeted with a “C’n I help you?” from an old man. Brad spoke before I could. “Hi, we should have a room reserved?” The man looked at each of us. “The name?” “Dearmond,” I said. The desk clerk flipped through a book. “We got it,” he said, jamming a finger on the page. “But it’s only supposed to be a single occupancy. ‘Fraid you’ll have to pay the difference for the three of you.” “Oh, no dear, we’re not staying,” Michelle said. “Just seeing that he gets settled in properly.” Her voice was a mother’s voice. Soft and calm. I tried not to notice, but it didn’t do any good. He nodded, then shoved some papers at me over the counter. “Sign here, then, and initial here and here. Local calls are free, hit nine to dial out. You’ll be charged for long distance. All that’s here on the back of this. Do you need a wake up call?” I wasn’t sure, so I said, “No, I don’t think so. Thanks.” “Room nine, out and down to your right around the corner. Check out is ten AM.” The walls of the room were concrete block painted tan. Same as the

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outside walls. The room wasn’t huge, but compared to my dorm it was spacious. Brad grunted. “Well, seems like everything is in order. You all set? Sure you don’t wanna get something to eat?” “I’m good, thanks. I ate while I was waiting at the station.” I don’t like lying and try to avoid it as a general rule, but sometimes it has its uses. “Look, Kyle...” Brad continued. “I’m really sorry about your dad. He and I were friends, and—” My stomach started doing little flips again. Was I supposed to say something? He paused and swallowed. “Michelle wrote our number down for you. Call us if you need anything.” “I will.” He nodded, and I could see something in Michelle’s eyes when I looked over at her. Maybe it worry, maybe it was sorrow. I wasn’t sure. Brad spoke up again. “Kyle, there’s a viewing scheduled for tomorrow morning beforehand. People will say a few words, things like that. Did you want to attend?” I didn’t even think about it; my answer was automatic. “No. I want to remember him like he was. Not like he is.” “Either we or Michael will be by to pick you up tomorrow morning by eight,” Brad said. “Thank you both,” I said. Brad walked out and didn’t turn around again. I realized that he was likely shaken up about this, too. Not as much as me, since my dad wasn’t family, but enough to still be upset. I couldn’t imagine what sort of effect the sudden death of a friend might have, but I thought it might be the kind of thing to make you question your own life and mortality. Something to make you realize that you’re not kids anymore. I closed the door. Locked the deadbolt. Then I stood there for a while, alone with my thoughts, and leaned back against the wall. A coat peg jabbed me in the back, so then I slumped down to sit on the floor. I sat while thoughts swirled around my head in a tumble. It was the sort of

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mood where you don’t focus on any one thing: you let your mind drift along, because any which way you direct it leads back to the feelings you’re trying to escape in the first place. It was almost as if the strange place made it more real. The room wasn’t a place I was used to—unfamiliar territory in a still-familiar world—and I realized that that thought applied to my life as well, now that my father was dead. It brought me no comfort. I’m not sure how long I sat there like that, but some part of me must’ve concluded that it was better to move and be active. I got up and went into the bathroom, then stood as the rest of my body wondered why I was there. I remember feeling so detached. My eyes fell on the shower, on pure white towels hanging on a bar mounted on the wall. I walked over and turned the chrome knobs more out of habit than anything else. Maybe it was something to do. Something to take up time. The hot water and steam felt good and cleared my head a bit. I got out, dried off, and changed into another pair of jeans and a t-shirt I pulled at random from my bag. So dressed, I sat on my bed, my hair still dripping a bit. I glanced over at the clock. It was one of those ancient wind-up kind, hands frozen in their last moment. I reached over and picked it up, wound the crank a few dozen times, checked my watch, and then set it as close to 12:43 as I could. I set it back on the dresser, satisfied. Now what? That was the slowest day of my life. * * * * * I felt like I would never sleep that night. The clock clicked and ticktocked in my left ear, and my stomach folded in on itself every time I thought about my dad or what the next day would bring. I’ve never understood the concept of funerals. I suppose that their main purpose is to provide some measure of comfort for those left behind. What comfort was I supposed to get out of it? I wanted to remember my dad the way he was—during the good times, at least—not stare at a wooden box and think, “He’s in there. Forever.”

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I didn’t want to go. But I also felt that I should, that I had to. I knew that my father didn’t have many friends; he’d always been a bit of a loner. The people that knew him the longest would whisper—when they thought neither he nor I could hear—about how he was never the same once my mom left. I had to go to the funeral, to be there for him in death to make up for not being there in life. I didn’t know who else would show up; Brad and Michelle would, I knew, but it’d been a long time since I’d been in touch with my family, and there was no telling if anyone else even knew about it. I would be there for my dad one last time, whatever the pain it might cause me. I lay in the dark with thoughts that I couldn’t get rid of, staring at the texture on the ceiling, never feeling more awake than I did that night. I thought of death, of heaven, of God, of the afterlife, unsure what I believed in. I didn’t even know if they existed. Sure, people tell me that they do, that when you die you go to heaven if you’re a good person. The concept seemed absurd to me, yet so many people in the world believe it. Could that many people be wrong? I could take comfort in the thought that my dad was in heaven only if I believed in God. But I didn’t. I could only hope that my dad was comfortable where ever he was, that he wasn’t suffering. Or maybe he ceased to exist the moment he died. I didn’t know what to believe, and I think that made it worse. Remembering that most motel rooms have bibles, I got up, turned on a light and pulled it from the top nightstand drawer. The cover was brown, like the cover on Mike’s bible. I opened to the beginning, the whisper-thin pages fanning open with the cover, and read. I wanted to keep my mind occupied, but maybe I would find comfort as well. I didn’t. I read for a good portion of the night, and fell asleep with the light still on, bible on my chest, still as alone and confused and hurt as ever. * * * * *

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The noise an alarm clock makes in the morning is one of the most horrible things I’ve ever heard. I’m not sure what research early alarm clock makers went through to perfect those sounds, but they got something right. The ring of the bell on the old contraption was loud and harsh, sounding even worse at seven in the morning. I didn’t have any clothes to wear other than the jeans and t-shirts that I’d brought. Then I realized that I didn’t care. I was going dressed as usual. Fancy clothes wouldn’t make it hurt any less. I chose a clean pair of jeans out of my bag along with a shirt. The folds made it look a bit wrinkled, but I didn’t care about that, either. The inevitable knock on the door came at fifteen before eight. Bright morning light flooded in as I opened the door, revealing Brad and Michelle on my doorstep. He wore a dark blue suit, so dark it was almost black; she wore a long black dress and black high heels. They both looked uncomfortable and sad. Neither of them commented on what I was wearing. I wasn’t sure what I would have said if they did. “Are you ready?” Brad asked. I sighed. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” He nodded, and I stepped outside. I locked the door and dropped the key in my pocket. No one said anything as I followed them to the car. The first steps were the hardest. Aren’t they always?

Chapter 3

My mind wandered as we drove, then grew numb and quiet altogether. The world seemed fake, like a dream, though I didn’t know if it was because my mind didn’t want to comprehend what was to happen that day or if it was due to emotional stress and lack of sleep. We came upon the cemetery on our right, and turned in through large, black iron gates that stood open. The car coasted along with a muted grinding sound as gravel crunched under our tires. A vast green field spread out before us, dotted here and there with grey and an occasional colorful spray of fresh flowers. Each bit of grey marked a life and a story of its own, now silent. I’d never been in a cemetery before, but I’ve been in a few since then, and it’s never felt like it did that day. My stomach revolted. I crossed my arms over my body to hug it into submission. Brad moved the car through a few turns, and then I saw a small group of standing people. My eyes were immediately drawn to the long brown shape they were gathered around. A black drape hid the gaping hole and lowering mechanism. A sod-covered mound squatted nearby. I would have given anything to turn around right then, to have Brad drive right past the group and out the other side. I couldn’t bring myself to leave, but I would have willingly gone if someone else led me away. But

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nothing like that happened. We parked at the end of a small line of cars, and when Brad killed the engine I couldn’t help but notice how quiet the world was. We got out of the car, and I could hear the soft whispers of the group. There were six: three men in dark suits and ties, two women in long dresses, and the last was the preacher, small book in hand. I froze. Brad and Michelle came up on each side and paused next to me. Perhaps strengthened by their presence, I found I was able to walk after all. People stopped talking and turned to look at me. My eyes were fixed on the casket beneath its spread of flowers. I didn’t want to move one step closer, yet I kept moving, as if an invisible and irresistible force pushed me from behind. Hands from the group touched my shoulders, or shook my hand, or rested for a moment on my arm as words were murmured. I heard none of them. We gathered around, the preacher at the front. I didn’t know if my father was religious or not. He wasn’t when I lived at home, but maybe he changed once I moved out. The preacher opened his book and spoke, his voice firm and loud in the stillness. I stared at where my father lay, knowing and yet realizing that I would never see him again. I would never get a chance to tell him that I loved him. We would never get a chance to sit and drink coffee in the mornings. He wouldn’t be present at my wedding. Above all else, what I felt was a strong desire to tell him that I loved him. All the memories and things that I regretted piled up. Our arguments had been such a waste. My eyes stung and the world blurred as tears formed in my eyes. With that realization, they started to fall, slow at first, and then one after another in rapid succession. I couldn’t see anything except for vast swaths of color. I could hear the preacher’s voice but didn’t know what he was saying. My tears fell to the ground, and there was no stopping them. I felt alone, despite the small group gathered around. An arm slipped around my shoulders. A warm, slight body stepped

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close to me. A subtle perfume wove its way into my attention. Michelle had wrapped her arm around me, and as she pulled me close the last dam of resistance broke, the loss of my father as well as my mother seeming to drain everything out of me. I missed the touch of the mother I hadn’t known, but I would take this substitute. We stood and watched with solemn expressions as the casket sank into the ground, its pace slow but absolute. I felt empty, like a part of me went down with it. Perhaps a part of me was buried that day. The part of me that still didn’t want to admit that life was real. That we are living, each and every moment, whether we realize it or not. The casket came to a rest and the preacher said a few more words in prayer. He sprinkled what looked like water on the grave. That finished, he came over to me, rested his hand on my shoulder for a moment as I wiped away tears and Michelle removed her arm from around me, and then he walked away. I never learned his name. Maybe it was his habit to never say anything after his sermons. Or maybe Brad or Michelle mentioned to him that I wouldn’t want to talk. Perhaps there nothing else that he could say. One of the other men walked towards me. He was about as tall as I am, and wore a black suit and a red tie. Though it wasn’t even noon yet, a thin sheen of sweat glistened on his balding head. He held out his hand for me to shake. “Hi, Kyle. I’m Michael Howerson. I’m so sorry.” I nodded in reply. He turned his gaze to Brad and Michelle, acknowledging them each by name. “Could I speak to both of you for a moment, please?” he asked. They nodded and moved back towards the line of cars, leaving me alone next to the grave. I stood there for a while, looking down at my father and feeling miserable and alone. My eyes were still wet, though the tears had stopped. “Well Dad,” I whispered. “I’m sorry. Sorry that we fought so much. Though I don’t know if we could’ve stopped it. I—”

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What do you say at a time like that? I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “I miss you. Even in spite of our not getting along, I still miss you and wish that I’d been able to spend more time with you. Sorry for leaving you alone. And for not calling or coming home more often.” I noticed a lone flower on the ground a little to my right, blown or fallen off of the arrangements during the service. I walked over, bent down, and picked it up. I’m not sure what kind it was, but it was purple with large petals. I lifted it to my nose, but couldn’t smell anything; rarely could, unless the flower had a particularly strong scent. Why do we always figure things out once it’s too late, and never before? Couldn’t do anything about it. It was too late for my father and I. But I would not let this sort of thing happen again. Looking back, it was then that my ultimate plan started to form in my mind, wheels of thought and decision turning deep in my subconscious where I was not yet aware of it. I closed my eyes and pictured my father. Both as how he looked when I was little, when he helped me ride my bike and would play catch with me in the park next to our house and seemed so tall and strong and invincible, and as he had looked to me in recent years, both of us adults and me living my own life, the lines on his face and gray in his hair so visible to me. I let all my thoughts and memories play out as they willed. “I love you, Dad. Rest well.” I paused. “Hope you find Mom somewhere. Tell her I said hi if you do.” I tossed the flower down into the grave, my love and total forgiveness going along with it. “Goodbye.” I walked back towards where Howerson, Brad and Michelle waited for me next to their cars. Had Howerson needed to speak with them, or was it a tactic to give me some time by myself ? Either way, it was good. I still didn’t feel like myself, but I felt less crushed than I did before—I think drew some sense of comfort from the funeral after all. I felt as if I was dreaming, that surreal sort of state where you’re numb and on autopilot. Brad spoke as I approached. “You okay?”

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I nodded. Shook off the dream-like sensations as best I could. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.” “So we’ll all meet at my office?” Howerson asked. They all agreed. What was going on? “Okay, Kyle, you can ride with me.” I followed Howerson to his car and got in, wondering what was to come next. I stared out the window throughout the ride, sometimes thinking, sometimes looking. It was the same world outside, but it looked different. Our car passed through the cemetery gates. Would the world ever look the same again?

Chapter 4

Michael L. Howerson of Howerson, Gregory and Peters swung his car into the small parking lot of his practice in one long, smooth arc. It was a small building, painted a neutral gray. Two long flower beds ran the width of the front. The beds broke in the center, where a few concrete steps rose up to a glass door with names printed in gold-yellow capital letters. Howerson was before “Gregory”. Did that make him the primary partner? The parking lot was empty except for Howerson’s car. I shut the door and looked around, waiting for Howerson to get his briefcase and suit jacket out of the back seat. The area surrounding the building wasn’t heavily developed; there were large lawns in front of the law firm that ran around to the back. Down the street a ways was a dance and gymnastics studio, a bright blue and purple building that called attention away from the drab law practice. Coming across the lawn in single file were a mother duck and seven of her fuzzy yellow ducklings. They made an occasional sound as they walked along—the babies half disappearing in the tall grass—and it looked like they were headed our way. Howerson came up next to me, smiling.

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“They come through here every day, pretty much,” he said. “They live in a pond about a block behind our building.” I watched with a bemused expression as he threw his coat over his shoulder, tucked his briefcase under one arm, and opened the lid of a white plastic bucket that sat against the building. He reached in and pulled out a metal scoop. The ducks had come to a stop in the grass a little ways away and were milling about, near to the edge where the grass ended and the blacktop began. Howerson tossed what looked like small chunks of dried bread from the scoop with a half dozen quick, flinging gestures. In spite of everything I’d been through that day, the sight of baby ducks and a lawyer making clucking sounds with his tongue made me smile. * * * * * A bell on the door chimed, announcing our entrance to the practice. The door opened into a waiting room with one large desk in the center and a spread of cushioned chairs along one wall. A leather couch sat along another wall. There were a few paintings on the walls to present a dignified atmosphere. Mostly impressions by Van Gogh in large, gaudy frames. To the left was a framed doorway, and it was through this that Howerson led me, into a large office with three desks all facing inwards at each other in a sort of loose triangle. Full bookcases lined the perimeter of the room, like the sort I’d seen in TV commercials for law practices. Real offices actually have those things? To my right was a fish tank, forty or fifty gallons in size, and saltwater, judging by the bright colors. Howerson set his briefcase on the closest desk and draped his coat over the tall leather chair. “Pretty, aren’t they?” he asked as he dropped food into the tank. “They’re Scott’s fish, mainly, but I feed them sometimes. They’re nice to look at, but I could never have my own tank—a few of these guys cost more than my TV did.” Howerson’s desk was a solid chunk of polished wood. I looked it over while he went to check messages, curious if I’d find pictures of a wife

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and kids, but there was nothing of the sort. There was a shiny black plastic bill holder which had some papers in it, and there were a bunch of pens sticking out of a coffee mug. He had one of those big desk calendars that took up most of the space. I could see names, dates, and notes scribbled here and there, some crossed out, others in different colors of ink. I had enough time before he returned to notice that there was nothing penciled in for today’s date. “Go ahead and sit down, Kyle. We’re waiting on Brad and Michelle.” I still did not know why my presence was necessary. I wanted to go curl up somewhere and go to sleep, but that would have to wait. I took a seat in the chair facing into the rest of the room. Howerson sat at his desk, shuffling papers around and occasionally going into the reception room, where I’d hear the sliding of the filing cabinet drawers and the thump as he closed them again. The fish bobbed and weaved in their tank. I waited. The bell on the door sounded at last, and Howerson got up to greet Brad and Michelle as they made their way in and took seats next to me. Drawing one of the papers from his briefcase, he then looked around at us as he spoke. “I realize that this might not be the best time for this, but Stephen made it clear that he wanted his will read immediately after the services, and I’m merely obeying his wishes.” My stomach lurched a bit at the word “will”. Howerson cleared his throat. “’I, Stephen Dearmond, being of sound mind and memory, do hereby declare this instrument to be my last will and testament. I appoint Michael L. Howerson as Executor and authorize him to...’” I let my mind wander, trying as hard as I could to ignore the empty feeling in my stomach as I listened to Howerson read. They were my father’s final wishes, but I couldn’t focus on them. My mind kept wandering off, remembering how my dad helped me build a tree house or how the sunlight glinted off of his casket at the service. But then something Howerson said caught hold of a small part of my mind, and brought me back to the here and now. What was this? I broke in. “Hang on, go back. Read that last part again, please?” I

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asked. Brad and Michelle both glanced over at me. Howerson looked a bit confused. “‘I direct that my house at 2354 Pine Way be sold, and that the money earned therefrom be used to pay off the remaining mortgage and any other debts of my estate. Furthermore, any money left over shall be combined with any and all other monies that I posses and divided in two equal parts, one to be given to my son Kyle upon my death and the other to be held in trust in the event that my wife Katheryn may be located—” “Wait!” I said. “What does it mean ‘may be located’? My mother is dead.” It didn’t make sense. He looked at me. “I know it’s a peculiar wording, but that’s how your father wanted it. He and I didn’t talk about her much. I asked about her when we were working out his will, as is my duty, and with the way he talked about her, I took it to mean that she was deceased.” I looked at Brad and then Michelle. “I’m sorry, Kyle,” Michelle said. “We don’t know, either. One night when we first knew him he told us that she’d passed on, but never spoke of her beyond that.” “We thought that her death was too hard for him to talk about,” Brad added. I tried to shake the haze my brain was in so I could think. “My dad told me when I was little that my mom went to heaven.” I said. “When I was older, I naturally took that to mean that she’d died, but my dad would never talk about it. Does this mean that she could be alive?” I asked. “For all we know and have seen, she passed away years ago,” Howerson said. His voice was soft with sympathy. Michelle asked, “What does the rest of that part say?” Howerson finished the paragraph: “‘Should this happy event occur and Katheryn be found, the half of my worth held in escrow shall be transferred to her possession. If, in the event that she does not come forward, and every reasonable effort has been made to locate her, then after a period of ten years the remaining half of my worth shall be given to my son Kyle.’”

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Howerson took off his glasses. “There’s more, but it goes on to name other wishes, such as you two being the guardians of Kyle if Stephen were to die while Kyle was still a minor.” I glanced over at Brad and Michelle, and for a split second pondered the thought of what life might have been like if I’d grown up with them. Images of sitting in the kitchen with Michelle and playing football with Brad flickered through my head. But thoughts of my mother soon took over again. The images of living with my assigned guardians dissolved. I could feel that small, hot coal of hope cooling the longer we spoke about it. “But shouldn’t there be a record of her death somewhere?” I asked. “Isn’t someone supposed to keep track of things like that?” Howerson nodded. “The county should have birth and death certificates on file. But if she wasn’t in this county at the time, then there may not be a record here.” “Is there any way you could check for me?” I asked. I had to be sure. “I would do it myself, but I’d have no idea where to even start.” “I’m not sure—” Howerson began, but Brad cut him off. “I’d like to know, too. What harm will it do to check?” Howerson sighed. “Very well.” He looked at his watch. “There will be plenty of time afterwards, but for now, we must finish this.” That small feeling of hope that I had still remained, and I was thankful that Brad spoke up as well. We sat there as Howerson read the rest of my father’s will. It was strange to hear words that my father dictated so long ago. After he finished reading, Howerson stood up and gestured to me. “Come here for a second, Kyle. I have some things for you.” He led me to a small kitchen nook, where I saw a small stack of boxes. “These are some of your father’s things,” he explained. “I had them removed for safekeeping. There’s also an envelope with some cash in it that was removed as well.” The top box of the stack was open, and though hesitant, I rifled through its contents. On top was the mentioned envelope—I could see a small stack of bills in it when I peeked inside. I folded the envelope in half and shoved it into my pocket, uncounted. I didn’t plan to use it—didn’t

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want to use it. It was my father’s money, but since he wasn’t around to use it anymore, I guess I had more claim to it than anyone else. Underneath the money was a framed picture of two women. There was no marking on the frame at all and nothing written on the back. Nothing to tell us who these two women were. They appeared to be the same age, and looked like they might have been related. I’d never seen the picture before. Despite the frame, it’d never been displayed anywhere in our house. Was one of them my mother? I had no way to tell—I wasn’t old enough to remember her, and no one else in the room knew her. On the chance that one of them was my mother, I took the picture out of the frame and put it in my backpack. The rest of the box held an assortment of papers, pictures, and small items. Seeing them made the pain resurface, and I backed away from the boxes. “I don’t think I can look at this stuff right now,” I said. “That’s fine,” Howerson replied. “There’s no need to do it now. If you want, I can have them put into storage along with the rest of the things that won’t be sold with the house.” “I don’t have the money to pay for that, though.” “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s taken care of.” He didn’t say from where. “That’d be great, then,” I said. “Thank you. Oh, and what about my hotel room? I wasn’t sure if—” “—It’s taken care of also”, Howerson said. “Don’t worry. All of your expenses are covered out of the trust fund set aside for you.” I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, but since I had no other money, I didn’t have a choice. I also didn’t like the fact that I had my dad’s money in my pocket. It made me feel guilty. Like it was my fault he died. “So what happens now?” I asked. “There isn’t much more,” Howerson said. “I can take care of everything else. You three are free to go now.” We stood up. “Will you please check the records for any information on my mother?” I asked him. “I’d appreciate anything you can find out.” “Of course. I’ll give you a call at your room if I find anything out. When do you leave?”

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“Tomorrow morning,” I said. I gave him the phone number to both my hotel room and my dorm. “Thanks again.” Howerson and I shook hands, Brad and Michelle said goodbye, and we walked out to the car. Once in the car, Brad asked, “Well, where to? Are you hungry at all, Kyle?” I hadn’t eaten much of anything, but I still had no desire to eat. My stomach was still a bit queasy and the thought of food didn’t sit well with me. “No. Thanks. I can’t eat right now. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go back to my room.” Staying busy and in the company of other people might have been the best thing for me, but right then I wanted to be alone and sleep. They got out of the car with me when we reached the motel. Michelle touched my arm. “Are you sure you want to stay here? You’re more than welcome to come home with us. You could stay the night, and then we could give you a ride to the station in the morning.” I was glad for the concern and the offer. Another round of images of growing up with Brad and Michelle went through my head. I couldn’t deny the idea of liking what I saw, but in the wake of my father’s death, it made me feel worse. “Yeah, I’m sure, but thank you both for everything,” I said. “I can just call a cab. Might call ahead and see if I can catch a later bus. I’m exhausted.” Brad shook my hand. “It was nice to see you again, Kyle. You were just a few years old last time we saw you,” he said. He indicated with his hand a height about mid-thigh. I didn’t remember ever meeting him. “Though I wish meeting this time had been under different circumstances. If you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to call us.” “I won’t. Thanks again.” Michelle hugged me and we said goodbye once more. I let myself into the room, tossed the key into one of the chairs, kicked off my shoes, and flopped down onto the bed. I lay there for quite a while, feeling numb and empty. Sadness caught up with me, and my eyes teared up a little. No tears fell, though; the crying I did at the funeral would be the only time. I fell into a sleep full of dreams about my father. In some, I was reliving the good moments from my childhood, when my father was alive

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and all was well in the world. In others I was my current age and my father was still alive. Those were the hardest to wake up from, to open my eyes in the hotel room, see the terrible wallpaper, and realize that it was a dream, however real it might have seemed. And there were yet other dreams, ones of nightmarish quality where I watched my dad falling onto the kitchen floor and wasn’t able to move fast enough to get to him in time, or others in which I sat with my dad in a hospital and watched him slowly waste away. I don’t know how many times I woke up and fell asleep in a continuous cycle as the day moved on into evening. Did I get any real sleep? I don’t know. All I know is that I would have given anything to wake up into a world that was different than the one I was in. * * * * * The harsh ring of the room’s phone jarred me out of sleep. It was dark outside. The only light inside the room came from the night light by the sink. I was in that groggy sort of state that you find yourself in when you’re woken up suddenly. I scooted across the bed and reached for the phone. “Hello?” “Kyle, it’s Michael Howerson.” He paused. “Did I wake you up?” “Yeah, but it’s okay. Did you find anything out?” “I checked the archives myself, and had a friend poke around to see if he could find anything. So far as we’re able to tell, there is no death certificate for your mother.” “So what does that mean?” My mind wanted to go back to sleep, not think. “Well, my first thought was that she was in another county when she died. So I took the liberty of making some calls and inquiring with all the neighboring counties to have them look, as well. They found nothing. Which means she was either in a different county or state at the time of her death, which is why we can’t find any records so far, or else there’s the possibility that she’s technically alive. Though I don’t see any reason why

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your father would lie to you about it.” “I don’t either. But then why would my dad word his will like that?” “I’m not sure. When I questioned him about it, he refused to discuss it. Since it didn’t affect the outcome of the will’s execution, I kept it in there and dropped the issue.” “Were you able to find anything else out?” I asked. “Just the basics. Your mom and her sister Elizabeth were born to Roger and Barbara Nash in August, nineteen fifty-four and September, nineteen fifty, respectively.” “She has a sister? My father never mentioned my aunt.” “Hmm, yeah.” I could hear the sound of shuffling papers on the other end of the phone. “Last known address isn’t too far from here.” “Hang on,” I said, and put the phone down to grab a pen and paper from the top of the dresser. I turned on a light, too. “Okay, I’m back. What’s her address?” I wrote it down as he read it off, then read it back to him to make sure I had it right. I wrote “Elizabeth Nash” above it and underlined it. Did she know anything about my mother? Why had I never heard of her before? Seeing her name and address on the paper in front of me made the hope I felt earlier grow a bit bigger. Even if she knew nothing more of my mother, she was still family. I tore off the paper and stuffed it into my pocket. “Is there anything else?” I asked. “No, that’s all I was able to find out. Also, I’ve set everything up to have your father’s things moved into storage. Call me whenever you’re ready and I’ll give you the details.” “Thanks again for all your help”, I said. “No problem. You have my number, so call me if you ever need anything.” “Will do.” “Hang in there, and good luck in school.” “Oh. Yeah, thanks.” I hung up the phone. I wasn’t looking forward to either the bus ride

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home or going back in general, but I knew there was nothing for me in my home town except memories. My stomach gurgled. I had no urge to eat, but if my stomach wanted food, perhaps it was best to give it some. The Denny’s next to the hotel was practically empty, and so the hostess gave me my choice of tables. I chose a booth towards the back of the restaurant. I ordered a hamburger, fries and a coke when my waitress made an appearance ten minutes later. I might have been upset at the delay if I had somewhere to be or was actually starving. It was fifteen minutes later when I got my food, but I considered myself lucky that it was still warm. My first few bites were hesitant, but the rest went easier. I was halfway finished with my hamburger when a voice asked, “Kyle Dearmond?” I looked up and saw a man of fifty years. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. “Yeah, why?” “My name is Lance. I’m a friend of your father’s. Brad called me earlier today, thought that you might like to talk to me.” When I didn’t say anything in response—only sat there and stared at him—he asked, “May I sit down?” I waved towards the seat on the opposite side of me, and he took off his coat and sat down. “You look vaguely familiar,” I said. “I was at your father’s funeral this morning. I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself. I figured you might not want to talk.” “Oh.” I opened the ketchup and started the violent shaking necessary to get the contents out of the bottle. “How did you know I was here?” I asked. “I didn’t. Brad gave me your room number, but when there was no answer at the door I decided to come over here and have some coffee, wait a while, and try you again. I thought I saw you over here, though I wasn’t sure. My eyesight isn’t what it used to be.” I was able to get some ketchup out onto my plate, and I picked up a french fry after covering them with salt from a shaker. “So, did Brad say

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why he thought I’d want to talk to you?” “He said you were asking about your mother.” My hand froze halfway to my mouth. “Did you know her? Do you know what happened, is she alive?” “Whoa, whoa, slow down,” he said. “It’s a long story, but I’ll tell you what I know. And you might want to decide if you’re gonna eat that or not.” My hand was still halfway to my mouth. I dropped the french fry back onto my plate. It landed with a small splat of ketchup. “I’d known your father since we were in our twenties. We met at work, bussing tables at a restaurant during the night to pay our way through college. We became friends and spent more time together.” My waitress came back to see if I needed anything else and if Lance wanted anything. I said no thanks and he said “just coffee, please” before continuing. “Your dad and mom started dating a few years later.” I fished the picture I’d taken from Howerson’s office out of my backpack and handed it to Lance. “Which one is my mother?” I asked. He took the picture and pointed at the one on the left. “This is her.” I felt a small smile on my face. “What was she like?” I asked. Lance gave the picture back to me. “Your dad’s age, intelligent, and pretty. I was a little jealous, but they got along together so well that I had to admit they seemed made for each other. Then it was the three of us doing things together, but I didn’t mind. She had an older sister named Elizabeth. I entertained thoughts of dating her for a while. But she didn’t like to spend time with us and was always busy with other things. She and your mom were close, but she wanted nothing to do with your father and I.” “Your mother Katheryn and I got along fine, and would talk and joke around often, but I didn’t get to know that much about her. All I knew was that your dad seemed happy with her.” My mother’s name sounded foreign to my ears. Lance paused as the waitress came back with his coffee. He ripped the tops off three little packets of sugar at once and dumped them all in. I

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resisted the urge to ask, “Then what happened?” as he opened his second miniature plastic tub of half-and-half. “I think it was around two years later that they got married”, he said. “It was right around the time of our graduation, I remember that much. We started drifting apart. Your dad and I each had our own jobs, and he had a wife. We kept in touch on the phone and would get together every now and then, when we’d decide to go out for a beer or if they’d invite me over for dinner.” He took another sip of his coffee. My fries and hamburger sat in front of me—cold, soggy and forgotten. “We drifted further and further apart as time went on. It’s just one of those things that happens, I guess. It can be hard to stay in touch with people. The phone calls got less and less frequent on both our parts, and the visits even more so. We went for about a year without hearing from each other at all. But that lull broke when you were born. Stephen called to tell me the news.” “We kept in touch for a little while after that, but work, their new baby and life in general led us adrift once again. It was four years before I heard from him again.” “I got a call from your father one day when I was at work. It didn’t even sound like him. ‘Lance, I’m so sorry to call you like this,’ he said. He sounded flat. Like he was dead, but still talking. ‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’ I asked. He then said, ‘I’m in the hospital. I’m okay, but I need you to come see me. Please.’” “I took the rest of the day off and went to visit him. The first thing I noticed were his eyes. They had huge black circles under them, and they didn’t have any shine to them. He was pale, and had a huge bandage wrapped around his chest. I remember saying, ‘Geezus Christ man, you look horrible. What happened? Where’s Katheryn?’ He stared off into space and said, ‘she’s gone.’ Then he told me what happened.” Lance stared down at his mug as he spoke, holding it but not drinking. “Your mother and father left you with a baby sitter and went to see a late movie. They left the theater when it was over and walked back to their car, only to find a fellow named David waiting for them. Your mom

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dated him in college, and broke up with him. She started going out with your dad not too long after. David got jealous, and carried that jealousy with him for all those years.” Lance took another sip of coffee. “There was a confrontation in the parking lot. David was mentally ill, it seemed, and kept asking Katheryn to come back to him, even though she explained that she was in love with someone else and married. He pulled a gun. From there, it’s not perfectly clear what happened. What was generally accepted by witnesses and the police was that your dad saw the gun and thought the worst, and moved forward to protect your mother. David panicked and shot your dad, hitting him in the chest. Your father slumped to the ground, bleeding badly. Your mom started screaming and crying, and tried to stop the blood. David said he was sorry, that he didn’t mean to, but your mom was distraught and kept screaming for help.” He paused then, staring into his coffee. “And so he hit her on the back of the head with the gun and dragged her into a nearby car.” “Your dad told me how he remembered your mom leaning over him, and saw your mom being put into the car. He tried to crawl over to help her, but by this time he was in shock and had lost too much blood. He passed out, woke up in the hospital after going through surgery. When he asked about his wife, he was told by the police that they were still looking for her and hadn’t been able to find David or his car yet.” I glanced down at my plate, and noticed that some grease from the burger had congealed. My stomach heaved a bit. I pushed the plate farther away from me. “So did they ever find her?” I asked, not sure if I wanted to know the answer. “No,” he replied. “They never did. Never saw another sign of her, the car, or David. Your father carried an immense amount of guilt because he couldn’t save her. I tried to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, no one expected him to be able to do anything after being shot like that. He’s lucky he lived at all.” Lance sighed. “Sometimes I think he wished he hadn’t. He remained hopeful for a long time, but after a few years I think he realized that he needed to move on. Though I don’t think his hope ever died, and

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his will seems to prove that. He had to tell you something, though, and so he told you she’d gone to heaven. We can’t see how she could still be alive all these years later and us not hear from her.” I nodded. The little bit of hope I’d been nursing went dark. “I’m sorry, Kyle,” Lance said. “It’s a hell of a story, and not a happy one.” “It’s no wonder my dad didn’t want to talk about it.” The waitress brought our check, and Lance snapped it up before I could get to it. “This one’s on me,” he said. “You don’t have to do that.” “No, but I want to. It’s the least I can do. Had things been a bit different, I might have been around more often and been a part of your life.” He put some money on the table, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He put it down on the table and pushed it over towards me. “That’s my phone number and address. If you ever want to call or visit, you let me know. I’d like to get to know you better, and if there’s anything you ever need, you can call.” I stuffed the paper into my pants pocket and thanked him for paying. We got up and left the restaurant together, and stopped to shake hands outside. “What will you do now?” he asked as he put on his coat. “Go back to college, I guess. My bus leaves tomorrow morning.” “What’s your major?” Funny how people always ask that question. “Business,” I said. “Until I can come up with something better.” “Well, good luck with it. If you’re ever in need of a job, look me up. I can probably help you out.” He walked away, buttoning up his jacket as he went. I went back to my hotel room, showered, then lay in bed. The past few days had given me a lot to think about. I missed my dad like hell, and my mother too, though I never knew her. I fell asleep wondering if they had found each other, and if they might be looking down on me even then. I woke early the next morning, dressed, and pulled the return bus ticket from the front pocket of my backpack. Soon I would be back home, if home was what I could call it, back into my same old routine with the same worries. The ticket I held in my

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hand was the doorway back to what I knew and the way things were. How did I feel about that? I reached into my pocket and pulled out the various folded papers I had in there. There was Brad and Michelle’s number, along with Lance’s phone number and address. I saw Aunt Elizabeth’s address, her name underlined with a bold, hard stroke. Possibilities occurred to me, and the strongest of them was this: I was no longer alone. I had another family member. That was the deciding factor. I dropped my bus ticket into the room’s garbage can and locked the door behind me. It was still dark outside. Dawn was two hours away by my watch. I stood in a pool of light from a sidewalk street lamp along a deserted road. Now what? I thought. The realization that you don’t have anywhere to go is a strange thing. You get so used to the mindset of “I have to go home” or “I have to be at work” that your brain idles in neutral when those are no longer options. Where do you go when you have nowhere to go? Anywhere you want to. I checked the piece of paper with my aunts address—and then started walking. To put one foot in front of the other is a simple thing—we learn it when we’re two, or around that age—but the action was difficult for me. First steps are always the hardest, remember? To do so meant to leave behind everything I knew in exchange for whatever lay ahead. I had second thoughts, but I didn’t stop walking. I stopped in a Texaco station to make quick use of a laminated map for sale by the register. I unfolded it under the watchful glare of the register attendant and found the city I was looking for, roughly one hundred and fifty miles to the north. I folded up the map, replaced it in the rack and walked out. An electronic chime announced my departure. I walked along the sidewalk, kicking pebbles as I made my way through town. A few early morning people were up and about, but the

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majority of the town had yet to wake up. The only sound I could hear was the scuff of my shoes on the roadtop. I started to sing then, something I rarely did, and never around other people. I don’t know if it was to fill the silence or take my mind off things. It was a song I’d learned on Jason’s guitar; an oldie but a goodie, they’d say, whoever “they” are. My voice grew louder, though not better, as my confidence increased, and soon my steps fell into rhythm with the song as my hometown faded away behind me. The sun peaked over the horizon. I sang my song to the morning and the open road as rays of orange, red, and purple light shot through breaks in the clouds like spears while the world slowly woke around me.

Chapter 5

Traffic increased as the sky brightened. I took to sticking out my thumb whenever I heard the whirring sound of rubber tires on pavement. Not like anyone would pick me up. I was still too close to the uppermiddle class yuppies of my home town. I was a college kid and a vagabond to boot. Middle-aged people are a little wary of college-aged adults on some level and that anxiety seems to increase with age. I was content to walk and enjoy the morning, though a little voice said I might change my mind after a few miles. The soles of my shoes were thin from heavy wear and weren’t that thick when I bought them in the first place. Every rock on the shoulder of the road jabbed up into my foot. I could walk along on the grass, but dew still clung to most of it and I didn’t want to get my feet wet. I took to walking on the edge of the road and moving off into the shoulder whenever a car approached. My stomach grumbled a reminder that I hadn’t eaten breakfast. Digging through my backpack netted me a granola bar, and as I didn’t remember packing much else, I settled for that and hoped I wouldn’t get too thirsty. Once finished, I stuffed the wrapper into a pocket of my bag; I’d stepped over enough broken bottles with faded labels, sun-bleached

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paper and waterlogged fast food bags to resolve that I would never litter. I walked. And I walked. And I walked some more, because hey, I didn’t have much else to do, and by that time I was out in the middle of nowhere. I thought how the distance would go much faster if I had my bike, if it and I didn’t have a Greyhound trip and petty theft separating us. Damn thing got stolen during my first week at school. I kept shooting my thumb out, though no one stopped. It became automatic after a while: I’d hear the car approach, hold out my thumb, hope to see a flash of brake lights and a swerve to the side of the road, but always watched as the car dwindled away or disappeared around a curve. It was late morning when I rounded a curve in the road and saw what looked like a gas station sign down the road on the left. I must’ve walked five or six miles by that time; it felt like a damn lot, given I had nothing to look at but the same black road, yellow dotted line, and trees. I hated that line sometimes. A thin sheen of sweat covered my skin. I walked in through the door and navigated the aisles straight to the back in search of the bathrooms. I found them, along with my main goal: a water fountain. I hadn’t thought of bringing a water bottle of any sort and wished I’d had a little more foresight. I parted with a dollar twenty-nine out of my wallet for a large bottle. I sat outside on the curb for a few minutes to catch my breath and stow my purchase in my bag, being cautious to pack the bottle so it wouldn’t get crushed or leak. About twenty minutes passed before I felt like getting up. I admit that I gave some serious thought to going back somehow. I’d covered no more than ten miles out of a hundred and fifty, and that was a generous estimate. Sitting there, ass on cold concrete, and staring at a piece of gum blackened with age and an old, bent cigarette butt in the gutter didn’t do much to bring back the excitement from earlier. I got up and started walking again. When you think about it, I didn’t have much choice—I’d thrown

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away my bus ticket, you understand. The sound of a car approaching made me turn around and stick out my thumb. A white pickup truck grew bigger and bigger and then blew past me with a rush of wind that blew dirt into my eyes. I turned around and dropped my arm, saw the brake lights flash and the truck pull over. I felt a rush as I realized, I have a ride! It was some sort of work truck, with one of those large lockable steel toolboxes that spanned the bed behind the cab. Steel poles held up an assortment of ladders, and I could see some large buckets in the back. I ran alongside the truck up to the lowered passenger side window. The driver was a man with a few days growth of stubble. “Where you headed?” he asked as he turned down the radio. “However far north you’re going.” “I’m only going about thirty five miles from here, but it’ll get you closer. Hop in.” He leaned across the seat and opened the door. I pushed aside some papers and climbed in. “Thanks a ton for the ride,” I said. “No problem. Just hope you like country.” He turned the radio back up and put the truck into gear, looking over his shoulder before he pulled back out onto the road. Gravel from the shoulder shot up in a spray as he stomped on the gas to get up to speed. What I could see of my driver’s jeans and boots were stained with paint blotches of various colors. He had a metallic silver coffee thermos with a black plastic lid held in his lap between his legs, and once up to speed, drank from it with one hand and drove with the other. “So whatcha got going on up north?” He asked. “I’m off to see my Aunt.” “Why are you hitching? Car break down or something?” “Yeah”. I wasn’t sure why I said it. It popped out of my mouth, and I was stuck with it. “Gave up outside the station. My aunt belongs to one of those auto clubs, so I’ll have her call and tow it to a shop once I get there.” “That’s too bad about your car. You’ll hopefully be able to find another ride.” He took another slug of coffee. “I have a job—some retired

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couple wants the entire exterior redone—otherwise I’d take you farther.” “This is more than enough, thank you.” The difference in speed was nothing short of amazing—all my toil and trouble of the morning got me no farther than fifteen minutes of driving time. The speed limit dropped as we approached town. My driver pulled into a gas station and brought the truck to a stop some distance away from the pumps. I took my cue and gathered up my backpack. “Thanks again,” I said, hopping out. “You bet. Good luck,” he replied as I shut the door. He took off and made a quick jump into traffic without slowing. I never learned the man’s name. Such was the extent of my first time hitchhiking. A Wendy’s stared at me from across the street. It taunted me with cheap and easy food. My own money was running out fast and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to eat fast food all the time. Yet, I was hungry. In I went, damn the money. You can’t argue with hunger. I spent most of that day trying to get a ride. At times, I’d take the picture out of my backpack and look at my mother and my aunt. What would my aunt Elizabeth be like? Would we be able to make up for lost time? Short of one person mocking me and yelling at me to get a job, I had zero luck getting a ride. Panic set in around nine PM. How much distance could I have covered on foot in that time, miserable though it might have been? While nothing compared to the rate at which a vehicle travels, walking still felt better than wasting my time fishing for a ride. At least it would be doing something. I spent the night in a park gazebo I’d passed earlier. It did little to keep me out of the weather, but it cut the wind a bit and kept me out of sight. Sore muscles greeted me the next day. I brushed the wood splinters from my clothing and tried my luck again. A hay truck and a bit of walking took me the rest of the way to my aunt’s house.

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It was with a great deal of joy and relief that I turned onto my aunt’s street after a few wrong turns. I stuffed the paper containing the address back into my pocket and studied the house for a moment while collecting my thoughts. Butterflies danced in my stomach. How do you prepare to meet a relative you’ve just learned exists? The only answer I had for myself was: you don’t. So I steeled my nerves and knocked on the door. I was about to knock again when I heard the deadbolt slide back. An older woman answered the door, and I knew right away that she was the woman in my picture. “Can I help you?” she asked. “Elizabeth?” I asked. “That’s me.” “I’m Kyle Dearmond,” I said. “Your sister Katheryn is my mother.” Cool eyes regarded me from the space in the doorway. “I was wondering if I’d ever find you knocking on my door,” she said. “I’m sorry to just appear like this,” I said. “I had your address but not your phone number, otherwise I’d have called. Though I suppose I could have tried a phone book.” I was making a horrible go at this, wasn’t I? “Shit, I’m sorry. The reason I’m here is, I was wondering—” I swallowed. “I was wondering if you could tell me about my mother. Please.” All she did was stare at me. “You came all the way here to ask me that? Surely there’s someone else you could ask?” She made no move to open the door to allow me in. “Your father, perhaps?” “He died a few days ago,” I said. I don’t know if my voice betrayed my emotions or not. “Until yesterday, I didn’t even know you existed. I found that out during the reading of his will. I’ve also learned the story about my mother, and that maybe she’s not actually dead.” “Katheryn is dead and gone,” my aunt said, “and nothing will change that.” “Do you even know what happened?” I asked. Something that tasted of anger rose in my throat. “She was taken, not killed, and no one seems to—”

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“—I’ve already mourned my sister once,” she cut in. I realized later that her face never changed, never betrayed anything at all. “I couldn’t bear to do it again.” She slammed the door in my face.

Chapter 6

Pure rage exploded in me. I kicked the door, but it didn’t even rattle in its frame. Left a Converse footprint on it about a third of the way up, though. How could the bitch be so callous? I stormed off back the way I came. I had no purpose. Anger drove my feet in front of one another. What was I to do? I’m a moron, I thought. I’d pinned all my hopes on having that one family member, someone to sit and talk with. And now I had nothing. No one. Furious walking burned off some of the rage. I’m not sure what furious walking actually is, but somehow, I managed. One fuzzy recollection trickled through all of my emotions. I fished out the business card the Christian on the bus, Mike, had given me: his church was in that same town. I went to see him. Who else did I have? It was more for someone to talk to and vent my frustrations to than anything else. He bore it all in good stride and attempted to give me counseling. “Here’s my advice, Kyle,” he said. “Ask God to come into your life. He has a plan for all of us. You don’t have to go it alone.” “I don’t think I believe in Him,” I replied.

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“That doesn’t matter.” When it was clear that I had no prospects, he gave me the address of a homeless shelter in the area. “Oh, and Kyle?” He looked sad. “There’s a cold front coming through tonight. If you need some warmer clothes, the shelter might be able to help you out.” I nodded and slipped out the door. My anger rejected the idea of preparation or buying warmer clothes—let the world freeze—but I forced myself to pick up some items at a Salvation Army. If I was serious about staying on the road, the game would be staying the course and being prepared. I bought boots, a better jacket, a real backpack frame, and a variety of camping gear—anything that might come in handy one day. I used some of my dad’s money. He wouldn’t object to shelter and warmth, would he? The shelter was a large building, maybe even two stories by the look of it. The front door was open, and I could see a staircase and a hallway inside. I stepped in across the threshold. Sounds of conversation drifted back to me. “Hello?” I asked. No response. I went up a wide staircase. To my left was a large hallway with a wood floor, and in the front of me the stairway descended back down on the other side of the hallway. There was a fold-up table about midway down the room with two women sitting behind it. Once I got closer I could see a handmade sign taped to the end of the table. “Grace of God Church Shelter”, it read. “Hello,” one of the women said to me. “Can we help you?” “Hi,” I said. “One of the church workers told me that I could come here if I needed a place to stay?” “Sure, hon. Let’s get you set up.” She picked up a clipboard and pulled a pen from the holder on top. “Name and age, please?” “Kyle Dearmond, twenty.” She studied me for a moment and then wrote a bit more before saying, “You’ll be in bed seventeen tonight.” The other woman handed me a white plastic thing. It was square

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and six inches deep by four or five inches wide, and about an inch and a half tall. I had no idea what it was for. It must have shown somehow, because she then said, “You can use it to put your soup in” and pointed at another table down the hall where a large silver pot stood. Another volunteer stood watch over the table. I didn’t expect to be fed, but that didn’t mean that I wasn’t hungry. I approached the table at the end of the hall. The volunteer, an older man with gray in his beard, took my makeshift bowl from me and ladled it full of soup from the pot. “Careful, it’s hot,” he said as he stuck a clear plastic spoon into it and gave it back to me. I could see carrots, potatoes and corn along with large chunks of meat. It smelled wonderful. “You can take one of each and then find your bed or join the others by the TV.” He pointed to the three bins next to the soup; one piled high with red apples, another with dinner rolls arranged in layers, and the last with ice and little cartons of milk like I used to get from the cafeteria in elementary school. I grabbed one of each. “I think I’ll find my bed for now, thanks. Which way is it?” “Through that door.” He pointed back behind me to a doorway on his right. The floor was a cheap blue-green carpet. There were rows of cots, each with a number taped to it; some had people sleeping in them already. I found mine in the third row from the left, then slide my pack under the cot and settled in to eat. Every time my mind drifted away to thinking of my father or being snubbed by my aunt, I thought instead about the soup I was eating. Part way through my meal, a volunteer came up to me and pointed to my blanket that sat folded on the foot of the cot. “Since you have a sleeping bag, do you mind if I take that?” she asked. “We’re running short of blankets, I’m afraid.” I made various noises full of H’s and M’s and waved at it with my spoon in agreement. I finished the stew, but stuffed the apple and the roll into my pack for later. I kicked my backpack the rest of the way under my cot and took my bowl back to the man running the food table. I later learned that they

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were trays that tofu comes in when you buy bricks of it at the supermarket; people donated them to be used as food serving bowls. There was another doorway to the immediate left of the food table, and I stuck my head in for a look. A TV at the far end of the room broadcasted a western movie. There was a couch—old and beat up and torn— to the right, occupied by two people, and there was a group spread out in front of the TV, some sitting, some reclining on their elbows or on rolled up sleeping bags. There were women as well as men of all ages and races. Some had clothes that didn’t look too bad, and others looked as if they hadn’t changed in a month and might have even rolled in a pile of garbage within that time. I sat down at the back of the group. Every once in a while I caught a whiff that removed all doubt of someone rolling in garbage. I’m not sure which movie it was. I could say that it had a lot of Mexicans and cowboys and shooting in it, but that describes pretty much all of them, I think. It did have Clint Eastwood in it, which—to my uneducated mind—meant it was one of the better ones. I caught the last half hour or so. People cheered when Clint road off into the sunset and the credits rolled. The group broke up once the movie was over. Those who stayed behind moved up on the floor to fill in the vacated spaces and bickered about what to watch next. I got up and followed those leaving the room. Some peeled off to the right into the room with our cots, others mingled in the hallway, talking with the volunteers. A few went down the stairs to the left, and they were who I followed, out into a large alleyway and parking lot behind the building. People from the shelter stood or sat on the concrete steps, smoking cigarettes and talking to each other. Good thing I’d bought used clothing from the surplus store. I’d have stuck out if my clothes were brand new. I took a seat on the steps, leaned back against the building, and pulled my jacket tight around me. The cold front Mike had mentioned was moving in. The men were talking about Iraq and the latest news, how we were still over there and losing men every day.

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“I’m glad I didn’t join the military”, one man said. A few others grunted and nodded. “They wouldn’t even take me,” said another. He flicked his ashes away. “I tried.” “What’d they tell you?” a third man asked. “Gave me an examination, told me I had a weak and unsteady heart.” A rush of smoke poured out of his mouth as he laughed. “Like sitting behind a desk somewhere is gonna give me a heart attack. They were my last chance. Now I’m here.” “I dunno if I’d wanna be over there,” said another man with a ragged brown beanie on his head. “Crawling through the sand being shot at by the people you’re trying to help doesn’t sound like much fun. Thought of dyin’ halfway ‘round the world from home scares the shit out of me.” “Eh, I’d rather be doing something,” said the man with the weak heart. He flicked his cigarette butt away into the parking lot. A shower of sparks flared for a brief second before it went out. “Better than being on the street.” I closed my eyes and listened to them talk about war and sports. My attention wavered once they rolled into political talk, and I found myself half paying attention and half in my own thoughts. Most were about my mother and father. That empty spot was still there, and it still hurt just as much. Someone next to me said, “Damn, it’s cold out here. I gotta go inside.” That woke me up. It was around eight thirty by my watch. I’d started to feel tired while I was watching the movie, and sitting outside leaning up against the building wasn’t helping. I went inside as well and headed for my bed. The cot next to me was no longer empty. A man reclined on it, reading a book. He was heavy set, though not what I’d call fat. Just big. He had long, dark blond hair pulled back into a ponytail and a somewhat scraggly beard. His pack was stuffed under his cot much like mine was. I couldn’t tell what he was reading. My neighbor said hi as I sat down on my cot. “I’m Little Bear,” he said. The name made sense—he was nowhere near little.

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“I’m Kyle.” He dog-eared his place in his book and closed it to look at me. “Where you headed?” he asked. I shrugged. “Not sure yet.” “I think that’s always the most fun,” he chuckled. “No telling where you’ll end up.” “I’m still sort of new at this,” I admitted, “so I guess I’ll figure it out eventually.” “Yeah, I thought you might be,” he said. “I had to run someone off from your pack. I don’t think he was taking inventory for you, ya know?” Damn. I hadn’t thought about that. “Thanks a ton. I guess I shouldn’t have left it here.” “You learn these things as you go,” he said. “You got lucky—this lesson didn’t cost you anything.” I sat on my cot and started to undo my bootlaces. “Whoa whoa whoa, wait a second,” Little Bear said, sitting up and putting his feet on the floor. “Damn, you are new at this. How long you been on the road?” “Only a coupla days.” “Ahhh. Well, listen, Kyle. You don’t want to take your shoes off. Leave them on the floor while you sleep and they’ll be gone by morning, guaranteed.” “Someone would actually steal my shoes?” “You bet. When you don’t have much, a new pair of shoes can look mighty nice.” He leaned forward toward me and dropped his voice a little. “I’ve run into men who I’d swear would stab me for the change in my pocket without thinking twice. Always be careful around people. Never leave anything out of your sight. Better yet, keep everything within arm’s reach of you. Your pack is small, and that’s good; don’t even put your pack in a trunk if you get a ride, keep it with you on the floor or in your lap.” “Thanks. I’ll remember.” He then told me a few stories from his past, about places he’d been, people he’d met and women he’d slept with. He traveled wherever he

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pleased, doing his best to follow all the festivals, faires and protests. Hippy, pagan, or otherwise, it didn’t seem to matter. His storytelling was interrupted by a volunteer sticking his head in the door and calling out, “Lights out in ten minutes, folks.” A great deal more people had filed in while I was listening to Little Bear talk. Most of the beds were full. A glance at my watch told me it was eight fifty. “Well, hey,” Little Bear said. “We can talk more in the morning.” I lay on my cot with my sleeping bag over me. The lights went out a few minutes later. A slight yellow glow from a sodium light outside fell through a window at the end of the room. Every once in a while I’d hear a rush of air as the heater came on. It was enough to keep the worst of the cold away, but not to take the chill out of the room. Whenever the heater wasn’t running, I could hear the snores and rustling sounds of the other inhabitants. I lay there a long time before sleep took me, my mind occupied with thoughts of my father and all the things I’d yet to see. * * * * * I was dreaming. The realization was almost immediate—things were too floaty and amorphous to be otherwise. It was night time in a parking lot. The glare of the giant fluorescent lamps was harsh and bright. Bugs flew around the bulbs in swarms. I drifted, weightless, bodiless. Standing next to a car. There was someone else there, too. I couldn’t see his face, yet somehow I knew I didn’t like whoever it was. Why were we waiting? What were we waiting for? My viewpoint rotated. A man and a woman walked towards us, arm in arm and laughing amongst themselves. The man’s smile melted off his face when he noticed my companion and I. The woman asked, “What is it?” and followed his gaze towards us. My companion spoke, but I couldn’t make out the words. Shouldn’t I have been able to? Something wasn’t right. Tension grew. The woman shook her head, pointed towards the man next to her. My companion grew angry and pulled something out of his pocket, a flash of metal in the artificial light.

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The other man lunged forward. Deafening noise. Acrid smoke. Dark stains formed on the man’s shirt and spread. He cried out and fell to the ground. The woman rushed over to him, shrieking. Wait a moment. This was too familiar. Or was it? He wasn’t my companion. I wasn’t even supposed to be there. Couldn’t be there: this had already happened. My former companion grabbed the woman and pulled her away from the man on the ground. The man on the ground reached for her, but cried out in pain and collapsed. I moved to help her, to stop him, to do something, but I moved slow, like I was walking through water. I yelled as I moved. No! (hey) My companion shoved her into a car across the front seat and got in after her. No! (wake up, Kyle) The engine roared, lights flared, tires squealed— (have to wake up) —and still I moved too slow. I turned to look at the man on the ground. I knew him. Knew his face, though it was much younger. It was my father. * * * * * “Kyle!” There was a pain in my arm. “Hey man, wake up.” My eyes popped open. Little Bear had been jabbing me in the arm over and over again. It explained why my upper arm hurt—he had one hell of a jab. “I’m awake, I’m awake,” I said. Part true, at least. “Bad dream, man?” “What makes you ask that?” “You were trashing a lot and talking in your sleep.” “Yeah, it was a weird one.” “Just shake it off—it’s time for breakfast. Lets get some while the

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gettin’s good.” The room’s temperature had dropped during the night, heater or no. Goosebumps rippled along my skin. From the dream? Or the temperature? The cold lent itself to brisk, quick work. My sleeping bag took a quick moment to roll up and attach to my pack frame. I followed Little Bear out of the room and into the main hallway as I put on my jacket. My legs were still a bit sore. “I don’t think I can eat anything,” I said. “My stomach doesn’t feel too great.” I tried to remember what I’d dreamt about, but most of the images had dissolved, leaving me with a vague sense of what had happened and an uneasy feeling to my stomach. “Up to you, man. Your loss, though.” Little Bear stopped in front of a table that had four short, white boxes and two large thermoses. He took a paper cup from a stack and filled it with coffee. The boxes were his next stop, where he relieved one of them of the last chocolate donut. “I’d try to eat something if I were you.” He grinned. “But then again, more for me if you don’t.” The sight of the donuts made my stomach lurch, so I decided on a cup of coffee instead. Some cream and sugar made it drinkable, but I mostly got it so I could hold something warm in my hands. Once I had my coffee, I walked over to where Little Bear stood. “Here, take this.” He gave me his cup of coffee. “Go grab us some floor space and I’ll get our packs. Don’t want to leave them alone.” I went into the TV room and sat down against the wall. There were a few other people eating and talking, some of whom I recognized from the night before. Little Bear came back a few moments later with a pack in each hand and his donut held between his teeth. He sat down beside me and finished his breakfast in a few large bites. “So, you decide where you’re going yet?” he asked once he’d swallowed. “No idea. Maybe north, unless there’s anything worth seeing around here.” “Nah, nothing. You seem like decent company, though. You’re welcome to come along with me if you want. I can show you the ropes a

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bit.” The idea hadn’t occurred to me, and I grew excited at the thought of traveling with a friend. “Where you headed?” “Going to see a woman named Lady Silver speak. Ever heard of her?” I shook my head no. “Big environmental activist, pretty well known in certain circles. Heard she’d be at a university a bit south of here next weekend and didn’t want to miss it. Want to come?” My heart sank. “That’s where I came from. I was a student there.” “Oh. Shit. Guess you’ll not be wanting to go right back, then?” I looked down at my coffee. The font of steam from earlier had slowed to a trickle as the warmth ebbed out of it. “Would rather not. Wasn’t happy there, and I’m not in any hurry to go back when I barely left.” “I was wondering why you were on the road. Not a polite thing to ask a man, though. You’ll want to keep that in mind as you travel. Asking where someone is headed is okay, but stay away from the why or where they’ve been. Everyone has their reasons to keep quiet, and most consider them to be their own business, not anyone else’s, and don’t take too kindly to questions. From what I’ve seen and heard, some are looking for something. Others are trying to forget. Then there’s people who don’t have anywhere else to go. And a few aren’t trying to forget, they’re flat out running from something. You want to watch out for those last people the most. Gotta be careful who you run with, or you could end up in trouble real quick.” He sucked down the rest of his coffee in one large gulp. “That being said, you said were a college student before, huh?” “Yeah. What about you?” I didn’t realize I’d asked about his past until the question was already out. “I was an accountant.” I blinked. “No kidding?” “Yeah, I shit you not. Button-up shirt, tie, hair cut, the whole bit.” “What happened?” Little Bear had just told me to be careful about asking people questions like that, and that was the second one I’d blurted

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out without thinking. “Er, if you don’t mind my asking, that is.” “I got tired of it. Made good money, but I was totally stressed out all the time. Got sick of laws, taxes, allowances, long hours and people who bitch about every cent they have to pay even though they make more money in a year than I’ll see my lifetime.” “Doesn’t sound like much fun,” I said. “It wasn’t. I saved some money up to give myself something to fall back on until I learned my way around, then I took to the road. I’m much happier now.” He gestured around at the shelter. “I may not live in a nice house or drive a nice car, but I go where I please when I please, with no one to answer to. I don’t know how people get to think they need that kind of shit. Buy this, buy that; advertising and taxes everywhere you turn. I work jobs under the table for a week or so if I need the money. Plenty of people willing to pay cash on the side to avoid payroll taxes. Especially if I can help them trim a bit in other places, if you take my meaning. You can’t buy the kind of freedom I have.” Did he have a point? I wasn’t sure. It may have been that I believed in what he was saying, or I only wanted to believe, to justify what I was doing. That I wasn’t flushing my life down the toilet. Either way, listening to Little Bear talk renewed my drive and excitement. Little Bear stood up not too long after that. “Well, I should get going. I still have a bit of a way to go, ‘specially if I can’t find a ride.” The reality of his departure dawned on me then. “Thanks for everything,” I said. “I enjoyed talking with you.” “You bet, me too. Do you have a pen?” I searched through my pack with no luck. “No.” He rustled through his own bag and came up with one. He grabbed a small piece of paper out of his bag, flipped it over to see the other side, shrugged, and flipped back to the blank side. Little Bear had to lick the end of the pen and scribble it back and forth across the paper a bunch of times to get it to work. He handed it to me and I read it while he shouldered his pack. It said:

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L.B. PO BOX 3492 and had a city and zip code on it. Little Bear said, “Since you’re headed north, I heard that there’s a big shelter up that way in the capital. Never stayed there myself. You can look into it if you get up that far. I’m not too sure what there is between here and there, so keep your eyes open for opportunities.” I nodded. “Will do. Thanks again.” Little Bear turned and walked out of the room. I put his address in my pack along with my growing collection of papers. Curiosity and the feeling of making a friend led me to wonder what it would have been like to travel with Little Bear. But I didn’t want to go back. I feared my resolve would weaken if I were to go right back home again. Thinking that I’d better eat something while it was available, I talked myself into eating a donut, though by that time the top choices were gone. Another half cup of coffee helped to wash it down, and soon I was outside again. I made my way north through town and came upon a gas station with a semi parked at the pumps. I walked over to the truck and around to the right side where the pump was, but there was no one there. I hung around for a few minutes and felt awkward, like I didn’t belong or was doing something wrong by even being there. It wasn’t like me to approach strangers out of the blue, but I figured it had to be better than standing on the side of the road for a half a day with my thumb out. The driver came out of the store carrying a hotdog and a coke right around the time my nerves reached critical mass and I was about to walk away. I waited for him to get a bit closer, and then asked, “Excuse me, sir?” “Yeah?” He was a heavier-set man, middle-aged and unremarkable. “I was wondering if I could hitch a ride with you if you’re going north?” “Where you headed?” I smiled. “I haven’t decided yet. Just north for now.”

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He paused for a moment and looked at me. “Aww hell, why not,” he said. “It’ll be nice to have some company. C’mon.” I had to step on three different ledges to get myself up into the truck. There was enough room to set my pack on the floor and lean it against my knees. “Thanks so much,” I said. He set his hotdog up on the dashboard and slid his drink into a cup holder. The dashboard sported a CB radio and a Playboy calender below the stereo. He gave the shifter a bit of a wiggle and hit the key. The truck came to life with a muted roar. I’d never been in a semi truck before. Sitting that high off the ground felt surreal. We inched up to the curb to wait for a break in traffic to make our exit, and then pulled out at a snail’s pace, shifting gears often. I soon lost count of what gear the truck was in. We rumbled along through the last bit of town and made our entrance onto the highway. My ride loosened up a bit once we were situated in our lane and started in on his food. Who eats hotdogs for breakfast? Then again, who was I to judge? I figured that I didn’t need to talk while he was eating. Once he finished with his hotdog, he sucked on his soda and asked questions. I told him my name and where I was from. I learned some things about him as well: His name was Jake and he wasn’t married. He’d been driving for over ten years now and owned his own truck. Seems that that’s a big thing for a driver. “I’m not sure how far I’ll be going,” Jake said. “I’ve already been rolling for about eight hours now.” That explained the hot dog at eight thirty in the morning. He turned on the CB radio and bumped the volume down so we could still talk. He explained what some of the codes meant that the people were using on the air. I got a great deal of amusement out of one portion of the radio conversation in particular. “Happy AM, people. What’s the bear report this morning?” one man asked. “Got Smokey taking pictures from the trees a mile south of the one-

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twenty-one and another to the south handing out invitations,” replied another man. A third man chimed in. “Looks clean from there on south a ways. Will announce if I find any.” “Ten-four and thanks. I’ll let the channel roll.” That was the first man again. “What was that about?” I asked. “First guy asked where the Highway Patrol is this morning,” he explained. “Sounds like there’s one running radar and another down the road from him writing tickets. They do that a lot. I’ve seen four or five units all lined up, each with someone pulled over. We’d rather they not get their revenue from us.” The cooperation between truck drivers, those whose life was the road, made me smile. Jake pulled into a truck stop a few hours later. We had a bite to eat and I made use of the showers. Jake was too tired to continue on and arranged another ride for me with a quiet man named Will, whose truck was filthy on the inside. There were burger wrappers and bags on the floor, crushed soda cans and cups, wrinkled-up papers with coffee stains scattered all over the seats, food crumbs on both the floor and seat, and even a shriveled pickle slice on the floor, held there by a glue of dried ketchup and mustard. Will scooped everything over into a pile in the center of the seat to make room for me. I tried to touch as little as possible. I weighed the desire to get out of that truck against the desire to cover more distance. Finally, I could take it no more, and asked to be let off at an approaching gas station. It was almost five o’clock by the time Will dropped me off and rumbled away. I was still a good eighty miles from the shelter if my figures were correct, and as I looked around I questioned the wisdom of being dropped off where I was. There wasn’t a whole lot of traffic. The station I stood in was empty. I walked a couple blocks through what I suppose was the main part of whatever town I was in until I found another gas station close to a highway onramp. There were two people getting gas, one middle aged

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man in a polo shirt and one woman, who I decided to avoid. Odds were she wouldn’t give me a ride and that approaching her would cause trouble that I didn’t want. With my luck, she’d panic and mace me. I approached the man. He was leaning up against his car, watching the numbers on the digital readouts climb. “Excuse me,” I said. “I was wondering, if you’re going north, could I catch a ride with you, please?” “Erm, no, sorry-I’m-not-headed-that-way.” His words came out in a tumbled rush. He’d looked at me when I first spoke, but then avoided all eye contact with me. “Okay, thank you anyways,” I said. I hovered around the gas station for a good hour, watching the people that stopped and gauging the likelihood catching a ride with each one. I avoided women completely, as well as male/female couples—I figured they’d be the least likely to give me a ride. I asked a few more people in an open-ended matter and got the same sort of response. No one wanted anything to do with me. The station employees watched me through the windows. The thought struck me that it might be best to go somewhere else for a while. I moved up to the onramp slope to try my luck there. It was no go. I burned another hour and a half standing around and sticking my thumb out to no avail. There wasn’t enough traffic to make my odds anywhere near favorable. I cursed the luck that landed me in that damn area. Jake and Will tried to help, whereas I should have asked more questions about the area first. I might have started walking, except pedestrians aren’t allowed on the major freeways and I had no idea what other roads might take me in the way I wanted to go. Downcast and defeated for the moment, I decided to take a break and walked a couple blocks over to a Taco Bell I’d seen on my way through the city the first time. Though I still didn’t feel like eating, my body seemed to have reestablished its hunger cycles. It was too difficult to try to ignore the urge to eat when I knew I had money to spare for an inexpensive meal. The cheapest things on the menu were bean burritos, so I ordered

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two of those and a cup for water from the soda fountain. I got my change back and took the opportunity to count the money left in my wallet. The vast sum of thirty seven dollars was all that remained to my name. Well, that and some change in the bottom of my backpack. My mind touched briefly on the thought of what would happen when I ran out of money, but the thought drifted—or, rather, was shoved—off into the ether as my order came up. I sat down with my tray and made quick work of my food. I felt like I was being watched the entire time, but I’d already learned that my backpack drew more than its share of odd looks and so I paid no more attention to the feeling. There were ten or twelve other people in the restaurant, and I couldn’t tell who might have been looking at me. An employee came over and asked if he could take my tray for me. I nursed my cup of water for another fifteen minutes or so, then shouldered my pack and stepped out into the night. I’d planned on going back to the gas station to try my luck again there—maybe another truck driver could give me a lift out of there—with standing on the onramp as a backup plan if that didn’t work out. But I didn’t make it that far. I had the feeling I was being watched again not too long after I left. A moment later, I heard a scuff of a shoe on the sidewalk behind me. I moved my head ever so slightly to the side, and out of the corner of my eye saw two people walking behind me. I increased my pace. They increased theirs. A car went by, and then I found myself shoved into the glass window of a store entrance. I stumbled and tried to turn around, caught sight of the dark-haired man who’d shoved me, and swung a fist at him as I spun around. He stepped back to avoid my blow and then hit me in the stomach. The air in my lungs escaped with a “whoosh” sound and I doubled over in pain, gasping for breath. His knee connected with my face. My nose and cheek took most of the impact and the world went blurry as my eyes watered up. It happened fast—shove, punch, knee—and my body was still trying to process the shock of the incident when I felt myself shoved once more, this time overbalancing from the weight of my pack and falling to the ground as I saw two man-shaped blobs run off into the

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darkness. My stomach hurt, I was trying to catch my breath, and my nose stung like hell, but I was alright. Until a few moments later when I realized that my wallet was gone.

Chapter 7

I felt like I was going to throw up. Spent a few minutes hunched over and ready to evacuate my stomach. My burritos changed their minds, though, and decided to stay after all. I gently touched my nose and winced a bit, but it didn’t seem broken. Another lucky count for me. Most of the damage was on the inside: I had no money and no form of identification, nothing to show that I was, in reality, a student. Or had been, at least. A long way from anywhere that I could consider home with no money and no friends, things looked a lot more bleak than they did when I was drinking coffee with Little Bear that morning. I sat down on the curb, feeling sorry for myself. There was no one to make me feel better. No one to call, nowhere to go home to, no one waiting for me, and no one was going to approach some stranger on the street at night to make them feel better. I stood about ten minutes later. I had to help myself. There was no one else to do it for me. Tired and out of options, I spent that night camped in the woods off of the highway. Leaves crinkled and crackled beneath me whenever I shifted. Crickets sounded off in the darkness. I could still hear the traffic

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on the highway and couldn’t help but wonder if I’d missed a ride by bedding down. I felt too vulnerable—much more so than I had when I slept in the gazebo. Walls and a roof—or at least the illusion thereof—went a long way. Sleep came lightly and in short stretches. A tickling sensation woke me once, and puzzlement turned into revulsion as I discovered a bug crawling on my arm inside the sleeping bag. There’s something about sleeping outside and waking up in the morning’s first light. Almost as if it’s some genetic holdover from our prehistoric days, back when being caught off guard while sleeping would make you not late for work, but food for something with lots of pointy teeth. I was up before dawn. I considered my situation as I walked back through the trees to the road. I hadn’t had any luck getting a ride the day before, and getting mugged had been an angering and depressing end to the day. Sleeping on the ground in the woods hadn’t done much to improve my disposition. I turned into the first gas station I could find—but not to petition for a ride. I was beyond that then, and intended to help myself. What I needed was a map. The pumps were empty and so was the store. A man with a thick gold necklace and bracelet sat on a stool behind the counter. He glanced up at me when the door chime sounded, then went back to flipping through a Sports Illustrated. I wandered for a moment until I found the maps in the same isle as the overpriced motor oil and car accessories. I pulled out a nice laminated state map and unfolded it, then spent a few minutes trying to find where the hell I was. I was just starting to get the lay of the land when the guy yelled from the register, “Hey, you gonna buy a map or not? This ain’t a fuckin’ library.” I folded the map up and took it up to the register, tossed it on the counter, and then kept right on walking, past the register and on out the door. The door chime went off again and he said, “Yeah, fuck you, you bum.” He’d waited until my back was to him. I shot him the finger over

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my shoulder and kept walking. I’d gotten a long enough look at the map to know which road to take out of town, but hadn’t had a chance to memorize any other road or highway names and numbers. Blue replaced black in the sky as the morning finished its arrival. I traced my steps back towards the onramps. There was no way in hell that I would sit and stand around waiting for a ride. I continued on out of town along a highway, using the most reliable form of transportation of all time: my feet.

Chapter 8

All traces of the soreness I first experienced from walking were gone. I set a quick pace along the side of the road, using a cheap compass to make sure I was going the right way—you won’t notice a bend in the road if they’re subtle enough, unless you look back behind you and don’t see the lines of the road converge into one point. The street out of town turned into a two lane highway, much like the road I took when I first started this trip. There wasn’t much in the way of scenery. I’d pass a house or mobile home every once in a while between long stretches of countryside. It all had a therapeutic quality to it. No cars, no people, just myself and the act of walking to get my misfortunes off my mind. Clouds moved into the sky overhead around noontime. I first noticed them when I stopped to break and washed down half of a bread roll with water. I kept a close eye on the sky after that, hoping that it wouldn’t rain until I at least found some shelter. I walked. The sky darkened. By three in the afternoon, there were no longer any visible patches of blue sky. I walked a bit faster. Sprinkles started in an hour later, and then the sky opened up. I hadn’t come across any shelter in that time—no houses, no businesses, no shacks, no abandoned buildings, not even a cow field with a lean-to roof. Water rolled

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right off my jacket, but my hair and pants were soaked within the first minute. Rain gear was another thing I forgot to pack. A car passed me. I imagined the person inside saying, “Goodness, sucks to be that guy.” I trudged on. The rain melted away my anger from the night before, leaving only depression and a low, smoldering misery behind. Why had I bothered to put one foot in front of the other? An hour passed. Up ahead sat a building on the right side of the road. The sign out front said “Jim’s Bar and Grill”. In front of the building was a gravel parking lot, empty save for one old Dodge pickup truck. Neon signs shone forth from the window in white and red. Those signs signaled dry heaven. My clothes were soaking wet. The proprietor sure as hell wouldn’t be in a hurry to offer me work or a place to wait out the storm if I was standing in a puddle of water on his floor. I went around to the back of the building to see if I could find a place to change. There wasn’t much out back. A rusty metal dumpster squatted a distance away from the building. I found a sort of back porch; there was a heavy door that led inside, but more important was the overhang that sheltered me from the rain. There were also four large trash bags on the concrete under the overhang. I got another pair of pants and underwear out of my backpack and kicked off my shoes—even my socks were drenched. I peeled off my wet clothes and threw them to the ground. Each piece made a soggy plop sound as it landed. Once I was dressed again I wrung my clothes out as best I was able. The plastic package for the tarp I’d bought served as makeshift bag to keep my wet clothes separate from the dry ones. Thus reclothed, I shouldered my pack and went around front. I pulled the door open and stepped inside. The visible interior was L-shaped with an old, rough wooden floor. Beverage and sports posters and advertisements covered the walls. To the right was a small area with a pool table, jukebox and a dartboard on the wall; to my left was a small stage, complete with sound equipment and an

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acoustic guitar on a stand. Farther back were a bunch of tables and chairs. The bar sort of wrapped around the inside corner of the room in front of me with a TV suspended from the ceiling at each end. Behind the left part of the bar, across from the tables and chairs, was a doorway into the kitchen. The place was empty and quiet. No patrons, no music playing, nothing. Just a soft thump every time I took a step. I called out, “Hello?” A slim man came out of the kitchen. He had a white towel and was wiping his hands. “Hello, what can I get for you?” The question hit the processing portion of my brain, which happily reported that it had no idea how to answer that question. “Um,” I stammered, “Well, I’m traveling and was wondering if there’s any way I could do some sort of work in exchange for a meal and a place to sit out the rain.” “Traveling?” he asked. I felt uncomfortable under his gaze. “Where you headed?” I managed a bit of a smile. “I’m not sure. Seems to be north.” “Why north?” “I figured, ‘Why not?’ Seemed as good a direction as any other.” Still he looked at me. This wasn’t going right at all. I got nervous again. “If you’re not able to, I totally understand. I can–” “You’re not in any kind of legal trouble, are you son?” he cut in. “No sir.” “So I could call the sheriff, give them your description, and verify that if I wanted to?” I nodded. “Like I said, I’m not in any trouble.” I smiled as something Little Bear said came back to me. “I’m looking, not running.” The man laughed. “It doesn’t hurt to be sure.” He held out his hand. It took me a second to realize that he’d basically said yes. “Name’s Jim.” I shook his hand. “I’m Kyle.” “Welcome, Kyle. I reckon I can find something for you to do. Go on through the kitchen and put your things in my office.” I went looking for Jim once I stowed my stuff and found him clean-

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ing some glasses behind the bar. “Alright,” he said. “Should start getting the after work people in here any minute now. First thing, you can do the dishes in the sink back there. Soap and everything you need should be on the shelves above the sink. I also need you to take the bags of trash on the back porch to the dumpster out back. Up to you which one you want to do first. Come and find me when you’re finished with those things.” It wasn’t much different than working at my old restaurant. I wasn’t old enough to serve alcohol, so I became a cook for the rest of the evening, churning out roast beef sandwiches, burgers, fries, and the like. “Can you cook at all?” Jim had asked. “Worked in a restaurant to help pay for classes,” I offered. “Good enough.” I cooked for a solid hour. My restaurant experiences helped, but it also helped that I wasn’t exactly churning out culinary gold. The noise level increased out in the bar area as people came in to eat and drink their dinner. Someone fired up the jukebox and the Charlie Daniel’s band thumped back into the kitchen. My cooking stopped only once when I heard Jim yell, “Kyle, see if you can start a new keg of Bud. It’s already up there, just switch it over.” I walked over to the corner where the kegs sat and stared at the mess of hoses. There was a sort of on/off valve type thing, too. Not willing to be intimidated, I turned the valve off, unscrewed the house, turned to the other keg, connected it and flipped the valve back to ‘on’. The system made a pfffffffffffssssssssssssssssssst sound as the keg pressurized. “You got it, Kyle?” Jim yelled. “Yeah, that should do it,” I yelled back. There were no complaints and no cursing from the bar, and the keg wasn’t spraying beer everywhere, so I figured I had it right. Jim poked his head into the kitchen a few minutes later. “Go ahead and make yourself something to eat and take a break. I’ll cover the kitchen for a bit.” I was still eating my food when the phone rang. Jim answered it from behind the bar. He said something I couldn’t make out, listened,

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said something again, then hung up. Then he swore, which I did hear. I stood up and walked over. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “That was Todd.” Jim gestured to the stage area. “He usually plays here. He called to cancel tonight.” “So that’s his guitar up there? It’s a nice one.” “You play?” Jim asked me then. “A bit. Don’t have one of my own. Learned on a friend’s.” “Feel like getting up and playing a few songs?” “Oh no, I’m not good enough to play in front of people. Just pick one up every now and then.” “C’mon, you can do it. These guys would like anything, especially once they start drinking.” “No, I can’t. Besides, I can’t sing.” “Too bad.” I could hear the disappointment in his voice, but I was not merely being humble about my abilities—I had no abilities. “Got an order for a burger,” he said. “Feel like making it?” “Sure,” I said. The orders trickled off and dried up after that. I spent about a half hour putting things away and cleaning up, including sweeping and mopping the floor. “Where are you staying tonight?” Jim asked me later. I blinked. Hadn’t given it much thought, and told him so. “Figured as much,” he said. “I’ll be staying here tonight, since my wife is out of town. I made a small bedroom in the attic a few years ago. I don’t have much to offer you, but you’re welcome to bed down on the stage if you like.” I thanked him. Anything was better than sleeping outside. Jim even managed to find a huge roll of that little air bubble packing material for me to lay my sleeping bag on. It made a lot of crunching and popping sounds until I got situated, but it went a long way towards softening up the hard wood of the stage. Sleep took me almost immediately. I don’t even remember Jim turning out the lights. It was a restful, dreamless sleep, the sleep birthed of hard work, devoid of any and all thoughts and nightmares.

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It was much needed. I awoke around nine the following morning to find Jim sitting at the bar, drinking coffee and watching the news on one of TVs. He glanced over when I stirred and sat up. “Good morning,” he said. “Care for some breakfast?” I nodded, and mumbled something resembling “sure, please, and thank you”. I climbed up on a barstool and did my best to wake up. There was a bit of soreness in my legs from the day before. Jim returned from the kitchen ten minutes later with two plates loaded down with scrambled eggs, sausage links, and buttered toast, then made another trip to the kitchen for a second coffee mug and a coffee pot. We watched the news while we ate. Wasn’t much worth watching. Most of it rehashed old news about the Iraq conflict. The traffic report came on as we were finishing up, and that reminded me of my real business. “So what’s the closest town north from here?” I asked. “Real small place, ‘bout fifteen miles from here, at least.” “How small?” I asked. “Too small to do you much good,” he said. He thought for a moment. “If you need a place to stay, the bigger, the better as far as the city goes. Best bet might be the capital. Beyond that, I don’t know. I stuck to the coast, myself, back when I hitched, and times have changed, so I don’t know this area too well in that regard.” “You’ve hitchhiked before?” I asked. He smiled. “Oh yeah. Damn near twenty years ago. Did my share of traveling around, going where I please. Things were different then, though, like I said. You could do that and not have to worry about much. Nowadays people are too afraid of murderers and rapists to hitch, or to pick one up when they see ‘em.” “Why did you do it?” I asked. The idea intrigued me. Was I still trying to figure out why I was doing it? He shrugged. “Why not? I was young and had no responsibilities. I had a lot of fun. Got into some trouble, too. Learned a lot. Some days, I find myself missing the freedom. But never again, let me tell you. I like

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having a bed to sleep in and knowing where my next meal will come from.” Jim chuckled. “I guess that means I’m old now.” He smiled again and shook a finger in the air. “That reminds me, there’s something I want to show you.” Into the kitchen he went. I heard a creak and a thud. He came back a moment later carrying a black nylon guitar bag. Dust wafted off from it in lazy waves. He unzipped the bag and took out a beat up acoustic guitar. The finish had come off in a few places, and there were dings and scratches all over it. Even a few deep gouges where the pale wood underneath peeked out. “It might not look like much,” he said, “but it still plays pretty well.” Though the strings had tarnished with age, he was able to get it reasonably tuned. He handed the guitar to me. Not wanting to be rude, I strummed it a few times while Jim kept talking. “I carried it with me when I was hitching around,” he said. “Thing is pretty damn old. Maybe as old as you, even.” He smiled. “I keep it up in the attic and get it out every once in a while to play it. But not as often as I should.” He sighed. “It’s been so long that I’ve lost what little ability to play that I had. So mostly I sit there and hold it for a while. Maybe strum a few cords and think of the old days before I put it back in its case.” “I like it,” I said. How many miles did that guitar have on it? What had it seen? “It has character.” “There were times when that guitar was my best friend. Let me hear you play something?” Jim had been more than kind to me, and so I honored his request with a few songs. My fingers fumbled with the strings a time or two, and I had to restart. I played a few songs, ones he might know. “Stairway to Heaven”. A few bars of a James Taylor tune. “Not bad,” Jim said when I was finished. “Much better than I was expecting, given the way you talked last night.” “Thanks, but unfortunately, that’s about the extend of my abilities,” I said. I handed the guitar back and he put it back in the bag.

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“I’d better get going,” I said then. “Thank you for everything. Last night could have been hell, if it wasn’t for you.” “Get your things together, I’ll give you a bit of food to take along with you.” I wasn’t going to say no to food. I went through my usual routine of rolling up my sleeping bag and retying it to the pack frame. Both the bag and the pack had served me well thus far; everything I bought had. I grew happier with my purchases as time went on, and felt less guilty about spending my father’s money on them. I didn’t know when I’d have another chance to use a restroom, so I used it again. My reflection in the mirror showed a shadow of a beard forming on my face. I’m one of the lucky people who don’t have to shave every day, but after nearly a week of going without, it was finally catching up to me. I’d have to find a razor soon in order to keep my appearance clean. I snapped off the light and returned to the bar. Jim came out of the kitchen with a large white paper bag. The top was rolled and folded over. “I wrapped it well and then triple bagged it. You shouldn’t have any problems with it making a mess in your pack.” He handed it over. “Should last until lunch time, but I wouldn’t trust it after that.” I nodded and set the paper sack in on top of the rest of the things in my backpack. He then went over to the bar and picked up the carrying bag the guitar was in. He paused to heft it a few times, and then came over to where I sat on the stage and handed me the guitar case. “I’d also like you to take this.” “Jim, I can’t accept it. You’ve done more than enough for me already.” I felt flush with both embarrassment and friendly warmth. “No, I mean it, take it. Take it with you. It does me no good anymore. It should be out on the road again, being played and loved, not sitting and gathering dust.” My mind was blank. “I don’t know what to say.” “Nothing to say. Just take it with you. And promise me that you’ll never sell it. No matter what, no matter how hungry you are, don’t sell it.”

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Resigned, I reached out for it. “I promise. I won’t.” Jim nodded in return. “Like I said earlier, there were times when the guitar was my best friend. No matter how lonely I was, he was there. He helped me make a lot of friends, and even earn a meal or two. I hope he does for you what he did for me back then.” I held out my hand. I think that’s the first and only time I’ve ever initiated a handshake. “Thank you, Jim.” We figured out how to tie the guitar bag onto the front of my backpack. The neck of the guitar stuck straight up in the air. Though it looked a little odd, it was secure and wouldn’t fall off. I didn’t notice much of a difference in overall weight once the pack was on my shoulders, either. “All set?” Jim asked. “I think so.” “You’re always welcome to come back. I’d love to hear you tell about your travels someday. There’s a part of me that’ll always miss it, I suppose.” I thanked him for everything one more time and went out the front door. Jim poked his head out the door and waved before pulling it shut. I heard the heavy grinding of the door’s dead bolt. I was on the road again.

Chapter 9

I slept under a bridge that night. This particular one took a country highway up and over the span of a tiny river. I have no idea who came up with the idea that bridges are good to sleep under, but I’d like to give them a piece of my mind should we ever meet. The cement is always cold unless it’s in direct sunlight—and the undersides of bridges are never in direct sunlight, even in the afternoon. So, the concrete stays cold, and it soaks up through your sleeping bag. It rained in the night. While the bridge kept the rain off of me, it didn’t stop it from dripping down and forming puddles underneath the bridge. I woke up when I rolled over in my sleep and part of my sleeping bag was sopping wet: the corner of it had been in the path of a forming and ever-growing puddle. Even after I moved my sleeping bag to higher ground—higher cement, that is—I discovered that, as a car drove over head, it sent vibrations down through the entire structure. I slept in short bursts throughout the night and woke up early the next morning feeling unrested. It was twilight. Small bugs hopped and flittered across the surface of the water. Every once in a while, one of them would disappear with a splash when a fish surfaced to grab them from below, a ring of ripples marking their place. A sound of something rustling through the undergrowth and break-

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ing branches broke me from my packing up routine. I crept over behind a pillar and looked in the direction of the sound. A small boy wandered into sight a moment later, fishing pole and tackle box in hand. He was young, ten or so, and didn’t see me. I wasn’t sure which would scare him more, calling out to him or not saying anything and letting him spot me. The decision was made for me when I heard another voice, this one an older male, yell, “Don’t get too far ahead now, where are you?” The boy yelled back, “I’m at the water, dad.” It wouldn’t do to be found there. I finished my final preparations and slipped off in the opposite direction, leaving the underside of that bridge to the hopeful father-and-son fishermen, and the underside of all future bridges to the trolls from myth. I certainly wouldn’t be sleeping under them any longer. The wind bit into me when I emerged into the open. I pulled my jacket closed and walked towards the capital.

Chapter 10

I had navigated the hustle and bustle of the capital and stood in front of the shelter Little Bear had told me about. A sign out front proclaimed it to be the Everlasting Faith Ministry. It was near three in the afternoon by the time I found it. Lack of sleep had caught up with me. Exhaustion smothered any cares I had. My eyes burned and had trouble staying open. All I wanted was a bed. The building was new and modern. A large silver backlit cross hung over the door. I paused. Tiredness told me to march right inside and find a place to sleep. My aversion to organized religion urged me to look elsewhere, to find an out-of-the-way corner in the city. But I wanted a bed. Tiredness won and in I went. Automatic doors swished open when I approached. The entryway was all shine—marble and tile, polished metal and wood. In front of me was a large, curved desk, dark and glossy, with a secretary seated behind it. The whole scene reminded me more of a corporate building than a church-run shelter. Exhaustion drove me to approach the desk despite my dislike of the place. The secretary asked how she could help me and I did my normal “I was told I could find a place to stay here” routine. She took my name, and asked me to put my index finger on an ink pad and then press it against

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the paper she wrote my name on. Another warning bell went off in my head, but sleep overrode it. I think I gave my finger a little twist as I removed it in an attempt to smudge the print and make it worthless, but I’m not sure. I hope I did. After the sign-in was complete, the secretary, still all fake smile, asked me to have a seat in a waiting area. The chairs were more appropriate for a doctor’s waiting room, and as I sat there with my pack leaning against my shins, part of me wanted to get right up and walk out the door without a word. But it’s always easier to be passive, isn’t it? Just stay and see what happens. You’re exhausted, aren’t you? The thoughts flittered across my mind, like I was trying to convince myself that it was okay to stay. Time passed slowly, and I concentrated on not nodding off to sleep. Ten minutes later, a man dressed in slacks with a white shirt, tie, and a clipboard approached. He called me by name, and asked that I follow him when I responded. We left the lobby through another set of automatic sliding glass doors and proceeded down a long hallway, me two steps behind him. The lobby had been bright and new, everything clean and fresh. As we walked, the floor was less white and covered in dirt, the plaster on the walls grew dingy and even peeled away in places. It was almost as if the caretakers started their day with vim and vigor in the lobby, but by the time they made it back to this area their energy and enthusiasm would disappear and they’d say, “Aww, fuck it” and break for lunch and a cigarette. This was a forgotten area, far removed from the good—if you could call it that—first impression of the lobby. All the doors had windows and numbers written on plastic plaques. We stopped at room eighteen and he opened the door, gesturing for me to follow him inside. “This is where you’ll be staying,” he said. Inside were ten bunkbeds and a set of lockers like those back at my highschool. There was a door leading into a bathroom as well. The man with the clipboard walked over to the row of lockers. “You’ll be in bed number two, and that’s your locker number, also.”

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“Lockers,” I said. I wasn’t sure if it was a question or not, but he took it as one. “We’ve found that it creates a better environment when you know that your belongings are safe and secure.” He handed me a folded pamphlet. “Services are at 5, followed by dinner at six thirty. You’re free to spend your time here or in the rec room until then.” And then he was gone. I stood in the middle of the room for a moment, trying to clear the fog of sleep from my head to figure out what was going on. The place was too weird. It had a hospital or corporate office feel to it, and felt nothing like a church shelter from what I’d seen or experienced. The lights were fluorescent and the floor a gray-white linoleum. The beds looked like they’d be equally at home in a military barracks. I shrugged and figured there was plenty of time to figure things out later. I could leave at any time I wanted to, after all. The lockers were old and dented. Patches of paint were missing, and the paint that still remained rubbed off in flakes. The key was in the lock, complete with a cord to wear it around my neck, and the lock itself looked brand new. I opened the door, and instead of finding a cheap lock mechanism, I found a large black box on the inside of the door. A series of wires ran along the door and disappeared down through a hole in the base of the locker. The inside of the locker itself wasn’t in any better shape than the outside of the door, dented and scratched as it was. I shoved my pack in the locker, draped the key around my neck, and climbed up onto the top bunk assigned to me. I set my watch alarm to wake me up before five o’clock and lay down. The world faded without hesitation, but I resolved myself to one thing before falling asleep: I didn’t like the place, and I would get out of there when I woke up.

Chapter 11

I swam up out of sleep and grogginess to the sound of my watch beeping. It felt as if I’d just shut my eyes, but my watch read 4:45. Two hours gone by in a blink and I felt no better for the brief sleep. I rubbed my face to try to wake myself up and stumbled into the bathroom. The toilet and sink fixtures were old, cracked and dingy with age and lack of cleaning. Rust and mildew grew around the faucet and in the drain. There was no window—I didn’t even know how deep in the building I was—and no shower. I turned on the sink and splashed some cold water in my face, and looked at my dripping reflection in the mirror screwed into the wall. There were dark circles under my eyes. Patches of beard stubble covered my face. There were no towels of any sort, not even paper ones, and so I wiped my face with my shirt and dried my hands on my pants. Good enough. I pulled a toothbrush out of my pack, picked flecks of lint and hair out of it, and then scrubbed my teeth as best I could with warm water from the sink. My stomach rumbled. The apple and granola bar I’d eaten the night before were long gone, and I’d had nothing else to eat since then; muted by fatigue, my hunger had bided its time. Now that I was rested, my body demanded fuel. Checking to make sure my locker was shut tight, I felt for the key

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around my neck before leaving the room. The door clicked shut behind me. The feeling of being in a hospital came back again as I looked up and down the hallway and saw nothing but tile floor, closed doors and faded, flaking plaster in either direction. I’d come in from my right, so I went down the hall to my left in search of a kitchen of some sort. I was busy thinking thoughts of getting lost and being yelled at when I crossed another intersection. A voice startled me. “Where are you going?” The speaker was a youngish man of indeterminable age. He gave me a stern look from eyes behind glasses framed with silver wire. I did my best to smile. “I’m a bit lost, I’m afraid. I was told I could catch some sleep before services, but I don’t know where I’m supposed to go now.” “You’re new here?” he asked. “Been here just a few hours.” He stared at me a moment, then nodded. “Go on up the hall the way you were headed. Tell the man at the door I kept you talking longer than I should have. Give him my name: Collins. He should let you in.” “You don’t want to be late for services,” he added. “Better get going.” I nodded and walked up the hall at a quicker pace. At the end of the hall on the left was a set of double doors, pale wood in color and closed firm. In front of them sat another man with close-cropped blond hair. He was reading a book and held it close to his face, but lowered it to look at me when I approached. He opened his mouth and looked about to say something, so I blurted out, “Collins kept me back to talk with me and didn’t realize he’d kept me so long. Told me to hurry up so I wouldn’t be late.” He realized his mouth was still open and shut it. “Go on in,” he said, and waved at the doors. The book went back up to within inches of his face. I opened the right hand door and slipped into the room. A few people looked back at me. Most were whispering amongst themselves and took no notice of me. Doing my best not to make any noise, I eased the

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door shut and took the closest seat on my right side. There were two sections of orange-ish brown upholstered seats with an isle running down the middle. The carpet was a worn out and dirty peach color. Most of the seats were unoccupied, with the majority of the gathered people sitting up front. A few people sat by themselves, a buffer of empty seats around them. I’d guess that there were about thirty people in the room. On my left and about ten rows forward sat a man with the dirty, worn clothing of someone living on the streets. Most noticeable was his dirty and torn but still red jacket. He kept dry washing his hands and glancing around, first this way and then that, like he was looking for something but didn’t know which direction it would come from. Stuffed into a pocket on the back of every other seat was a thick green book. I pulled one out and saw “Hymnal” written in gold foil. Disgusted, I shoved it back into place. At the front of the room was a dais, empty save for a wooden podium situated on the center edge. The small black arm of a microphone reached up from the top of the podium, and the little ball on the end made it look like an insect antenna. The walls were bare, but looked in better shape than the hallways I’d passed through. A few minutes passed, and then a wiry man clutching a bible walked up to the podium. “Good evening, everyone,” he said. There was a brief whine of feedback as he adjusted the microphone so he didn’t have to lean down. “Pastor Davidson asked me to give this evening’s sermon. He got called out of town and will not return until sometime tomorrow. I’m not sure if he’ll be back in time for the morning service, so I’ll be doing that as well if he isn’t. I didn’t have a whole lot of time to prepare, so I hope you’ll all bear with me a little.” He cleared his throat and asked those present to turn to a chapter in their bibles. I can’t recall which one. He then droned on for almost an hour. I spent most of that hour trying to keep my stomach from growling. Hunger pangs started in halfway through, and that made it even worse. It didn’t help that the sermon was boring and dull; boredom served to focus my attention on my empty insides even more. A few other people passed

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the time by looking around or fidgeting, while only those up at the front, next to the podium, listened with any real interest. It struck me as rather harsh to force hungry people to listen to a sermon before being able to eat. Why not let the message you preach show through your actions? The thump of a closing bible drew my attention back up front. I couldn’t remember the last thing he’d said. Couldn’t remember the last ten minutes or more, for that matter. He looked out over us. “I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to look out at all of you gathered here tonight. I see a lot of familiar faces here.” He looked around—and right at me. “As well as new faces that I haven’t yet had the pleasure of meeting.” Did his gaze linger on me more than would be natural? Had I been picked out? There was no reason for it, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been staring at me. “When I see people, all sorts of people, walk into our building, I see their need. Not just for food and a warm place to sleep, but something to nourish their soul, as well. When I look around at you gathered here, in this building, it gives me a good feeling. To know that we can be here to meet each and every one of your needs does not strike me as coincidence, but providence. Though my good feelings also come from something most of you don’t know about.” “I was once sitting out there, where you are now,” he said. “I’d lost my job. Unemployment couldn’t pay my bills, and so I lost my house and most everything else that I had. I took to drinking, and drinking took to me. I was drunk most of the time, because then I didn’t have to think about anything. I was a wreck.” He paused. “But then, one night, I came here. I needed a place to sleep and a meal to eat, and I figured that one place was as good as any other. I don’t much remember the service that night—I was shaking so bad and had such a headache from being hungover that when I look back on it, I’m surprised I could even walk. But I stayed. And I stayed for another night. And then another. And another. And then I realized that I didn’t want to leave at all. I wanted to somehow become a part of this place, to help others accept Jesus in their hearts and turn their lives

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around.” “And that brings me finally to my point. I promise that I won’t be much longer. I want to inform all of you of the work program we have here. For one month you’ll live with your peers in a house we own here in the city, doing various tasks and learning what you’ll need to know in order to join our team here. It’s a powerful time, a time of work, prayer, and healing. I urge you all to consider joining. It can work wonders. I know it did for me. Let us pray.” We bowed our heads and listened to him say a prayer. Afterwards the man picked up his bible and held it in the crook of one folded arm. “That concludes this evening’s service. You can all make your way to the cafeteria.” He gestured to a set of doors behind him. Those assembled leaped out of their seats and made for the doors. The nervous man in the red jacket I’d observed earlier wove through the crowd at an even quicker pace. I brought up the end so that I could observe everyone and see how things worked. They served us cafeteria-style. The main compartment of my tray held something that resembled salisbury steak, with mashed potatoes and gravy in another area and steamed vegetables in yet a third. The food made my stomach gurgle and my mouth water. It is said that hunger is the best seasoning—believe me, it’s true. I would have eaten anything that night. I finished my food and thought about what to do. The people in charge made me uneasy. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to be there, but then it still felt better than sleeping outside again. The warm glow of a full stomach was surely worth the inconvenience of a bit of sermon. I got up, threw my tray in the trash, and traced my way back to my assigned room. Eating had made me sleepy once again. Things couldn’t get any worse— or more strange—than they already had, but to be safe, I would go to bed early and leave first thing in the morning. I opened my door, looked in, saw who was already there, and said to myself, Aww shit.

Chapter 12

Mr. Spacy With The Red Jacket sat on one of the bottom bunks. He stared at nothing. “Hi,” I said. He didn’t respond. The blank, open-eyed look on his face didn’t change. I followed his gaze to the opposite wall, but didn’t see anything worth watching. I took a few more steps in the room. “Hi?” I asked. “Hey? Are you okay?” He jumped as if startled. “Sorry. Must’ve been day dreaming.” He smiled at me, which gave me a good view of a few spaces in his mouth where teeth should have been. “Do that sometimes. Can’t help it. Just jab me in the arm if it happens again.” I must have hexed myself by thinking it couldn’t get any worse. “Okay,” I said, and went over to my locker to check on my things. My roommate watched me as I walked over to the lockers and then back to my bed. I climbed up and sat on my bed crosslegged. He still sat on the bottom bunk of the bed next to me. “Think we have the room to ourselves,” he said then. “Was alone in here till you came.” “How long have you been staying here?” I asked. “Dunno,” he said. “Can’t remember, really. I’ve messed myself up

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pretty good. Drugs and stuff. Now it’s hard to remember things. Nothing changes around here, so that makes it hard, too.” He thought for a moment. “Been here about a week, maybe. Two at the most.” “I don’t see how you can stand it here.” He shrugged. “Not so bad, really. Place to sleep, things to eat, can’t ask for much more. Plus, I get a bed every night and don’t lose it to someone else if I’m gone.” “It’s so weird, though,” I said. “Creepy, almost.” “They’re a little weird, yeah,” he said. “I could do without all the God this and Jesus that. Just gimmie what I need, please, thankyouverymuch.” “I’m thinking I may get a bit of sleep and then leave sometime tonight.” “You can’t.” I blinked. “Huh? Why not?” He laughed a bit, a raspy and wheezy sound in the quiet of our room. “They lock the doors, that’s why. And the lockers, too. ‘Less you wanna try to leave without your stuff.” “I don’t think that’s legal, though, is it? And besides,” I added, “I have a key to the locker.” I pulled it out from under my shirt. Light from the bare fluorescent tubes above us glinted off of its shiny silver surface. “See?” “Yeah, I got one o’ them, too. But I don’t think they care about legal. They lock the lockers somehow, and the key don’t do squat until morning time. Tried the first night I was here. Had my bottle in there, and had to go all goddamn night without it. Door will be locked, too, kinda like jail. But at least they don’t beat me up or spit on me here.” This was troubling news. My urge to leave got even worse once I realized I would be locked in. “Shit,” I said. That’s all that came to mind. “I could leave now, though, couldn’t I?” “I suppose so,” he said. “You came in, so the door ain’t locked yet. But where ya gonna go?” “I don’t know.”

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“It’s gonna be cold out there. You can do whatever you want, but I’d rather be locked in here than freezin’ out there.” He did have a point. As much as I didn’t like being there, I figured I’d like sleeping out in the cold even less. “So what happens now?” I asked. “We’re free until service in the morning,” he said. “Don’t know what the others do, I always come sit in here after meal time.” The man at the podium gave me a strange look at the end of his sermon. I didn’t want to meet him—the meeting more than likely wouldn’t go well. It was likely I’d mouth off and get tossed out. “I think I’ll stay in here, if you don’t mind,” I said. “I’d rather not be out there with everyone else.” He nodded. “Me neither, and nah, don’t mind.” I took off my shoes. Threw them over near my locker. I’d put them inside next time I was up, though I didn’t think I had to worry about my roommate stealing them. I took off my coat as well, and hung it from one headpost on the bunk. Since I was stuck with him, I might as well make it friendly. “What’s your name?” I asked. “I’m Kyle.” “Hi, Kyle. I’m Gene.” We spend the next few hours alternating between silence and talking. It wasn’t one of those unnatural “Gee, I feel like I need to think of something to say” kind of silences, and that was good; if I had something to say or ask, I did so, and didn’t worry if nothing came to mind. I think Gene was the same way. Didn’t know what would make someone turn to drug use, how they could do that to themselves, but I wasn’t about to ask. The subject came up on its own. Gene talked about it without any prompting from me. “Was at a party one night,” he told me. “Went with a few coworkers. Everything was going fine, people were drinking and having a good time. Then, I was in another room of the house with some people I didn’t know, and they pulled out some powder. Heroine. They actually offered me some, and I thought hell, ain’t tried it before, once can’t hurt me. Not

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like I could afford the stuff to get addicted to it anyways. So I snorted some up. Burned like hell. But after that I was flyin’ and feeling great.” He stopped talking as a fit of coughing overtook him from deep within his lungs. It had a wet, tearing sound to it. Like maybe there was stuff loose in there. “Not long afterwards, police raided the party. Most people split however they could. I froze, deer in the headlights like. Got arrested. Convicted of possession and use. Sent to jail for a few years. Lost my job, of course. Was a janitor at a factory.” “Finally got out of jail, but couldn’t get a good job because of the felony on my record. Flippin’ burgers doesn’t even pay rent, so I had to sleep on the streets. Tried for a while to get a job. Hard when you don’t have an address to put down. Applied for welfare, was denied. They saw a felony on my record and threw my app in the trash, I guess. Couldn’t get anywhere, people wouldn’t help me, government wouldn’t help me. Fill out this, fill out that, thanks, we’ll get back to you, sorry, you need to talk to someone else, that’s not my department, blah blah blah. I started drinking, and then found heroine again, my old friend who got me into this mess in the first place. That’s why I’m so messed up now. I had nothing to lose, so I got high all the time. I’ve quit now, and it’s been hell.” He rolled up the left sleeve of his jacket to show me his forearm. I beheld a field of scars and marks, some dark red, others white scar tissue. I sat there. Silent. Listening. Gene stared off into space. It seemed the sort of stare that bespoke of recollection, not zoning out. I waited. “Sometimes I wonder why I quit,” he said after a moment. “Doesn’t seem to help any. Now I’m miserable all the time, instead of just part of the time. But people say it’s bad and all, though they like to say it’s bad and go on not helping you, and I’m tired of being thrown in jail. So, here I am.” He shrugged. “Maybe I’ll stay. Maybe their work program would help. It’d be nice to have someplace to live, at least.” He looked at me and smiled a bit—a movement of the lips, no showing of teeth this time. “I think I could put up with the God stuff if I had a place to stay that no one could kick me out of.”

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“I hope you find one,” I said. Nothing else seemed fitting to say. Anything else that came to mind sounded false in my own ears. Gene looked down at his hands. He had been dry washing them for the past few minutes without realizing it. He saw them, stopped, squeezed them into fists, and then put his hands on his thighs. “Yeah. Me too. I think I’m gonna go to sleep now. Goodnight.” I saw him lay down on his bed and heard the springs squeak until he settled in, facing up at the bottom of the bunk above him. He still had his jacket on. My watch said it was almost nine o’clock. I shared a room with a man living on the streets due to bad luck and a screwed-up system. His addiction started after he’d found himself homeless, he’d said. Not before. Yet his life suffered for one mistake. I stretched out on my bunk. The pock-marked foam ceiling tiles were a few feet above my head. Fluorescent lighting gave off a faint buzz. The rooms lights clicked off by themselves before I could decide if I felt like getting up to turn them off. This place even had automatic timers on the lights. I climbed down from my bed and walked over to the door. The floor was cold, even through my socks. A faint bit of light from the hallway came in through the small window in the door. I put my hand on the knob and tried to turn it. It wouldn’t move. I gave it a jiggle, and then an even harder wiggle, and it still didn’t move, nor would the door open. Gene was right—they did lock us in. I slipped my key string off from around my neck and walked over to the lockers. It slid in without resistance, even turned like normal, and for a moment I thought it would open. But the door didn’t budge when I pulled on it. I relocked the door for what it was worth and replaced the key around my neck. There would be no leaving in the night. I lay in bed, thinking but not sleeping. Something sharp in the mattress poked my back, and I shifted around to avoid it.

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My thoughts always came back at night. No matter how busy I was during the day, they always came back and kept me awake. The only thing I could do was try to be as exhausted as possible when I went to bed. Then I’d drop straight into sleep, but sometimes even then I’d dream. Both my mother and my father were with me in my mind as I lay in the dark, and both followed me down into sleep, flittering in and out of my dreams in a myriad of ways. In short, it was just like any other night.

Chapter 13

I woke to Gene shaking my shoulder. “Wha?” I said, sitting up on one elbow and trying to blink the sleep out of my eyes. I’m not the most articulate person when I first wake up. “Breakfast,” he said. My watch said 6:41 in the morning. “Mrrrph.” I flopped back down and rolled over. “Don’t think I can get up right now. I’ll sleep a while longer, then come find you.” “No, you have to get up now. The bell’s already rang. You won’t get breakfast if you miss service. You have to get up, Kyle.” I sighed. “Alright, Gene. I’ll get up in a few minutes. I promise. Now go on ahead, I’ll catch up with you.” He left the room without saying another word. The door clicked shut behind him. I lay there for a few minutes, trying to work myself up to getting up and out of bed but not having much luck at it. I dozed off for a few minutes, I think. Then the light closest to my bed flickered on. That woke me up again. I checked my watch and said what most people say the world over whenever they’re late: “Aww, shit!” It was 6:58. The lights stung my eyes, and so my eyelids stayed at half squint as I

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part climbed, part slipped out of bed. I didn’t bother putting some water in my hair, scrubbing my teeth or washing my face. If God wanted me at seven in the morning, He would get me as I was. I shuffled along the hallways, retracing my steps from the night before. In front of the door to the church stood Gene and the same door warden from the night before. I slowed my pace when I got closer. Gene looked distraught. The other man’s back was to me. “So where’s your roommate?” he asked. “He’s comin’, I swear”, Gene said. He hopped back and forth from one foot to the other. Sometimes it was an actual hopping and his foot would come off the ground, other times it was a shifting of his weight. His hands started rubbing together again. “Well, I don’t see him and it’s almost time to begin. Why didn’t you wake him up?” “I did! I swear I did, Meyers. He promised he’d be right behind me.” Gene was too upset to notice me. “Yeah, whatever, you lying sack of shit.” Meyers crossed his arms. “Can’t expect much else from a fuckin’ druggie.” Meyers’ voice then turned speculative. “You know,” he said, “I’m almost tempted to call Deputy Gunther, tell him we caught you needling again.” “But I ain’t!” Tears were rolling down Gene’s cheeks now. “You know I ain’t, I’m clean. For two weeks now.” “Yeah, but he won’t know that. Won’t matter much if we show him some needles that we ‘found’ in your locker.” What the hell was this? Anger boiled up. I wanted to jump on Meyers and pound his slimy face in. But that wouldn’t have done much good. Would have felt good, though. I reined in my anger as best I could and put on a smile for Gene’s sake. “Hey Gene!” I yelled, quickening my pace to make it look like I’d gotten there in a hurry. “Whew, almost didn’t make it! Thanks for waking me up again, I’d have overslept otherwise.”

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I came up to where they were standing. Gene’s wet cheeks made my rage take another leap, and I had to turn and look at Meyers before I lost control of myself. “Hey there,” I said. “Where’s your book?” “Where the fuck have you been?” Meyers asked me. His eyebrows rose in a look of incredulity, then sank as he pulled them back down to attempt a tough scowl. It was less than effective. “On my way here, actually. And now here I am.” I made a show of looking at my watch. “And hey, we’d better get inside, it’s almost show time.” “You aren’t going anywhere,” Meyers said. He turned to look at Gene. “You can go inside.” Gene hauled the door open and ran through. “I’d love to stay and talk,” I said, “but I should go inside.” I grabbed the door before it swung shut. Meyers grabbed my shoulder. “I said you aren’t going anywhere. You were late.” I looked over my shoulder at him. “No, actually. I wasn’t. Now, if you’d be so kind as to remove your hand.” He didn’t budge. Just stared at me. “Okay, fine,” I said. “You don’t want me to attend, I won’t attend.” I let go of the door. It finished its silent arc and closed with a quiet snick. “There, are you happy now?” I asked. I turned to face him. “Mister Big and Tough got his way. I’m not gonna get breakfast this morning. That what you wanted?” A detached part of myself noticed that I was losing control of my anger. Might even get myself hurt, it amended. The rest of me didn’t care. “You’re so fucking tough that you have to bully people, huh?” I continued. “Bet you were the dumbshit in school who had to beat up other kids for their lunch money to feel better about himself.” Meyers’ face flushed. “You sonofabitch,” he said, and made to grab for my arm. I knocked his hand away and looked straight at him. “Don’t you

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fucking touch me.” While most of me was busy being angry, the small part of me that was still thinking rationally tried to figure a way out of the situation in which I’d remain alive. Meyers was a hell of a lot bigger than I was—once stocky and now padded with a bit of middle age fat as well, he easily had a good eighty pounds on me. He probably was the kid that always beat up other kids; he was probably on the football team, too, and both for good reason. Meyers scowled. “I’ll do whatever I want.” He reached for my arm again, to grab me and drag me along somewhere. He apparently didn’t think I was much of a threat. I wasn’t, when it came down to it. I knocked his arm away again, and then, without thinking, my boot came up in a smooth curve. I kicked him square in the balls. His face turned immediately red and his eyebrows rose up once again in twin peaks of surprise. His mouth was open, but no sound came out of it. I pushed him against the wall and he fell, though I don’t think he needed any help from me to find his way to the ground. Then, since it felt like the wisest course of action, I ran. My own privates tensed up from empathy, but he deserved it. One thought came to mind as I ran full-tilt back to my room: that was for Gene, you asshole.

Chapter 14

My second thought was: I need to get out of here, and fast. Meyers’ predicament bought me some time. He wouldn’t be standing up for at least a few minutes—at least I wouldn’t be able to stand up any time soon, judging by how I felt whenever I’d been hit there in the past. So that meant I had a few minutes until he got up, and then a few more once he yelled for help or started after me. I was lucky to not run into anyone else in the hallways. The service had a use, after all: it kept my path clear. I found my room, wrenched the door open and went straight to my locker. Adrenaline pumped through my system double-time. Took me a moment and many tries to get my key steady enough to slip into the locker door. It turned, and I yanked on the door. It didn’t open. My fingers turned red and raw from slipping off the handle so harshly. I tried it again. The door wouldn’t budge. It was still locked from within, however they managed it. “You fuckers!” I yelled. Full of anger now, I stepped back and kicked the door. The middle of it dented—I was thankful for my heavy boots, I’d have probably broken my toes if I had been wearing my Converse—but otherwise there was no change. I hauled back and kicked it again. Again, nothing.

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I couldn’t bring myself to leave without my things. Not only did I need my sleeping bag and such, but the belongings in there were everything I owned. The guitar Jim gave me was in there, too. I looked around the room. Nothing capable of opening a steel locker presented itself. Then I remembered the wires I’d seen inside the door. Could it be some sort of electronic lock? I knelt down to look at the door. There was a small, narrow space between the door and the frame of the locker. I cast my eyes around the room for something to slip in there. The bunk bed. Something had poked me in the back during the night, had it not? I ran over to my bed and looked underneath; sure enough, a spring was broken, leaving its top end free to poke up into the mattress. I grabbed it and tried to pull it loose, but the other end was still attached. What if they caught me? Meyers would pound me into hamburger—that much was certain. I stopped pulling on the spring and yanked it back and forth, back and forth. It took me only twenty seconds before it broke off, but it seemed like ten minutes. I stretched it out as I walked back over to the lockers. The end slid into the slot with room to spare. I hooked it around and let the curve of the metal bring the end back out of the crack. It took me a few tries to get the angle right. I ran more of the wire’s length into the slot so that I had about an equal length of each end. Yelling echoed up the hallways. I pulled on the ends of the wire and felt resistance. I wrapped part of each end around my hands, wedged my foot in the angle of the lockers and the floor, and jerked the spring wire as hard as I could. The spring ripped out of the crack in the door, bringing two small loops of red- and blue-insulated wire with it. I wrapped more of the length around my hands and pulled again, even harder. The metal dug into my hands. It hurt like hell, but I had bigger concerns. The clinical, detached portion of my mind mused that I’d probably have painful welts for a few days.

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I tried the locker door again. Still shut tight. I knelt down, grabbed the small loops of wire with my right hand, braced against the locker with my left, and pulled back as hard as I could. Strain made me hold my breath in. I could fell the heat and tension in my face. I felt a tiny popping sensation when I was about to give up. I exhaled, took another deep breath, and pulled. This time there was a rapid poppop-pop-pop feeling and the wires ripped away. The locker door opened when I tried it this time. I smiled in triumph. Small strands of braided wire stuck out from the black box at odd lengths and angles. More yelling in the hallway. Part of my pack hit against the locker as I pulled it out, and Jim’s guitar made a hollow bong sound. The backpack went on my back, my jacket over one arm. No time to put it on. I threw open the door and went right, towards the entrance to this place. The empty hallways carried echoes quite a distance. I had no idea how close people were behind me. My quick walk increased to a jog. I turned down a hallway, then paused. It didn’t look right. I could afford no delays, but going in the wrong direction would do me no good. I back-tracked and took another route. Fear of getting lost had parked right alongside my fear of getting caught, and the two were having a good ol’ time. Another crossroads hallway came up and I turned down this one. At the end, I could see the two double doors that led to the lobby. The hallway in between them and me looked long and far. Like one of those dreams where you’re running from someone or something but you can’t run fast enough, and you know that any moment, whatever-it-is is going to get you. I jogged a little bit faster and hit the door with my arm outstretched to push the bar to open it. It didn’t move. My momentum carried the rest of me into the door. It was the sudden stop that got me, as they say. A sound along the lines of urf escaped my lips as I hit. I pushed on the bar again; it went partway in, but not as far as it should have. I was locked in!

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I noticed a pin shoved down through a hole in the bar to lock it. A bit of thin, flexible cable connected from a loop in the pin’s head to a rivet on the door. The sounds of yelling grew louder behind me, and I looked back to see Meyers and four other men run around the corner. I pulled the pin out and pushed on the door again, and this time it opened. I took off running into the lobby. My path carried me past the secretary. She half-stood from her chair, her mouth a wide o of surprise. From the other direction ran two uniformed security guards. They had their nightsticks in hand, and each took up a wide-footed stance side by side in front of the door leading outside. I was already up to a pretty good speed, and so I ran faster, trusting to surprise and a bit of luck. I hit the men full force, like a lineman trying to break through, my arms up to try to knock them out of the way. On my own I might not have been able to conjure enough force to get clear, but my pack added a good amount of weight. On top of that, I had my adrenaline still, and a strong desire for self-preservation. I knocked one guard to the side and the other one backwards. His back hit the bar on the door and it opened, spilling him out onto the sidewalk ass-end first. Pedestrians and bystanders stopped to watch. I didn’t stop running, nor did I turn to see if anyone followed me. After a minute or two I stopped running—a painful cramp had come to roost in my right side—and chanced a peek behind me. I couldn’t see anyone following me. A turn down a few side streets and cutting through alleyways would help throw off anyone who might give chase. Or so I hoped. A narrow doorstep off of an out-of-the-way alley gave the perfect chance to stop and catch my breath. The stitch in my side still ached something fierce—I’d done a lot of walking before, but it hadn’t prepared me for emergency sprinting. My adrenaline left me once I was out of danger for the moment, and my hands shook uncontrollably. I let my head rest back against the cold brick of the building. Still I remained there, even after I’d caught my breath and it was

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apparent that no one was able to follow me. Why not sit there? Sit and let something happen to me, whatever it might be? I was tired, in pretty much all the forms and ways in which one could be tired. I was tired of things going wrong. Of barely getting by. Of not knowing where my meals would come from, or if, at the end of the night, I’d end up in a warm bed or beaten and bloody in an alleyway somewhere. I’d been lucky to get out of the shelter without getting hurt. And, if my luck held, I would avoid getting arrested over the incident. Physical exhaustion had come to roost in my bones the past few days. It seemed as if I would never feel normal again, no matter how much I slept. I was also tired of trying to run from my thoughts. One week had passed since I attended my father’s funeral, and I didn’t feel any better, did I? The thoughts and the wrenching in my stomach always came back once I’d settled down for a while. Could it be that I was risking everything and gaining nothing? Whatever my fate might be, I knew it wasn’t hunkering on an alleyway doorstep until I grew mold or was arrested for trespassing. I set off down the street with an eye for my next move and any police who might want to talk with me. I used a phone book to look up alternate shelters in the area, as well as the public library. I spent my afternoon in the library, emailing my professors back in school and getting caught up on some assignments. In those emails, I explained that a family emergency had come up. Could alternate arrangements be made for my materials and exams? When I left, I couldn’t see myself going back, but I wasn’t so sure anymore. Might as well cover my bases. * * * * * Dusk arrived as I walked to an alternate shelter. The idea occurred to me that I could procure some food and find a tucked-away place in the city and hole up for the night. As if in response to my thought, the wind picked up, and I could almost feel the temperature drop a bit.

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Staying the entire night in the shelter didn’t look so bad after all. Opening the shelter door revealed one large room that spanned almost the entire dimensions of the building. A small sea of cots and cheap, foldable beds took up most of the space. The linoleum floor hadn’t been cleaned or swept in quite some time. Dirt and small bits of garbage lay littered about, left where ever they were kicked or blown by a draft whenever someone walked in the door. The walls of the place were nothing special, unadorned and unfinished, and the ceiling wasn’t much—a web of steel support beams and braces with long, dull, silver air ducts snaked throughout. It looked like a gutted warehouse of some kind. A worker noticed my entrance and came over to meet me at the door. He had a roll of raffle tickets and a coffee can. He ripped a ticket off the roll and handed it to me. “Here, write your name up top on the back,” he said, handing me the ticket and a heavy black marking pen. “What’s this for?” I asked. “There usually aren’t enough beds to go around, so we draw names to see who gets them. Now please write your name down.” I took some offered soup, found a place against a wall, and ate while I waited for the bed lottery. When I had no more food left, I took to studying people in the room. One fellow was so drunk that he staggered along, barely able to walk. The smell of alcohol wafted off him—I could smell it even from my place against the wall. I spent an hour and a half trying to look inconspicuous against the wall in hopes that no one crazy would try to talk with me. The workers then called everyone up to the front to hold the drawing to see who would get beds that night. Everyone gathered around in a loose semi circle. “Alright, here we go,” said the man with the can. “If your name is not called, you’re welcome to sleep on the floor, though we have no more blankets to give out. Or else you can try your luck somewhere else.” He began pulling names out and reading them off while the other man wrote them down. “Stan, Frank, Jason, Steve, Ben, Jimmy, Adam, David, Michael, an-

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other David, George, Ian, James, Bill, Victor, Sam, Lee, T.J., Kyle, and Dean. Please come forward with your ticket stubs.” I blinked. I had a sinking feeling that surely I wouldn’t be called, that I’d be turned out, and I was busy imagining myself freezing my ass off in the cold when I heard my name called. Those of us who would be getting a bed that night stepped forward while the others shuffled away, grumbling. Some walked out of the shelter. Did they know of another place, or were they going to risk sleeping outdoors? Once the numbers on our halves of the tickets were matched up with the other halves, we were given a laminated card with a number from one to twenty on it. They were bent and worn with age and use. “You won’t want to lose these,” the man with the clipboard told us. I made my way to the cot associated with my number. I’d just removed my pack and sat down when the front door of the shelter opened again. Two police officers stepped through with another man between them, and my stomach did a nervous flop. I busied myself with looking into my pack for something I knew I wouldn’t find in there while I watched the door out of the corner of my eye. The first volunteer met them near the door. “Can I help you gentlemen?” he asked. The older of the police officers replied, “Dropping one off. Sorry to trouble you, but he’s better off here where he can’t get into any trouble.” The volunteer sighed. “Alright, though all the beds are already taken. He’ll have to find some room on the floor.” I breathed a sigh of relief when the police left without looking around. My first thought was that someone from Everlasting Faith called them on me and had them looking for me. This shelter wasn’t the greatest, but it probably was better than spending a night in jail. I’ve learned more about shelters since then than I care to know. Some are like the one I stayed in that night—wet shelters, so-named because they accept people under the influence of drugs or alcohol, like the people around me that night. Dry shelters, on the other hand, will ask you to leave if you are under the influence. Some shelters are open all day, every day, while others are only open during the night and kick everyone

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out in the morning. Still others only operate during the coldest months of the year. There are some where you are allowed to stay for long durations, weeks or months if necessary, so that you can get your life back in order and your feet on the ground, and others only serve to keep you out of the cold for one night, and you’re never guaranteed a bed or a place to sleep. In some shelters, everyone gets lumped together in one group. Others will have a separate area for women and children. They often outnumber the men. There are often no standards that regulate the operations. Food quality varies, or there might not be any food at all. Showers and laundry service might or might not exist. I had nothing else to do and a few stressful days behind me, so I ended up falling asleep on my cot before lights out. * * * * * The dull light of early morning streamed through slits of glass near the ceiling. My eyes felt like they had sand in them. I couldn’t open them all the way without feeling a burning sensation. They then told me that, much like the rest of my body, they would rather go back to sleep. It was seven in the morning. I’d finished stomping my feet into my boots to get them settled when a worker came in with a large bakery tray loaded with muffins. We all gathered around and waited for our breakfast. Most took their muffins without a word, but I made sure to say thank you when the worker handed me mine. I sat back down on my cot and ate half of the muffin in a few quick bites, then regretted it as the dry lump caught for a moment in my throat. I looked at the half a muffin remaining to me, and though I still felt just as hungry as before, I wrapped the remains up in the paper as best I could and put it in my pack. I didn’t see any reason to hang around, and so I left the shelter and made for the library. Emails were waiting for me. My professors were all willing to work with me as best they could to allow me to finish the semester with passing grades. The only question remained: did I actually

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want to do that? Back at the shelter that night, I stood in a clump with everyone else as we waited for the bed lottery. Various forms of human odors drifted to my nose, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I smelled as terrible. When was the last time I’d had a shower? We were all aware of the drop in temperature outside and that there weren’t enough beds for all of us. Floor space also looked to be in short supply. Where would I go if I didn’t get a bed? A worker called the names of those luck favored that night. My name wasn’t one of them.

Chapter 15

I approached the volunteer as the group dissolved and people found their beds. He lowered his clipboard and looked at me. “Is there anywhere else I can go?” I asked. “I don’t know this area that well.” He relaxed a bit—no doubt assumed that I intended to yell and cause a scene over not getting a bed. “One place that isn’t too far is the Everlasting Faith Ministry,” he said. “They’ll give you a place to stay. Other than that, the only place you can try is St Peter’s. But that’s a ways away, downtown.” “Do you know where it is, or can you tell me how to get downtown?” I asked. I was not going back to Everlasting Faith. Couldn’t even if I wanted to. They’d arrest me for sure. “It’s around 16th and J Street, I think. Sorry I can’t be more specific. Take Franklin Boulevard north, then take a left on Broadway and you’ll get there. Everlasting Faith is much closer, though.” He shrugged. “I can’t see why you’d want to go all the way—hey, wait a sec.” He flipped through the pages on his clipboard. My guard went up as warning bells went off in my head. He glanced from his clipboard to my face. “Is your name Kyle?” “Why do you ask?” The worker smiled. “Your uncle dropped by here earlier. Gave me

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your name and description, asked me to keep my eyes open for you. If I saw you, he wanted me to tell you that he’s sorry you two argued, and that he’d very much like for you to come home.” I don’t have any uncles, I thought. “I have more than one uncle,” I said, and hoped it sounded convincing. “Do you remember what he looked like?” “Big guy. Had blonde hair, in sort of a military cut.” Meyers was looking for me. And I doubted “very much” that he was sorry we argued. If forced to guess, I’d wager that he was sorry he didn’t have a chance to hurt me. Lots. “He said that, huh?” I asked. I thought as fast as I could. “Sure did.” “Did he leave a phone number for me to call?” “He said he’d come back and ask if I’d seen you. That was right as we opened, so he may not be back for another few hours.” The guy’s voice sounded so damn cheerful, so happy. Glad to be of help, good neighbor, and all that. If only he knew! “I don’t think I’m gonna go across town after all,” I said then. “Is it okay if I hang around here a while and wait for him?” “Sure,” the worker said. “But come lights out at nine o’clock, you’ll have to leave. We already have more than we should. Fire marshal would have a shit fit if he knew. I’m sure your uncle will probably be back before then.” It felt like my whole body was quivering again. My hands were shaking in my pockets. “I think I’m gonna step outside and have a cigarette.” The worker nodded and then walked away to attend to something else. I turned around for one last look at the people gathered inside. People who—just for that night—had one less thing to worry about. Downtown was a hell of a walk, I knew, but I’d more than likely be warm enough while I was moving, and the possibility of a bed to sleep in for the night was all the motivation I needed. And if that wasn’t enough, the desire to avoid Meyers was enough to move my feet even if there were no beds available downtown. I took a deep breath of warm air, buttoned my coat, and slipped out the door into

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the cold night. The sights and sounds of the city occupied me as I walked towards downtown. I paused a moment to admire the well-lit capital building, well aware of how much distance separated those who worked inside from those, like me, who looked on from the street outside. How much different had things been when it was first built? The course of history had rendered man more kind to man, but we were still working out the kinks. th By my estimate, I’d found my way onto 17 and H Street when an abandoned building caught my eye. There was a huge metal bar with a lock across the door, and the windows were boarded over. A sign nailed to the front door above the bar proclaimed, “Summerset Condos, Coming Soon! B. Walton Construction Co.” The front was too well-sealed as well as visible, which ruled out any sort of breaking and entering, so I ducked into the alley between the building and its neighbor to see if there might be an easier way in. Given the choice between a shelter full of people and a place to squat on my own for a night, I’d take the latter. Trash littered the alleyway—papers, soda cans and cigarette butts everywhere. There were no windows on the side of the building, and only a locked metal door on the back side. It was the only potential building I’d found, and it didn’t look like I was going to be able to get in. I went back around front and gave it another look-over. How long might it take me to loosen the window boards enough to climb in? It might make a lot of noise and draw attention. That was assuming I could loosen the boards by hand. Something on the ground caught my eye. It was a rectangular piece of wood that looked out of place. Four large screws jutted out of it. I turned it over. It was a plaque. Engraved on it were the words:

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St. Peter’s Homeless Shelter For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in. Matthew 25:35 My spirits sank. Of course they closed it, I thought to myself. To hell with the homeless and down-on-their-luck. “There’s no money in it, is there,” I said aloud. The only other decent shelter that I knew of in the city overflowed with people, and they closed down a shelter to build condominiums for rich people. On the wall was a discolored spot and four holes where the plaque once greeted those who arrived. Before it was torn down and left on the sidewalk, that is. I set it down against the door, facing out towards the world. Maybe someone would have second thoughts before bulldozing the building. Maybe not. Done is done, as they say. The decision-makers would never see the old building, and the guy who fired up the tractor or wrecking ball would only be doing his job. Would he spare a quick thought for those who once stayed there? Or would he be quick to feel relief that at least he wasn’t one of them? I knelt down and rubbed the plaque with my coat sleeve until the streetlights reflected off of it once more. It seemed to be the focal point of the whole operation for me, and I would treat it with respect in its final hours. I left it there on the step, leaning up against the door that was now locked and barred. My mood was foul, and I wandered the downtown streets without any destination in mind. Whenever a group of people passed by laughing or talking, I felt the urge to kick them. Maybe they’d be the future owners of a nice condominium. I’d also taken to walking through the alleys between buildings to look in and next to the dumpsters in case anyone had thrown away some-

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thing interesting or useful. An employee in the uniform of a chain food establishment that I couldn’t make out exited a door up ahead of me. He hobbled across the alleyway with a large garbage bag in his right hand and a box of some sort in his left, and leaned to one side to compensate for the weight of the bag. Once at the dumpster, he set the box down on one half of the lid, raised the other lid with his free hand, swung the bag up and into the dumpster, then pushed the box in after it. The lid banged shut and he went back inside, closing the door behind him. I paused for a few seconds to see if he’d come back out. When it felt safe, I rushed over to the dumpster and threw the lid over. The box sat amongst trash bags and other loose garbage, but I could see enough of it to make out the Dunkin Donuts logo on the side. I had to balance with my stomach on the edge of the dumpster rim in order to reach. Once back with my feet on the ground, I examined my prize. Wet coffee grounds stuck to the box. I brushed them off as best I could and hoped they didn’t get inside. Opening the box revealed a half dozen bagels of various kinds, all intact, garbage-free, and looking quite delicious. Jackpot! I won’t try to explain what a find like that meant. No amount of explaining will make a person understand if they haven’t been there. When you have a home and a refrigerator full of food as well as the money to go out to eat or go grocery shopping at will, food isn’t an issue. Just an inconvenience if you have to go out for it. People say “Damnit, there’s nothing to eat” when they really mean “There’s nothing that sounds good or that I feel like making.” Big difference between the two. Living on soup for a few days made me crave something solid. I ate one of the bagels then and there, my mouth watering uncontrollably. It was onion flavored—with little flecks of dried onions on the outside— and a bit dry without anything to put on it, but still wonderful. I put the other five bagels in the paper bag Jim used to pack my lunch—I’d kept it because I didn’t want to litter when I stopped to eat my lunch that day. I threw the box back into the trash and tucked my treasures into my backpack under some clothes.

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I wandered west then, and when I emerged from between two buildings I found myself at the east bank of the Sacramento River. Front Street, so named by a green sign at the corner, ran across in front of me from left to right. Beyond that lay a sidewalk and a metal fence with a sloped railing. I stepped out into the empty street, and once I was beyond the cover of the buildings, a breeze ruffled through my hair and across my shaggy cheeks. My hands came to rest on the metal fence, and then I jerked them away. The metal had soaked up the evening cold. I looked behind me at the buildings I’d passed behind. There were two small groups of tables—some with umbrellas and some without— and chairs, divided up between a fish restaurant and a Chili’s. People passed to and fro along the sidewalk closest to the buildings, mostly couples out for a night on the town. Through the dark windows, I could see vague images of people dining. It was too cold to sit outside and the tables were near barren, with the exception of one table in front of Chili’s. A small group of five or six people talked amongst themselves while they smoked cigarettes, empty plates and glasses of watered-down drinks and half-melted ice still in front of them. Every so often the wind would shift and I’d catch a whiff of cigarette smoke—sometimes light and sweet and good, and other times merely foul. I leaned on the railing and looked out across the river. Beyond the railing were a few inches of brick and stone before a sharp drop into the dark water. There was no telling how deep the river was. The current was swift, moving along at a good pace but not rushing with breakneck haste. I could see lights across the river, but it was too far to make anything out. I made the decision to move on as water rushed by below me. The city of Sacramento had offered me nothing but trouble and disappointment. Deep inside me was a need to leave, a need to move on, like an itch I couldn’t reach. Howerson had mentioned where my mother and aunt were born, and that was as good a destination as any. I would leave at first light and see what there was to see. From there, I’d travel somewhere else. It didn’t matter where—I could decide my direction on a whim, much as I did on my trip through

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the streets of downtown Sacramento. I’ve heard a quote that said, “It’s not the destination, but the journey that matters.” Perhaps there would be a bit of truth in that. I walked away from the riverfront and retraced my path through the downtown area. I was looking for a specific alley. On the way through, I’d seen a large stack of collapsed cardboard boxes that was almost as tall as me, and thought that it might be a decent place to spend the night. As long as I could be gone by early morning before the place opened, that is. My work was slow in the dim light. There was a small wire-caged aperture for a light bulb near the top of the back door, but there was no bulb in it. The only available light came from the street lamps. I separated the stack into two with some space in between and then put a few boxes down on the ground between them. They were food services boxes, and had things like “mayonnaise: 20oz” or “dehydrated onions” written on them. The wall of the building and the two stacks of cardboard kept me out of both wind and sight. It made me feel enclosed and somewhat protected. The boxes underneath me would prevent cold from seeping up from the asphalt. They also softened up the ground a little bit, too. It was near eleven by the time I finished. I unzipped my sleeping bag and spread it over me. Backpacks make decent pillows if you’re desperate enough. My clothes and sleeping bag made scratching sounds against the cardboard every time I moved. I set my watch alarm for five AM, and eventually fell asleep, huddled under my sleeping bag and listening to the sounds of the city.

Chapter 16

The thought occurred to me that I might have better odds of getting a lift to my mother’s hometown if I looked and smelled clean. To that end, I bathed as best I could in a gas station restroom sink and put on my last clean set of clothes. Either it did the trick or else my luck was changing—I found all the rides I needed. While in my mother’s hometown, I made some attempt to find my grandparents on my mother’s side. I didn’t have much to go on and also knew full well that they could have moved or died at any time in the past. My first step was to call Howerson’s office and leave a message with his secretary to have him research it and see what he could dig up. The estate and the money in escrow would cover his fees, I told her. My next task was to hit the library and dig through the records for anything I could find. The librarian—a thin old woman with her hair in a bun and too much perfume—helped me retrieve the records. It was a small town, and as she didn’t have much to do, she helped me look through them. We checked birth records, death records, property taxes, and survey records while my olfactory cells died horrible, fragrant deaths. We found one possible match. A simple phone call was enough to learn that they had no children named Kathryn.

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I called Howerson later that day from a payphone. His trail had also trickled out. “Do you want me to keep digging?” he asked. I could hear the shuffling of papers on his side of the phone. I watched a woman walk a dog along the sidewalk as I mulled it over. “No,” I replied. “They’re out of my life for one reason or another— looks like they’re going to stay that way.” I stood on a corner and surveyed my options. There was nothing else for me there—no grandparents, no comfort. I thought that my mother’s town would provide me some peace, or some way to know her, but with no place to serve as a focus, I was at a loss. A visit to the town’s high school felt empty. It was the only place I knew she would have visited. Could I picture her walking through the halls, books in arm? No. I couldn’t place so fuzzy a concept as “my mother, when she was young” in the context of the town. I might as well try to imagine my childhood stuffed animals roaming those same halls. I was a few blocks away from the school in late afternoon when a car approached. I stuck out my thumb. As it passed, the passenger-side occupant yelled, “get a job!” through the open window. It was meant to be an insult, to imply that I was lazy and good for nothing. But, all in all, it wasn’t a bad idea. That night, I experimented with working for food. It seemed better than begging for money. I grabbed on to my courage and entered a Taco Bell. A few people looked up at me as I came in, and then looked down just as fast when their eyes met mine. There was no line at the counter, so I approached the register on the end without walking through the line rails. A teenage girl with her hair in a braid trailing down her back from under her hat asked me, “Can I help you?” I said, “Hi, I was wondering if the manager is in?” She looked uncertain. “Um, let me get him.” I saw her walk back into the kitchen towards a set of shelves against

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the backmost wall. There I saw a man wearing the white-and-blue striped shirt of a manager. He was opening some boxes on the shelves when the girl interrupted him, and he stopped to listen to her. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I saw her point in my direction and the manager looked over at me. I almost lost my will right there and wanted to walk out before he could throw me out. Instead of coming up to the counter, he stepped out through the “Employees Only” door down the hall to my right. “What can I do for you?” he asked. He was maybe thirty years old, if I had to guess. His dark blue name tag had “Charles” engraved on it in white letters. Out of the corner of my eye I could see two men at the nearest tables looking in our direction. That made me even more nervous. “Well, I don’t have enough money to eat. So I was wondering if there was something I could do to earn some food.” The manager—it seems too odd to refer to him by the name on his tag—stuck his hands in his pants pockets. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I can’t do anything like that. The company wouldn’t allow it.” I nodded. “Yeah, I figured as much. Thought I’d ask, though.” “Sorry,” he said. I turned around and walked out, ignoring the stares of the two men at the table. “The company” made for a convenient excuse. Was it easier to say no when you blame it on someone else? I walked and stuck my thumb out. No one stopped. I didn’t know where I was going, anyways. It was around eight thirty and long dark when my nerve felt restored enough to brave another attempt. I walked into a McDonald’s. The fluorescent lights seemed bright and harsh compared to the night outside. I felt naked under them. It’s easy to blend in at night when passing cars are driving by too fast for much more than a quick glance. Most people can’t see me on the side of the road. But I could not hide under those bright lights. I’ve noticed over time that almost everyone looks up whenever someone enters the door. Those with their backs turned don’t and there

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are always one or two who either don’t care enough or can’t be bothered to. But the rest do. They did it that night, too, ten or fifteen people dining under the golden arches, all looking up in an uncoordinated yet simultaneous glance. I ignored them and walked up to the counter, where I repeated my request to speak with a manager. This time the manager was a middle-aged lady with blonde hair pulled back into a pony tail. She stayed behind the counter, and I had to make my request standing next to a Happy Meal display where cheap plastic toys lived in plastic bubbles attached to a cardboard stand. Lois, Store Manager, regarded me in silence for a moment before speaking. “Tell you what,” she said. “There are a bunch of boxes and trash bags in back outside the door. They need dealt with, and I’d rather not spare anyone to do it. I have some sandwiches that are due to go off timer soon. Put the bags in the dumpster, then break down the boxes and stack them next to it. If the sandwiches don’t sell, I’ll give them to you instead of tossing them in the waste.” I nodded. Out the door I went, and around to the back of the building. There was a huge pile of boxes, and another pile of garbage bags thrown at random. Some of them were upside down. A stream of garbage juice ran from them down to a drain in the middle of the blacktop. On the other side of the drain sat two green metal dumpsters. I leaned my pack against the building and set to work. The garbage bags were hell. Some of them posed no problem, heave ho and in they go, but others were so full and heavy that lifting them by the top ripped the bag. I had to go get a piece of cardboard and slide a bag onto it, then drag it back to the dumpster, where I had to muscle both box and bag up over the rim. Someone might not be too happy about the cardboard in the trash, but it was the only way to get the heavy bags in there. I wouldn’t have had that problem had the workers not filled the bags so full. I sat down on the air conditioning unit outside the door to rest. My back ached. I didn’t know if I was supposed to wait until someone came to get

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me, or if I was supposed to go back inside to report the job done. I sat where I was for almost ten minutes. My hope dwindled. I’d done all that work, and I wouldn’t get anything after all. I was debating over going inside or walking away when I heard the back door open. A pimpled teenage boy came out, bearing two burger boxes balanced one atop the other in one hand and a drink cup in the other. “Here you go,” he said, and set them next to where I’d been sitting. He went back inside and closed the door behind him. One was the white box of the Quarter Pounder With Cheese and the other was the dull and boring brown of a Big Mac. I tore into them, Big Mac first, and didn’t stop—not even for a drink—until they were both gone. The burgers were explosions of flavor after eating soup, bagels and other leftover foods for a few days. Food gone, I sat back down again and sipped my soda. It was sweet and cold—every bit as good as I’d dreamed of in days past. Ice crunched pleasantly between my teeth. It froze my mouth and cheeks to the point of pain, but I enjoyed it, knowing full well that I had no idea when I’d get another chance. There were so many things that I took for advantage in my normal life, and it took living on the road to realize and appreciate them. Things like ice and cold drinks, the ability to loiter somewhere that you can’t get kicked out of, or places to store things without carrying everything on your back. My current state brought them all out of obscurity and into full detail. For a few minutes, I missed home, even if it was a forty-year-old dorm room. A voice interrupted my basking in the after-dinner feeling of a good meal. “Hey.” I turned to see a man walking towards me. “Hi,” I said. Though I hoped I didn’t look it, I was wary, and ready to jump up and grab my stuff. He stopped about ten feet away from me. “I was eating inside and heard your conversation with the manager,” he said. “Yeah?” “Yeah. Wondering if you need a ride somewhere.”

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The offer was kind, if not a bit strange and out of the blue. I stopped to consider. I really didn’t know where I was going next. I said as much. He shrugged. “You’re welcome to ride with me as long as you want, ‘till you see a place you want to stop.” I was in no rush. “Nah. I’m good. Thanks though.” “You sure? I even have a joint I’ll share with you.” The man stepped a little closer. Why such persistence? “I’m sure.” “C’mon,” he said. “My van’s in the parking lot. Give me a blowjob and I’ll give you twenty bucks—that’ll buy a lot of food. Keep you fed for a few days, at least.” I shot him the hardest look I was capable of. “Not interested.” We stared at one another for what felt like an eon. My eyes flickered down to a knife he wore on his belt. “Eh, fuck it, you’re probably horrible at it anyways,” he said, and I watched him walk away around the other side of the building. I sat, alert and attentive, ready to bolt if he came back. My whole body shook once the moment passed and the rush of adrenaline—or was it fear?—wore off. If ever there was a reminder of what a dangerous game I was playing, that was it. I could be out in the woods somewhere, growing mold while animals nibble on my bones, instead of sitting here dragging my pen across the page. When I left, I cut a circular path to make sure the creep didn’t follow me. That next morning was the same as all the others: down to me, standing on a road that stretched out forever in all directions. Which way to go? I had nothing in mind, no pressing need or goal to achieve. The search for my grandparents and my attempt to place my mother in some sort of environment exhausted the only goals that I’d had. I was in complete control of myself, and it was a bit scary. The constant cycle of work-school-homework-sleep was comforting in its own way, in that nothing changed and there wasn’t much that was uncertain. I’d thrown all that off and stepped out into the chaos of the real world, full of what we don’t see when we’re caught in our daily cycles.

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We don’t see how much control we lose. I had full control now—could go anywhere and do anything, with nothing more required than my feet to get me there and fuel for my body. Looking back, I don’t think I was suffering from a lack of options, but rather an overload of options. I could go anywhere in the state, or in the country, for that matter. Anywhere at all. How do you decide where to go first? I’d let my feet carry me and see where I ended up.

Chapter 17

My thumb went out on its own whenever I heard a car approach. It was an automatic reaction by then, one I didn’t think much about. Most people never stop. I had no idea where I was going, so I almost hoped no one stopped. What would I tell them? A station wagon pulled over for me some time later. I walked up to the passenger side window and leaned down to talk. A girl around my age sat in the passenger seat. Looking at me from the driver’s seat was a guy in his late twenties, with short, jet black hair. I caught a glimpse of another guy in the back seat. The driver spoke. “Where you headed?” “This may sound kind of funny,” I said, “but I’m not sure. Where are you guys going?” “San Francisco for the day,” the girl said. “Shopping, clubs, that sort of thing.” The driver leaned over towards me and put his hand on the girl’s leg to support himself. She put her hands on and around his. “We have some room if you want to ride with us,” he said. “There are worse places to be than San Francisco.” I straightened up. My eyes followed a blue minivan as it passed by. I’d never been to San Francisco.

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Let chance—or fate, if I believed in such a thing—take me where it would. “Oh hell,” I said. “Why not.” And thus we were off, barreling down I-80 in an old Ford station wagon. The seats were worn and ratty, the floorboard carpet threadbare and missing altogether in some places, and the false wood trim on the door was coming unglued and peeling up in a few spots—but the stereo was nice. That’s how I met Craig, Emilie and Jason. Introductions started as we got back up to speed. Craig was our driver, a twenty-seven year old music graduate student at the University of Sacramento. The girl in the front seat was his girlfriend, Emilie. She was about to complete her four year Psychology degree, also at U of S. My companion in the back seat was Matt, a shaggy, brown-haired fellow and a former computer engineering student. I say former, because he dropped out the previous semester after failing most of his classes despite no small amount of effort. “I figured it wasn’t for me if I was having that many problems so soon,” he said. He hadn’t given much thought to going back. I gave a simplified and somewhat vague version of my own story: I was a college student taking a break and traveling around where ever I pleased. Craig asked if I’d ever been to San Francisco before. I said no. “It’s a hell of a city,” he said. “If San Fran doesn’t have it, it doesn’t exist.” Sisters of Mercy thumped from the stereo as we crossed the Altemonte Pass. It’s a gateway, of sorts, from the valley to the pacific coast —a region of grassy hills that are either green or brown depending on the season. Dotted throughout the hills are wind turbines for generating electricity. Most are like windmills with three blades. White, modern equivalents to the windmills out of story books. A small portion of them are different; these others have two opposite blades bent like the outline of a pear that spin around a central pole. They reminded me of egg beaters, or the metal beaters that go on an electric mixer. Rows and rows of both types stretched back as far as the eye could see, until they looked

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like miniature children’s toys lined up like soldiers over the rise and fall of the land. It felt good to be moving. Good to leave the valley behind me. The towers of the San Fransisco-Oakland bridge appeared long before we got to it, a once-amazing feat of engineering that links the Marin County headlands and San Francisco Peninsula together. We trundled along through traffic and stoplights, crawling our way forward towards the toll gates, and were then on the bridge itself, one of a long line of cars flowing over steel and concrete suspended above the cold water of the San Francisco Bay. I looked down at the vast plane of gray water a few hundred feet below us. Scattered over its surface were boats of all kinds, both pleasure craft such as fishing or skiing boats and larger vessels that served either private or business needs. Most of them had white trails of churned-up water fading out behind them as they moved. Almost like they had tails. The Bay connects to the ocean, I knew, and who knew what was down there in the water beneath the rippling waves? I remember hearing a story about the scuba divers who help maintain the support pillars. Some of them come up from the depths wide-eyed and shaken. They quit on the spot and refused to go back down. They never talked about what they saw. Was it true? Who knew. Did I believe it was possible? Absolutely. From the vantage point of the bridge I could see a thin layer of fog over the far horizon of the bay and parts of the city. “Is there any particular place we can drop you off, Kyle?” Craig asked me. I’d been staring out the window, and it took me a moment to realize he’d spoken to me. “Oh, no. Anywhere will be fine.” I’d enjoyed the company of my temporary friends. The arrival at the city would signal the end of my time with them, and I found myself looking forward to getting to the city less and less. Traffic exited the bridge and split off into different directions. Craig pulled the wagon into the parking lot of a gas station off of Highway 80.

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“Here you go, man.” “Thanks for the ride, guys,” I said. “I appreciate it.” Emelie said “You bet” at the same time Craig said, “Good luck, man.” “Do you guys know any shelters in the area?” I asked. “I know there’s a Food Not Bombs here in the city,” Emelie said. “You can probably find them if you ask around.” We said our goodbyes and I got out. Matt handed my pack out to me, and then they were off. Emilie’s hand flashed out the window in a brief wave. Depression crept into me as I watched them drive off. Temporary friends. Time expired. I did my best to shake it off.

PART TWO The City

Chapter 1

The first shelter on my list operated on a lottery system for beds. The list itself came from a phonebook along my path. I’d missed the six to nine AM window for standby at the shelter. The drawing wasn’t until 7:30 that night. No way in hell I was going to wait around all day for only a chance to get somewhere to sleep. I took Eight Street to the northwest, then crossed over Market Street and into the Tenderloin district. “Tenderloin” isn’t a positive term: it came from when police officers were paid more to work the area and were therefore able to buy more expensive meat at the grocer. They earned more money for a reason. The streets were dirty and full of both trash and people. Small privately-owned bars—more like dives—dotted the city blocks here and there. People of all makes walked the streets. One man talked and flailed his way down the sidewalk. Whether he was talking to himself, God, or someone else, I didn’t know. A group of young boys, resplendent in their spiked and dyed hair, torn jeans and pin-covered jackets laughed amongst themselves as they walked by. On one sidewalk corner, a scruffy man sat in a wheel chair. There was a dirty blue duffel bag in his lap. He called out to people passing by, then saw me and rolled up close. “Need some medicine?” he asked, rolling backwards to keep pace

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with me. I snapped away from whatever thought or daydream occupied the majority of my mind. “Huh?” He let the chair coast and patted a hand on top of the bag. “Xanax, uppers, downers, painkillers in every meaning of the word. C’mon, make you a deal?” He set his arms to pumping the wheels again. People had to move out of his way or be ran over. “No thanks,” I said. He angled his chair in front of me and then stopped. “Aww man, there’s gotta be something you need. I need money for lunch.” I circled around him without breaking stride. He spun around to face me as I kept walking. “Nothing in there that I need,” I called over my shoulder. “No money, anyways!” I went up three blocks, past the main library and civic center, to Golden Gate Avenue and turned right. I was a bit worried that I’d gotten my streets mixed up somehow in my memory, but I hit Leavenworth a block down. I followed that up one block until I hit Turk Street and looked for another shelter on my list. I’d come about a mile. I knew I’d found it when I saw a disheveled man smoking a cigarette on some steps. Not that a rough appearance meant the guy was homeless, but it was a good bet. He was clean shaven. That surprised me. Our eyes met. I’m not sure what I saw there. Maybe it was something I couldn’t recognize. Maybe it was nothing at all. I was more afraid of the latter one. A sign behind him confirmed the building as the Hospitality House. I entered and asked the front desk attendant—a short, overweight man of middle age—for a bed. “Name please?” he asked. “Kyle,” I said. “Social security number?” I recited it for him.

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“Reason for staying?” “I don’t have anywhere to sleep.” “Resident, or passing through?” I thought about it for a second. “Passing through.” “Age?” he asked. “Twenty.” He looked up at me once he wrote everything on his form. “Alright. Beds are for a maximum of ninety days. No drugs or alcohol allowed. You must be sober. It usually takes about a week to get a bed. Check back every day around this time and we’ll let you know.” It had the sound of something he repeated often. They didn’t strike me as hospitable, “Hospitality House” or not. “It takes a week to get a bed?” I asked, not quite believing. “But I need a place to stay tonight.” “Sorry kid, there are ten people to every one bed in this city. It’s the best we can do. Come back around the first, maybe you’ll have better luck then. We tend to thin out a bit when people get their welfare checks.” I looked at him without words. A few curses came to mind, but they were useless. It was a bad system, sure. But it wasn’t his fault. Could I be any more sympathetic than he, if I had to hear the same stories day after day? Unsure what to do, I stepped outside. The man I’d seen on the way in still sat on the steps. “They full?” he asked without turning around. I jumped when he spoke. “Yeah.” I stepped up next to where he sat. “Said it’ll probably be a week before I can get a bed.” “That’s how long it took me.” I followed his gaze down the street. I didn’t see anything worth looking at. “What’ll you do now?” he asked. “I don’t know. I looked in the phone book, found a few shelters. That’s how I found this one. I guess I’ll go drop by the last one, maybe I’ll have better luck.”

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“Where abouts is it?” I closed my eyes to concentrate. “In the nine hundreds. Valencia Street.” “That place is a dump. It’s up to you, but you’re looking at walking a few miles south to even get there. You’d be better off finding a place in the city to hole up in.” “It’s that bad?” “Yup. You go there, you’ll end up with fleas or a broken head or something.” I hadn’t given much thought beyond the shelters. I could sleep in the city. I’d done it before in other places. Shelters were so much less hassle, though, if you could put up with the people. They came with the chance of getting a meal, too. Or maybe the thought of sleeping in a building made me feel better. This stranger’s advice cautioned against it, though, and that left me without a plan. I scratched at my face while I thought. My faint beard itched. I went for a moment without saying anything, so he spoke again. “’Course, it’s up to you.” “No, you’re probably right,” I said. I sighed. “You’d know better than I would. I just got into town.” “Welcome to San Francisco.” He paused. “Go find yourself a place in the city, friend. Just keep out of sight. The cops don’t like homeless people and no one else does either. Keep low and you’ll do alright. Maybe I’ll see you back here next week.” I took Leavenworth Street back to the south until I hit Market Street once more. As I approached the corner, I heard what sounded like a bugle or a trumpet. Some people stepped aside as I walked closer, and I saw the source. A thin and aging black man with frayed clothes and white in his hair stood playing a dented trumpet on the corner sidewalk. Its case lay open at his feet, top propped up against a backpack. Coins and a few crumpled bills spilled over the dirty red felt of the bottom half. He didn’t break his playing to thank anyone who threw something in; instead, he’d nod his head at them, or free one hand from the instrument to wave. One moment he’d stand there, solemn as a bugler playing taps at a funeral, and

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the next he’d bend his knees, tap his foot and bob in time with his playing or shuffle through a dance in loose circles. He finished his piece with a flourish. Around and around went the bell of his trumpet in a circle, then cut left to right as he played and finished the last note. He lowered his arms and people clapped, myself included. Some tossed some money into his case before moving on. He had a happy-go-lucky personality to him, it seemed, even if it was only for show. His eyes wandered as he blew out his spit valve, and they fell on me as he scanned the area. “Hey son,” he said, “how ‘bout you unlimber that guitar of yours and pluck some chords with me?” My voice stuck in my throat. “Oh, no,” I said, “I don’t know anything about blues and I’m not very good.” I wanted to walk away, to hide, but courtesy kept me rooted to the spot. “Don’t matter if you’re good or not,” he said, bending down to pluck a bottle of valve oil out of his case. “Wouldn’t be the blues if it was hard. I’ll show you what you need to know.” He squeezed a few drops of oil into each valve and worked them with his fingers. I could feel the eyes of strangers on me. A big part of me wanted nothing more than to run off into the crowd. But here was a chance to play, to talk to someone friendly. And why the hell was I carrying the guitar around if I wasn’t going to play it? I steeled my nerves, slipped my pack off, took the guitar out of its case, and sat down cross-legged on the sidewalk. He gave me a reference note for my first string and I took it from there. “What’s your name?” he asked as I tuned up. “Kyle,” I replied. I tried to concentrate on what I was doing. The few people gathered around us and those who glanced as they walked by made my hands shake. “Pleased to meet you, Kyle. Name’s Ralph. Now here’s what we’re gonna do.” He told me the names of a couple chords. A few I knew, and he

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showed me the ones I didn’t, using his index finger to point out the strings and frets on my guitar. Once I got those down he tapped his foot and clapped out a rhythm, calling out the changes as he went. I jumped in, trying to follow along. My hands mangled it slightly. “There you go, you got it,” he said after a minute or so. “And relax, son, ain’t no one here gonna care if you mess up a bit.” Ralph raised his horn to his lips and played. I fell into a bit of a groove and tried to keep time and not screw up. A harmonica sounded off from my left. I chanced a look up and saw a pot belly topped by a head of puffy white hair. The man’s eyes were closed and he blew with confidence (some might say he blew from his soul). His music joined ours in practiced ease. I almost messed up and had to look back at what my left hand was doing. The feeling of Ralph’s playing changed a few minutes later. I looked up to see him looking at me and nodding his head in a certain rhythm. I caught on at the last second and ended the song with the others. People clapped again, and as I looked around I noticed more people had gathered during our playing to see what was going on. “Well that was fine,” Ralph said. He went through the slightly disgusting act of emptying his spit valves again. “You gentlemen feeling up to another one?” The harmonica player looked out into the small crowd and grunted. “Don’t think we’re gonna have time.” We followed his eyes to the street. A police squad car pulled up and the driver rolled down his window. “All right, people,” the officer said. “Let’s move along.” The crowd melted away, our harmonica player with them. The officer looked at me for a moment before his eyes settled on Ralph. “Ralph, I’ve told you before, you’re not allowed to play here. You need to hit up another area, like the Wharf.” “Yes sir, sorry sir, we’ll be on our way now.” The officer nodded and pulled away. Ralph motioned to my case and then turned to his own. “Pack ‘er up, son, we’re through for today.”

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There was money in my case! It wasn’t much, but it was more money than I had, seeing as I didn’t have any. I must’ve been so involved in my playing that I hadn’t noticed people tossing it in. Ralph noticed my excitement as I pocketed the change. “Not a bad start,” he said. “That’s the part the cops don’t like, I think, but it ain’t begging if people wanna toss it in, that’s my thinking.” Guitar stowed away, I then picked up my pack. “Thanks, Ralph.” “Don’t mention it, Kyle. Come on back sometime if you want to play again. If I ain’t here, look around the city, you’ll find me.” We shook hands and went our separate ways. I felt renewed. It could have been due to any combination of Ralph and his kindness, the rush of playing in front of people or the money that jingled in my pocket as I walked. In the end, it didn’t matter why. I sat on a bus stop bench and took a moment to count the money I’d made: six dollars and seventy-five cents. Enough to buy me a meal. I continued my original path southwest along Market Street to the intersection of Market Street and Valencia, then turned to the south, towards the heart of the Mission District and the shelter. First home to a Native American tribe, the Mission District became host to a wide spread of people over time as chance and fortunes changed. There are strong Mexican and Latin overtones due to massive settlement in the area by Central American and Mexican families over the past forty years. Counter to this was a definite artsy appeal—cafes, book stores, art galleries and thrift shops dotted the streets as well; all signs of an area frequented by college students, artists, and other free thinkers. My walk down Valencia street took me past establishments of all kinds. Restaurants served everything from Italian food with subtitled foreign films on the TVs to Mexican food complete with sombreros and maracas hanging on the walls. Coffee shops, cafes, and burger joints (all with patio seating), hole-in-the-wall taquerias to vegetarian cafes, record stores to grocers and even adult toy stores. There was so much to see that I almost forgot I was looking for something. I’d pass a group of college hippies or punks one moment, and the next, a handful of Latino men gathered around a car thundering bass

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with the doors open. A young, dark-skinned boy jumped out in front of me—dark-haired, smiling, and chasing a ball—and I nearly ran him over before I could stop. Almost lost my balance due to the sudden stop, too; all that weight in my backpack made me top-heavy. He wore a white t-shirt with blue trim on the sleeves and a faded cartoon image on the front. His jeans were too big and worn pale at the knees and thighs. Hand-me-down clothes. He picked up the baseball he’d been chasing and looked up at me, still smiling. A moment later, his mother ran up and grabbed his arm. She hauled him away, scolding him the entire time in a rapid language I couldn’t understand. People from different walks of life spent their daily lives mixed together inside the Mission District under varying degrees of ease. If there was no place for me there, there was no place for me anywhere. I walked at least a few miles. It’s easy to lose track of miles in a city, when the distance you walked and the distance from your origin as the crow flies are two different things. Highways tend to take the easiest path, but cities know no such hard and fast rule. In the case of San Francisco, distance was even harder to keep track of due to the many hills and different elevations throughout the city. I found the building that was supposed to be the shelter. The outside appearance didn’t give me much hope. It looked at home amongst the other structures in the area: old, dirty, and unkempt, the windows crusted over with dirt. A single door to one side of the building stood open a bit. The entry was a bare room not even ten feet square. I could see a hallway leading off to my left. The floor was wood, its dark finish worn, scraped, or chipped off in many places. “Hello?” There was no answer or sign of anyone in the building. Did I have the wrong place? The windows at the entrance provided little light as I walked down the hallway. The smell of stale urine tickled my nose and grew stronger

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as I walked. I came upon a door to my left, its gold doorknob hanging loose. A small puddle of water seeped out from under the door. It’d been larger—I could see rings where the floor had once been wet. Dried dirt framed footprints in the muck. I opened the door, expecting the knob to fall off in my hand as I did so. The stench of urine overpowered me—I took one look inside and pulled the door shut as hard and fast as I could. When the knob came off in my hand, I let it fall to the floor, where it landed with a brass clang. The toilet inside had plugged and then overflowed. The puddle on the floor wasn’t just water. My stomach heaved and I clapped my hand over my mouth to stop myself from throwing up. I trotted down the hall and then around the corner to the right and found myself in a large, open room. A number of bare mattresses sat on the floor. Most of them were stained dark yellow and brown. Two men sat on the floor at one side of the room. They passed a bottle between them and had a game of cards laid out before them. I’d found the shelter. What was left of it. A welcome blast of fresh air hit me when I left the building. I’d been hungry when I went in, but the sights and smells I encountered had done a good job of relieving me of my appetite. The man outside the Hospitality House had been right: I would be better off sleeping on the street.

Chapter 2

The solution to my shelter problems came in a flash of luck and creativity towards evening. I’d spent the day wandering through the city and had even been fed by a family having a cookout in one of the parks— they’d had too much food and gave some to me rather than throwing it away. I walked along a sidewalk-free street as the sun set and the temperature dropped. Sparse green-brown grass poked up in the dirt and gravel alongside a chain link fence. My fingers made a meaty sputtering sound as I trailed my right hand along the fence wires. Some trees reached over or through the fence, poking out branches at those passing by. Trash collected along the base of the fence, crumpled fast food bags and boxes, faded bottles with sun-bleached labels flaked off. Beyond the end of the fence lay a large, open lot and a gas station. It was the same as any other station, except for one thing: they also rented out U-Haul trucks. There was a line of them in back of the station, like soldiers mustered for inspection, one or two of each different size. The fronts of the vehicles pointed out towards the road—if any of them were open, I’d have found quite the place to stay the night. Not only would the truck block any wind, but my body heat might warm it up inside and I wouldn’t be visible from the road.

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There was a grassy area and then another chain link fence at the back of the lot. Beyond the fence were the backsides of various buildings: dumpsters, delivery doors, garbage piles. I sat on a truck’s bumper for a few minutes, leaning back against the door, waiting and listening to see if anyone would come back and see what I was up to. Cast-off cigarette butts formed a loose pile beneath my feet. I let five or ten minutes go by before I stood up. I went over to the smallest truck and looked at the door. There was no lock on the lever. I swung it over to unlatch it, pushed the door up a few feet, shoved my backpack in, then climbed up. Once inside the truck, I let the door slide back down until it was only a few inches from closed and could stay open on its own. The last bits of daylight that crept in gave me enough light to work by as I rolled out my sleeping bag. The metal floor of the truck box was already cold to the touch. I wanted to open the door and sit there on the edge of the truck, to look out and absorb the city, but I didn’t want anyone to see me. I’d shoved some of the extra hotdogs from the park lunch into my bag, and, afraid they would go bad if I waited any longer, I ate them even though I wasn’t hungry. Better to eat them than have to throw them out. I sat back against the side of the truck as the last remnants of sunlight faded away. I could still hear the sounds of traffic, both on the street and pulling into the station. I fell asleep some time later, feeling safe and secure. The toe of my boot would ensure that the door wouldn’t close all the way. My eyes popped open at some point in the night. I didn’t know what time it was—my watch didn’t have one of those light-up displays. The air inside the truck was a bit stuffy, but not horrible; the crack in the door made it bearable. I’d settled back down and felt sleep coming again when I heard voices. I lay in the dark, straining to hear what they were saying and where they were coming from. Where they getting louder? A minute passed. My body tensed. Yes, they were louder. Whoever they were, they came closer.

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I sat up and moved closer to the back of the truck. Was it the station people? Did they find out that I was here? Or was it the police, come to kick me out or arrest me for trespassing? The voices moved even closer and weren’t far from my truck. I tried to figure out what I was going to do, what I’d say if I needed to come up with a story real fast. Then there was movement in the pale strip of light beneath the door. They were standing in front of the door now, and I could hear every word: “—and then the fucker had the guts to try blaming it on me, like it’s my goddamn fault he ditched the bag.” The door jerked, and I jumped. Then the door flew up, revealing two guys. The one on the right, younger and with long, unkempt hair, had been the one to open the door, and was still talking while the other guy looked at him, listening. “And then I said to Tommy—” The guy quit talking when he saw me. His companion was the first to react. He was older and had a few days of beard growth. Both wore somewhat shabby clothes. “What’s this happy horseshit? What the hell are you doing in my truck?” My mouth kicked in without waiting for input from my brain. “I’m sorry, I just needed a place to sleep, I’ll go now.” I jumped around, gathering up my sleeping bag into a big ball and then dragging my pack along the floor towards the door. “Whoa, whoa, hang on a second,” the first guy said. “Ben, calm down.” He looked at me next. “You, wait a second. You said you need a place to sleep?” “Yeah,” I said. “Well man, put your shit down. We’re not gonna run you off.” “The hell we ain’t,” the one named Ben said. “He’s in my truck.” “Oh, fuck your truck,” the first guy said. “Not like you can’t pick a different one for tonight. Nothing special about this one, is there?” Ben sighed. “Whatever.” Not what I expected. An angry owner? Sure. Police? Why not. But a couple of guys who understood my situation and were willing to help me out a bit? And that was how I met Eric and Ben. It was Eric who’d been doing

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the talking and who said that I could stay. It was nine o’clock. I’d slept for a few hours, and not half the night like I’d first thought upon waking up. Ben and I sat on the edge of a truck bed with our feet dangling off while Eric stood and smoked a cigarette. No doubt they’d been the creators of the pile I’d seen earlier. Ben lit one up as well, then looked at me. “I’d offer you one but I’m almost out,” he said. “No problem. I don’t smoke.” “No hard feelings, then.” A moment passed in silence. “So are you two the only ones who sleep here?” I asked. Eric blew out a cloud of smoke. “Pretty much. Every once in a while someone else will come along.” “We don’t let many people know about this place,” Ben added. “Last thing we want is to be overrun with people.” “Do you guys ever get run off by the owner or the cops?” I asked. “Nah, man,” Eric said. “We have permission from the owner to stay in the trucks at night. Long as we don’t make a mess and are gone by morning.” “How did you manage that?” “Well,” Eric said, “one night, musta been, oh, a couple months ago, eh Ben?” Ben nodded. Eric hocked up a wad of phlegm, spit it out, and continued. “Yeah, so a couple months ago, Ben and I found these trucks and were sleeping in one of them. During the night we both woke up when we heard some glass breaking. We get up and looked around. Walked around the front of the station as quiet as we could, me going one way and Ben the other. Some guy busted the window out with a rock and was inside looking for money and stuffing his pockets with anything he could grab. I’m standing there saying to myself, ‘Oh shit, what’re we gonna do?’ when Ben here looks down and grabs a piece of two-by-four off the ground. Right around this time the guy comes running out so fast he doesn’t even see us, so Ben clocks him on the back as hard as he can, knocking the guy flat

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out. We kept him down until the cops came.” Eric shrugged. “We were kinda hesitant to say we’d been sleeping in the trucks, but didn’t want to leave anything out when we were questioned. Ends up the cops didn’t care, and the owner himself came down to thank us. He’s let us stay ever since.” I looked at Ben. “Wow.” Ben snorted. “Crazy, isn’t it? I didn’t have much in mind when I grabbed the thing. Just thought I’d rather have a board than no weapon at all if the dude was crazy. Whackin’ him with it came naturally.” “You should play baseball,” Eric said. He mimed swinging a bat and then used his hand to shield his eyes at he looked up at the sky. “Woulda been a home run for sure. Over the wall and it’s goooood!” Ben and I laughed. “’I think that’s football,” I said. “Besides, people probably don’t want to see things like ‘knocked a thief in the back with a two-by-four’ on resumes,” Ben added. “Yeah, you’re right,” Eric said. “They probably wouldn’t count that as prior work experience.” Talking and smoking continued for a few more hours that night. We eventually got to talking about things we wanted to do before we died. “What I want to do,” Eric said, “is to find the highest place I can in some place natural. One that I can get to without climbing Mount Everest or something. A place with a view. I want to hike there, and sit up there, looking out, and smoke a cigarette and just think about things. I’m not sure if I believe in God, but I have a lot of things I want to ask Him, and I imagine if I’m going to find Him anywhere, it’ll be there and not in a shithole like this.” He indicated the trash-strewn space in front of us. “I want to know where He’s been, because man, I could’ve used some help.” What did I want to do before I died? I didn’t know. A turn in the conversation spared me from having to provide an answer. My body and attention span began to fade not more than an hour later, and I begged off to sleep. Eric said he’d show me around the next

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day. I climbed back into the truck they’d found me in, pulled the door back down, and replaced my boot to maintain the opening. I slept well that night, without worries or dreams of any kind that I can remember. I awoke the next morning to the sound of someone banging on the back door. Eric’s face looked at me through the crack. “Hey man, wake up, we gotta get gone.” The morning air was crisp and cold. I checked my watch by the light of a street lamp. Six thirty AM. Light had yet to touch the sky on the horizon visible between the buildings. “Hope it wasn’t too rude of a wake-up,” Eric said. “We always knock. That’s another good thing about the trucks. Chances are no one will bother you, but if they do, we know it’s not the other guy because the sound of the door opening wakes you up.” “How’d you sleep?” he asked. “Not too bad at all. Where’s Ben?” I asked. I saw no sign of him, and the doors of the other trucks were all latched shut. “He’s already gone,” he said. “He likes to get an early start on the day.” Eric started walking. I followed along. “Where’d he go?” I asked. “No idea. He spends most of his time spanging.” “Huh?” “Pan handling.” “Oh.” “Tried it yet?” he asked. “No. Thought about it, though.” “What stopped you?” I shrugged. “I dunno. Didn’t like the thought of it.” “Yeah, me neither. Ben’s pretty good at it, though, and it doesn’t seem to bother him.” “So is there anywhere we can go for some food?” I asked. “Someone mentioned there’s a Food Not Bombs in town.” “There is. But they only serve at night. If we’re lucky, we’ll find something to eat in the meantime.”

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“I hate to keep asking questions, but is there any way I could wash my clothes or get a shower?” Eric sniffed and rubbed the back of his hand across his nose. “Hmm. There’s a drop-in center that will sometimes let you, but they’re flaky. Always opening up, closing down, changing what they let you do. Sometimes its free, sometimes they charge.” Clean clothes and a shower sounded damn good. So did breakfast. Even better, though, was the thought of a razor. I could feel the hair on my face as I walked. It still itched, and I’d be glad to have it gone. Shaving would make me look cleaner, too. “Tell you what,” Eric said. “I have some things I need to do. Go up to the center. It’s on Tehama street, near sixth. They’ll give you breakfast if they’re open. I’m not sure how long I’ll be. We can meet up later today.” I had my suspicions about what Eric “needed to do”, but I didn’t say anything about it. I said instead, “Okay, where?” “Food Not Bombs serves at six at the UN Plaza on seventh and Market street. Know where that is?” he asked. “Yeah.” “How ‘bout we meet up there?” “See you then,” I said. Eric peeled off and went off in another direction. The thought to double back and follow him occurred to me. I was curious to see where he went. But my own needs and the desire not to screw things up with someone who offered to help dissuaded me from that notion. I found the building for the drop-in center, but the door was locked. Eric had said they were a bit unreliable, so I resolved to try the next day. Meanwhile, I was able to see a good portion of the city in far less than a day because I had to skip anything that required money. I reflected that I could write a travel book, How to see San Francisco and Other Cities In One Day. It’d be a short book. Chapter one would say, “Don’t spend any money”, followed by “The End” and that’d about be the extent of it.

Chapter 3

Union Square Plaza is an open granite-floored park. Home to stretches of grass, benches, and ledges, it is there that street performers, workers taking lunch breaks, tourists, and shoppers all mingle together, surrounded by major department stores and hotels that tower overhead. Names like Nordstrom, Macy’s, Tiffany, J. Crew, the Hyatt Hotel, Virgin Megastore, and others faced out at me, along with names from the supposed high fashion world that I’d never heard of. In the center of the plaza is a large, fancy pillar, dubbed the Dewey Monument, to commemorate the victory of Admiral Dewey and the American Fleet in the Spanish-American war. A group of tables occupied a portion of the square. One of them had a large banner taped to the front. “Food Not Bombs,” it said, with a fist holding a carrot. There was an assortment of literature. A man and a woman, both in their mid twenties, handed out pamphlets and spoke with people who stayed to talk. The other tables were empty or held small groups of people who chatted amongst themselves. On the far side of the tables was a line of cooking equipment: a large gas grill, white and dented propane tanks, huge stainless steel pots. There was also a white van, doors spread open, “Food Not Bombs” painted on the side. Four people worked behind the

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grill, one running it, others shuffling food around into pots, moving pots over to another table or getting things out of the van. I wasn’t sure what to do. Was I supposed to walk up and take a seat? It was only five forty five—I was early. I scanned the crowed, feeling anxious and unsure, but saw no sign of Eric. Or Ben, for that matter. I did see an assortment of other people, from those looking like they were homeless or passing through to college students with backpacks. But no one familiar. No one I knew. No one to show me what to do. I sat down on an empty bench, away from most of the people, and waited for Eric. Alternating between scanning the crowds and staring down at my hands or pack, I did whatever I could to pass the time. I was afraid he wouldn’t show up. That I’d be stuck by myself. Talking to people doesn’t come easily for me, and while others around me chatted like best friends, I felt more alone in the crowd of people than I did when I walked down empty highways at night. My worrying was for nothing. Eric showed up and found me in the crowd. I suppose food is a strong motivator for punctuality. Though I was relieved when he showed up, I also berated myself for not talking to other people. Here I was, traveling around, and still afraid to be in unfamiliar situations. I have to get better about that in the future, I told myself. One day there might come a time when there is no one to show me around. We stood in line and waited our turn to receive a paper plate full of pasta and chopped vegetables with tomato sauce on it, along with a dinner roll. We grabbed up a plastic fork out of a container and then I followed Eric as he wove through tables that were filling up with people. Sitting down felt great. I’d walked through most of the city. The dull burn of fatigue glowed in my legs. “Where’s Ben?” I asked. “Dunno,” Eric replied, and shoved a forkful of food in his mouth only to spit it right back out again. “Fuck! That’s hot!” he said. You’d think that the steam rising from the plate might have been an indication of that, but I kept quiet. Eric fanned his hand over his plate. “He’s probably eating somewhere right now.”

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“He doesn’t come here? Where’s he go?” “How do I know? Where ever he wants.” Eric shrugged. “He eats with whatever money he pulls in. Sometimes eat well, too, and’ll share what he has if he’s in a good enough mood.” “Does it actually work?” I asked. “For him, yeah. I don’t have the touch for it. He does. There are good days and bad days; on a good day you can get a burger and fries with a coke or a pizza, then a pack of cigs and still have money left over. On bad days you get spit on and insulted or harassed by the cops.” He gestured his fork at his plate. “This suits me just fine.” All around me were people volunteering their own time—and maybe even money—to serve free food to those who needed it. All this went on in the shadow of some of the city’s biggest and fanciest buildings and stores. In actuality, that’s one of the biggest goals of Food Not Bombs: to bring the problem of hunger out into the open for all to see, and not hide it away so that people can forget about it or ignore it. Even in this, the biggest, wealthiest, and most free nation in the world, there are still people who don’t have enough to eat. To Food Not Bombs, food is a right, and the problem of hunger lies not in quantities. There is enough food already to feed everyone. The problem lies in distribution. Capitalism and big business—the very shops around me—dictate the ebb and flow of foodstuffs, not the common good of human beings. The vastness and deeper message of what was going on was still settling into the crooks of my mind when Eric tapped me on the shoulder to get my attention. “Hey man, are you ready?” He seemed anxious. “We gotta go.” “Yeah. What’s up?” “C’mon, I’ve got us a place to stay tonight.” I stood up from the table. “Where? What about the trucks?” “Nevermind the trucks tonight. This is a real apartment.” He nodded towards a trash can. “Toss your stuff and lets go.” I threw my plate into the trash, but licked my fork clean and stuffed it into my backpack. Eric explained as we walked.

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“Went to talk to a guy I met a few days ago. I may start working for him, and he invited me over. Said you can come too. We’ll be able to stay there tonight. Indoors, use the bathroom, stuff like that.” “What will you be doing for him?” I asked. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, but I had my suspicions. “Not exactly sure yet,” he said. You could fit volumes full of things he didn’t tell me in those few words. “We’re still working out the details, that’s why I’m going over there tonight.” “What about Ben?” “He’ll be fine. I don’t want to overdo our welcome. Besides, you wanna walk all the way back there and tell him?” He was right. It was a long walk back to the trucks, and while I didn’t feel right in excluding Ben, I didn’t want to walk all that way, either. The thought of trying to catch up to and find Eric in the city didn’t sit that well with me. The crystal blue sky overhead grew orange with yellow overtones as the sun went down. We walked into the Tenderloin for twenty minutes or so before Eric stopped. He looked up at a building, five stories or so, then looked up and down the street. “This should be it,” he said. Inside was a communal entryway. To the left were lockable steel mailboxes mounted on the wall. A hallway with numbered doors ran down the left side of the building and an ascending staircase down the right. The stairs were well worn, and in need of a touch up coat of wood stain. I followed Eric up the steps. It’s a good thing we weren’t trying to sneak up on anyone—the stairs bellowed a hollow clump with every step we took. Stair climbing must use a different set of muscles than walking. I’d walked all day and felt alright, but after three flights of stairs my legs burned and I was out of breath. The room we wanted was a few doors back and to the right, with a number twenty six mounted at eye height in brass letters corroded with age around the edges. He knocked. The sound of his knuckles against the wood of the door didn’t sound heartening or reassuring. More like

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knocking against plastic than solid wood. Another knock brought the sound of footsteps, followed by the rattling of a door chain and the turning of locks. While multiple locks are all well and good, and no doubt justified given the area we were in, I didn’t want to test that door against a well-placed kick. The door opened, after some tugging from the person on the other side when the door got stuck in the jam, and revealed a hippie kid younger than me. He nodded at us and said, “Hey guys,” before he stepped aside and opened the door wider to allow us in. I felt like I was walking into a dorm room again. Though a bit bigger than my dorm, there was clutter everywhere. To the left sat an old ratty couch with dirty cushions. On the far side of that was an old blue recliner. The arms of the chair were shredded, like a cat had spent a good portion of time sharpening its claws on them. There was a coffee table—which is to say, a wood plank on top of two stacks of cinder blocks—piled with papers, magazines, empty pizza boxes and food wrappers, along with ashtrays and lighters. Across from the couch and chair was a nineteen-inch TV. The stand it was on was one of those cheap Walmart jobs. Only half of the middle shelf remained, hanging askew and forgotten. A stack of VHS tapes filled the bottom shelf. “He’ll be out in a sec. Remote’s on the table if you want to watch TV.” The kid walked down the hall and disappeared into a bedroom on the left. I heard the door close behind him. Eric made himself at home on the couch. I set my backpack against the end nearest the door and sat on the edge of the cushion. The place made me uneasy. I’m never comfortable in the house of someone I don’t know, but this was worse, and not just the lack of housekeeping. A few minutes later, the sound of a door opening came from the hallway and out walked a mid-twenties guy. He had darker skin and black hair, mostly Latino, with a dash of something else thrown in. The white tank top he wore showed off heavy musculature. A wide, black leather belt held up his jeans. He spoke as he came into the living room. “Eric, what’s up, man?” They clasped hands in a palm-to-palm street grip rather than a handshake.

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He looked over at me, and Eric introduced me. “This is the guy I told you about. Kyle, this is Angel.” Angel gave a quick upward nod of his head. “Hey. Eric said you’re new in town?” “Got here a few days ago.” “Cool, cool. He gonna be working with you, Eric?” Eric looked at me real quick before looking back at Angel. “Not sure yet, actually.” “Whatever you want,” Angel said, and turned away into the kitchen. I made eye contact with Eric and tried to beam a What the fuck are you guys talking about thought at him, but Angel called “Either of you want a beer?” from the kitchen and Eric looked away. Eric took one. I declined. Angel came back into the room, grabbed the remote, and then took a seat in the recliner. He flipped through the channels without pausing to see what was on. A few minutes went by in silence. What we were doing there? Eric rolled his half empty beer bottle between his hands for a few minutes before he finally spoke. “Hey man, I don’t wanna hang around and be a bother. We can get going.” “Alright, come back here.” Eric followed him into another room. They didn’t close the door. I tried to listen to what they were saying, but though I could tell they were talking, I couldn’t make anything out. A few minutes later Eric came out of the room. He motioned for me to follow him, and we let ourselves out. “What was all that about?” I asked. “Tell you soon,” was Eric’s only reply. He made for the stairs and I had to catch up. “I thought we were going to stay with him?” I asked. “I thought so too, but he didn’t offer and so I didn’t ask.” Going down three flights of stairs is much easier than going up. It was dark by the time we got to the bottom and out the door. When we were a little way down the street I gave voice to my suspicion. “You’re

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dealing now, aren’t you.” It wasn’t exactly a question, because by this time I was pretty sure. I’d known enough people in college and seen enough signs in Eric to tell that he was a user. Eric didn’t slow his pace or look at me. “I wouldn’t call it dealing. Just helping him out now and then. Deliveries and things.” “Fuck that, man, it’s dealing and you know it.” He stopped and turned towards me. “So what if it is. At least I’ll be able to make some money.” My mouth formed into a trace of a smile. “You can’t panhandle, but you can sell drugs?” I was sorry I said it the moment it came out of my mouth, but like we used to say when I was little and played children’s games with my friends: no take backs. Eric looked like I’d slapped him. “Hey, you know what, fuck you. I don’t know why you’re on the street, and I don’t care. But you obviously haven’t been here long. Stay a while, then maybe you’ll see. Begging for goddamn change ain’t gonna get me anything except maybe some food or smokes. Flipping burgers ain’t gonna pay rent, either. I was going to ask if you wanted in on it, but I guess I know what you’d say.” I shook my head. “It’s no good,” I said. I thought back to some of the kids I knew in high school. Like Victor Strauss, arrested for dealing marijuana and LSD. They busted him in a sting operation. Officers that looked young and pretended to be students would befriend people and try to buy things. Victor got fifteen years in prison instead of a diploma. Other people went down with him, first-timers and regulars alike, and then more arrests were made once people started to talk. “They’ll bust you eventually,” I said, drawing my mind away from the image of shimmering police cars and Victor being led out of school in handcuffs. “If you’re lucky, you’ll get arrested,” I said. “If you’re not lucky, someone’ll kill you or some crazy shit like that and they’ll take you away in a bag. Angel wants you to deal for him so that he can make money and keep his hands clean. Don’t get involved.” Eric’s eyes were pointed somewhere over my shoulder as I talked. He rubbed his hand through his hair. Looked back at me. “I have to go,” he said. With that, he turned and walked off, leaving me standing there

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on the sidewalk looking after him, wondering if I could have said something different. Had I been too hard on him? Shot down his hopes of rebuilding his life? I don’t know. It wasn’t a good thing he was getting himself involved in. I couldn’t stand by and watch him ruin what was left of his life. Sometimes being right is far worse than being wrong.

Chapter 4

My argument with Eric meant I was by myself again. I looked around to get my bearings, but nothing around me looked familiar. I was lost. I’d followed Eric to Angel’s place and hadn’t been paying attention to where we were. Another lesson I learned on the road: pay attention to where you are at all times. After wandering for a while, I was able to make my way back into familiar territory, and from there to the trucks. Neither Ben nor Eric were there. I hadn’t counted on Eric returning, but I’d at least hoped Ben would be there. Whether he knew about what Eric was getting himself into or not, some company would have been nice. I attempted to do some laundry in the station’s sink. At first, I rinsed some clothes one article at a time, but then on a whim I decided to add some hand soap to get them cleaner. What a mistake. Took me a while to rinse that damn stuff out. Back to my truck I went, carrying an armful of soggy t-shirts, jeans, and underwear. I spread them out and hung them up as best I could on the tie rails lining the inside of the truck. I hoped they’d be dry by morning—the clothes I wore were beginning to feel disgusting. I could smell myself, too, and that wasn’t a good sign.

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The thought of practicing guitar occurred to me, but I didn’t want to attract any attention to myself. I could still hear the sounds of cars pulling in and out of the station, cutting off their engines, then firing them back up, or occasional snatches of conversation that floated my way. Despite all this, I slept well that night. I took my laundry down and made my way to the drop-in center for a shower, a shave, and some breakfast. To my delight, they were open, but didn’t provide laundry service at that time. After my shower, I dressed in some of the clothes I’d washed the day before. They were ever-so-slightly damp, but they were clean and felt good. Breakfast that morning consisted of pancakes and coffee, and I wouldn’t be exaggerating when I say I ate a ton of them. After breakfast, most people filed outside to smoke or start their day. I stayed behind and approached one of the volunteers. He was an older man, slim, almost skinny, with tan and wrinkled skin. He was in the middle of wiping off a table with a white rag that reeked of bleach. “Want some help cleaning up?” I asked. He paused to look at me. “Yeah? Won’t say no to that,” he said. He gestured with his rag to where various pots, bowls, and utensils still sat on the cooking table. “You can take all that into the kitchen for me.” It took a few trips, but I got it all in there. Even rinsed the pancake batter out of the huge mixing bowl. I walked out of the kitchen area to find the guy stowing tables and chairs. He paused when he saw me, we introduced ourselves, and then I helped him fold up the tables and lean them against the far wall. We talked a bit as we worked. Taylor was a retired construction worker, forced into retirement against his will when he fell off a ladder and broke his ankle and leg. I noticed his limp as we each grabbed one side of a table and moved them across the room in turn. We sat for a while in the kitchen on two folding chairs, drinking the leftover coffee and finishing off the last two staff-only donuts. I was full from breakfast and tried to resist when he offered it to me. “You have to eat it,” Taylor said. “Otherwise one of the girls’ll come back to do the dishes and she’ll eat it, and neither of them need it, if you follow my

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meaning.” I took the donut and smiled. “It’s up to us skinny people to remove temptation?” Taylor replied around a mouthful of donut, “You bet your ass it is.” * * * * * We’d sat and talked for fifteen minutes—long enough for the donut to create an unpleasant full feeling in my stomach—when a bang, a slam, and the sound of two women talking interrupted me. “Aww hell, they’re back early,” Taylor said. He gestured at me with the hand that still held his styrofoam cup. “If you want to leave, best do it now and go out the front, otherwise you’ll never get out of here once those two start talking to you.” I hopped up and grabbed my stuff. “Thanks for the coffee and everything else,” I said. “Thanks for helping.” I slipped out through the front door into gray morning. I was in the Mission district around lunch time when I saw a shiny blue Jaguar up the street from me. It pulled alongside the curb and parked in front of a small Mexican diner. The car looked out of place, screamed overindulgence, a sign of glimmering, upper class wealth amongst all the trappings of low income families, where people lived in poverty and many store windows were protected from break-in by rusty metal bars coated in pigeon shit. The owner of the vehicle was a middle-aged white man, as I no doubt guessed he would be; expensive leather loafers covered the feet that stepped out of the car, followed by gray slacks and a white, long sleeve button-up shirt. A mellow tie completed the ensemble, and the last thing to follow the man out of the car was a leather briefcase—a businessman’s tail. He swung the door shut and locked the doors with a little keychain remote. He looked at himself in the reflection of the car window, then set his briefcase down on the sidewalk between his legs while he adjusted

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his tie. Satisfied, he turned away from the car in my direction and paused when he saw me. Our eyes met. He turned back towards the car and up came the remote once again. By this time, I was close enough to hear the light pop of the door locks. As I walked past, he tugged on the door handle to make sure it was locked before turning away and engaging the alarm. I tried to not let it bother me. I was only partially successful. I know that I went to Food Not Bombs again that night. I remember this without a doubt for two reasons. First, my presence there set into motion a series of events that would make a large impact on my life. Second, and perhaps far more important, more immediate, was that I first laid eyes on and met a girl named Jackie.

Chapter 5

I stopped cold when I saw her. A stillness of mind and body struck me, and I could only watch. She wove amongst people and tables, sometimes cleaning up and sometimes serving up plates of food. I didn’t know whether she was a new volunteer or only helped on certain days. All I knew is that I hadn’t seen her before—she was the kind of girl that I would remember. I can’t explain my fascination. Nor can I say that her beauty is what drew me to her; while I found her attractive in spite of hiking boots and a frumpy camouflage coat, she was still normal. It could be that I sensed something more about her, or it could be that here was this girl—very pretty, very real, not imagined but less than twenty feet away from me— and she was not put off by homelessness. Once in line, I tried to look anywhere other than at her. It’s when you’re trying your best not to look at someone that you realize how hard it is to look anywhere else. My eyes felt drawn to her and seemed to drift towards her of their own accord. I was conscious of her movements. There was a warm sensation in my mind that told me where she was no matter how hard I tried to not pay attention. Eventually, I gave in to the urge to sneak a peek at her every few minutes, small glances that I tried to cover with other actions such as

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checking my watch or looking around. I shuffled my way through the line in a compound state of misery and elation. I concentrated on my feet, kept my eyes glued to the scuffed toes of my boots, and tried to focus on the conversation of the two guys in front of me. It didn’t do any good; at best, I’d catch a word or two and the rest would slip away as my mind returned to its preoccupation. Then I realized it was my turn at the table and looked up. At first, I didn’t see the person behind it. My brain wasn’t recognizing the signals from my eyes. Whatever gear had slipped finally clicked back into place. I was looking into her eyes, saw how beautiful they were (a mixture of blue and green) and they seemed to fill my vision. Everything else dropped away, faded, ceased to exist. In Bram Stroker’s Dracula, that’s all a character sees when the vampire charms her. It’s all she can remember afterward, too; red, luminous eyes that fill the vision and block everything else. But the eyes I saw weren’t those of a monster but a girl, a pretty girl, and then my vision widened enough to see her face and her smile, and I think she said something (hello) but I can’t remember what it was or even be sure that I didn’t imagine it. I was too busy floating in the moment. Then lucidity returned, rushing in to fill the stillness like air in a vacuum, and the rest of my peripheral vision returned. Sounds of people talking and eating filtered back in. I’m not even sure how much time had passed. I panicked, afraid of what she might think of me as I stood slackjawed. I managed to thanked her as she handed me a plate. At least I could form proper speech. I drifted away towards an empty table, plate in hand, but not thinking about food. How those eyes and that smile filled my being, made me float, made

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me stop. I could only think about it on the thinnest edges of my mind. The feeling resisted words or concrete thought. There was no logical explanation for my captivation. Not love, surely. That only happens in the movies. Not sheer attraction, either. What was it? What makes us mentally trip over random strangers like that? In the meantime, my stomach—empty and desperate that it was— sent smoke signals to my brain (Need food now, over. Engage auxiliary controls, over.) to say there was still something down in there that cared about eating. I picked up my fork and shoveled in rice and red beans with grilled squash, onions and zucchini on top. There were charred bits of vegetable from where they sat on the grill a moment too long, and the first real thought that came to mind was: Hmm, crunchy. * * * * * Someone sat down to my left. I felt a sort of pull in that direction. Almost like I could feel that whoever it was wanted to talk to me. I looked up. It was Eric. He didn’t look good. Too thin, too pale. Almost sickly. He picked at his food without eating. “Hey,” he said. “Hey.” Just that. Two simple words of greeting, then silence. I couldn’t figure out if I was mad at him, or if I was the one who should apologize. Did he come to talk? Did he sit next to me on purpose, or was there nowhere else to sit? I looked around. There were far too many open spaces for this to be a chance meeting. “You don’t look so good,” I said. It wasn’t the greatest of starts, I suppose, but it was the first thing that came to mind.

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“Yeah, prolly not. I feel shitty. Haven’t had much sleep, I guess.” “Where’d you stay last night?” “Don’t know who owned the place. Went to a party with Angel. Crashed on the couch sometime in the morning.” “I haven’t seen Ben,” I said. Had he and Eric had argued, too? “Have you? I figured he’d have gone back to the trucks last night.” Eric shook his head. “No idea where he is. He’ll probably pop up soon.” He stood up. Had he actually eaten any of his food? “Listen, Kyle.” His gaze shot over my shoulder instead of looking at me. “Sorry we argued, man. Maybe you’re right. I dunno. But for right now, things seem alright. There’s a party tonight, if you want to come. You’ll be able to crash there and meet some other people.” His eyes came back to look at me. “Everything should be cool.” Everything should be cool, he’d said. Did that mean no drugs? I wanted to ask, but didn’t; the breech between us was starting to mend, and I didn’t want to do anything to upset that. Then she walked into my line of sight. Any consideration I might have given the party disappeared in a single puff of love, lust, or whatever else you want to name it. “I’m not sure if I’ll want to go or not,” I said to Eric. My eyes followed her for a moment as she walked. “Well, it’s at Angel’s place. Do you remember where it is?” “Yeah,” I said, “I can find it.” “Alright. Cool. See you later, maybe.” “Yeah, maybe.” Eric nodded and walked away. I didn’t bother looking to see which way he went. Cleanup started up around me. A few people went around to pick up trash while others folded up tables and signs. Most of the patrons walked off or gathered in small groups to talk, which left the clean up to the volunteers and the few who decided to help. I stood up, grabbed my backpack, and took my plate over to a trash can to dump it in. My plate hovered over the garbage can for a moment as I looked first at the girl who’d so grabbed my interest, and then around

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at the varied people still in the area. I don’t know how I did it, or where the bravery came from, but all at once I made up my mind. Into the trash went my plate, and I walked right up to her as she lugged a plastic bin full of vegetables into the open side doors of the waiting van. I tried to speak once and failed—nerves had taken control of my voice. But her back was to me and she didn’t notice. I tried again. “Need help?” I asked. She turned around. I’d hoped she’d be smiling. In some lightningfast portion of my mind responsible for generating fantasies, I saw her turning with a huge smile, and gushing thanks to the guy so nice enough to volunteer to help out. No smile graced her face. Where a smile should have been was a slightly amused expression, like I’d said something funny. My knight-in-shining-armor images disappeared down the proverbial drain. Instead, she nodded towards a stack of bins like the one she’d put in the van. “You can bring those over.” I set my belongings down where I could still see them and went to work. First the bins, then moving and rinsing out pots and collecting garbage. People might appreciate free food, but all the good will in the world won’t make them clean up after themselves. Twenty minutes later, we’d finished with the cleaning and the packing and the stowing. A few of the volunteers had gone their own way, leaving myself, the girl and a heavy-bearded guy named John whose job it was to drive the van. John put out a bin full of canned and non-perishable foods with a call of “Freebies!” Some folks who’d been milling around came up and each grabbed a few things. I helped myself to a can of chili and put it into my pack for later. I walked back over to the van, where the girl sat on the back bumper. I tried to think of something to say. She beat me to it. “So what’s your name?” “Kyle.” “Jackie. Thanks for helping.”

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“You bet.” Her eyes flickered down to my backpack—I’d set it on the ground, and it leaned against my leg. “Where’re you going?” she asked. “Going?” “You’re not a local. Most of them either have a place to stash their shit, or else haul it around in a shopping cart or something. You’re packing light, so I assumed you’re going somewhere.” I flinched a little at hearing her swear. “Oh,” I said. That’s me: Mister Articulate. I was trying not to be nervous. “Well,” I said, “I’m traveling around, but not going anywhere in particular. Just where ever I end up.” “What do you do? Or did you do?” “Until recently?” I asked. “Yeah.” “Was a college student. Worked in a restaurant to get by.” “You dropped out?” “Sorta,” I said. I still hadn’t made up my mind about that. “What was your major?” “I didn’t have one,” I replied. “I marked something down, but only because they made me. Business, I think.” “Ahh.” Jackie put her hands in her coat pockets as a breeze sprang up. “I dropped out, too. Art major.” “What kind of art?” I asked. “Painting, mostly. Some drawing.” “So are you from here?” I asked. She shook her head. “No. I moved around for a while after I quit school, hitchhiking with friends and whatnot. Ended up here. I’ve been here for a few months now.” A kindred spirit! I hesitated—I wanted to ask a question, but didn’t want to pry. Little Bear’s warning sounded in my head, but I felt my question was far enough away to be harmless. “If you don’t mind my asking, why did you leave school?” I felt compelled to explain my reasons for asking. “I’m still

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not sure why I did. Or why I’m going to. Or if it was dumb of me.” Jackie sighed. Was she remembering her college days? “It seemed like such bullshit,” she said. “When I first started at a community college, I was excited. Excited to be studying what I loved, excited to talk with teachers and professors about art. Some of them had their own work in different exhibits. I felt that I could one day, too. But then the grind set in. Registering for classes, taking things that had nothing to do with my major. Things like that. Then, when I was getting close to completing my transfer degree, I started to look into actual art colleges.” She pulled her coat tighter around her. “That’s what did it. I found out how the name on your degree made all the difference. The big schools charged around twenty five thousand dollars a year, and—” I broke in. “Twenty five thousand?” She laughed. “Yeah. Two, five, then three zeros.” “That’s insane.” One year at a school like that was more money than most people spent for four years at a normal university. “That’s what I thought, too. Insane. Not only that, but you have to submit a portfolio as well, so they can review and decide if they actually want to accept you.” I listened as she scraped her foot back and forth on the pavement. “They were all like that. The big schools, I mean. It killed whatever love I had for art school. I decided I didn’t need a piece of paper to show that I know how to paint, and so I dropped out.” “Do you still paint?” I asked. “Yeah, I still worked while I hitched. Where ever I could. Murals on the walls of businesses, store windows, stuff like that. And since I’ve been here in San Francisco, I’ve done some normal paint work, too. It hasn’t gone that well—I’m living in a house with eight other people, so I don’t have that much space or time without interruptions.” “That must get crowded.” “Yeah. Most of us don’t have steady jobs, so it’s the only way we can afford rent.” I was about to ask something else when John, the other volunteer, came over. “Hey Jackie, I gotta run.” He looked over at me, then back at

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her. “You want a ride home?” Jackie stood up from her leaning position on the van’s bumper. “Nah, thanks, I’ll walk.” “Alright,” he said. Then he gave me a brief nod and said, “Thanks for helping us clean up.” I hoisted up my backpack as the van pulled away. I made an effort at adjusting straps and buckles that didn’t need adjusting to stall for time and give her a chance to say something else. I should have just asked her out. But I’ve never claimed to be good at that sort of thing. I’d begun to despair that she’d say anything at all, and so when she asked, “What are you doing tonight?” my heart leapt into my throat and I froze for a second. When you want something so much, it’s hard to believe when it actually comes true. “Nothing, really,” I said. I tried to keep my voice level and normal. “You?” “I have to work pretty soon.” “Painting?” “I wish. I’m a cashier at Savemart part time.” I felt a parting coming up, and so I plunged ahead, nerves and all. “Mind if I walk with you a little ways?” She shrugged. “Nah.” Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for, but it was better than, “Yeah, get lost.” We walked side by side through the streets. There were periods of silence amidst our conversation, but they felt natural enough. “How long are you staying in San Francisco?” she asked partway through our walk. It was a good question—I myself didn’t know the answer. “I have no idea,” I admitted. “I’ve met a few people here, so I’ll probably stay for a little while, at least. See what I can of the city and enjoy the company of friends. I haven’t been on the road for long.” I did some quick figuring. “Today makes two weeks, actually. I have no where to be, though, so I’m in no hurry. It’s kinda nice.” “I bet it is,” she said. I heard a tinge of what might have been longing in her voice. “Sometimes, I’d like to leave. Walk right on out of town with

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my thumb out, like I used to do. Othertimes, I can see myself growing old here. Maybe build up an art career or something.” She kicked a rock off the sidewalk. “I like this city. Most of the time, at least. The tourist shit gets old, though.” That made me laugh. “Yeah, I got my fill of it yesterday when I wandered around the wharf.” “I suppose I shouldn’t bitch, though. They’re what keeps a lot of the city running.” We walked in silence for another couple blocks. I had the constant urge to look over at her. I’d sneak a peak every now and then, thinking I’d be content, but a few seconds later, the urge would be back. I was drawn to her. After a while, she pointed up at an approaching street sign. “This is where I turn off. I’d better get going, I can’t be late for work.” As much as I didn’t want to, I took the hint and came to a stop. My mind had begun to spin up another fantasy, but I pulled the plug on it. “Do you volunteer for Food Not Bombs often?” “At least a few times a week.” “I’ll look for you, then,” I said. “I’ve enjoyed talking to you.” “Yeah, me too. Bye.” With that, she turned and walked away. I admit I hoped for something a little more than that. Don’t I always? I don’t know what I was expecting. An outpouring of joy at meeting me, I guess. I told myself I was lucky to even have met and walked with her. That thought allowed me to feel better about the day. After all, there were many days yet to come. * * * * * Once again, I was by myself, and I didn’t like it. My mood was good and full of the high spirits that good company brings. I wanted to be around people. It was this desire that led me to Angel’s place, to the party that Eric

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said would be happening that night. I made my way through town, relying on my memory to get me where I wanted to go. The key was to not think too hard; if I did, I’d override my initial instincts, and that lead to me getting lost. Brief flashes of recognition occurred whenever particular buildings or street names came into view, and I let these guide me. There was a moment of slight pause on my part before I entered Angel’s building. I remembered how he made me feel the day I met him— did I want to be around people that bad? The answer must have been “yes,” because whatever caused the hesitation cleared. I opened the door and passed through. On the third flight of stairs, there was no doubt that I had the right building. I could hear the thump of heavy bass music from the end of the hall. The door stood open, and that was good. The rest of the music poured out of the door, along with yelled conversations, bits of laughter, and a steady haze of smoke. I was able to gain entrance to the party without going through the mess of trying to explain who I was to whomever might open the door. The smoke smelled like normal cigarette smoke. At least, as far as I could tell. That was a good sign. The plain apartment I remembered from my previous visit had turned into a darkened abode full of people, smoke, music and empty beverage containers. Someone had thrown a thin, bare mattress into the far right corner of the room, and on it sat two guys and a girl as they smoked and talked with each other. Four people occupied the couch. Others stood around the apartment in small clumps. Most looked my age or a little older, though a few looked even younger than me, which marked them as high school students. People glanced at me as I walked through the room, but paid me no more mind than that. I looked for Eric, feeling nervous because I didn’t know anyone, and I figured it would be just my luck that I decided to show up and he wasn’t there. I made my way through the living room and into the kitchen, where I found Eric with a beer in one hand and a ciga-

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rette in the other. He was in mid-sentence, gesturing with the cigarettebearing hand, when he saw me and cut off what he was saying. “Kyle! Hell yeah, I’m glad you made it, man.” He came over and popped me lightly on the arm with his cigarette hand. That he looked honestly glad to see made me feel all the better about seeking out his company. Even if it meant going to Angel’s. “Hey, we need to get you a beer.” We had to raise our voices to be heard over the noise and music. He thrust his beer bottle towards me and I grabbed it out of reflex. I protested that I didn’t want a beer. He dashed off without hearing or caring, and that left me standing there with his conversation partner. Both of us wore confused looks. Eric came back with two bottles that dripped condensation on the floor as he walked. He set one on the counter, twisted off the top, and handed it to me in exchange for the bottle of his that I’d been holding. “Thanks,” I said, even though I hadn’t wanted it and hadn’t asked. “I don’t have any money to pitch in, though.” “No prob,” he replied. “I’ll cover it.” He downed the remainder of his drink, set the empty bottle on the counter in line with others already there and twisted the top off the second one he’d brought along. I’ve never been one to go to a lot of parties. Invitations to all the great high school bashes never seemed to make it my way. Hell, I wouldn’t even know about them until the next week, when the rumors started to fly about what so-and-so did or how the cops went out ten miles into the woods to the party spot to bust it up. So I never went to parties, and that in turn lead to me not knowing what one does at a party. Even more so when you only know one person. I stood and looked around, watching people and listening to the music while Eric talked to someone. Never had to worry about getting another beer, though; I nursed that first one for two hours and no one seemed to notice. I don’t even like beer. All it took was a pretend sipping motion every now and then, and people paid no more attention to me or it. Angel came into the room after I’d been there twenty or thirty min-

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utes. He wore a black button-up shirt and a well-pressed pair of olive green slacks, far different from the clothing I’d seen him in before. Was he dressed to play his part? Behind him came a white girl no older than me. She might have been cute, once upon a time, but didn’t look so hot. There were heavy black circles under her eyes. Red acne marks stood out from pale skin. She looked either sick or strung out, and judging by her boyfriend’s occupation it wasn’t too difficult to figure out which one it was. We make our own decisions in life, but I still felt sorry for the girl. Our decisions oftentimes have a way of sticking around and keeping us right where we are even if we change our minds. Angel stopped to speak with people as he moved through the apartment. He’d nod his head or give and return street-grip handshakes in greeting, but never smile or laugh. His girlfriend slipped into the kitchen while he continued on into the living room. She glanced at us and shot me a small smile before she dropped her eyes and walked past us towards the refrigerator. I wanted to say hi to her, but held back. It struck me as unwise to have anything to do with a drug dealer’s girlfriend. I didn’t have a chance to move before Angel came into the kitchen. His girlfriend slipped out behind him, unnoticed. While I gave Angel a brief nod and said hi, I couldn’t bring myself to say anything else. Didn’t know what to say. Did I hate him? Or his profession? Or both? I abided by the age-old advice of keeping one’s mouth shut. Angel pulled Eric aside to the far end of the kitchen. I couldn’t make out anything they were saying—there was too much distance between us, and the volume of the music too loud. They leaned in close, talking into each other’s ears. As the conversation went on, Eric looked less and less happy. Then he looked a bit worried and spoke into Angel’s ear quickly and with many gestures. All this did nothing to calm my sense of alarm. Something was wrong, and Eric was involved in it. Angel’s face never lost its calm, emotionless exterior. It would have been unwise to stare, so I directed my attention elsewhere. Eric brushed past me as he left the kitchen and went out the front door. I looked around for Angel, and found him talking close with a girl

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wearing barely anything at all. She touched him on the arm every so often and shot him looks. And Angel was smiling. The girl was attractive, there’s no doubt about that. Was the girl I’d seen earlier actually his girlfriend at all, or just a temporary amusement? Disgusted, I walked outside in search of Eric. I found him on the ground floor, seated on the outside steps of the building and smoking a cigarette. “Hey man,” I said, and sat down next to him. “Hey.” He stared out across the street while a column of smoke drifted up from his cigarette. “What was all that about?” “Ah, you saw that, huh?” Three people came out of the building and passed us on the steps. Eric waited until they were gone before he continued. “He’s unhappy with me. Says I haven’t been doing enough.” Eric paused to take a deep drag. “Says I owe him five hundred dollars for what he gave me, and I owe it by the end of the week.” “What happened?” “Nothing big. Some transfers fell through. I still have it and everything. Makes me fucking nervous as hell, though. People are just flakes, man, they don’t go through with what they say they’re going to do, and then I get shit for it. It’s not my goddamn fault.” I didn’t know what to say. A minute passed. “Think you can do it?” I asked. Eric chuckled. “I have to.” It was a stupid question for me to ask, but I was trying to help out in some way. He took one last drag on his cigarette stub, then mashed it out on the steps and threw it into the gutter. “I dunno, man,” he sighed. “I think you were right. This hasn’t turned out like I wanted it to. Been thinking about finishing this batch and then calling it quits.” “Man, I really hope you do,” I said. “The whole thing makes me nervous.” “Shit, me too. Before I was just thinking about the money I could make, and not having to punch a clock for someone. It’s different once

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you’re doing it. I can’t even sleep.” He looked over at me. “What time is it?” I checked my watch. “Eight thirty.” He stood up. “Fuck. I should get back inside. I want to go, but it’d look funny if I left right now. You coming back up, or taking off ?” There was an unplanned pause before I answered. I didn’t want to be there, and had all intentions of saying I should go, that I had something to do. But the truth was, I had nothing to do. Nowhere to go, nowhere I had to be, no one to see. Jackie had made her exit for the day, as well. Also, I saw something in Eric’s face. Something like worry, or stress, or hope that I actually would come back up with him. A friend to provide comfort and ease the situation? Even if I’d had something to do, I think that look on his face might have convinced me otherwise. Looking back, I wonder what would have happened had I given in to my first impulse and not gone back up. My presence didn’t make one bit of difference in the outcome of events that night. It only changed the way things would shake down in the following days. Good things came out of it. Bad things came out of it, too. I’m hard pressed to say which would have been the better path, me going in or me not going in, and I think that’s what the reality of life is: there are no pure good events, nor pure bad events. There are only events, and we take from them what we can. Just when we think “oh, I wish that hadn’t happened,” we realize that something good happened afterwards and wouldn’t have, had the bad not occurred first. “I’ll come back up for a bit,” I said. “Might as well.”

Chapter 6

Someone produced a deck of cards in the time that we were outside. A small group of people sat in a loose circle on the floor in front of the couch. One of the guys looked up at us as he shuffled the deck. “Hey Eric, we need another man. You game?” Eric stopped. “Can’t, I have people I need to talk to.” The guy looked at me next. “How about you?” “I suck at cards,” I said. He grinned. “All the better. C’mon, have a seat.” Eric had already run off somewhere else and was no where to be seen. I put my pack in the corner and sat down in the space the group made for me. The dealer introduced himself and the others to me, but I forgot their names the moment he finished saying them. He explained how to play the game we were to play, called “Asshole” by some, and “President” by others. The game is based on a pecking order established by the first hand, and mostly revolves around making those lower than you in the other doing things. And by “things,” I mean taking drinks. It makes for getting very drunk very fast. I found this out almost immediately when I was forced to take a drink and had no drink. Someone

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handed me a beer and I was off, taking drinks when told to and making other people drink whenever I could. I lost my disdain for drinking in general and beer in specific once I attained a mild buzz. At that rate, it wasn’t long before I was completely drunk. Then the beer ran out, and we started taking shots. After a time, we didn’t even bother pouring into glasses anymore, and took hits right off the bottles. The road to falling-down drunk-off-your-ass-ness is greased with rum and vodka shots. It’s been said that alcohol is the great equalizer, allowing for people of any and all differences to get along, and for a time, to feel like best friends. I’m not sure who said that, but they also conveniently forgot to mention that alcohol causes as many problems as it fixes. We were lucky that night—the role of the rowdy drunk was one that went unfulfilled. I felt a great amount of companionship towards my fellow card players and enjoyed the feel-good mood of my saturated state. I had to pee like mad after a few games. “Breaking the seal,” as it’s called in some circles—you go once, your bladder seems to shrink and you’re forever running back to the bathroom for the rest of the night. The urge struck for the umpteenth time a few hours after we’d first started. I had a hell of a time getting up, on account of the room spinning and all. I was almost fully erect when I bumped something during my flailing for balance. I realized I’d hit another person, because the thing I ran into had arms and had grabbed on to me in order to not fall down. Once I was set to rights, I realized the person I’d almost knocked over—and now had my arms around—was Angel’s girlfriend. “Oh shit, I’m so sorry,” I said. I let go as fast as I could. She’d had a mixed drink, and when I bumped her I knocked it out of her hand to spill on the floor. She didn’t say anything in reply. We knelt and scooped up the ice. She ran for some paper towels from the kitchen, and we soaked up the sticky rum and coke mess as best we could. “I’m sorry,” I said again, when most of the mess was cleaned up. “It’s my fault,” she said, still blotting the carpet with paper towels. “No, not at all, I’m clumsy when I’m drunk. I ran right into you.” Her eyes flickered up to meet mine and she gave me another brief

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smile. Then she sniffled. Her nose was red and irritated. She was cute, if you looked underneath the signs and damage of drug use. I tried to imagine what she would be like if she got away from all of that. “Have you seen Eric?” I asked. “He and Angel have been talking.” I sighed. “That’s what I figured.” We stood up. “Thanks for helping me clean up,” she said. I was about to say something in reply, but Angel called from across the room and beat me to it. “Katie. C’mere.” I saw the look on her face as whatever happiness and personality remained drained away. Left behind was only an empty and emotionless mask. “I have to go now,” she said, and I watched as she walked over to where Angel stood in the hallway. He kissed her when she approached him. His hand slid down to grab her ass. I stood there, holding a wad of paper towels soaked with rum and coke, as they disappeared into a bedroom and shut the door behind them. My heart hurt for her. She may squirm and moan and put on the full show for him, but Angel didn’t see the dead look on her face when he called her over. Did he know that she was putting on an act in order to have a place to stay and to feed the addiction she couldn’t shake? Did he even care? In the eyes of some, things like that might not matter when the sex is free. My card group skipped me because I’d been gone so long. I got into the next game and played with earnest. I don’t know whether I did horrible in the subsequent games or if I drank heavily just to get drunk, but I do know I wanted to stop thinking about Katie in that bedroom. Later on, Eric came out from where ever he’d been and joined another group of people, who sat over on the mattress in the corner, separate from us card players. When I glanced over I saw flickering lighters, flashes

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of needles, white powder and small plastic bags amongst the alcohol. Eric’s voice (everything will be cool) came back to me, but I couldn’t be mad at him, shouldn’t have been surprised, considering the company I was in. I was mad not because the group was there, but because he sat with them, could tell me that he had thoughts about quitting, yet ponied up to the table like everyone else. I drank more and more. I felt like I was going to throw up and knew I wouldn’t be able to make it to the bathroom in time. The music still played, though someone had by then turned it down. Talking and laughter and the crinkling of plastic bags somehow filtered through my awareness. Could I hear it from across the room? Or was I making it up? I crawled to an empty corner of the room near my backpack and lay there as the world spun. Darkness spiraled up to meet me and I heard no more.

Chapter 7

The first thing I became aware of when I woke the next morning was a pounding sense of pressure in my head. After that was a horrible taste and a dry feeling in my mouth. Riding the coat tails of those sensations was a general feeling of queasiness. A world-class hangover. Before I even opened my eyes I knew it was going to be one hell of a day. I checked my watch. The movement of my arms and back clued me in to how stiff and sore I was from sleeping on the floor without any form of cushioning. It wasn’t quite six-thirty in the morning. I rubbed my face to wake up. My back protested the rise into a sitting position. The smell was the next thing I noticed—a mixture of stale smoke, sweat, and vomit. Alarmed, I looked down at myself, but my clothes were clean. So was the floor where I sat. That was good. I hadn’t thrown up on myself, which meant that someone else probably had. The smell didn’t help the sick feeling in my stomach at all. The one window in the kitchen was still dark. One small lamp by the door provided the only light in the room. Trash lay everywhere. Cigarette butts and empty cartons, lighters, beer bottles, bottle caps, aluminum cans, empty liquor bottles (both glass

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and plastic), red plastic drinking cups; all were strewn about at random. Compared to the noise of the night with the radio and loud conversations, the silence was almost strange. A couple lay entwined together on the couch. There was another guy on the floor at the base of the couch with one of the cushions stuffed under his head. There was another person on the mattress. By the clothes, I figured it to be Eric. The apartment door was closed. How strange it must have been to be the last to leave—a brief glimpse of people sleeping or passed out around the room through a narrowing crack in the door before it’s pulled shut. I stood up and looked around. Now what do I do? I thought. Did I make myself at home and wait for people to wake up? Did I wake Eric up so we could leave? Or should I leave on my own, closing the door behind me much as the last person did? I had to pee, so that provided me with something to do to kill a few minutes. I shuffled down the hallway past the guy on the mattress—the light was poor, but I could tell it was Eric, and I was glad he didn’t leave—and into the bathroom. It was as much of a mess as the living room. Someone’s aim had been slightly off when they pissed into the toilet. There were cigarette ashes and butts in the soap dish. In the sink was a huge clump of bloodcaked snot. Rust, grime, and what looked like algae grew from the faucet mounting and spread down into the sink. I almost turned right back around, but the pressure in my bladder demanded to be released. I picked my way through to the toilet, careful to step where the floor looked clean and dry, and then stood while I took care of business. The release when you have to go always feels like heaven. Back into the living room I went, and now the guy on the floor sat up, looking half dead and blinking the sleep out of his eyes. He was one of the guys I’d played cards with. I couldn’t remember his name. Scott? Seth? Sean? “Hey,” I said. I kept my voice quiet. “Sorry if I woke you up.” “S’cool,” he mumbled. “Should go, anyways.” “I’m thinking the same thing.” Though I didn’t have a home to go to or a bed to tumble into, I still wanted out of there. Hell, I wanted to get some fresh air, too. The stench was cloying, smothering. Like it had a

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thickness of more than just air and so stuck to and coated me. I walked over to Eric’s dark corner and nudged his foot with my own. “Hey man, wake up.” He lay with his feet to my left, rolled partially on his ride side facing the wall away from me. Legs splayed out. His right arm his curled under his head. The other bent at the elbow and lay across his stomach. The smell was worse over here. I looked closer, and my eyes confirmed what my nose suggested. The smell of vomit was worse over here—and the reason for that lay in the chunky streams of dried vomit that coated Eric’s clothes and the mattress he lay on. Ahh Christ, I thought. This is going to be hell to clean up. I used the sleeve of one arm to cover my nose while I knelt down to shake him harder. “Eric, man, wake up.” He didn’t stir. Didn’t move at all. Made no sound. Then I remember thinking, Shit, I hope he’s okay. From behind me came Scott’s (or Seth’s, I still wasn’t sure) voice: “He okay?” “I don’t know.” I felt fear tickling its way into me. “What’s wrong with him?” he asked. “Is he—shit, man.” He now stood right behind and me saw the mess from over my shoulder. I crawled further forward and started to pat Eric on the visible side of his face while I called his name. I took hold of the arm across his chest and pulled it towards me so that I could check his pulse. Instead of bending and moving, his arm stayed stiff, elbow still at the same angle, and his body rotated towards me along with it. A blood-stained needle rolled out of a fold in his shirt. I felt for a pulse in his wrist, trying here, there, anywhere I could. I couldn’t find it. “I can’t find his pulse,” I said. “I don’t think he’s breathing, either.” “What? No way. Move.” He pushed me out of the way and knelt down in my place. I looked over at the couch. The once-sleeping guy and girl were awake and looking at us with blank expressions. They’d been a part of the drug circle the night before. Red marks stood out on the guy’s pale skinny forearms. A steady stream of “fuck fuck fuck” from beside me drew my attention back down to the still form of Eric. “Fuck man, he’s dead, oh fuck,”

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Scott-Seth-Sean said, over and over again, a steady but ever-changing litany against panic—a battle he was fast loosing. “What do you mean he’s dead?” I asked. “What do you mean what do I mean? Overdosed or some shit. He’s fucking dead!” This time it was yelled, not spoken. He backpeddled away from the mattress. The couple on the couch filed out the door without saying a word. Sounds of stirring and muffled voices from the other rooms came through the wall. “Nah, he’s just like, you know, passed out or something, right?” I said. I’m not sure how much I believed it even then. I knelt back down. “We can wake him up, he’s—” But then I could actually see the paleness of Eric’s skin. There was no rise and fall in his chest. Unconscious people still breathe. I tried to move his arm. It was still locked in place. Stiff. Unyielding. My stomach heaved in protest as my whole mind realized the truth. The deeper part of myself realized that here was a human being—someone I knew—who had moved on. “Call nine-one-one,” I said. “Call an ambulance, man!” The guy who’s name I didn’t know was putting on his shoes. “Won’t do any good, man, we need to get out of here right now.” “We can’t just leave him!” “The fuck we can’t. I’m sorry if he was your friend, but do you want to tell the cops what happened to him? Huh? I don’t think Angel will be happy about this, either.” He hauled the door open and disappeared. I stood frozen in the trashed-out apartment. What was I supposed to do? My recent friend lay dead, cold, and covered in his own vomit. There wasn’t a phone in sight. I spun around, looking for it, looking for anything that might clue me in as to what to do. Some cue that would knock my mind back on track. A door opened, and out came Angel’s girlfriend Katie in shorts and a loose, oversized t-shirt. “What’re you guys yelling about?” I gestured towards Eric’s body. “Eric.” I swallowed. “He’s dead.” “Oh my god.” She stared at where Eric lay. “You should go.” I ran into the kitchen. “I can’t leave him! Where’s the phone?”

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“There’s no time! If you’re still here and Angel sees—” “If Angel sees what?” Angel, in boxers and a white tank top, had strolled into the kitchen. He looked from her to me. “Hmm?” Katie ran towards him. “Oh my god, it’s that guy Eric, he’s dead, Kyle woke up and found him and—” Her voice cut off as Angel backhanded her. Katie screamed and fell to the floor, her hand trying to hold in the blood flowing from a split lip while she looked up at Angel with fearful eyes. “You said you wouldn’t hit me anymore,” she cried. Tears streamed down her face. “You said—” “Shut your fucking mouth,” he said. Her mouth closed with an audible click of her teeth. He never lost the calm emotionless look or tone of voice. “Say one more thing and I’ll kill you.” She shook and cried, but in silence. Angel paused a moment to make sure her silence would last, and then looked at me. “And you, don’t you dare call anyone.” I stood paralyzed. And afraid. I’m not too proud to admit it. There I was, with a dead person (friend, my mind said, not a person but a friend named Eric, and now he’s dead) and a drug dealer who threatened to kill a girl if she spoke again. My paralysis broke when I saw a phone out of the corner of my eye. I went for it, picked it up, and dialed 911. Bright pain flared in the side of my head and I went flying against the wall. I was still lying on the floor when Angel kicked me in the chest. He’d closed the distance between us and hit me before I could even register it or complete the call. “I said don’t call anyone,” he said. He replaced the phone on the hook and walked out of the kitchen. I stood up, knees shaky and head throbbing. I saw Angel roll Eric over much like a sleeping bag. He patted Eric down, then pulled Eric’s wallet out of Eric’s back pants pocket. Cards and papers tumbled out as

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he opened it. Then Angel threw it against the wall. I walked into the living room, holding on to the kitchen counter to support myself. “What are you doing, we need to call—” “He owes me five hundred dollars.” Angel looked right at me, and the look I saw in his eyes scared me. “And now he’s dead. In my house.” He walked towards me. “What am I supposed to do now? Maybe I should get my money from you. For not watching him.” Katie somehow managed the nerve to speak up again. “Angel, you know it’s not his fault.” Angel’s gaze never left my face. “I told you to shut up, Katie.” “So what do you think, gringo?” He advanced towards me as he talked—I backed away, but I didn’t manage to go far before I ran out of room. I flinched as he stepped up close to me. Then Katie was between us, trying to hold us apart. Angel threw her to the side. “Do you like him, is that it?” he asked. “I saw you talking to him last night, you fucking whore.” With his accent, it came out as “fuh-keen”, something that might have been amusing in another time and place. An image of Speedy Gonzales popped into my head. Ariba, ariba, hondalay, hondalay was his most famous line, and it sounded like smart advice. I glanced to my right, trying to see if there was enough room and enough of a chance to get by Angel, grab Katie and my pack and make a run for it. I didn’t know what he would do to her when I was gone, and I didn’t want to find out. I also didn’t see any way that my plan was possible. Katie was back again, pulling on Angel’s arm. “No, that’s not true, we just have enough trouble already.” This time Angel turned towards her and popped her full-fisted in the face. I ran forward and grabbed him so he’d stop hitting her. I’ve never been much of a fighter, and so when he turned on me, all I could do was drop and cover my head. Punches and kicks rained down on me. Katie screamed “Stop it!” over and over. The stream of blood from her nose hadn’t slowed, but she paid it no mind. At last the blows stopped. He’d gotten in a few good hits to my face and head before I covered myself. The rest had been to my torso. I felt like I’d been hit by a car or something. Pain flared all over my body—it even hurt to breathe. My entire face stung, my head rang, and my eyes teared

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up, blurring my vision. Katie was still crying on the floor. Angel looked down on me, scowling and breathing heavy. “Tell you what,” he said. “You have three days. I’ll find you, and you’d better have my money. I’ll have people watching you, so if you try to run or go to the police, I’ll know. Now get your shit and get the fuck out.” “What—” I tried to say, but a cough interrupted me. My hand came away red. A warm trickle of blood ran from my nose down over my upper lip. “—about her?” I asked. “Don’t worry about her. Get out.” I crawled a few feet away and then managed to get back on my feet. Angel retreated into the bedroom once I moved. Through the open door came rapid talking in Spanish. Instead of getting my pack, I shuffled over to Katie. She flinched when I touched her, but softened when she saw it was me. I helped her sit up against the couch. Tears had left wet tracks down her cheeks. She sniffled when she looked at me. The flow of blood from her nose had stopped, at least. “You should go,” she said. “He’s calling friends.” “Do you want to come with me?” I asked. “You should get out of here.” She made a noise in her throat. Shook her head. Wiped her arm across her nose. “I can’t.” There I sat, knelt down beside her, and I couldn’t do a thing for her. And yet I didn’t want to leave her there, either. I stood. I needed to get out of there. What else was there to do? “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s not your fault.” I grabbed my backpack from out of the corner and stood holding it as I looked at Eric’s body on the mattress. I couldn’t see his face from where I stood. His body, still as it was, had rolled back towards the wall. But maybe it was better that way. I hated to leave him there and allow who knew what to be done with him, but what else could I do? I couldn’t

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help him. Couldn’t help Katie, either. There was only myself to look after. And I hated it. But it was this thought that propelled me towards the door as I said my silent goodbyes to Eric. Before I stepped out the door, I stopped to look at Katie once more. “If you change your mind or need help, I’m usually at the Food Not Bombs in Union Square every night at six.” All she did was nod. I knew even then that I can’t help everyone, nor someone who can’t or won’t help themselves. But I had to try. My conscience demanded no less. Had I not, the knowledge that I didn’t do everything I could would stick with me forever. I think I’ll always have to try. It’s just the way I am.

Chapter 8

I stopped on the second landing to fish some brown paper towels out of my bag. It’d become habit to grab a few whenever I was in a public restroom. I held a bunch of them up to my nose to stop the bleeding. It wasn’t nearly as bad as Katie’s and stopped after a moment. There was also a warm sensation above my left eyebrow: more blood, flowing out of another cut. I clomped down the stairs, lugging my backpack in one hand and paper towels to stop the bleeding in the other. I didn’t dare pause long enough on the stairs to put my backpack on. People on the streets ignored me as I walked with paper towels held against my forehead. I didn’t make it that far down the street before I was overcome by my thoughts and sadness. I sat down. And I cried. Not an all-out bawl-fest. Just tears that ran freely from each eye. I cried for a new friend who’d died when he was going to get out of the situation he was in. I cried for a girl who stayed with a man who beat her, held to him by some combination of love, fear, addiction, and lack of both options and self esteem. That day marked the third time in a short while that death crossed my path: the first had been my father; the second was the further knowl-

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edge of my mother that brought up feelings I’d long since thought buried; and then there was waking up to discover that Eric—someone who I’d talked to just hours before—had died in the night. There is a part of our being that recognizes death not on the pure physical level but at a layer much deeper than we can be aware of consciously. I think that awareness was what I was feeling as I sat on the curb and wept while strangers walked a wide path around me. It made me feel small, temporary, insignificant. What can we do against such an unavoidable thing? It put into perspective how much people deceive themselves about what is and is not important. How we lie to ourselves constantly. How we avoid unpleasant things. Death is not to be talked about. Grief is something to “get over.” What people won’t admit is that grief is something you never get over. It requires time, it requires slow healing, and you never get rid of it, but those things help you deal with it better, help you cope, help you live with it. Or help you ignore it. I say “live with it,” because it never goes away. We carry it with us always.

Chapter 9

I went into the first bathroom I could find. A few glances around and careful listening told me that the three stalls were empty. I was alone, and that was good. No questions that way. I tossed the bloody paper towels into the garbage can and surveyed the damage to my face in the mirror. My nose hurt, but the bleeding had stopped and I didn’t think it was broken. I touched it to make sure, then wished I hadn’t. A trumpet of pain sounded off in my nose at the slightest touch. Blood oozed from a gash above my left eyebrow. It wasn’t too big— only about an inch long—but it appeared to be deep. The area around my left brow was swollen. There was no sign of a black eye. Perhaps I’d be fortunate enough to avoid one. I set my pack on the floor and washed my face with water from the sink. There was no hot water; I turned the knob full-on and waited, but the water never changed temperature. A man came into the bathroom while I was still scrubbing the blood from my face. I spun around to look when the door opened, expecting Angel to walk in and finish what he started. Instead, it was an older white guy. He stopped when he saw me. My cut was still bleeding. Blood and water mixed to form a runny

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red stain that leaked down my face and stung when it got in my eye. I turned back to the mirror without a word. I didn’t expect him to say anything. Most people mind their own business when they see someone in my condition. The people out on the sidewalk were a perfect example. To my surprise, he did say something. “You okay?” he asked. I hadn’t paid much attention to him when he first walked in. I knew that he was white, and not ethnic like Angel or one of his friends, and that was good enough for me. He was visible in the doorway reflected at the edge of my mirror, and that allowed me to keep my eye on him while I cleaned my myself up. Older than me by at least twenty years, he had a weathered sort of look to his face and a stern feeling to his whole being, like bottled up tension relaxed almost to the point of release. His silver-gray hair was cropped close what looked like a military cut gone unkempt. His movements were quick and sharp. Older? Yes. Frail and out of shape? I didn’t think so. How was I supposed to respond? I still felt a range of emotions over my ordeal. “Look,” I said, “not to be rude, but I don’t think that’s any of your business.” He shrugged. “Fair enough. You’re going to need stitches for that cut, I think.” “Then I guess I’m out of luck.” I scrubbed at my face with a paper towel and winced when I hit certain spots too hard. “I’m broke.” I saw the eyes of his reflection move downwards towards my pack. “Hitching?” he asked. “Yeah.” Blood poured from the cut with no sign of stopping. It wasn’t a huge gush or anything, nothing that struck me as life threatening, but I still didn’t know what I was going to do about it. It stung like hell, too. “I know someone that can probably help,” he said. “Oh? Why the urge to help?” I asked. “Seems a bit odd, after a good twenty people passed me out on the sidewalk without saying a word.”

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“Lets just say I’ve been in that situation before.” He pulled back his right coat sleeve. “See?” I turned to look. Along his right forearm ran a huge purple scar about six inches long. The skin was rough and uneven. “Did that fifteen years ago and had to sew it up myself,” he said. “I didn’t do a very good job. You don’t want something like this on your face.” “What happened?” “Gashed it hopping a fence.” I thought about what it might be like to sew up your own arm with your bad hand. My opinion of the guy raised slightly. “It won’t cost me anything?” I asked. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I don’t have any money.” “Not a thing.” What else was I going to do? I hadn’t been able to get a measure of the guy yet. He seemed too ordinary, and that put up my guard. But in the end, did I have a whole lot of choice? “Alright.” He nodded. “Meet me outside. I won’t be long. Keep pressure on it, and don’t take the towels off.” I grabbed some fresh paper towels and stood outside the door. It was light by then—sunrise had come and gone while my attention was elsewhere. Sirens rose in the distance. My call to 911 right before Angel hit me: had I completed it before he hung up the phone? Try though I might, I couldn’t remember. I doubted that Angel called them. Didn’t they have the capability to track where calls came from? If the call went through, then they knew where it was, and those sirens could mean bad news for me. I didn’t want to be in the area any longer than I had to be. Angel would not hesitate to give the police my name and description. In fact, he’d probably cite me as a dealer or something to get them off of him. Flight was still an option. There was still no sign of my helpful

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stranger, and the sirens sounded like they were getting closer. I stood there outside the bathroom door struggling with what to do as traffic went by. Stay and wait for the guy to help me get fixed up, or leave right then and make do as best I could? Indecisiveness froze me to the spot. A cop car rolled down the street. That broke my paralysis and I fled back into the bathroom. My helpful stranger was washing his hands at the sink. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “A cop just drove by.” “Yeah, I heard some sirens. They looking?” “They might be.” “And you want to avoid talking to the police right now?” “I’m not sure,” I said. “But I think it’d be better not to.” “What did you do?” “Nothing!” I pointed to my forehead. “But the guy that did this probably told them some lie about me.” “Well, if they saw you, running in here was the last thing you should’ve done. It’ll raise suspicion.” “I know.” It was obvious after the fact, but that didn’t do me any good. “Stay here,” he said. “Don’t come out until I come back to get you.” I nodded and stood where I was while he stepped outside. I felt naked and vulnerable standing under the fluorescent lights. After a moment I went into a stall and closed and bolted the door. I even sat up on the tank of the toilet with my pack in my lap so that my legs wouldn’t show. In the movies, that trick never works. Whenever someone hides in a bathroom, the bad guys don’t look for shoes and say, “Well, I guess he’s not here, lets go.” Nope. They kick open each door in turn and spray the stall with automatic gunfire. I knew I didn’t have to worry about that, but I didn’t think that the police would go without a thorough search. Maybe the trick would work, maybe it wouldn’t, but it at least made me feel better.

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Two minutes went by without a sound. I knew it was two minutes because I was so nervous that all I could do was stare at my watch as the seconds counted up. Then the door opened, and I held my breath. Someone walked into the middle of the bathroom and stopped. Then they walked some more, and I saw a pair of shoes in front of my stall door. They were sneakers, not the shiny black shoes of a patrolman. An amused voice called out, “You can come out now.” I climbed down and opened the door. “What happened?” I asked. “They came up, asked me if I’d seen anyone fitting your description. Told them no.” “That’s all?” Could I have gotten so lucky? “Yep. Whatever happened has you scared, doesn’t it?” I nodded. No one likes to admit that they’re scared, even though I’d been sitting on the damn toilet tank so that my feet wouldn’t poke out and give me away. It was almost a grown-up version of the anti monster-underthe-bed tactics I used when I was a kid. Children the world over know how it goes: don’t put a foot down on the floor next to your bed, and the monster can’t reach out and grab you. We left the bathroom and I followed him down the street and through one trash-filled alley after another. He seemed to know where he was going. Never once did he hesitate. It occurred to me later that I should have asked where we were going, but when I consider what I’d went through, I think I was doing well enough. That could be why I took to him so quickly and let him lead me along—at long last, someone else to the decisions and take the lead, something my distraught mind welcomed with great fervor. Instead of worrying about small, pesky details like staying alive and out of jail, my mind could dwell on images in my mind that I couldn’t seem to shake: Angel, winding up and punching Katie; Katie’s arc down to the floor, displayed by my mind in slow motion; the way Eric’s body shifted, (Are you)

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when I pulled on his arm. “Huh?” I’d been in a daze. Caught up in reliving the moments of the morning. “Are you still bleeding?” he asked again. “I think so.” He pulled some fresh paper towels out of his pocket and handed them back to me as we walked. “Here. Put them over the old ones.” I did as he instructed. Head wounds bleed an awful lot, I’ve learned first-hand, even if they’re not that serious. The world spun, much like it had the night before when I was too far down on the Presidential totem pole and commanded to drink, drink, drink. * * * * * “How did you get us in without waiting?” I asked as we walked back out into the morning. I had stitches in the gash on my head and a pocket full of painkiller samples in little foil packets. My helpful stranger had taken me to an infirmary and gotten someone to look at me without waiting in the queue of people in the lobby. “That nurse owed me a favor,” he called over his shoulder. “Besides, you were actively bleeding. That didn’t hurt, if you take my meaning.” The sun had won its daily battle against the fog. Despite the brightness in the sky and the lack of bleeding, there wasn’t much happiness in me. When I looked inside, I saw mostly sadness, despair, and a bit of anger, at both myself and others for the situations we got ourselves into. “Thank you for that,” I said. “I don’t know what I would have done otherwise.” Despite the way I felt, I still remembered my manners—I’ll likely carry those to the end of the my days. Should there be a hell and I end up there, I imagine I’ll thank the gondolier who ferries me across the river

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and drops me off, too. I followed him down a few streets and around corners here and there. It seemed like a random pattern, like we were going in circles. For a while, I was content to blame it on my battered condition, but when we walked past an empty San Francisco Chronicle vending machine with a broken window for the second time, I was sure we were going in circles. “Where are we going? We’ve been going in circles,” I said. “Did you know we’re being followed?” he asked. “Huh?” I turned to look behind us. “I—” “Don’t look. There are two Latino men a ways back, and they’ve been following us for a while now. Walk and act normal.” Latinos. Angel’s friends. I’ll have people watching you, he’d said. If you try to run or go to the police, I’ll know. He was actually serious. And capable. I said the only thing that came to mind: “Shit.” “Not friends of yours, then?” He sounded almost amused. “No.” “Any idea why they’re following us?” “My guess is that they’re watching me. To make sure I don’t skip town or go to the police.” We went a few steps in silence before he spoke again. “Sounds like you’re in some serious trouble, Kyle.” Something cut right through haze in my mind and went straight to the center of my brain. Had it not been for the two guys walking our trail, I’d have stopped right then and mentioned it. That’s strange, I thought. I don’t remember telling him my name.

Chapter 10

It was possible that we said our introductions during the times I was spacing out from shock, hunger, a minor concussion and one hell of a hangover. But if you ask me, I don’t think it happened that way. What he said next made me forget all about names and introductions. “If you tell me everything, I might be able to help you.” “How can you help me?” I asked as we walked along O’Farrell Street, dodging around anyone slower than us on the sidewalk. He shrugged. “I said ‘might’. Not sure.” “But how? And why?” “Maybe you remind me of myself when I was your age. Maybe I feel sorry for a kid who got himself into trouble without realizing it. Or maybe I don’t want to feel guilty. Take your pick. The ‘why’ isn’t important.” He glanced over at me as we walked. “Besides, I’m not even sure if I can.” I traced my steps back over the past few days to the beginning. Back when Eric and Ben found me sleeping in the truck. “It’s a bit complicated,” I said. “We have time. Not like you’re going anywhere else.” He stopped in front of a door. “Lets go in here for a while,” he said.

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Judging by the words “Soups — Good Food” painted on the windows and the interior beyond them, the place he indicated was some kind of small restaurant sandwiched between two bars. I panicked. “But I told you, I don’t have any money.” “Relax, it’s covered.” “Are you paying? Or is it another favor?” “Bit of both.” I shook my head. “I can’t accept that, you’ve done enough already.” “Don’t worry, it’s cheap. You need food, I want to sit down, and we need a place where we can sit and talk without our friends bothering us.” He had a point. A bell jingled over the door when we walked in. It was a small place, no more than a counter top with ten or so stools to provide seating. Four of them were occupied when we walked in, and all four men had the look of lower class people. It was only nine o’clock or so—too early for the lunch crowd. Soup isn’t exactly breakfast food, but when you’re hungry and broke, anything goes. We sat down at the far end of the counter where there were stools with a few empties between us and the next person. It’s an unwritten rule between men—stool at a bar, urinal in the bathroom, it doesn’t matter. You don’t take up position next to another guy if there’s another empty space farther down. Will, the proprietor and sole worker, looked at my associate and paused. “You,” he said. “You I know.” My companion smiled a bit. “Yes, but it’s been a while.” It was the first time I’d seen him smile. There was a slight turning up of the corners of his mouth. His whole face eased up and didn’t seem so serious. “Don’t tell me,” Will said. He crossed his arms and rubbed his chin as he stared at my associate. He proclaimed “Gerald” a moment later. “Close, but not quite right,” my companion said. “Gareth.” At least I finally knew my helper’s name. Will sighed. “I never forget a face, but my memory for names isn’t always so good. You, my friend, are always welcome back. What can I get

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you guys?” Most restaurants have large menus full of various options. Here, there were no menus; instead, a printed poster laid out the full scope of our options: six soups and a handful of simple sandwiches. I went with chicken noodle, Gareth with vegetable. Both of us had water to drink. Will came right back, bearing two steaming bowls that he placed on the counter in front of us. He made another trip to fetch cheese, onions, and crackers to go with our meal. I wasted no time in applying generous amounts of all of the above to my food and dug in. “How long have you been on the road?” Gareth asked me once we’d had a few bites. “About two weeks.” “And here in town?” “Few days.” “Alright. Tell me everything you can about what happened, and why these guys are following you. I don’t care about your reasons for being on the road. You can skip them, unless they have something to do with all of this.” “They don’t.” I took a mouthful of soup to give myself time to think. Gareth waited. I expected him to rush me, to give some sort of handwave gesture that would mean get on with it, already; but, after a moment passed, it seemed he was content to let me tell it at my own pace. “I was new in town,” I said, “and it all started when I couldn’t find a place to take me in for the night.” I told him everything. How I hitched a ride into town and went around to various shelters looking for a place to stay for the night— —“You’d have been lucky to find something,” Gareth said— —got rejected across the board, and then stumbled across the trucks and decided to make use of them for the night, only to discover that they’d already been staked out. I talked about meeting Eric and Ben, how Eric sorta helped me out in the beginning but was drawn into drugs and such, culminating in the party at Angel’s last night. I started to talk about how I woke up and found Eric had O.D.’d, but words failed me and I sat in silence. He got the idea.

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Gareth prompted me to go on after a minute or so had passed. “And then what?” “Then Angel said how Eric owed him money, for drugs he’d given him or whatever, and said that I’d have to make good on it. When his girlfriend tried to stand up for me, he hit her, and when I tried to stop him he started in on me.” I gestured at my face. “When he was finished, he said I had three days to come up with the money, and that he’d know if I went to the police or tried to leave town. I guess that’s why those two guys are following us. Well, following me, I guess.” Gareth sat staring at his soup. “Did you try to tell him that you had nothing to do with whatever business he and Eric had together?” “Yeah, of course. Even—” I paused as Will returned, unprompted, to swap my empty bowl for a full one. He left more crackers, too. I said my thanks and waited for him to walk away before I continued. “Like I said, even his girlfriend said so, but it didn’t seem to matter.” “I’d rather owe money than be dead,” I said, “but I’m still sorta screwed.” “He doesn’t strike me as someone rich or powerful enough to get away with killing someone,” Gareth mused. “Sure, he has money and enough clout to get some guys to follow you, but it’s not like he’s capable of bribing politicians.” He looked at me, a hint of amusement on his face. “You could have done worse. At least you didn’t piss off the mob or something.” I felt like throwing some crackers at him. “Gee, thanks.” “Seriously, though, why don’t you leave town?” he suggested. “Those guys aren’t going to follow if you do. There are plenty of opportunities for you to slip away. This Angel guy is just trying to intimidate you.” “I don’t want to leave. I like it here and wouldn’t mind staying a while. Getting run off doesn’t sit very well with me.” “There’s more to it than that,” he said. No hesitation on his part. He looked straight at me, eyes locked, and I felt a little uncomfortable under his gaze. “Yeah, I guess there is.” I sighed. “I’ve met a girl that I like. I don’t

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even know what might happen, but I’d like to find out.” “So on one hand, you have a pissed off drug dealer threatening you, and on the other you have a girl you like who’s keeping you in a city that you don’t exactly want to leave.” This time there was no smile on his face. “That’s a dangerous balancing act, Kyle.” He was right. What the hell was I doing there? Why wasn’t I already on the first highway out of town? Did I stay because of some girl I’d just met and didn’t even know that well? Chances were good that she already had a boyfriend or that she wouldn’t like me. I’d seen it a million times, and saw little reason why this time should be any different. Yet I stayed. Running, for whatever reason, felt wrong. “Well,” Gareth said, “if you want my advice, I’d say leave town. Now. No uncertain possibilities with a girl are worth the harm you’re risking. Unless this girl has already confessed her undying love for you or something, and I don’t think it’d even be worth staying then. If that was the case, I’d suggest running and taking her with you.” He saw me about to speak, and held up a hand for forestall me. “But, if you’re set on staying for a while, you should give some thought to playing things safe. Don’t go back to any place you usually go. Avoid the drop-in shelter you told me about earlier. They’ll know you always eat there. Find a new place to sleep, too.” That last one hit close to home. “You think so? Places to sleep aren’t exactly all over the place here.” I didn’t like the whiny sound to my voice. Here I was, certain that I wanted to say, yet whining about it being difficult. “I know, but I still think you should,” he said. “I may be able to help you with that.” “You know a place I can go? Or can get me into a shelter?” I asked. Gareth’s ability to do things struck me as odd. “Something like that. If you’re not picky about where you sleep.” I assured him I wasn’t. There was a bit of soup left in my bowl that I couldn’t finish, try as

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I might. I tried to convince my stomach to get it down, suggesting that later on it might wish it had, but no such luck. I was stuffed. I nodded when Gareth asked, “Finished?” I nodded. The half dozen or so packages of crackers in a nearby bowl went into my bag. “Seems you’ve learned at least a little about being on the road,” Gareth observed. “Yeah, two guys robbed me of all my cash when I first started out, so food’s been hard to come by sometimes.” We got our bill. I saw it before Gareth grabbed it, and the total wasn’t right. It was too small. I didn’t say anything about it while Gareth set out some money to pay for it. I spoke up about it outside. “That bill wasn’t right.” “No, it was. Will gives me a discount.” “Why?” “I’ve known him for a little while, and helped him out a time or two.” “Helped him out with what? Is there anyone you don’t know?” I asked. “Favors,” Gareth said, and would say no more about it. “And yes, there is, but I’m working on that.” He looked over at me. “Get to know people in your travels,” he told me. “Talk to them. Listen to their stories. You’ll learn a lot from them, and you never know when you’ll have to rely on the kindness of others.” My hand went up to touch the bandage on my forehead. Truer words have never been spoken, I thought. “I have some things I need to do,” Gareth told me. “Let’s decide on a place to meet later.” A moment’s thought was all it took. “How about the Food Not Bombs serving in Union Square?” “You shouldn’t go back there,” he said. “I know, but Jackie volunteers there, and I don’t want to disappear without saying anything.” “Ahhh, Jackie. Finally, the name of this mysterious girl has been re-

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vealed.” My heart sank. “Are you making fun of me?” Gareth shook his head. “No, Kyle. I don’t think you should go back there, but I’d never make fun of you. We all have to go with our feelings. What time?” “Six thirty.” “Okay. I’ll find you there. Keep your head down.”

Chapter 11

I approached Union Square that night with a bit of hesitation. There was no visible difference to the scene: folding tables and chairs lined up and sprinkled with people, one table full of flyers with a big banner taped to the front, the white van parked behind the cooking table. But up until then, I had no worries beyond my own emotions and thoughts; until then, nothing threatened me, apart my from my own mind and the occasional missed meal. I circled the plaza to look for anyone following or watching me, but it was too hard to tell. That guy over there, reading a newspaper? He could be watching me. Reporting my movements back to Angel. Or maybe the big guy that I just passed had instructions to take care of me should I attempt to leave the city or contact the police. I knew I attributed to Angel more power and influence than he likely had, yet I couldn’t help myself, either. I questioned my decision to stay in town, questioned everything about myself, everything I was doing. Leaving college. Taking to the road without a care in the world, when maybe I didn’t know how serious things could get, how different it can be when things go wrong. All such thoughts ceased when I saw Jackie. I felt uplifted. She saw me, waved, then noticed my bandage and rushed over.

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“What happened?” she asked. She moved to touch the bandage on my head, but drew her hand back before she made contact. “I got involved with the wrong crowd,” I said. “It’s been a hell of a night and day.” “Are you okay?” “I’ll be fine.” “Okay. I have to get back to work right now, but if you’re staying to eat I’ll find you in a bit, okay?” I smiled. “Sounds good.” I searched out a place to sit once I had a plate of food in hand, and nearly jumped out of my skin when Gareth sat down next to me. “Geezus!” I yelled. Bits of food flew off my fork when I flinched. “Expecting someone else?” he asked. He swung his other leg over the bench and set his plate on the table. “Yeah, you could say so. People that want to hurt me, for example.” “Didn’t mean to scare you.” “Do you always sneak up on people like that?” My heart rate relaxed a bit. Gareth scowled. “I wasn’t sneaking.” “You were just quiet, is all.” We ate mostly in silence after that. At one point, my eyes must have locked onto Jackie—I didn’t notice until Gareth whispered, “So, that’s her?” I broke my trance and looked over at him. He’d followed my line of sight and was still watching her. “Yeah.” “Cute girl. You still sure about your decision?” The truth was, I wasn’t. Sure, all doubts fled when I looked at her, but the “what ifs” came flooding in anytime I was by myself. Those are hard to reckon with when you don’t have a clue what you’re doing. I could be risking myself for a girl who didn’t even like me. What was I to do when it was clear that I had no idea what I was doing or why? Pretend that everything’s cool, of course. “Yeah, I’m sure,” I lied. “Mm-hmm,” Gareth noised. “You can still leave tonight.”

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I said nothing. “Did you talk to her yet?” he asked a bit later. “Not yet,” I said. “She’s been busy. I’ll probably have to wait until everything is cleaned up.” It turned out not to be so long. The tables still weren’t clear when Jackie came over and sat down at the table across from Gareth and I. “This is Gareth,” I said in way of introduction. “I wouldn’t be patched up like I am if it wasn’t for him.” “You a doctor or something?” Jackie asked. “No, nothing useful like that. Just a wanderer. I called in a favor to get someone to look at him, to make sure he was okay.” “Tell me what happened,” she said to me, and I found that I couldn’t refuse. I told her everything, starting from when she and I parted company. She didn’t remember Eric, but once I described him she knew vaguely who he was. “He’s dead?” she asked. I nodded. “Oh man, how sad. He came here a lot. Never talked to him, but he seemed nice enough in line.” “What about his companion? Ben?” Gareth asked me. “Have you talked with him?” “No,” I replied, looking for once at the table and not at Jackie. It was something I’d been thinking about for most of the day. What would I say to him? How would he react when he found out? “I haven’t. I don’t know what I’ll say to him if I see him.” The temperature dropped once the sun started to set. Jackie pulled her jacket—the same camouflage one as before—tighter around herself. “There’s not much you can say,” she said. “It wasn’t your fault.” “Wasn’t it?” I asked. It was a horribly pitiful thing to ask, but there was a small part of me that’d been echoing that thought all day, like a parrot that learned its first phrase and found that it liked the sound of its own voice. Wasn’t it?

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Gareth said, “That’s a road you don’t want to go down” at the same time Jackie said, “It wasn’t and you know it.” “Maybe you guys are right,” I said, not believing it. Jackie stood up. “I need to help clean up.” “We should get going as well,” Gareth said. He looked at me once, paused, and then ambled away, leaving me to stand with Jackie. “I probably shouldn’t come back here again,” I said. “I’m not sure if those guys are still following me or not.” “Okay.” Like earlier, it wasn’t quite the response I was looking for. “I’d still like to talk to you, though.” My heart thudded in my chest. Amazing that it beat the hardest not that morning, back in the apartment, but as I stood with a pretty girl. “Can we meet somewhere else?” “Where are you staying?” she asked. “I’m not sure yet. Gareth doesn’t think I should go back to my usual spot, so I guess that means I have to find another one somehow.” I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t say I hoped she’d invite me over to her place or something along those lines. Something to show that we were getting closer. But it didn’t come. “How about the fountains at the Civic Center?” she suggested. “It’s only a few blocks from here.” “Okay, I can find it. Tomorrow night at—when? Seven thirty?” “That works. I might be late. Depends on how long it takes to clean up here.” “I’ll wait for you,” I said. I knew Gareth was still standing a ways away, waiting for me, and so I tried to wrap things up. “I’ll see you then?” “Yeah.” I said goodbye and walked away to rejoin Gareth. “Get things sorted out?” he asked. “Well, I told her what’s going on, and we’ve made plans to meet somewhere else tomorrow night.” “Seems like a good sign to me.” I sighed. “I guess so.” “Something wrong?”

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“I can’t tell how she feels.” “Maybe you need more time.” There was something about his voice that didn’t sound right. A certain kind of holding back? Some kind of hesitation? I was about to mention it to him when he spoke. “Here’s a little something that might make you feel better—I found you a place to stay.” “Oh? Where is it? Is it a shelter?” The smell of urine and the sound of drunks fighting came back to me. I wasn’t so sure that I wanted to stay in a shelter, favor or not. “I’ll show you.” Gareth took the lead and we plunged back into the Tenderloin. I saw a lot of that area during my stay in the city. All to reason, I suppose, since had I any money like most vacationers, I’d have been in a better part of town instead. Each city has its good sections and bad sections. As I followed Gareth through the streets and down crowded sidewalks, I realized he was leading me to the bad section’s bad section. The evident visible wealth grew less and less, even by the Tenderloin’s standards. The community grew bleaker by the moment as we walked. I saw people sleeping on the streets, wrapped in dirty, torn blankets, or sitting together in groups smoking cigarettes, the same dejected and dead looks on every face. A not altogether attractive woman in a too-short skirt asked those passing by if they needed a date for the night. Her voice lacked energy and passion. Almost like she asked the questions by rote, an automatic response triggered whenever someone walked close enough, like my thumb going out whenever a car passed. I wondered about the people I saw: the druggies, dealers, prostitutes, and vagrants who called the streets home. Where would they be in five years? Ten? Would their lives be turned around, with steady nine to five jobs, mortgages, and the whole nine yards? Or would they be living the same life, getting by through whatever means necessary, nothing more important than the next fix, the next screw, the next victim? The unluckiest would be dead, buried in a pauper’s grave at a funeral attended only by fellow homeless folks while the city churned on and the dual ma-

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chines of tourism and capitalism cranked away. We came to a stop before an alley. Or, I should say, Gareth came to a stop, and I had to halt or else run into him. He gave a quick look around and then ducked into the alley, pulling me behind him. “What was that all about?” I asked. “Best to always be aware of who’s watching you when you go to ground,” he said. “Always keep your spot secret. The less people that know about it, the better. Not only so it’ll be free the next time, but so that you aren’t robbed or killed in your sleep.” Stories rose in my mind. “Like a vampire,” I said. “Close enough,” he said. We stepped around the rotting contents of an overturned garbage can. “Except they have a lot more tricks than we do,” he added. We walked down the alley in single file. We had to—the walls of buildings that formed the alleyway were three feet apart and didn’t leave much space. Between fifty and a hundred yards down was a “T” formed by a small recession in the building to our left. The alleyway continued straight on ahead. At the end of this rectangular enclosure was a huge pile of trash. Then I looked closer, and what I took to be a heap of trash piled against the wall turned out to be a heap of trash in front of a door that had been boarded over. Gareth picked his way towards the door over stacks and piles of broken glass, splintered wood, and other nasty things. The light in the enclave was extremely poor; I followed along behind him as best I could, careful to place my feet where Gareth had stepped. “Are we going in there?” I asked. “You’ll see.” We reached the door. I could now see the large beams that’d been slapped up against it and hammered willy-nilly without rhyme or any semblance of order. “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” I admitted. Gareth had bent down in order to place his hand into an opening made by a few of the crossed beams. His head was jammed up almost against the wood. “Trust me,” he said. “Ahh, here we go.”

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He pulled his hand out, stepped away, and gave a tug on one of boards. I was about to laugh at the futility of his effort when the whole door swung open. The boards I thought were nailed into the wall beside the door didn’t actually do anything—there were nail heads visible in them, all right, but there were no shafts sticking out the other side. The trash piled against the door moved along with the door. “It’s all just for show?” I asked, still amazed. “Indeed. Lets go. And try to hold back judgment.” He lead the way in. What I could see of the inside was a disaster. Once a headquarters for a well-funded dot-com startup, the company folded fast, moved out (or was evicted) and the building sat empty ever since. The inside now only hosted dust and debris. The roof (or the second floor, however you want to look at it) had caved in, sending bricks, wood and plaster chunks raining everywhere. A section of the ceiling slumped down to the floor from where one portion of it still anchored to the rest of the structure. Jagged bare wood poked out in all directions like ribs. The general shape of the slope reminded me of the skateboard ramps when I was young, the ones I never had enough courage or skill to try. One could climb right up to the second floor, no need for stairs, if one had a significant enough disregard for life and limb. A fine layer of white plaster dust coated everything. It ground against the concrete under my shoes with every step. I could still smell plaster and dirt in the air, too, an unpleasant mixture of earth and chemicals. If a flour factory were to explode, I’ll warrant that’s what the fallout would look like. I followed Gareth as he veered to the right and down a small hallway. Maybe I misread him, I thought. If he wanted to murder me, this would be the perfect setting for it. My brain continued the image. It’s like a horror movie set. Only there are no lights, cameras, or directors to yell “Cut!” before things go too far. Stapled on one of the hallway walls was a faded company memo. The “Advanced Communications” letterhead was still legible. Most of

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the document’s ink had long since faded, but as I passed by I was able to make out something about a then-upcoming convention. I followed Gareth into the room at the end of the hall. It took me a moment to recognize what I saw, for it was nothing like the building we’d walked through to get there. Gareth’s advice had been to withhold judgement. I understood why.

Chapter 12

The area was clean. No dirt or plaster dust or building debris. It was no Better Homes and Gardens or Martha Stewart material, but it was leaps and bounds better than the rest of the building. The room was twenty five feet on a side with only the one doorway. Said door leaned up against the wall to my right, either fallen off or removed from its hinges. An old black metal desk sat shoved into the left corner, a large square meeting table occupied the middle of the room, and there was also a large metal filing cabinet down the right-hand wall. Large pieces of wood were bolted onto the far wall where windows should have been. Interspersed among the office leavings were blankets and other personal items. I saw duffel bags, backpacks, and boxes with items poking out of them. Along the left wall sat a man and a woman on blankets and sleeping bags. A card game lay dealt out between them. They paused from considering their hands to look at me when we walked in. The man was bearded with tousled hair, and sat cross-legged with his cards held in his lap. Opposite him, the woman sat with her legs folded under her. Her bulky, oversized coat spread down to pool on the floor around her. A bun of hair poked out from underneath her hat.

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Most telling, though, was the smirk on her face. A battery-operated electric lantern on top of a water-stained Dell server box gave them enough light to play by. Gareth pointed to them. “Kyle, this is Alan and Leah. Guys, this is Kyle.” “Hi Kyle,” Alan said. He was already looking at his cards. Leah gave me a little smile and a wave before and turned her attention back to her own hand and her smirking. “You have to go sometime,” she said. “Admit it, I’m winning. Waiting won’t make your hand any better.” “Now now,” Alan said, “you don’t know that for sure.” He sounded sure, though. His brow creased when he looked at his cards. Leah snorted in response. Alan threw down a card and turned to look at Gareth and I. “He’s the one you told us about?” he asked. Gareth moved over to another sleeping bag in the far right corner sat down. “Yeah. Kyle, any empty space you find is yours to take.” I looked around. The left hand wall was taken. Gareth had claimed the right-hand corner. A rolled-up sleeping bag claimed the midpoint of the wall. Not wanting to be in the middle of the room, I opted for a space in the middle of the far wall in between the boarded-up windows. As I was putting my stuff down, Gareth asked, “Why are you guys using the lantern?” “Damn lights stopped working,” Alan said. “Lights?” I asked. “The emergency lights,” Gareth answered, and pointed into the corner of the room above the old desk. “They still work even if the building isn’t hooked up to the power company for normal electricity. Well, they worked after we wired them a bit differently.” “I thought about climbing up there to have a look,” Alan said, “but Leah convinced me to wait for Luis. She didn’t want me falling off the desk and killing myself.” “Where are the others?” Gareth asked. “I have no idea,” Leah said, and she put down another card. Alan groaned. Leah grinned at him, then looked at Gareth. “You know how they

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are,” she said. My curiosity got the better of me. “What’d he tell you about me?” “That he found a kid who needed a place to stay,” Alan said. He was scowling at his cards again. Gareth told me, “I didn’t want to bring you here without asking the others first. That’s why I had to go off by myself, and couldn’t give you an answer about a place to stay right away.” He rustled through his bag. “I didn’t give them any details. Those aren’t mine to give.” I felt bad for doubting him, and a rush of warmth at the kindness they’d all shown towards me. Gareth, for helping me earlier and trying to bring me here, the others for letting someone they didn’t even know into their midst. I looked around. “How did you guys find this place?” I asked. It was much better than sleeping in the back of a U-Haul, and I said as much. “You slept in the back of a U-haul truck?” Alan asked. “Yeah, why?” “I never thought of that.” “Neither did I, until I came across one a few days ago. Does anyone know you’re here?” “No, no one knows we’re here,” Gareth said. “It was actually Luis who found the place,” Leah said. “I’m not sure what he was doing here—” “—was probably up to no good,” Alan added. Leah shrugged as if to say, What can do you about it? and continued. “We all knew each other from being on the streets, and so when Luis told us about this place we thought we might be able to use it for a while.” “Until someone kicks us out,” Alan said. That didn’t make sense to me. “Kicks you out? Who would care? It’s an abandoned building.” “Oh, they care,” Leah said. “They don’t care about us,” Alan added, “but they care that we’re squatting in this building. The city officials run sweeps of places like this on occasion to flush out all the homeless people.” “Any day now,” Leah said. There was an exultant tone to her voice.

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She flicked her cards with one finger. Alan let out a sound of disgust and threw his cards down. “Fine,” he said. “You win.” Leah raised her hands in victory. Following that was a short upper-body celebratory dance while Alan scowled at her. “Told you,” she grinned. Gareth had a faint smile on his lips. “That’s why we’re careful about who sees us here. Like my caution in the alleyway and the garbage we piled up out front. We try to go unnoticed here. Places like this don’t last forever, but we want it to last as long as possible.” I looked up at the windows on either side of me. While standing across the room, they looked as if they were boarded up, but once I had a better view, I revised my description. “Sealed” would have been a better word for them. There were no cracks in the boards, not even around the edges. Alan must have noticed me looking at the windows—indeed, he might have been trying to look anywhere else besides Leah, who was still gloating. He said, “We sealed them off so that we can have light in here without it being visible from the alley.” “Ahh,” I said. I leaned back against the wall while everyone spoke. Sitting down made me aware of not only how tired I was but how much I hurt and ached. The cut on my head still stung. My chest and body throbbed in dull pain. Beyond that, I was plain exhausted. The natural reaction when tired and leaning back in a somewhat comfortable position is to close the eyes. I did that, while Alan and Leah dealt out another hand for a rematch and Gareth looked on in silence. Tied for first place among my thoughts was my gratitude towards these people, happiness to finally sleep inside, worry about Angel, and reflecting upon things with Jackie. But exhaustion drove them all away. I fell asleep without ever remembering it. I woke sometime in the night, rolled over, winced as I put weight on my ribs where Angel had kicked me, and waited to fall back asleep. Sounds of light breathing came from throughout the room. The emer-

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gency lights had power, though they weren’t on. A small green “ready” light shone from the plastic housing and cast off enough illumination to let me see the vague shapes of things in the room. Gareth’s blankets were empty. I sat up all the way to get a better look, but couldn’t see much of his side of the room because of the table. I slipped out from under my sleeping bag and put on my coat to ward off the chill in the room. My body stilled ached—even worse from laying down and being still for part of the night. Rooting through my pack for a few minutes netted me one of the foil pill packages that the nurse had given me. I ripped the package open and swallowed the pills dry. I laid back down and stared at the ceiling while I waited for sleep to come again. The small, green light cast shadows all over the room. They reminded me of my childhood days when I still had my nightlight. It was a cheap plastic deal that almost did more harm than good: its light cast tall shadows around my room. My terrified childhood mind turned those shadows into lurking monsters and demons and things I didn’t even have names for but knew were out to eat me the moment I let down my guard. I laughed about it later on—adults the world over spend the rest of their life laughing at their childhood selves. They laugh at the superstition and simplicity of life, laugh at the belief systems that allowed hairy, slobber-fanged monsters to fit in the four-inch gap under the bed. There were moments that night when I could see the dark shapes with my child-mind, as well. I’d catch something out of the corner of my eye, but when I’d look right at it, it’d disappear. What we’re never told is that we’ll spend the rest of our lives avoiding monsters. Only these monsters don’t go away when a parent walks in the room, and hiding under blankets doesn’t do any good. Blankets lose their magical properties once we transition into the adult world. A blanket could do nothing against the ghosts and monsters that haunted my life at the time: my father, my mother, my own self doubt, and a pissed-off drug dealer. A few minutes later, I stuffed my feet into my boots and went looking for Gareth. I stepped light and quiet through the room after verifying Gareth

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was gone and that it wasn’t some trick of light or vision that made his blankets look empty. Alan and Leah were each in their respective places. The “others” had come back while I’d been asleep, huddled forms that I couldn’t identify in the darkness. I stood still and listened in the hallway. There were no immediate noises beyond the soft snores of my companions and the night sounds of a city that never sleeps. I hooked right out of the doorway to explore the building a bit. The hall ran twenty feet down and opened up into an empty room. In one corner stood an earth-red pot. A bare stick rose out of the pot—all that remained of the plant it had once been. There was nothing else in the room besides some old age-yellowed papers scattered on the floor. I doubled back past our sleeping room and out into the main entryway with the fallen ceiling. Light from the street drifted in through cracks in the window boards on the opposite side of the room. Maybe he went— “Can’t sleep?” I jumped and spun around, looking for the source of the voice. A brief orange flare betrayed Gareth’s position. He sat against a wall in the shadows, cigarette in hand. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. I picked my way over the scattered mess. “It’s okay. I woke up, couldn’t go back to sleep.” “Well, have a seat if you like. The night is pleasant and the conversation free, though the ground’s pretty damn hard.” I found a spot next to him and sat down. He took a drag on his cigarette and then held the pack out to me. “Want a cigarette?” “No thanks. I don’t smoke.” “Good for you. Don’t start,” he said. “Too damn hard to quit, and they’re not always available when you’re on the move. You’d think that’d make it easier to kick the habit. But it doesn’t. Only makes you want one more.” “The other two guys came in while I was asleep, huh? Saw ‘em sleep-

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ing.” “Yeah, you dropped off pretty quick and stayed there. Not too surprising, considering the day you’ve had. You’ll be able to meet them in the morning.” “Thank you again for helping me,” I said. “Had you not approached me in that bathroom, I’m not sure what I would’ve done.” “You’re welcome. You did look pretty messed up, if you don’t mind my saying so.” “Truth is truth,” I said. “How’d you first notice me?” He took a drag before he answered. “You blew out of those building doors like the Antichrist himself was after you. You had blood all over your face and the front of your shirt. I figured you’d either killed someone or nearly been killed yourself.” He paused. “Glad to learn it was the latter.” “You thought that I killed someone, but you still got involved?” “Possible, but not likely. You wouldn’t have made an exit like that if you had. It drew too much attention.” “Besides,” he continued, “if you had, I could’ve turned you in myself.” His form shrugged in the darkness. His tone of voice didn’t change. To me, it said, one way or the other, it wouldn’t have mattered to me. I’d have dealt with it either way. “Do you think I’m stupid for staying?” I asked. “Can’t say. Is Jackie a part of why you stay?” “Yes. No. I don’t know.” “That’s something you’ll want to figure out for sure. Be careful with her, Kyle.” “What do you mean?” “Just that she’s probably not who you think she is,” he said. “She strikes me as someone who does what she wants and doesn’t much think about other people. Stay for her, and yes, that might make staying stupid.” I was about to say something, but he cut me off. “I could be wrong. I only say it so that you’ll keep it in mind.” “I know I’ll move on eventually. I don’t want to stay here—I can’t—

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but for now I don’t want to leave.” “Something pulling you away? A reason for being on the road?” “Yeah,” I said. “A few, actually.” “Reasons to move on are a good thing to have.” “I guess so.” “No,” he said, “they are. You have to be careful. Stay in one place too long, and you’ll start to think of reasons to stay. ‘One more day’ turns into ‘one more week’ and so on. Then, before you know it, you’re calling whatever place you’re in home. At that point you’re no longer on the road seeing the world. You’re stuck in life again, just like everyone else, but without anything to show for it except some scars or tears in your clothing.” “So you’re saying I shouldn’t stay?” I asked. “No, I’m saying to keep your reasons in mind. If you start to lose them, that’s the time to leave. Get your pack and strap up your boots and walk right out of town, because if you don’t do it right then, you might not ever.” I played with a few small chucks of concrete and tried to absorb what he was telling me. “I don’t think I’ll ever lose my reasons. I could probably spend the rest of my life trying to find out about my mom.” “Did something happen to her?” “She was kidnapped when I was little. Never seen or heard from again. I just learned the whole story about a few weeks ago.” Thoughts and images swelled up. I threw a cement pebble across the room. Was I trying to throw those images away? Shatter them like a mirror? “Heard it from someone after my father’s funeral. One of his friends told me.” Neither of us spoke. In that stretch of time I remember thinking that Gareth was probably trying to come up with something to say. It’s hard for people to react to and deal with deep emotional pain in other people. You can almost see the thought process of their mind as they try out phrase after phrase, looking for something to say that doesn’t sound like total bullshit. Instead, Gareth said nothing, and that was probably the most appropriate thing. There was nothing to say.

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“I can’t see going on like this forever,” I said, thinking more out loud than anything else. Then I realized what I’d said. Embarrassed, I added, “I mean, no offense or anything. I guess I’m still getting used to things. But, my mom aside, I still can’t see myself dropping everything and going back, either.” “No offense taken. And you’re right, the road gets in your blood.” Another drag on the smoke—the lit end brightened, and I could see his face in the glow—followed by another outrush of breath a moment later. He smashed out the filter on the concrete. “What do you have to go on?” he asked. “Not much. The story of a longtime friend of my dad’s and mom’s. A picture I got from a box of my father’s things in his lawyer’s office. I tracked down my aunt, my mom’s sister, but she didn’t want anything to do with me and has given up on my mom.” “That’s not much.” “I know. I tried to find her parents, but had no luck so far.” Gareth pulled another cigarette from his pack and lit it with a flick from a cheap plastic lighter. “Are you sure you want to find out what happened to her?” he asked, once he’d had a chance for an inhale. “What do you mean?” “Bad things happen to good people, Kyle. I hate to say it, but like you said earlier, ‘truth is truth’. You sure you want to know? Chances are it won’t be good.” I thought about that. Thought long and hard. Difficult not to, when it was all laid out on the table like that. A few minutes passed. “I don’t know,” I answered. “Well,” he said, “I think you’d do well to think about it for a while. The saying ‘ignorance is bliss’ exists for a reason. Be sure about what you want to know before you go looking for it, because you may not like what you find.” I sat quietly for a few minutes and stared at nothing—not that there was much to see in the shadows—while my mind worked. Even if I did find out what happened to my mother, how could it be anything good?

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Gareth’s points were well-made. There seemed little sense in the attempt to find her. Had she lived, wouldn’t she have made it back home? Or wouldn’t we receive a phone call from the police or a hospital? Hell, I don’t know, but shouldn’t something have happened? Some word or sign? It was awful enough when I stood by my dad’s graveside. How would I feel if I found out my mother had died violently—not of natural causes, but probably raped and murdered by a stranger? Idle thoughts surfaced. I saw how lonely I was and how hopeless things were. I had no family, no home, no where to go to—and I’d dropped out of college to get there. I had been on the only path that would lead me to something and I stepped right off of it. Did I think I could run away from horrible feelings and blaze my own way through life? The attempt seemed futile. “I think I’m going to try to go to sleep,” I said. “See you in the morning.” I stood up and brushed off the seat of my pants. Little bits of plaster and concrete flaked off and fell to the ground while my butt tingled: a sign of blood returning to all half-asleep areas. When I was about halfway across the room, Gareth spoke again. “Kyle? I hope you find your mother. I hope your finding is good.” “Thank you,” I answered without turning around. “Me too.” With that, I picked my way across the room and returned with my thoughts to the only place I had in this world: a sleeping bag on the floor of a deserted building.

Chapter 13

Alan was in the room and the first to see me awake. “Morning Kyle,” he said. “Hey,” I said, still asleep. I was glad to note that Alan didn’t seem like one of those peppy morning people—the kind I want to strangle anytime they open their mouths before lunchtime. “Where is everyone?” “Out in the other room.” I lifted my shirt when Alan turned his attention away. There was no mirror, but I was able to get a decent look at my body: the area over my ribs was purple and bruised; scrapes and scratches dotted my chest and sides here and there. I touched the area over my ribs and winced. The nurse’s assurances that I hadn’t broken a rib eased my fears but did nothing for my pain. Thankfully, I had the pills to take care of that. Two of them went down the hatch. I shuffled out to find everyone seated around a small metal garbage can. A fire burned in it. Gareth held slices of bread skewered on a whittled stick over the flame to toast them. The smoke rose up to the second story and then vented out through a hole in the roof. I hadn’t seen it last night due to poor light conditions; now, through it, I could see gray morning fog. “Morning,” I said.

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“Morning,” he replied. He handed a piece of toast to Leah. I looked for the two guys I hadn’t met. One was sitting a bit distant from the rest of the group. What stuck out in my mind were his clothes. Instead of the typical tattered layers worn by most homeless, he wore an untucked green polo shirt and khakis. Upon closer examination, I could see frayed edges and stains on his clothing. His loafers (tassels and all) were more suited to an office environment than the streets. The second person was a young Latin boy—I’d put his age at ten at most. I expected someone older—my age, maybe—or someone middleaged like the others. Beyond his age, there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary about the boy: jeans, untucked t-shirt, scuffed sneakers. “This is Philip,” Gareth said, pointing to the first, “and young Luis.” Philip didn’t say anything. Indeed, he appeared deep in thought. Or else he was ignoring all of us. Gareth handed off the next piece of toast to Luis. The boy came forward to grab it, and then returned to his perch on a nearby box. It was my turn next. I took a seat in between Gareth and Leah. “Where’d this come from?” I asked. I had to take a huge gulp from my canteen to get the dry lump of bread to go down. Gareth responded. “Alan came up with it. We procure what we can, and go to shelters when we have to.” I saw Gareth dig around in a bag next to him. He pulled out a big white plastic pill bottle, opened it, and shook out two oblong pills. Hand extended to me, he said, “Here, take one of these.” “What are they?” I asked. “Vitamins,” he said. “You’ll want to get your own as soon as you can. Sometimes you have to take whatever food you can get, and these might make the difference between getting sick and feeling fine when you’re not so lucky in the food department.” I took one and swallowed it. Alan came in to join us; he, Leah and Luis got to talking while Philip remained silent and withdrawn from the rest of us. Gareth leaned a bit closer to me. “They all have their own methods and schedules. What they do and where they go. You’d do well to talk to each of them and spend

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time with them if you can.” I nodded as Gareth moved away. “How does my face look?” I asked. “Bruised,” he said. “Black eye?” “No, though you may yet end up with one.” “Well, it’ll match the rest of me, then.” “Does your face hurt?” Alan asked me. Their conversation was evidently over—they were all looking at me. “Yeah, a bit.” “Well, it’s killin’ me!” Alan shot back. Leah smacked him. “Hey, I’m just kidding,” he amended. He rubbed his arm and gave Leah a hurt but playful look. Leah ignored him and turned to me. “What happened?” she asked. I looked at Gareth. He made no gesture and his face was illegible. It was my story to tell, he’d said, and apparently he meant it, and would give me no yea or nay as to what or how much to say. I was on my own. I felt a bit wary about the whole thing, and so I only told them part of the truth and didn’t give on the whole story. I told how I’d fallen afoul of a drug dealer, and how I’d managed to get beaten up over a matter of money that I didn’t owe. I said nothing about Eric, and nothing about the state of my debt. The boy Luis surprised me by being the first to speak after I’d finished. “What’s his name?” “The dealer? Angel.” “I know him,” Luis said. “Really?” I asked. What dealings would a barely ten year-old boy have with a druggie? “Well, I mean I’ve heard of him. A lot of people don’t like him.” “That sorta stands to reason though, doesn’t it?” Alan asked. “Nah,” Luis said. “It’s more than that. He thinks he’s a tough big shot, but he’s small time.” I reevaluated my estimation of the kid and grinned. “He hits pretty hard, though. How do you know so much about him?”

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“Luis spent most of his life in the drug environment,” Gareth said. “His mother was a user and kept all sorts of company. The state finally intervened and put him in a home for such children.” “I hated it there,” Luis added. “Want me to tell him?” Gareth asked. Luis shrugged, so Gareth went on. “Seems it wasn’t well run, and there might have even been some abusive workers. Luis escaped and started living on the streets. What he didn’t already know from running errands for and being around his mother and her string of boyfriends, he learned fast on the street. He’s a pickpocket and a trouble maker at times, but he’s smart on his feet and can find almost anything.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Luis straighten and hold himself up as Gareth spoke about him. There was a fierce look in the kid’s eyes. “And if I can’t find it, sometimes Alan can,” Luis added. Here I was, twenty years old and having a hell of a time getting by, and this kid, younger than me by half, had been doing it for years. “So are you ‘wanted’ now, or whatever?” I asked. “Are people looking for you?” “They don’t look too hard,” Luis said. “I’m sure someone reported his absence,” Gareth said. “Most youth shelters attempt to contact the parents or guardians of any who stops in, so he avoids them to avoid the mess.” Luis shrugged, a mature gesture that looked ill-fit on someone so young. “I’m happier now,” he said. “You should be careful, though,” Gareth warned. “Get caught stealing or making trouble, and you’ll end up in jail. I can guarantee you’ll like juvenile hall a lot less than the children’s home.” To this, Luis made some noncommittal noise in his throat. He’s too young to worry, I thought. Was I guilty of the same, given my own situation and my refusal to leave the city? Was I guilty of the presumptuous idea of immortality that the young always seem to carry? The of course everything has to turn out okay: it’s me! thinking that leads to disaster more often than not? I was glad the focus of the conversation turned to Luis and away

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from my problem with Angel. I didn’t want to talk about it. Nor did I want them to worry about what was essentially my problem. Leah brought me away from my thoughts. She sat with her legs folded under her, much like she had the night before, and faced in my direction. “So where are you from, Kyle?” I gave as best an answer as I could, seeing as I didn’t know what place I considered home. “What about you guys?” I asked. “San Francisco native here,” she replied. “Same here,” Alan said. “I’m not sure where I was born,” Luis told me. “We moved here when I was little.” “You still are little,” Alan said. Luis’s scowl slid into a grin as he punched Alan in the arm. “Ow, big meanie.” “Now, children,” Leah chided, though I heard amusement in there, as well. “What about you, Gar—” I began to ask, but his spot on the floor was empty. Looking around, I spotted him walking into the other room. Coincidence? Or avoidance? Alan stood up and stretched. “I have to go fill out some paperwork,” he said. “Anyone up for a walk?” I thought about it a moment, and said, “I’ll go.” “Hey, great.” We said our goodbyes to Leah and Luis and were on our way out. Gareth still hadn’t come back into the room. “Wait a minute,” Leah said. “Where’s Philip?” We all looked around, but there was no sign of him. No one saw him leave.

Chapter 14

We walked through the streets towards “home”. Home was a funny thing to call it, perhaps, but that’s what I considered it, and the name would do as well as any other. Our own little cave. I wasn’t aware that I was looking over my shoulder until Alan brought it up on the walk back from the Social Security office. “Expecting someone?” he asked. “Huh?” “You keep looking over your shoulder. Like you expect someone to sneak up on you.” I decided to tell him the rest of the story as we walked. “Why didn’t you tell us before?” he asked once I’d finished. “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t want to freak you guys out. You’d let me come into your place and stay. Maybe I was afraid you’d run me out.” “We wouldn’t do that,” he said. “Tell you what, I’ll help you keep an eye out for them.” The thought gave me comfort: asthmatic or not, I was glad to have him on my side. “What do they look like?” he asked. “Um,” I said. How do you describe someone of a different ethnicity than you?

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“I don’t know,” I said. “Ethnic. Cuban. Mexican. Spanish.” “There’s nothing you can add to that?” “One had a mustache,” I added. “The other one was fat.” Alan scowled. “That doesn’t help.” I shrugged my shoulders. Told ya so. “So what are you going to do about it?” he asked. “I have no idea. I hope I can come up with something soon.” By the time Alan and I returned, Leah and Gareth had settled in the outer room to attend to lunch. Neither of them knew where Luis or Philip were. “Damn,” Alan said, “I hope he’s okay.” “Luis can take care of himself, though, can’t he?” I asked. Alan blinked. “No, I meant Phil.” “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?” Leah asked. “Sometimes I’m not so sure,” he said. They pieced together a lunch with various vittles each of them managed to procure during the morning hours: whole red apples, saltine crackers, a jar of peanut butter. I noticed they portioned it out into four equal parts, including me by default, and I felt a twinge of guilt at mooching. Then I remembered the can of chili I grabbed from the freebie box at Food Not Bombs a few nights prior, and I dug it out of my bag, happy to contribute something. In spite of our circumstances, lunch wasn’t too bad at all. I popped the can with the opener on Gareth’s pocket knife. We passed the can around along with a spoon someone produced and took turns eating room temperature chili straight out of the can. Leah declined. I spent most of the time listening to the others talk. Alan and Leah left the room once lunch was over. To attend to other things, I suppose. I had my suspicions about those two. That left me alone with Gareth, who sat smoking a cigarette and staring off into space. He did that a lot, I noticed. I wanted to talk to him, but I couldn’t for the life of me think of

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anything to talk about. I picked a conversation opener, tried it out in my mind, and then discarded it for another. I stole a quick glance at him, as if that would show me what it was about him that bothered me. Like I could catch it if I looked fast enough. Gareth had wandered off the day before, when we began to discuss where we were from. It was as good a starting point as any other. “So where are you from?” I asked. “If you don’t mind telling, that is.” I saw the half-lidded, hazy state of his eyes disappear as he turned towards me. His gaze was uncomfortable and almost sharp when he wasn’t lost in his own mind. “From? Doesn’t much matter where I’m from. Only where I am. And that’s here.” That stung a bit. Sure, I was trying to dig a little more, but I also wanted to start some conversation. I remembered Little Bear’s caution against certain questions, and I let go of my injured pride as I realized that the question might be too close to the core. “Bit cryptic, don’t you think?” I asked. “Not really,” he said. “Even if I gave you an answer, it wouldn’t be the truth.” Part of what bothered me about him was that he was so aloof and mysterious. I was about to mention something about that when I had a brief insight. “Your name’s not Gareth, is it,” I said. He shook his head. “No.” Simple as that. Did it hurt to find that out, that he lied to me? Or was I mad at myself for assuming? “Do the others know?” I asked. “They might suspect,” he said, “or they might not.” He shrugged. “All in all, they probably don’t care. False names aren’t that uncommon amongst certain company.” “Why would you use a fake name?” “I have my reasons.” Then he smiled. “Lets leave it at that.” I nodded. My mind was full of possibilities and questions, but I kept

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quiet. He’d answered far more than he had to. * * * * * Alan and Leah returned, intent on starting up a card game. They loved their games, and I think they loved picking on each other during said games as much or more. I cried off and went to lay down in the other room. Gareth surrounded himself with so much secrecy. Why the need for it? Was he trying to forget something in his past? Or were people looking for him? He could be a criminal, my mind suggested. He seemed too nice for that, but I remembered how I felt when his eyes fell on me. Those eyes made me feel uncomfortable. Last but not least, following in the footsteps of men both past and future, I thought of a particular girl and what I might do to win her favor. I woke up from my nap feeling both better and worse. Better because of the rest—sleep in a secure environment can do wonders—but worse because I had aches and pains all over. Some were mere stiffness from my walk with Alan, but the others meant my pain killers had worn off. I popped another pill with water from my personal supply. The light in the room wasn’t good enough to read my watch and so I stepped out into what I considered the “main” room. Alan and Leah were playing cards, as I expected, while Philip looked on. It was six thirty PM. Alan greeted me when I walked in. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty.” “Thanks,” I said. “Leah, you have my permission to hand him his ass this round.” “Already working on it,” she replied, “but thanks, hon.” My stomach gurgled. I pushed aside thoughts of food and took a seat near the others, close to Philip. “Rough luck, what happened to you,” Philip said after a few minutes. Alan and Leah were deep into their game. I doubt Philip’s voice

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carried over to them. “Yeah,” I said, surprised he was even talking to me. “Couple of months ago I could’ve helped you get a lawyer and settle it all up. Had a lot of contacts.” I glanced over at him. He stared down into his lap. Did the shredded memories of his former life play before his mind’s eye? I knew what it was like to not be able to stop that film. “Now people either wouldn’t recognize me or would pretend not to,” he said. His voice sounded far away. “Easier for them that way. Most of the others would throw me out of their office without a second glance.” I looked at my watch, as much for something to do as to know the time. There was no way I would let myself be late for my date with Jackie. But I would have felt rude to get up and leave now that Philip was talking to me. Ten minutes passed in agonizing slowness as Philip recounted various memories. I made the occasional noises expected of captive listeners, muttered “uh huhs”, “hmm”, “oh wows”, “interesting”, “really?” and other falsified signs of interest meant to keep the wheels of conversation turning. Alan, chipper and flush with victory from the last hand, unknowingly came to my rescue when he asked if I wanted to play. “Actually, I should get going,” I said. I hopped up from my seat, determined not to miss my exit. “I have somewhere I need to be.” I looked back at Philip and noticed signs that he’d been drinking. Maybe that accounted for him opening up to me. “I’ll be back later, though,” I said. My desire to escape our conversation stemmed more from wanting to meet up with Jackie than it did any aversion to listening. If he needed someone to talk to, I would be that person. Just not right then. “Whoa, lookit who’s in such a hurry,” Alan crowed. “Gotta hot date?” “Something like that,” I replied. “Well then, don’t let us hold you back, dear boy.” He gave a royal wave of his hand. “Go forth and conquer.”

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Leah asked him if he was ever going to hush up and deal or if he was going to hold the deck for the rest of the night. “Unless you want to quit while you’re ahead,” she added, and as I walked out I turned and saw her smile. I was almost out the door when Luis caught me. “Hey Kyle, gotta sec? I think I have an idea.” “Actually, Luis, I have somewhere I need to be. Can it wait until later?” “I dunno. Guess so.” “I’ll catch you when I get back, then.” Luis called “be careful” as I slipped out the door. It felt good to be out in the open again. The air had begun its nightly temperature plunge as I walked. Pieces of red sky poked through the space between the buildings on my left. I’d grown used to wearing my pack and so I was free to look at my surroundings without preoccupation with what I carried. In the end, I arrived at the civic center fifteen minutes early. A quick circuit around the fountain turned up no trace of Jackie. On a whim, I dug a penny out from the bottom of my pack and tossed it in. I followed its copper arc up and back down, wishing as I did for what I expect anyone in my position would wish for: enough food, safe travels, and a bit of romantic company. I sat crosslegged on the corner of a marble bench that ran around the perimeter of the fountain. Head bent over and shoulders hunched over my guitar, I picked and plucked the strings, soft and weak at first, then harder and louder as my nervousness faded and my confidence grew. I still hadn’t become used to playing in public. Peoples’ reactions were as varied as their appearances, some giving me a brief smile before continuing on, some stared as they passed, and others gave no indication that they even saw me; the first and last lessened my unease and enabled me to enjoy myself. Why carry the guitar if I wasn’t going to play it? It helped to pass the time. I didn’t realize how nervous I was until I finally saw Jackie—I’d been afraid she’d be a no-show.

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She thrust forward a bag held horizontally in her hands. “I saved you some food.” What a dear gesture that was! She sat down next to me and pulled a foil-covered plate out of the bag. “I wasn’t sure how you were eating since you had to stop coming to our servings. So I brought this.” I professed undying thanks and tore into the foil to find vegetable lasagna waiting for me. She’d even included plastic utensils. “Probably cold by now,” she warned as I took a bite. “No, it’s wonderful,” I said, and ate as fast as I could without making a mess or looking like a pig. “How are you feeling?” she asked once I’d finished. “Pretty banged up and sore, but I’m okay. How are you?” “Tired. Restless.” “Restless?” “Yeah. I want to do something.” “Like what?” “I have no idea,” she said. “That’s what’s bugging me. I have this feeling like I know there’s something I want to do, only I don’t know what it is. It’s driving me nuts.” “Have you been painting lately?” I asked. “That could be it.” “No,” she said. “I can’t seem to work when I get home. Too tired, too chaotic in the house.” “I get that feeling, too,” I said. “For me, it means a desire to move on and see something new. In the end, I guess that’s why I’m sitting here with you now.” Gareth’s advice came back to me: I’d suggest running and taking her with you. But surely I wasn’t that lucky, was I? One way to find out. “You think it might be wanderlust for you, too?” I asked. “Maybe,” she said. “But I like this city and the things I do here.” My heart sank. She shrugged. “I suppose there’s nothing to do but wait and try to find out what this feeling really is.” She gestured to my guitar. “Will you play some more?”

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“I can play a little, I suppose. I can’t talk and play at the same time, though.” I played a few songs for her and then set my guitar aside. We spent a few hours laughing and talking. Time flew by—warped by—and it was soon time to part ways again. But not before something out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. Jackie had been talking about music when my head snapped to the side and I stared over her shoulder. Jackie frowned. “What is it?” A Latino man stood fifty yards away and had been staring at me, only to look away and wander around a bit. I couldn’t tell if he was one of Angel’s thugs that I’d seen before, if he was a different one, or if it was chance and had nothing to do with me. I couldn’t be sure, and I realized it could be my undoing. “Kyle?” I let my eyes drop back on to Jackie’s face. Every time I did that, I found myself surprised at how beautiful she was. “I’m sorry.” “What’s wrong?” she asked. “I thought I saw one of Angel’s guys.” She turned to look behind her. “Here?” “Yeah,” I said, “but I don’t think it was. Sorry about that. What were you saying?” “They have you pretty jumpy, don’t they.” “More than a little.” “Why don’t you skip town?” she asked. “They won’t bother following you.” It was an exact repeat of what Gareth had said. Do I tell her why? Tell her really why? “Leaving feels wrong right now,” I said. My mouth, not willing to let the issue go completely, surged ahead of my mind. “And I like talking to you too much to leave.” She smiled. “I like talking to you, too, Kyle. But you should be careful. Maybe it’d be better to leave.” “Nah, I’ll think of something,” I said.

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And hoped. Despite her initiative of bringing me food and her admission of enjoying talking to me, she seemed almost indifferent as to whether we met again. Try as I might, I couldn’t read her. I wanted to step forward and hug her or even kiss her when we said our goodbyes. I didn’t. As I walked away from the Civic Center and out onto the lamp-lit streets, I questioned whether such actions would have been welcomed, then cursed my shy self for not trying. I turned to look for Jackie, but she was gone.

Chapter 15

I was so wrapped up in thoughts of Jackie and trying to figure her out that I was oblivious to anything else. It could also be said that I’m a complete idiot and should have seen signs and listened to my instincts. Probably both. At any rate, I was off daydreaming, and Angel’s thugs got the jump on me. One materialized out of an alley in front of me. The other came up behind me as I turned to run. The first one said, “We need to talk.” He shifted his jacket to reveal a pistol tucked into his waistband. I did my best to swallow spit and panic. “Okay, so talk,” I said. “No.” He pointed down a nearby alleyway. “Down there.” “You’re fucking crazy if you think I’m going in there with you two,” I said. The guy behind me—even closer—said, “You don’t have a choice.” I took one step to the side and shifted so that I could keep them both in sight. “The hell I don’t,” I said. “You’d have to drag me, and I swear I’ll fight you the whole way. Most people might ignore what’s going on, but I swear to God that I’ll make so much noise that someone will wonder what’s going on. I won’t go easy.”

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The alpha thug looked across the street as he thought. “Alright, fine, we’ll talk here,” he said. “Angel wants his money. Do you have it?” “He said I had three days,” I replied. “So? We’re fucking asking you if you have it now.” “Almost,” I said. “I’m working on the rest of it.” “Then give me what you have.” “Do you think I’d carry that much money on me?” I did my best to sneer even though I was still scared out of my mind. “I’d get rolled or something, and then where would I be?” Was he stupid enough to think I’d have it with me? Maybe I had a chance to get out of this after all. “I’d kick your ass for that if Angel hadn’t told me I couldn’t.” “Tough luck for you, I guess.” “You’ll have the money by tomorrow?” “Yes,” I said. I didn’t have time to think. “Okay. Meet me right here tomorrow. Five PM.” “I’m not giving the money to anyone but Angel,” I said. “He has a deal to make tomorrow and will be busy,” he replied. “You can give the money to me.” “I said I’m not giving it to anyone else. What’s to stop you from pocketing the money and saying I never had it?” I shook my head. “No, I don’t think so. Angel can get it from me, or he can go fuck himself.” Did I sound confident? I didn’t feel confident. I was in way over my head. How long could I keep it up? The more I talked, the more chances there were to make a mistake of some kind. “Then bring it by Angel’s place,” he said. The other guy said, “Angel’s going to be gone most of the day, and he said—” “—It doesn’t matter, it’ll be okay,” said the first. His gaze shifted from me, to the street, and back. “He should be home by eleven. Make sure you’re there with all the money. If you’re not, they’ll be loading your body into an ambulance by midnight.” I backstepped to get clear of them. My legs felt a little weak for the rest of the walk.

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Gareth sat smoking on a street corner not far from the mouth of the alley. I was still shaken, despite walking four extra blocks to throw anyone off my tail. “What happened?” he asked. “Angel’s associates paid me a visit.” “And?” “And I bluffed my way out of it. Until tomorrow, at least.” “You were lucky.” He blew out and looked at me with unblinking eyes. The smoke he exhaled punctuated his statement better than any mark of grammar—it seemed to carry with it a tone of seriousness unattainable by voice alone. I reflected that you rarely see a movie mob boss or bad guy eating a lollipop or chewing gum. What could I say to that? “How long?” he asked. “Huh?” “How long until it turns violent? How long until you can’t talk your way out of it? This isn’t the mob you’re dealing with, but they’re still dangerous. And not just for you. Jackie could get pulled into this—or any of us.” The thought had occurred to me. Yet why did I still stay? Why did I potentially jeopardize my newfound friends? “I know,” I said. There was nothing more I could say. Gareth’s gaze allowed no where to hide. I turned away from it and returned to our temporary home. I found Luis dozing on a blanket inside the first room. I knelt down and tapped him on the shoulder. I’d only touched him once before he came to his feet in a blur. A rusty knife blade waved through the air in front of me. “Oh. Hi Kyle.” He tucked the blade back into his clothing. He’d moved quick. Like a cat. One moment, happy and calm, and the next, latched on to your arm with teeth and claws bared. “Kyle?” he asked. “Did. Uh.” I struggled to remember what I’d wanted. Had I almost gotten skewered? “Did you want to talk now, or wait until morning? I’m

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sorry I woke you.” “Now,” he said. “I waited here so that I wouldn’t miss you when you came in. We’ll have to talk in here. Alan and Leah are asleep.” “Okay. So what’s up?” I asked. “You still owe the money, don’t you?” he asked. I could only stare. “How do you know?” “I know how these guys work,” he said. “They don’t just beat you up and then forget.” I sighed. “No,” I said. “You’re right. They don’t.” “I think I might know a way to get Angel off your back,” he said. “You’re kidding, right?” “Nuh uh.” He pulled his legs under him so that he sat cross legged on the blanket. “Angel’s a dealer, right? Lots of other people hate him, but everyone steps carefully around one another in this city. We might be able to convince one of the other dealers to tell Angel that you’re working for him. He wouldn’t dare touch you then because it might set off something he’s not ready for.” He was serious? I sat down. His body was at best half my size, but right then, I was the youth. “But why would one of the other dealers be willing do that?” I asked. “Because they don’t like him,” he said, as if it should be obvious. “It’ll mess with his plans and he won’t be able to do something he wants to do. Indirect confrontation.” “That,” he added, “and we’ll sweeten the deal somehow.” “How?” I asked. “I’m not sure yet, but I have a few ideas that might work. Information would be best, but I don’t have any.” “What sort of information?” I asked. “Anything. About what he’s up to, where he’s going, what his prices are. Information can be valuable on the streets.” “What, you mean like that he’s not going to be home tomorrow?” “How do you know that?” he asked. “I bumped into two of his guys tonight. They tried to get the money from me now. When I refused and said I’d give it only to Angel tomor-

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row, one of them mentioned that I’d have to go by later, because Angel would be gone most of the day and—” “Is that exactly what they said?” Luis interrupted. “Uh, I think.” “Try to remember. We have to be sure.” I tried to go beyond the feelings and remember what was said. After a moment I said, “That’s all there is. The first guy told me to take the money to Angel’s place, and the second said that Angel would be gone most of the day. The first guy cut him off and said that Angel would be home by eleven and told me to make sure I was there with all of the money.” “Hmm. It might be enough.” “Do you think this can work?” I asked. “I’m not sure. But we can try if you want.” “Yes. Hell yes. Thank you, Luis.” I never thought the solution to my problem would come from a ten year old boy. “So how do we start?” I asked. “I’ll make some rounds tomorrow morning, and then we’ll go talk to some people in the afternoon,” he said. That settled, I slipped into the sleeping room. Alan and Leah were fast asleep in their respective places. I settled in but didn’t fall asleep right away. Nervous energy and the thought that things might turn around the next day kept me awake for a long time, as did worries that it would get worse. Could I live with myself if someone else got hurt because of me? That night, I had a nightmare in which it seemed my mind threw everything it could think of at me: the group told me I couldn’t stay with them any longer and made me leave; Jackie told me that she hated me and started seeing Angel, of all people; Katie, black-eyed and bleeding, asked me why I had to get Angel all riled up like that. Worst of all was Eric and seeing him move through the dream carrying a syringe. I tried to tell him to be careful, but every time I tried to speak, nothing came out. Then, I was on the road and it was pouring rain while I walked backwards with my thumb out. The wind whipped stinging water into my

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eyes. I could barely see. People in cars passed me by, laughing and pointing at me as they left me standing there, drenched and alone on the side of the road.

Chapter 16

Sunrise had come and gone by the time I woke up the next morning. The other beds were empty. When I shuffled into the next room, I found that Gareth was the only person still around. “Good morning,” he said. I sat down and pulled my coat around me. “Luis thinks he knows a way to get me out of my predicament.” “Oh?” “Yeah. I don’t know what to think about it.” “If he thinks he can help, you should listen to him. He’s a smart kid. Leaving would still be better, though.” “Did you know he carries a knife?” I asked. He shot me a look I couldn’t read. “Of course. Most of us do. Why?” “Last night when I woke him up, I swear he almost stuck me with it before he knew it was me. Jumpy little fella.” “You would be too if you grew up like he did.” Touché . * * * * *

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Luis returned around noon with the worn and battered school backpack he sometimes wore. “Let’s go,” he said. I followed Luis out the door. “Where are we going?” I asked. “We’re gonna go see a guy named Lawrence. It’s well-known that he doesn’t like Angel and I’m hoping that he’ll be willing to help us. There’s another guy named Fernando that hates Angel even more than Lawrence, but I’d rather not go to him unless we have to. He’s a bit crazy.” It was the offhanded way that Luis tossed off he’s a bit crazy that got me. I felt a twinge of sympathy for what life must have been like for the kid before he went out on his own. Lawrence had a second floor apartment in the northeast Tenderloin district near Chinatown. “Best to let me do the talking,” Luis said. He knocked on the door, and then we waited. “Maybe he’s not home,” I said a moment later when no one answered. “Could be,” Luis said. Then we heard footsteps and the rattle of locks. The door opened to reveal a white guy in his mid 20s. Dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, he looked as if he’d either slept in his clothes or hadn’t bothered ironing them in the first place. “Hey,” Luis said. “I’m Luis, I’m not sure if you remember—” “Yeah, I remember you,” Lawrence said. “What can I do for you?” “We need to talk to you if we can,” Luis said. Lawrence considered for a moment, looked from Luis to me, and let us in. It was a small apartment, not much different than Angel’s. The living room held one small sofa, two chairs and a TV with muted cartoons showing. The smell of cooking meat hit me as we walked in. A pan on the stove steamed and sizzled, and Lawrence went back into the kitchen to remove it from the burner. “Have a seat anywhere, guys,” he said. Luis took one of the chairs. Careful not to mess anything up, I shoved aside some magazines—”Hot Rods”, “Vibe”, and the ever cliche “High Times”—and sat on the couch. Lawrence returned with his steak on a plate and sat in the other chair.

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He took a bite, then got to business. “What can I do for you two?” Was I suppose to say something? I looked at Luis. He’d said to let him do all the talking. “I’d like to call in a favor. My friend is getting harassed by Angel,” Luis said. I sat back to listen. “We were wondering if you could let it be known that he’s working for you, so that he’ll back off.” “Hmm,” Lawrence mused. “What’s going on with you and Angel?” he asked me. I explained everything as best I could, including Eric’s death. “God, I hate that guy,” Lawrence said after I’d finished. “That’s why most people hate that guy. He’s a fucker that does crazy shit like that and thinks he can get away with it.” Luis leaned forward in his chair. “So can you help us?” he asked. “And this will make us square?” Luis grabbed his bag off the floor and unzipped it. “I also picked these up for you on the way here,” he said. He withdrew a carton of Marlboro Reds from his bag and tossed them over. Where the hell did he get those? “Kyle also might have some information for you,” he added. Lawrence looked at the carton of cigarettes and then at me. “Luis thought you might want be interested,” I said. “I know where Angel lives. And when he’s going to be gone.” I felt both powerful, like a spy in a movie, and like a shithead for bargaining such information. But if I wanted to stay in town, I didn’t have much choice. And was there some part of me that felt Angel deserved it? That he’d broken whatever laws of decency we usually observe for fellow humans? Yes. If nothing else convinced me, remembering Katie did. “Is that so?” Lawrence asked. “You know for sure?” “Yeah. I’ve been there. The party where Eric died was at Angel’s place.” Lawrence sat back, looking thoughtful. Or stoned—I couldn’t tell. He remained silent for moment before turning to Luis. “Hmm. So all you want from me is to circulate that he’s working for me and to leave him

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alone?” He jerked his head in my direction, though he looked at Luis the entire time. Luis was the one making the deal, after all. “Yeah.” “And what if I say no?” he asked. Luis shrugged. “Then we’ll try to find someone else. I wanted to come to you first, though.” “Yeah, yeah, and I think I know why.” Lawrence sighed. “Alright, I’ll help you, but only because I owe you one.” A palpable sense of relief flooded me. “I have one condition before I tell you where he lives, though,” I said, and both faces swung in my direction. I swallowed, prayed I wasn’t about to screw everything up, and forged ahead. “Angel’s girlfriend, Katie. She’s not involved in anything Angel does, and is not to be harmed.” “We usually don’t involve relations or family.” “It’s a sort of professional courtesy,” Luis added. “Okay. I didn’t know,” I said. I told him where to find Angel’s apartment, and repeated what his guys had said to me about him being gone most of the day on a deal. We concluded our business and left. At an age when he should be concerned with riding bikes, seeing monster movies and noticing how girls are different (and maybe not all that bad), Luis had set one drug dealer against another. All I did was go along for the ride with my fingers crossed.

Chapter 17

“How did you come up with those cigarettes?” I asked a few moments later. Lawrence’s apartment was a few blocks behind us. We walked slow, with no further purpose for the moment. Luis looked at me. “Do you really want to know?” “I’m not so sure, honestly.” “Nothing too illegal,” Luis assured me. The light way in which he said it almost made me laugh. “Mostly trading this for that and being in the right place at the right time.” “Is that where you were this morning? Being in the ‘right place at the right time?’” I asked. He nodded. I smiled. “Anything else in that backpack that I should know about?” “Nah.” I was silent for a few moments. Thinking. “I still feel weird about telling him where Angel lives. Why do you think he wanted to know?” “Best if we don’t know,” he said. Did the kid have to be so damn mature all the time? “I think I’m just worried about Katie,” I said. “She’ll be fine. I can’t say that I trust Lawrence, but I know that he won’t do anything to her.”

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I didn’t know if I shared Luis’s faith in “professional courtesy” and made some noise in my throat. “Relax, it’s cool,” he said. “I’d feel better if I knew she wasn’t going to be home.” “You can’t go over there,” Luis warned. “You do, and who knows what’ll happen.” “I know.” I sighed. Knowing it didn’t mean I had to like it. After a few more steps, Luis stopped and cocked his head to the side. “Do you want me to go talk to her?” he asked. “You’d do that?” He shrugged. “I could if you wanted me to.” “Would you? Please?” “Sure.” “Be careful,” I said. “No problem. I can go unnoticed in a place like that.” He looked around. “I’d better go now, then.” “Thank you so much, Luis. I’d say I’d buy you lunch or something, but I don’t have any money.” “It’s okay,” he said. “We can settle up some other time.” Favors make the world go round, dontcha know. “Please make sure she understands and will be gone,” I said. He nodded and took off in another direction. The knowledge that he would make sure Katie left the house made me feel a bit better. My only concern at that point was her, and that my actions didn’t harm her; whatever happened between Angel and Lawrence was their business. The only thing I could do was wait. I wanted company. Someone to talk to, conversation to take my mind off of things. What I wanted was to see Jackie and have things progress. As far as the former, we weren’t due to meet for hours yet. And the latter? Well, I had no idea what was going on, but all odds were on nothing. The drop-in center where Taylor worked was closed. There was no sign of Ralph that day, either.

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With nothing else to do, I returned to the cave. Upon arriving, I knew something was up. There was this feeling in the air. I found Leah seated and looking worried. Alan paced. “What’s wrong?” I asked. Alan ignored me and continued to pace. I looked to Leah for an answer. “It’s Phil,” she said. “We came back and found him drunk and upset. Then he went out, and we’re not sure were he is. Alan’s worried.” “Should we go look for him?” I suggested. “I have no clue where he could be,” Alan said. “I didn’t even know he left until a few minutes later. He slipped out while I wasn’t looking.” “So what do we do?” Leah said in a quiet voice, “We wait until he comes back.” After a few minutes I could bear the mood of the room no longer and moved into the next room. Leah got up right after I did, and we left Alan to pace and fret alone. I found my pack and occupied myself with doing things for the sake of doing something: adjusting the straps on my bag, brushing off my boots, then putting my pack on the table and removing all the contents in order to refold and repack them. Leah watched me for a moment and then asked, “How’re you holding up, Kyle?” “Hmm?” “You seem nervous and jittery.” I looked at all the stuff I had spread out on the table. “Yeah, I guess I am. Luis came up with a way to get me out of my mess.” She nodded. “Gareth mentioned that. Is it going to work?” “I don’t know. I have a feeling I’ll—” A bang and excited talking from the other room cut my sentence short. Leah and I looked at one another with what were probably identical looks—what was that?—and we both went to see what it was. Gareth stood in the doorway, supporting a limp and mumbling Philip with one arm around draped around his neck. He passed off Philip’s weight to Alan. “What happened?” Leah asked.

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“I found him a couple streets away,” Gareth said, “stumbling in and out of traffic.” He looked at both of us. “I pulled him out onto the sidewalk and asked him what he was doing. He jumped right back out into the street.” Philip mumbled something that resembled “lemme ‘lone” as Alan carried him into the other room. Sympathy and helplessness mixed as I watched the two men disappear. The guy is falling apart, I thought. Whatever’s left of him. * * * * * I’d hoped that Luis would return soon with the news that Katie had received my message and would vacate the apartment, but the day wore on and I saw no sign of him. Meanwhile, Philip had passed out on his blankets, and we all breathed a little easier. I returned that night from my time with Jackie to find everyone back at the cave. Philip lay passed out drunk in a pile of empty beer cans. Alan glanced at me, and I saw in his eyes the same things that I felt. In the end, though, Philip had to want to help himself first, and so we left him to his own devices and means of self-destruction. It was much later that night when Luis returned. I’m not sure what time it was because I’d removed my watch so that I wouldn’t look at it every two minutes. Luis barely had a chance to get in the door before I bombarded him with questions. “Where’ve you been? What happened? Did she get out okay? Have you heard anything?” “You’re not going to believe this,” he said. “Angel is in jail.” “What? How? Is Katie okay?” I’d taken the boy by the shoulders during my interrogation. “Yeah, she’s fine,” he said. He knocked my hands away. “Let me tell it as it happened,” he said. “I went over there like you

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asked me to. Except, when I got there, there were cops all over the place. They shook the place down on a drug raid. Found all kinds of stuff.” “Do you think Lawrence had anything to do with that?” I asked. Luis shrugged. “Could be. I won’t know for sure until I talk to him. There’s more, though. They’re trying to pin your friend’s death on Angel—anything to make charges stick and to ensure he goes away for a while. It doesn’t help that he tried to discard the body—” I flinched at the phrase. “—and cover it all up,” Luis added. “And Katie?” I asked. “She was in a patrol car when I got there, but I was able to slip over and talk with her. They’re waiving her role in everything. She’s pressing charges for assault and abuse.” I couldn’t help but feel elated at the news—she’d gotten her chance to get out. “She also said she’s sorry about what happened ‘that morning’.” He looked puzzled. “That’s how she said it. Does it make sense?” I remembered pulling Angel off of her and the sight of her bleeding and crying on the floor in front of the couch. My bruises still hurt. “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, it does.” “They’re getting her set up in a women’s shelter,” he said. “I assume she got settled in okay.” Luis wrinkled his nose. “I tried to check up on her, but they kicked me out. They don’t let boys inside.” “Which shelter is that, dear?” Leah asked. She’d walked in on the conversation a few minutes before. “The one on Linden and Gough.” “Oh, that’s not too bad of a place,” she said, and looked at me. “They’ll take care of her there, Kyle.” Leah gave me her assurance that she’d check up on Katie for me. Sometimes, that has to be enough. “There’s more, though,” Luis said. “You can’t stay here.” “What do you mean?” I asked. “He can’t hurt me now.” “Everyone knows that Angel’s in jail.” Luis pointed at me. “Everyone also knows that you are associated with him and had run afoul of him.

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For all we know, Angel and everyone who works for him could think that you set him up. In a way, the city’s more dangerous for you now than it was before.”

Chapter 18

The three days after Eric’s death had been full of fear and worry over my predicament. I didn’t realize how much so until Luis reported Angel’s arrest and the stress lifted. Both Luis and Gareth told me that things were even more dangerous for me in the aftermath, but I had a hard time believing them. The act of removing the bandage from above my eye that next morning was liberating. Not only was it nice not to have that huge white thing on my head, but as I tossed it into a trash can, I knew that I was free of the influence of the person who gave it to me. I was still new on the road back then. In talking, listening, and spending time with the group, I learned a great deal, both concrete things and subtle things that can’t be expressed in words. Things like how to blend in (our backpacks and scrounged empty Starbucks cups work wonders on college campuses, for instance); where to sleep; where to shit; places to avoid (the cliché park bench was one of them); how to hide my money; sources for food; the importance of hygiene; tools and tricks for self defense (anything from improvised knives to metal bars covered in duct tape), and that dirt, disease, pests, and violence were all reasons to avoid shelters. This last was something I’d already learned for myself, but it was nice to have some verification.

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From them I also learned to treasure having a space of one’s own. There’s a saying “You don’t know what you have until you’ve lost it,” and that is true. When you’re on the road, you have to pick what’s most important because you can’t carry everything. Anything you do find is public property unless it’s on your person. Thus the reason for shopping carts: you can’t stash anything and expect it to be there when you come back. The next afternoon brought word from Katie. Leah went to visit her at the women’s shelter, and upon her return, handed me a folded piece of paper. I took the letter and stepped somewhere private to read. It was written in a scratchy handwriting on the front and back of a piece of paper bearing a prescription drug advertisement: Kyle, I want to first apologize for what you had to go through the other night. I’m so sorry that you lost your friend and for what Angel did to you. I also want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I’d been with Angel so long that when someone (you) were nice to me at the party I didn’t even know how to react. Most people avoided me because of him. Luis told me you sent him to check up on me, and with all that’s happened I’m glad you did. Thank you. The cops want me to press charges. Even after all this, I don’t know if I can. Mostly, I just want it to be over. I’m not as shaken up as I thought I’d be. There was nothing left to our relationship besides needs and wants. He wanted me, I needed him. Or so I thought. Now I’m not so sure if that’s true. I’m in a much better place, and the people here will help me get clean and find a job. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll even go to college. The lady friend that came to visit me was very nice. Tell her I said thank you. There’s so much going on here that I feel invisible or unimportant, and it was nice to have someone to talk to.

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I wanted to thank you in person, but the shelter doesn’t allow men to visit. I think it might be best if we’re not seen together until things settle down anyways. Thank you for everything. Katie I read through the letter a few times before I put it in my backpack. My smile felt plastered on my face and I couldn’t help but feel elated. Not only because Katie was okay and in a good place, but because someone took the time to write to me. It was a touch of human effort that I’d been sorely lacking both on the road and back in college. I still have that letter somewhere. * * * * * Things with Jackie stayed the exact same and served as no small source of frustration. I felt like I couldn’t get to know her well enough to know how she felt. We continued to get together and talk. Walks through the city and various parks and beaches served as the backdrop to most of our gatherings. At night I went to the Food Not Bombs servings and got to know some of the regular volunteers and attendees. While nice enough, I couldn’t directly relate to any of them and for the most part felt like an outsider any time I gathered with them. They talked of music, of protests, of laws; of festivals and concerts that I had never heard of. For the most part I sat and listened, uncomfortable, while I felt out of place and wished things were different. Philip drank more and more often. It wasn’t too long before he was in a constant state of inebriation. Each one of us tried to keep an eye on him. The effort was exhausting. One night after Philip passed out, Alan asked, “Why does he drink that stuff ?” He kicked an empty Old Milwaukee Light can across the room. “It tastes like pi—” Leah had caught his eye and he amended,

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“—like, uh, pee in a can.” Leah danced around the room, hands on the side of her head and sang, “Oh, my virgin ears.” Alan turned red and grouchy. “First she asks me not to swear,” he mumbled to me, “then she teases me whenever I catch myself at it. Damn difficult woman.” I tried to sympathize through the grin on my face, but seeing Alan come up on the losing side more often than not was too much fun. * * * * * On the night of Wednesday the 6th I learned that Jackie wouldn’t be able to see me afterwards. The night’s meal was vegetarian chili; I sat with an empty bowl and a full stomach and wondered what I was going to do with myself for the rest of the night. Not only had our meetings had become habit, but I looked forward to them all day, and felt much more down than I should have. With nothing else to do, I went back to the Cave. “I thought you were meeting with Jackie?” Gareth asked. He sat on his sleeping bag, needle and thread in hand, mending a pair of pants. “She can’t tonight,” I replied. “Sorry to hear that.” “Me too,” I said. “I have a feeling I’m in for a slow night.” “No other plans?” he asked. “Nope.” “I’d invite you to tag along with me, but I’m not doing anything remotely pleasant tonight.” “What’s up?” I asked. “I have to talk to some people.” He chuckled. “Well, first I have to find them, and then I have to talk with them. Both have a chance of being unpleasant.” “What do you mean by that?” “Bad area, is all.” “Can I go with you anyways?” I asked.

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He paused his sewing. “Why would you want to?” I shrugged. “Not like I have anything better to do. Besides, if it’s a bad area you’re going into, it wouldn’t hurt to have someone watch your back, right?” It was his turn to shrug. “You want to go that bad, I won’t talk you out of it. We’ll leave in an hour or so.” I nodded, more confident than I actually felt, and set my watch alarm. I napped until it was time to leave. One hour later at 8 PM, I stood up, stretched, and went to find Gareth in the other room. His clothes seemed much more wrinkled than normal. “Do you have your pocketknife?” he asked me. “No, it’s on my backpack. Why?” “Get it, you might want it. And change your shirt. Put on something old and dirty.” Confused, I went to fetch it and do as he bid. When I returned, he told me to keep the knife handy in my pocket. “Where are we going?” I asked once we were outside. “Tenderloin.” “Oh,” I said. “That’s not so bad, I’ve been there.” Gareth shook his head. “Probably not to this part. There’s a high density of the homeless and drug element, so it can be a wild place sometimes.” “So why did I have to change?” “Your other shirt looked too nice. You want to look homeless, too, and not like a potential target. Take off your watch, too.” I did so, and fastened it around my belt, under my jacket. Our walk through the Tenderloin took us past much of the same nightlife that I’d seen on my other trips through the area. We passed nowhere near Angel’s place, however, and for that I was thankful. More people were on the streets in this area—people who weren’t pedestrians, but rather residents of the allies and sidewalks themselves, and those residents glared at us with thoughtless eyes set in grimy faces. Whenever Gareth stopped to speak with someone, I would stop as

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well, and stand a respectful distance off to one side, silent and—I hoped— non-assuming. Whatever he came for was none of my business. After pausing to talk to three men gathered on the front steps of a building, Gareth led us off of the main road and down a wide, dark alley. There were boxes and crates stacked all over the place, along with nooks and crannies in the various buildings. In some of them I could see the shadowed forms of people either sleeping or passed out. Down the way I could make out what looked like a flaming trash can. Turns out that’s exactly what it was: a half dozen homeless people had a fire burning in a metal trash can, and stood around it talking, drinking, and smoking. I could see a few other people outside of the fire’s light. Up ahead on our right was a steel door. Beside it was a sodium light enclosed in a wire cage, and below that a sign I couldn’t read. A few of the people gathered around the fire waved or said hello to Gareth as he passed. The heat of the blaze was enormous. The sign below the light red “Jay’s Bar and Billiards.” Gareth went straight for the door. “Are you twenty one?” I shook my head. “Nuh uh. Twenty.” “Hmm.” He glanced at the door. “I don’t think anyone would mind if you came in, but it might be best if you wait out here.” “Okay.” “I won’t be long,” he said. He opened the door and disappeared inside. Smoke, loud music and the crack of billiard balls spilled out until the pneumatics pulled the door shut again. I could still hear the mutterings of the folks gathered around the trash barrel fire. Five or ten minutes passed wherein I tried to not look like a total idiot standing outside of a bar. I heard yelling. At first, I thought that Gareth might be in trouble. But no, that wasn’t right, because as far as I knew he was still inside. Then someone screamed. The scream spoke not of anger, but of fear and pain, and it chilled me to hear it. No one else gave any indication that they heard it. They had

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to have, though, because they were closer to it than I was. I left my post beside the door and walked back down the alley. A loud crash turned my walk into a jog. As I passed the group around the fire, someone said something to me, but I couldn’t make out what it was, nor did I pay much attention. On my left was a pile of crates and boxes. Half sprawled on top of and half leaning on them was a drifter in a heavy coat. Motion tore my eyes to the right and I saw a dark blob running down the alley. Whoever it may have been was too far away and moving too fast for me to catch. Instead, I knelt down at the sprawled man’s feet to try and help the guy up. “Hey? Sir? You okay?” He didn’t respond to my questions. Still on my knees, I scooted closer towards his torso and leaned over to see if he was unconscious. There was a strange bulge in his coat. I pulled it aside and for a second what I saw didn’t register in my mind: the handle of a knife stuck out of his chest below the rib cage. Blood soaked the area around it. The next thing I noticed were his eyes: open and fuzzy but unblinking. Dead eyes that stared up at nothing. It was then that the coppery smell of blood hit my nose, and I lost it at that point, both mentally and physically. I scrambled back on hands and feet away from the horror before me. My feet and legs finally found their ground. I leaned over a crate and emptied my stomach. Others closed in while my stomach spasmed. A man in overalls knelt down at the dead man’s feet and tugged at his boots. I squinted my eyes shut as another round of bile came up, an involuntary reaction as my system purged itself, but one I was thankful for. I didn’t want to see a man strip the shoes off of a dead body. My eyes were still shut when I heard a bit of stomping and the muttered words “damn near perfect fit.” I kept them shut until someone put a hand on my back. “We should go. Now.” It was Gareth. “He’s dead,” I said. I’m not sure why I said it—everyone knew, after all. But I think I was still trying to come to terms with what I’d seen

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and the knowledge that a man had been murdered not far from where I stood. “I know,” Gareth said. “Did you touch him? Or the knife?” I still couldn’t get my mind to click back into gear. I heard the words but they made no sense. “What?” Gareth took me by the arm and led me away. “The knife. Did you touch it?” “Um. No. I don’t think so.” He said nothing more as he pulled me through streets and alleys at a fast walk for about fifteen minutes. Images of blood-soaked clothing and pale, glassy eyes clouded my thoughts. I couldn’t shake them. Gareth allowed us to stop and rest on a park bench once we were a significant distance away. “Are you okay?” he asked. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I guess.” “Try not to think about it,” he said. “There’s nothing you could have done.” I’d seen death already but had come no closer to being able to handle it. On both the physical and mental levels, Eric’s passing had been different: there was no blood or violence. He’d made his own decisions, whereas I’m sure the unfortunate drifter might have had a thing or two to say about the whole thing. More than the killing bothered me. It was the looter, too. Life apparently doesn’t mean much when you’re at the lowest point and scraping the bottom of the barrel. Sure, a man was dead. He might’ve been an unknown, but there’s always a chance he wasn’t. Perhaps you shared the last of your bottle with him, or maybe he owed you two cigarettes—“and not that cheap dirt-tasting shit you smoke”, you might say to him—but in the end it came down to meeting one’s own needs. The passing of a life was small concern next to a “damn near perfect” footwear upgrade. * * * * * I suspect that the rest break was more for my mental benefit than

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any other reason, and I was grateful for it. The experience of the incident faded, with no small amount of mental effort on my part, to a dull buzz in the back of my mind. “Did you do what you needed to do?” I asked. “For the most part,” Gareth replied. “There’s something I wanted to tell you before we get back, though.” “Oh?” “I’m leaving in the morning.” I stopped. “What? Why? Where?” He stopped and turned, a faint smile on his lips. “Still asking questions you know I won’t answer?” I knew he wouldn’t, but that thought hadn’t occurred. It’s natural to ask where someone’s going when they say they’re leaving. I shrugged. “It’s time for me to leave,” he said. “I need to move on to somewhere new.” What was there to say? Gareth had become a sort of mentor to me. The thought of him no longer being around lowered my spirits even further. I walked along in silence, drained and depressed. “I wanted to tell you so that you wouldn’t wonder or take it personally when you wake up and I’m gone.” We walked the rest of the way in silence, him thinking whatever thoughts that went through his head, and me thinking about what had happened that night and how things would change with Gareth gone. Things at the Cave were the same as always when we arrived: Leah and Alan in the middle of a card game, Luis watching and looking bored, Philip passed out in his corner. I made for the sleeping room without a word. Gareth stopped me at the hallway. “Do you still have the picture of your mom and aunt?” he asked. “Yeah, why?” “Can I see it?” I almost begged off. He’d had no interest in seeing it when I first told him about it, after all. But I nodded, set my pack down, retrieved it, and handed it to him.

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“Which one’s your mother?” “On the left.” He nodded and looked at it for a few minutes while I stood waiting, then handed it back. “Are you still set on finding her?” “Yeah.” He still looked at me, but for a brief moment it seemed like something more. His eyes seemed to bore into me, or through me, and I got a chill. “Be prepared for the worst, but don’t give up hope,” he said. “Why do you say that?” He shrugged. His eyes flickered away for a moment, and when he looked back in my direction his gaze seemed softer than I’d thought a moment before. “Just some advice. Nothing more. Goodnight, Kyle.” “Night.” I pushed away thoughts of death and occupied myself with feeling miserable until I fell into sleep.

Chapter 19

The empty corner of the room convinced me that Gareth was gone. I suppose I didn’t believe he’d leave, or hadn’t wanted to think about it. Did I think he would be like me and would do whatever he could to postpone the event? “Have you had breakfast yet?” Alan asked me when I woke. “No. You?” “Waiting on Leah. You’re welcome to come with us if you want.” “Yeah,” I said. “I’d like that.” “Odd having him gone, isn’t it?” Alan asked. There was a small pile of cigarette butts over in the corner of the outer room, where I’d sat and talked with Gareth in the dark on my first night. I didn’t answer. That night, I told Jackie that Gareth had left. She leaned forward and put her hand on my arm. Her touch banished all other thoughts—all I could do was think about how much I didn’t want her to take her hand away. “Promise me something?” she asked. Anything, I thought. “If I can,” I said.

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“If you do decide to leave, promise you won’t go without saying goodbye?” I smiled, swallowed the butterflies, and put my hand over hers. “Promise.” I knew better than to read too much into her request. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t feel good to hear it. We sat as we were, touching and quiet, beside the spraying water in a concrete plaza under a starry night sky. I tried to remember what the moment felt like—tried to capture every detail, every feeling into memory— so that I could relive it later. But it never works. Whether the mind gets too clogged or can’t work that way, the sharpness of memory fades not long after the moment has passed. I know mentally how it felt and that I enjoyed it, but I cannot remember and feel it; I’m left with mere glimpses and pieces, precious fragments of the greater whole now lost forever to me. * * * * * I think we all felt a little odd and uncertain for the first day or two after Gareth left. We’d been a close group and we all missed his presence. Except for Philip, who’d stopped eating and gotten to the point where I’m not sure if he knew what was real and what wasn’t. He drank to reduce the bark of the dog that bit him, he drank because the thought of food made him sick, he drank to flee the demons that haunted him. Only he couldn’t see that his demons were handing him the cans and bottles. If you were to take a circle made of string, clip a segment off of it, and then reconnect the ends, you’d find that the circle tightened when you were finished. That same thing happened to us. Alan, Leah, Luis and I became even closer in Gareth’s absence. Philip withdrew even further from us. He would not initiate conversations and would only respond in short, curt phrases whenever Alan asked him a question. We were losing him more and more and had no clue what to do for him. We took him to shelters; he left or caused so many problems that they refused to readmit him. We could do nothing

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legally because we weren’t his family. It was Alan who had taken Philip under his wing from the moment they met and taught him the ropes, and so it was Alan who took Philip’s degradation the hardest. What most people don’t understand is that sometimes the drug and alcohol use starts when a person hits the streets. They’re not there because they’re a druggie—they’re a druggie because they’re there. I could say that we were also too involved in our own thoughts, our own fears and pains, to be able to help Philip, but it feels like a lie on my tongue. There had to have been something else we could have done for him. All that time, nestled down in a comfortable position towards the back of my mind, was Gareth’s warning about staying. For a while after Gareth left, I was content to go about my business and was mostly too preoccupied to allow room for any extraneous thinking. But time wore on, his warning echoed in my head, and my impasse with Jackie made me wonder if it was time to leave. I spent a few days where I wrestled with the problem in an attempt to find some sort of resolution. But I couldn’t decide. Both options called to me, and so I put off the decision. It’s said that no decision is also a decision. I can admit now that I took the easier one. Nine times out of ten, it’s easier to do nothing, even if we look back with regret later on and cringe at the weakness we see in ourselves. I gathered for a few nights with some other folks at Jackie’s insistence. We grouped at various houses and sometimes in parks, but never at Jackie’s house. Most of the people were part of the punk or indie scene, neither of which I could identify with, but for the most part we got along. I was even able to play guitar while others, including Jackie, looked on and listened in. My feelings and confusion about Jackie intensified during these gatherings. One night she sat with me on someone’s couch as everyone in the room talked and talked on into the night, finally resting her head on my shoulder when she could stay awake no longer. Another night, she

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ignored me as she talked and flirted with other people before she disappeared entirely. Those were a few long hours that seemed to stretch on forever. An event would make me feel that I was special to her, and then one right after it would show me that I was nowhere near so. The net effect was utter confusion strapped into a roller coaster of thoughts and emotions. It was after one such gathering that I returned to the cave, confused as ever, and intent on sleep. I was in the process of smoothing out my sleeping bag before I crashed when Philip said, “Kyle?” He’d been facing the wall. I’d thought he was passed out, as usual. I walked over next to him. He’d rolled over to look at me. “What’s up?” I asked. “Can I talk to you for a second?” His face was red and covered in sweat. “Sure.” I sat down crosslegged in front of him. “What’s on your mind?” He sighed. “A whole lot of things, none of them very good.” He didn’t sound good. “Are you drunk, Philip?” I asked. He shook his head slightly. “Not yet. But I will be soon.” Poking out of a brown paper bag next to him was the top of a bottle. “Wanted to talk to you first, though, and ask you a favor.” “Favor?” I asked. What could he possibly want from me? “Hold out your hand,” he said. I did so. He held out a closed fist over my palm and opened his fingers. Something heavy and warm dropped into my hand. When his hand pulled away, I saw what he’d given me: his wedding ring. “I don’t understand,” I said. “I’d like you to keep it for me.” “Why?” “Because I don’t want it any more. But I can’t bear to sell it or leave it somewhere.” I stared at the heavy, unadorned gold band in my hand.

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“I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” Philip said. He rolled over and stared up at the ceiling as he spoke. “My whole life, I was always after the biggest and the best. I got a four-oh average in both high school and college, and studied my ass off in law school. I wanted to be the best. Not only the best, but I wanted to be rich, too. Nice house, nice car, all that. When I met my wife, I thought I had it made. It was almost too good to be true.” He laughed, but it was humourless. “I guess in a way it was too good to be true,” he continued, “because look what she did. Not only were my years with her for nothing, but everything I worked to build now belongs to her. She got my house, and half our savings. Took everything, even my friends, and here I am, still in my polo shirts, hoping to make enough money to buy another bottle before the one I have runs out.” Did the ring grow heavier in my hand? I know it’s physically impossible, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t feel it. “I loved her,” he said. “And the hardest part is, I can’t stop loving her. Even looking at that ring makes me sick. It reminds me of how I feel about her and reminds me of what she did to me. So I’d like you to hang on to that for me. After a while, I suppose you can do whatever you want with it. Just don’t let me know.” I nodded. “Okay.” I wanted so much to say something—anything— to comfort him, but my mind was blank and I hated myself for it. I stood, turned, then hesitated and looked back. “Phil, I’m really sorry.” “Me too, Kyle.” He looked at me. “It’s good that you’re traveling and doing things. Keep on doing it. Enjoy your life and don’t be in a hurry to join the rat race. Trust me, even if you make it to the end, the cheese sucks.” “And please don’t tell anyone about this,” he added. “I don’t want to talk to anyone else.” He rolled back towards the wall. I don’t know how I managed to sleep after that conversation, but I do know that it made my concerns about Jackie seem trivial in comparison.

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How many people always look ahead, rushing through life with their eyes on the prize, never stopping to smell the roses? How many of them actually made it to the cheese at the end of the maze? How many of them felt it was worth it? And where did I fit in all of that? My conversation with Philip happened on the night of November th 9 . November 10th was the day I made my decision: I would leave San Francisco within two days. Though the time after Gareth’s departure went fast and remains mostly fuzzy in my recollection, I know beyond any doubt the exact date of the day I decided to leave. I know because it was the day Philip killed himself.

Chapter 20

That day started like any other. Woke up near sunrise and walked to the drop in center for breakfast. Taylor wasn’t there that day—when I asked about him, another volunteer told me that he had the day off. I was a few minutes gone when I thought I spotted Alan about a block away. His beard and hair made him stand out. When I got closer, I noticed that there was an odd-shaped cardboard box at his feet. He bent, grabbed it, lifted it up a foot or two off the ground, and then dropped it, panting. The box made a heavy clang when it landed on the ground. I rushed over. His breath blew ragged through his mouth in harsh wheezes. “Alan, what the hell are you doing?” I asked. What had looked like a box at a distance was actually something covered with brown paper and tape. “What’s that?” “Sink,” he said, between gasps for air. “Huh?” “It’s a sink,” he said. “What the hell are you doing with it?” Alan sat down on the sink, elbows on his knees and hands hanging down between his legs. “I found it.” “Well, it actually fell off a truck first and wedged under some girl’s

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car,” he said. “I saw her standing there, looking at this big box under her car, talking on her cellphone. She was following a truck and it hit a bump. It fell off the back. She was following too close to avoid it and hit it full force, driving it under the car. I asked if she needed help, and she said sure.” Alan took a few deep breaths. “I got the jack out of her trunk and was able to raise the car up enough to pull the thing out. Asked what she was going to do with it. She had no idea, of course; pretty little thing, but didn’t have a single thought in her head. So I took it.” I was intrigued and mystified all at once. “What are you going to do with it?” “I know a guy I can probably sell it to.” “At least that explains why you almost killed yourself trying to carry it,” I said. When you live on the streets, you make a buck in whatever way you can. He nodded. “Damn thing gets a lot heavier after you carry it for a while. Can you help me with it?” I nodded. After some trial and error with different methods, we managed to carry it the rest of the way, one of us on each side, me holding it behind me. We took a moment to rest right outside the door. Alan leaned up against the building, panting. “Wait until Luis sees this,” he said. He grinned. “Hell of a find. He’s gonna be so jealous.” And that wouldn’t phase Alan a bit, it seemed. What’s a little friendly competition between scavengers? Leah had the same reaction as I did. She walked into the room, alerted no doubt by all the noise we were making as we carried the sink in, not to mention the hollow bong it made when we set it down. Leah took one look at us, huffing and panting, then looked at the wrapped sink and frowned. “What is it?” she asked. Alan began to tell her the same story he’d told me. He never had a chance to finish it, though. Luis came flying in the door partway through the retelling. I knew at once that something was wrong. Luis—always the calm, cool kid from the streets—was frantic and gibbering. Tears streamed

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down his cheeks. Leah enfolded him in a hug while Alan attempted to calm him down so that we could understand what he was saying. “Phil left, and I followed him. He went to the bridge and got on the edge. I tried to stop him and the police came and they asked if I knew him and I said yes. They asked if I knew anyone who could talk to him and I thought of you guys and an officer brought me here to get you.” Based on Luis chattering, I knew what was happening, and it made my stomach drop. “Philip’s going to jump.” The color drained out of Alan’s face. “Oh Christ,” he said. “Luis, you said there’s someone outside waiting for us?” The boy nodded and wiped his hand across his nose. “He’s around the corner. I didn’t want to bring him here.” “Okay. Leah, stay here with Luis.” Alan looked at me. “Kyle, lets go.” I followed Alan out the door at a dead run. We rounded the corner and saw a squad car. Even in his panic, Luis had wisdom enough to not lead the authorities to where we were staying. Alan approached the passenger side window. “Can you take us to the bridge?” he asked. “That’s what I’m here for,” I heard the officer reply. “Get in.” Alan hopped up front, which left me to sit in the back. I hadn’t even had a chance to shut the door before the officer pulled away from the curb. The back seat was bare with no carpet. A thick, black metal grate separated and protected the front seats. It was my first time in the back of a police car, and I didn’t like the feeling one bit. My concern for Philip overrode any other thoughts after that initial observation. “Do you think you can talk him down?” the officer asked. “I hope so,” Alan replied. We said no more. I’m not sure how long it took us to get there, but I know that it felt like forever. The officer flicked his lights to get people to move out of the way and I’m sure he was going over the speed limit. Even so, I willed us to go faster, for us to get there in time. And that’s how I found myself back at the Golden Gate bridge. A

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circle of onlookers had formed, held back by an arc of uniformed police officers. Visible above them all was Philip sitting on the railing. Our officer escorted us up and through the police line. A brownsuited official saw us and came over. “Who are you?” he asked. “We’re friends of his,” Alan replied. “Then see if you can get him to come down. I’ve had no luck at all, he threatens to jump whenever I get too close.” Alan stepped forward a ways. What do I do? I thought. What the hell do I do? I stood where I was, next to the official, paralyzed, heart pounding in my chest. Alan stopped about fifteen feet away from where Philip sat staring out at the water. “Hey Philip, whatcha doing, man?” Philip didn’t turn. “Hey Alan. Figured you might come.” I had to strain to hear him. “Yeah, well, I couldn’t let a friend sit alone, now could I? Why don’t you come on down, we’ll go get a beer.” Philip shook his head. “I don’t want to drink any more.” Alan shrugged. “Okay, then I’ll drink your beer for you. Maybe we can shoot some pool or something. Just please, come down from there.” “I can’t.” “Yes you can, man. Whatever’s wrong, we can fix it.” “It’s not one thing,” Philip said. “It’s everything.” “Everyone hits rough spots. You can get through this.” Alan shuffled closer while he talked. “Word travels fast in the business world, Alan. The whole bay area knows what’s happened by now. Everyone will know that ol’ Phil had a mental breakdown. No one will hire me.” “You could always move somewhere else,” Alan suggested. “There are lots of opportunities out there.” “Maybe for others,” Philip said, “but not for me. I can’t make it in your world, Alan. I couldn’t even bring myself to get different clothes, let alone pull myself together enough to dig my way out of the whole I’m in. It’s hopeless.”

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Alan crept forward. “Nothing is ever hopeless, Philip. There are people and organizations that can help you.” Philip turned around to look at Alan—who stopped dead in his tracks. Philip glanced around at everyone gathered and then at me. There was a brief moment where our eyes met before Philip looked at Alan again. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me, Alan.” Philip turned back around. Everything that happened next went by so fast. It would take me replaying it in my head later on—indeed, how could I stop it?—before I could reconstruct what happened. Alan rushed forward the moment Phil’s back was turned. Philip put both of his hands down on the railing and I swear that I saw his body tense. He pushed off as Alan reached him. He seemed to hang there, suspended in midair for a moment. Alan threw his arms out to grab him but was too late. Phil dropped from sight. I blinked in disbelief. He was gone.

Chapter 21

The Golden Gate Bridge is one of the world’s prime suicide spots: at least one thousand people have jumped to their deaths. The total count is likely a great deal more—the bodies that wash up in Marin County aren’t included unless there’s enough evidence to show that they jumped from the bridge. As a city that relies on its tourist trade, the city of San Francisco overlooks such information. Nowhere will you find mention of or memorial for anyone other than the eleven who died during the bridge’s construction. Such knowledge might cast a pall over the well-swept, scenic city. Being famous as a suicide spot doesn’t lend itself well to attracting visitors. At least, not the kind who plan to stay and spend money. San Francisco is a city of high hopes and ideas, full of romance and the allure of the west. Many people “go west” in the search for something better. But beneath the tourist glamour, there’s the same grind and filth as in any other city. It’s just hidden better. What moved Philip to end his life? It could have been his perceived failure while living in what is considered to be one of the greatest cities in the country. After San Francisco, every other city might have appeared bleak and without possibility. Or did tunnel vision, formed by hopeless-

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ness, heartbreak and despair keep from sight his options for help and opportunity for change? The Golden Gate Strait is a gateway from the bay to the Pacific Ocean, and the bridge is a focal point for this division between civilization and the vast emptiness of the sea. For Philip and many others, the bridge and waters below became a gateway out of this life and into the next. Wherever he is, I hope he’s happier.

Chapter 22

The ride back from the bridge was a somber one. Alan said nothing when the officer asked where he could drop us off, and so I said that he could drop us off at the same place he picked us up. I watched the city flow by through the child-locked back windows as guilt wracked me. Why didn’t I try to say something? Phil’s ring was still in the bottom of my backpack, wrapped in a sock. I should have known. I should have known that he’d do something like that. Hadn’t his whole conversation with me hinted at it? Hell, screamed it? Leah and Luis were waiting for us when we walked in the door. Leah stood. Alan was the first to enter, so I couldn’t see his face. He approached Leah and stopped in front of her. Her eyes scanned his face. I think she knew. “I...”, he said. He looked at her for a moment and then lowered his head and wept. “My fingers touched his shirt. Touched his goddamn shirt.” Leah stepped forward and put her arms around him, eyes closed, and muttered soothing words to him. I left the room so that Alan could grieve and Leah could comfort in private.

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Once in the other room, I retrieved Philip’s wedding ring from my backpack. It slid out of the sock into the palm of my hand. Heavy. Solid. Cold. I sat with my back to the wall. Thinking. Could I have known what he was going to do? Would I have known had I paid more attention? Could I have stopped him? I didn’t know then, I don’t know now, and I’m not sure that I ever will. That I blamed myself should be obvious. I sat with my eyes closed. In my hand was the ring of a man now gone, a ring that represented his love for another person. To me, it stood for all of his hopes and dreams. All dashed, one by one. Phil had told me to enjoy life, and to not be in a hurry to join the rat race. Was that what I was doing? Taking the time to see things, to travel, to simply be without anyone or anything forcing me in any one direction? Or was I avoiding work and responsibility, refusing to build a life? There was one thing I was sure about: San Francisco had lost its appeal. Too much conflict. Too much death. I’d seen some of what the city had to offer, and while I loved the sort of free spirit and culture of the place, I no longer felt excited about it. Thinking of it only reminded me of what I’d been through. It was then, sitting with Phil’s ring in my hand, that I decided to leave San Francisco. Deciding was the “easy” part. Now I had to tell those I wanted to tell, decide where I wanted to go, and actually leave. It’s far easier to dream about something than it is to do it. That decided, I threw myself into sleep before the thoughts could pick up steam. Alan and Leah were gone when I got back up. They were still gone when I prepared to leave to meet Jackie. Since no one else was there, I took all of my stuff with me—I’d grown used to walking around without my pack, and found the weight of it to be a bit cumbersome and uncom-

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fortable once more. I’d have to get used to it in a hurry once I left. Jackie beat me to our spot beside the fountain and smiled when she saw me. I imagined that I would immediately tell her what happened, but remarkably, I remained silent on the issue. What I witnessed still bothered me. Perhaps I also avoided it due to my own guilt of the part I played. Jackie asked me to play something, and so I obliged her, fingers picking idly without much thought from me. I spaced out, not thinking about anything at all, while my fingers played. When I came back, I realized what I was playing and my fingers fumbled and dropped away—I’d begun the opening bars of “Stairway To Heaven.” Jackie frowned. “What’s wrong?” The story of Phil came out while I merely held the guitar. The wood felt solid. Comforting. “My god. That’s horrible,” she said when I’d finished. “I can’t believe you saw that.” “I wish I didn’t. The way he hung in midair before he dropped—I can see it perfectly. He was so damn calm.” I sighed. But I still felt the same way about my decision to leave, and so I plunged on. “I’ve been thinking about leaving San Francisco,” I said. “Me too,” Jackie replied. “Why?” I asked. “Things haven’t gone the way I thought they would here,” she said. “I’ll second that.” “Where are you going?” she asked. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m still working on that. There are so many places I haven’t been that I can’t figure out where to go first.” I plucked guitar chords as my mind worked. Where did I want to go? What if she did want to leave—could we travel together? A small flame of excitement flickered inside me. “I may just start walking out of town and see where I end up,” I said.

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“That sounds awesome.” “It can be. It’s a bit scary, though, too. To not know where you’re going or what you’re going to do when you get there. I always feel stupid when someone stops to pick me up and I tell them ‘I don’t know’ when they ask where I’m going.” I smiled, small and faint, but it was still there. “Some people understand. Others think I’m nuts.” “I’ve never done that,” she said. “I’ve always had a destination in mind whenever I hit the road. I miss it.” “We could always travel together if you want to leave sometime soon,” I said, as off-handed as I could manage. I was a bit nervous, but much less than what was normal around her. My decision to leave may have freed me of any concerns at that point. I was leaving—what was there to be nervous about? Before then, her pause while she thought would have been agonizing. But now? I merely waited. “I’d love to,” she said. “When are you leaving?” “I’d planned on leaving tomorrow, but I can wait around a while until you’re ready to go.” “I can leave tomorrow.” “But what about your job?” She shrugged. “I’ll quit. I hate it there.” “And your roommates?” “Nah, it’s fine. I want to go.” She smiled. “I thought it’d be a while before I left. But traveling with you will be so much better than by myself.” I couldn’t help but smile. “So. Tomorrow morning, then?” I asked. She nodded. It’s all well and good to talk about picking up and leaving, but knowing that I was actually going to do it—and her with me—made my stomach flutter. * * * * * We talked a while after that, both of us growing more and more

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excited. When we split, we hugged for the first time and agreed to meet up at that spot the next morning to set out. I took mental stock as I walked away from the square. The events of the day still pulled me down and drained me of energy and happiness, but the thought of putting San Francisco behind me and being on the road with Jackie served as a bright light at the end of a dark tunnel. But I still had to tell the others I was leaving, and at a time when emotions were high. And despite my good feelings about the way things were going, I still had Gareth’s warning about Jackie hanging over my head. I pushed those feelings aside. I’d been “home” for a few hours when Luis came to find me. I’d wondered if something might be up when I saw that no one else was there. “Leah asked me to look for you here,” he said. He didn’t seem like himself. All of his energy was gone, and there was no mischievousness in his eyes that night. “What’s up?” I asked. “They’ve rented a hotel for the night and invited us to stay with them,” he said. “Whoa,” I said. Where did they get the money for that? “Alan sold the sink he found,” Luis said. “It was a good find. So they’re using the money from that.” I followed Luis through the city. We walked side by side for the most part. I couldn’t tell how he was doing. Also didn’t know if asking straightout would offend the boy. Or if he’d give me an honest answer. Growing up as he did, he learned to live life from a different set of rules than I did, and at times, I didn’t understand him very well. Instead, I asked, “How’s is Alan holding up?” “He’s okay, I guess.” After a moment he added, “Just really sad.” “I think we all are, Luis.” I’m glad that Luis hadn’t been there to witness Philip’s leap. The memory still hasn’t faded. I suspect I’ll carry it with me forever. I understood a little more how Alan could afford a motel room when

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we went further into the Tenderloin. I couldn’t escape that district. Luis led us towards one building that looked about the same as any other, old and rundown, and we climbed ten flights of stairs because the elevator was out of order. One look at the condition of the building made me think the elevator had probably never been much in order even when it did work. By the time we got to the top, I’d built up a mild sweat and was breathing heavy. Climbing stairs with a loaded backpack isn’t fun or easy work. An attractive, middle-aged woman answered the door when Luis knocked. Long brown hair fell to her mid torso. I was about to apologize for our having the wrong door when Luis stepped right in and the woman said, “Oh good, you found him.” I knew that voice! “Leah?” I asked. Leah smiled, and a little piece of my heart melted at the sight. “Hi Kyle. Please come in.” I stepped in, still blown away by her change in appearance. “Wow,” I said, still looking at her. “Looks a bit different, doesn’t she?” came Alan’s voice from across the room. He sat on one of the room’s two beds, back against the headboard with the TV remote in his lap. He, too, looked much better. Showers and a real room had worked wonders. More than that, though, was Leah forgoing her bulky clothes and hat. I sensed something still wrong in Alan. Like he was straining to put on a good mood when he was still a mess inside. And I’m sure he was. For good reason. “You can take a shower if you want,” Leah told me. “There are some clean towels under the sink.” The lure of a shower was too much to resist. In the bathroom I found fresh supplies as well as articles of clothing that the others had washed and hung to dry. It felt wonderful to take a private shower. While old and stained in some places, the bathroom fixtures still worked. It was odd to have my own bathroom—a far cry from sponge bathing in sinks or using shelter showers.

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I pulled the cleanest clothes I had out of my pack, dressed in my pants, and leaned over the sink to shave. Alan knocked and asked if he could come in and get his brush. He’d left it on the sink. “Thank you for inviting me here,” I said. “That must have been some sink to get you into a place like this.” “You could say so,” he replied. “Turned out to be one of those fancy ones. Made it worthwhile to put all that work into carrying it, that’s for sure. And by the way, the manager doesn’t know you’re here, so if he should stop by, you and Luis are just visiting.” “Will you have any money left over after this?” I asked. Money is always a touchy subject with people, but I didn’t want him to spend everything he had on this one night. “We’ll have a bit,” he replied. “Enough to make sure that we get a few necessary things and won’t go hungry. After today, I figured we could all use a break. Something different.” I thought of Philip. “Yeah.” I looked at Alan and tried to assess his condition. “How’re you doing? Honestly, now. You don’t have to fake anything with me like you were out there.” He went to speak, but I interrupted him because I didn’t want him to take me the wrong way. “I know you’re doing it for Leah and Luis’s benefit,” I said, “but you don’t have to do that with me. Don’t forget that I woke to find my friend had died in the night.” That took the wind out of Alan’s sails. Whatever he was going to say died on his lips. He exhaled. It seemed to deflate him from the inside. “I don’t know, man. I keep wondering if I could have done something different. If there was something I could have said or done but didn’t.” “I keep wondering the same thing,” I said. “And I think it’s something we’ll never know. We can’t beat ourselves up over it. You did do a whole hell of a lot. I was there. I saw. I also wondered the same things about my friend Eric. Like if I would have pushed him harder, I could have gotten him out of that environment and he’d still be here. But I also know that they chose their own paths. Made their own decisions.

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It doesn’t make the guilt or the questioning go away, but it does make it hurt a little less.” Alan’s eyes were loose and unfocused. “I keep seeing everything that happened in the end.” “I do too,” I said. He was lost in thought. “My mind replays it over and over,” he said. “How he hopped off the wall. Like when my friends and I used to hang out in high school and sit on the school sign, and one of us would say, ‘Hey, lets get some smokes’ and we’d all jump up. He hopped right off. And I almost had him.” Alan looked at his hands, fingers open, palms up. “You have to let those thoughts go,” I said as gently as I could. “They’ll tear you apart if you don’t. I’ve always hated it when people say it to me, but I suppose now it’s my turn: ‘trust me. I know.’” Our conversation brought up images and feelings out of my past. Ghosts of my father and Eric swirled up in my mind. I have to let you go, I told them. I could almost sense them shrug as they disappeared for the moment. “Yeah, I suppose so,” Alan said. “You sound like someone who has no intention of following my suggestions,” I said. I smiled. Hoped it’d take some of the sting out of my statement. Alan smiled in return. Forced, perhaps, and at most it was a half of a smile, but I think a small fraction of it was genuine. “No, it’s good advice. Weird coming from someone half my age, but good all the same. But it’s one thing to know what to do, and it’s another to do it.” I could second that. I changed the subject. We’d already said what there was to say, and I didn’t want Alan to feel awkward by getting advice from someone too young to buy him a beer. “Leah seems to be feeling a bit better,” I said. “You think so?” he asked. I nodded. “Looking better, too,” I said with a grin. “She’s very attractive. But I’m sure you already knew that.” Okay, I’ll admit that I was fishing for tidbits by this point. I don’t

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think anyone would blame me. “Yeah, she is,” Alan said, and then he sighed. “I knew it already, but it’s obvious whenever she cleans up and gets out of those clothes.” “Why does she wear them, then?” Embarrassed, I lowered my voice a bit. “I thought she didn’t care about being dirty,” I admitted. “No, she cares,” he replied. His voice sunk down to a whisper as well. “She does it for safety reasons.” “What do you mean?” “Think about it. Any woman is a target for some men. A small, attractive woman would get harassed, if not worse, constantly. If she looks dirty and frumpy most people will leave her alone. The streets aren’t safe for anyone, but women have the odds stacked against them.” “But she has you,” I said. Alan blushed. One more thing to confirm what I already thought. “I guess so,” he said. When he turned away, I also saw a bit of another smile. * * * * * I finished up in the bathroom and rejoined everyone in the other room. Luis had the remote control and flipped through channels until he came to some cartoons. How much of his childhood had he missed? Alan and Leah sat together on one bed. A few white Chinese takeout boxes sat in front of them. “It’s a bit cold, but there’s some left if you want it,” Alan told me. “I’m okay, thanks. I already ate.” I sat in a rickety chair by a little table next to the open window. The surface of the table had heavy scratches and gouges on it, and it matched the windowsill point for point. Sounds from the street ten stories below drifted in along with a cool breeze. There was a phone on the table, one of those older models with a large base and a handset that rested on top. I was idly reading over the instructions for dialing out when the phone rang. I jumped. Alan answered it. “Hello? Yes, speaking.”

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He listened for a moment. “Okay. No, thank you for calling.” He hung up the phone and stood with his hand resting on it. Whatever progress Alan had made towards feeling better had been stripped away with that phone call. I could see it in his face—he looked like he was going to be sick. He looked towards Luis, who was still absorbed in cartoons, and motioned for Leah and I to come over with him to the other side of the room near the bathroom door. Alan kept his voice pitched low. “That was a detective with the SFPD. They’ve recovered Philip’s body from the bay and have turned it over. There will be a small service for him tomorrow morning.” We stood around in silence. I stared at the floor as the words recovered his body sunk in. Leah hugged Alan. “Are you sure you want to go?” she asked him. “I’m sure,” he replied. “It’s up to both of you if you want to go or not.” Without hesitation, Leah said, “I will.” I, on the other hand, hesitated. But not out of disrespect for Philip. I didn’t want to go to a funeral. Didn’t want to face death yet again, so up close and personal. Then I thought of Philip’s wedding ring in my backpack and felt overwhelming guilt when I considered not going to pay my final respects. I’d never gone to services for Eric, either. If there had been any. That thought cranked up the guilt another notch. I hadn’t even bothered to find out what’d happened to Eric. Had I been too selfish, too relieved to be out of trouble? Or did I have an actual reason, something someone might understand, of not wanting to face death again so soon after losing my father? Was I avoiding it yet again? Philip had entrusted the ring to me, and no one else, when he himself couldn’t bear to part with it. Didn’t that show a certain amount of trust? Of faith in me? It created a sort of bond between us. I owed it to him to be there. Even if I didn’t want to be. I regretted things with Eric and would

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not do the same with Philip. “I’ll go too,” I said. “But there’s something I’d like to tell you guys. I’m sorry it’s come up right now, but I’ve been trying to work up to telling you for most of the night. I’ve decided to leave town.” “Aww, why?” Leah asked. “It has nothing to do with you guys at all,” I said. “I’m very glad to have met you. My stay here in the city would have been a lot different, and a lot worse, without you. But with everything that’s going on, I feel it’s time for me to move on.” “When are you leaving?” Alan asked. “Tomorrow.” “Wasting no time, eh?” he asked. “I figured there’s no time like the present. Besides, I have a friend I’m traveling with.” “Oh? Who’s that?” Alan asked. “A girl I met named Jackie.” “Is that the same girl you’ve been meeting every night?” Leah asked. I was surprised. “Yeah, how’d you know?” She smiled. “I’ve picked up on things here and there.” “Are you two an item?” Alan asked. “You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend.” He sounded a bit hurt. I sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. We’re friends, as far as I know, but at the very least it’ll be nice to have someone to travel with.” Alan nodded. “Always is. So you’re going to stay for the funeral?” I nodded. I didn’t dare voice my opinions or thoughts on the matter. I didn’t think the others would understand, and I didn’t want to come off as a callous asshole. Besides, I didn’t want to slip and mention Philip’s wedding ring. Leah had been looking over at Luis while we talked. “What about Luis?” she asked. “Tell him the truth,” I said. No one told me about what happened to my mother. While Philip wasn’t Luis’s relative, it was still someone he knew. “He knew Philip,” I

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said, “and should decide for himself what he wants to do. Considering who he is, I don’t think he’ll need sheltering from this.” Leah sighed. “You’re right. I guess I should be the one to do it. Just not right now. I’m still trying to cope myself.” “Of all of us, you’d be the best one to tell him,” I agreed. “I don’t want to.” “We know.” Who would?

Chapter 23

We shared beds that night, Luis and I in one, separated by our sleeping bags, and Alan and Leah in the other. The comfort and joy of sleeping on a real mattress escapes most people—you tend not to give something much thought when you do it every day. I wish it had been under better circumstances. Alan used some of his cash reserve to buy bus tickets. By law, no further burials are allowed within the San Francisco city limits, and so all funerals are held outside the city. Leah told Luis the exact truth of what happened, and he decided to come with us. Another member of our group was gone. In Colma, California—a town known for being home to more deceased than living—seventeen cemeteries take up almost three quarters of the land, and it was there that we said goodbye to Philip. His service was simple, off in a small corner of the grounds. A black sheet draped around the casket concealed it from sight. In the event of a homeless person’s death, a coroner is contacted and the body turned over. If no next of kin are known or can be located, the police arrange for a government undertaker to prepare a pauper’s burial. Most mortuaries go on rotation. If someone dies during their shift, they

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are responsible for all arrangements. They lose money on social service cases like these, and so the deceased are buried in cheap pressed-wood caskets and are stacked one atop another with a temporary marker. I didn’t know any of this at the time, and for that I’m glad. How could I have tolerated that knowledge? Many of the homeless die alone, their passing not always peaceful or without suffering. And yet, that’s hardly the worst of it. Who will attend their funeral? Who will even notice that they’re gone? Alan, Leah, Luis, and I stood in a clump by Philip’s final resting spot, all of us crisp in our cleanliness and ironed clothes and the newness of a day barely begun. An anonymous preacher droned out the twenty-third psalm. I let my attention and my mind wander. The tug of memories tempted me to revisit my father’s funeral. I resolved to not usurp Philip’s moment. We were there to say goodbye to him. My own problems could wait. As I looked around elsewhere in the grounds, I noticed a woman in a black dress some distance away beneath a willow tree. The tree cast enough shadow in the early morning light that I couldn’t make out any of her features. Following a gut instinct, I slipped away from the service and walked in her direction. She dabbed at her face with a Kleenex as I slid into the shadow beside her. I knew why she was there and watching from so far away. “You’re Philip’s wife, aren’t you?” I asked. She tensed as she turned to look at me. The tissue appeared to be pure pretext at first, but there were honest tears in her eyes. “How did you know?” I sighed. “He told me about you. The rest was a guess and a hunch.” Should I have been talking to her, considering where we where? If I were to trace it back, she might be the actual reason we were there. The

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start of it all. She blotted the corners of her eyes with the wad of tissue. “You must have heard awful things about me.” “I heard what happened between you two,” I said as I watched the service from afar. “But never much bad about you personally. If you want my honest opinion, I’m not sure how I feel.” “I’d have thought he’d be mad at me and hate me. I’m not so sure that he’d be wrong.” “He didn’t hate you,” I said. “That’s what everyone says. But no one knows.” “I do,” I said, and I took off my backpack to fetch Philip’s ring out of it. I fumbled it loose of the sock I hid it in and held it out to her. She gasped. “Where did you get that?” Red rose in her cheeks. A second later, I realized what she must have been thinking—stolen!—and spoke fast to cut off that train of thought. “He gave it to me a few days ago,” I said. “For safe keeping. He said that looking at it caused too much pain, but that he still loved you and couldn’t bear to be rid of it.” She started crying, and I could do nothing but finish what I had to say. “So he asked me to hold on to it for him,” I said. Frustration blocked my ability to think. The whole damn situation was stupid—and I was in the middle of it. “Had I known he had this planned, I would have done whatever I could.” I sighed. “But I had no idea.” I stood silent as she cried. Off in the distance, the priest made a few gestures in the air as he spoke. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come over to talk to you.” “No,” she said. “I’m glad you did. I might never have known that he didn’t hate me, and that takes a lot of weight off my shoulders. I never meant for this to happen. When I told him I wanted a divorce, I felt like I was doing the right thing and making the worst mistake of my life all at the same time.” I said nothing. Just watched the service and listened. “He took it hard,” she continued. “Called me all the time to check up on me. Would think of any reason to talk to me. Sometimes he’d be in

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a good mood, almost like calling me was an afterthought, and other times he’d be so upset that it was more like a phone call to a friend than to his ex-wife. I tried to be there for him, in hopes that he’d pull out of it. The calls decreased, and I thought he was starting to heal.” She looked out with me at the small ceremony. “I guess that wasn’t true after all.” “We tried to get him some help,” I said. “We did everything we could think of.” The priest closed his book and stepped back towards the main buildings. My friends stood together at the grave side, every now and then glancing over toward us. “I should go,” I said. “I’m sorry about what happened.” “Me too. Thank you for being Phil’s friend. I hope you don’t think I’m a horrible person.” Her eyes, red and puffy from crying, flickered back and forth across my face. Was she looking for some sign of how I felt? How did I feel? And did talking to her change any of it? My anger that she could be such a bitch couldn’t find anything to grab a hold of— not in that place. Even if it could, who was I to vent at the woman? To twist the knife of regret and loss when so much had already changed? I said the first things that came to mind. “I don’t know what to think,” I said. “Leaving him for his friend was a shitty thing to do, but I think that sometimes life is hard, that sometimes we have to make a decision between choices we don’t like, and you two were unlucky enough to get caught with it. You did what you felt you had to do, and it was up to Philip to either deal with it and get over it, or not. My being mad at you or not has nothing to do with anything.” I looked at the heavy gold ring still in my hand. “I’m sorry if this is wrong of me, but I’ve never been in this situation before. Do you want his ring? You certainly have more right to it than I do.” She shook her head. “He gave it to you,” she said. “And so you should keep it. I can’t take it. Not after breaking his heart. I wouldn’t be able to get rid of it, and looking at it would be a constant reminder of what I did to him.” She sighed. “While that might be what I deserve, it’s not what I

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want.” I nodded. What else was there to say? Alan walked towards us, and I realized the potential for a bad situation. “You should go,” I said. “The man walking towards us was a friend of Philip’s and tried to help him. I don’t think he’ll be happy to meet you.” “I understand. Thank you for talking with me.” She held out her hand to shake. “And thank you for being so kind.” She took a deep breath. “I need to go claim him—I owe him that much.” I returned the handshake and watched her walk away. I never learned her name, and I think I like it better that way. For the rest of the day, my hand carried a trace of whatever perfume she wore. “Who was that?” Alan asked as he came to a stop beside me. “Oh, no one,” I lied. I think I’ve said before that I’m a horrible liar. Alan saw right through it. “Bullshit,” he replied. “You wouldn’t have come over here if it was ‘no one’. That’s Philip’s ex, isn’t it.” I sighed. “Yes, but I didn’t know at first. Only suspected.” He started to go after her, and I grabbed his shoulder. “Let her go, Alan. She’s not as bad as you think.” “The hell she isn’t. Philip told you what happened, didn’t he?” “Yes. But I also talked with her.” I looked over at where Philip’s casket sat. A mortuary worker in green work clothes removed the black shroud from around the casket and I could see the cheap wood underneath. “In the end, yelling at her won’t do a single thing. We came here to say goodbye to Philip, and we’ve done that. Let’s go, Alan. Please.” At first, I was sure my speech would fall on deaf ears and Alan would tear out of my grasp to run the lady down. He was bigger than me and I had no hope of holding him back. He glared at her as she walked towards a car parked on another lane. I could feel his muscles flexing under my hand. After a moment, he relaxed, and I removed my hand. We walked back together.

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I’d walked away from the service, and so I took a few minutes to say my own silent goodbyes to Philip, a man I felt ran into some bad luck and hadn’t the strength to pull himself back out of it. I vowed not to forget the things he told me. But he also reminded me to not run from things needlessly. A thought occurred to me as we were about to leave. I walked over to the mortuary worker as he rolled a cart full of flowers and apologized for bothering him. “I was wondering if it’s possible to find out if someone else is buried here? He passed away about two weeks ago.” “Hmm”, he noised, “we can check. Follow me.” I gave a just-a-moment gesture to the others and followed the guy into the air conditioned lobby of the main building. A bell jingled as we stepped in. Out of a connected room—what I assumed to be a show room, judging by the few different bronze-trimmed caskets I could see through the doorway—stepped a middle-aged man in a suit and tie. The worker waved him away. “What is the person’s name?” he asked. He had a large leatherbound ledger in front of him. “Eric. I don’t know his last name, but it would have been a service much like today’s, I’m guessing. He didn’t have any money, and was homeless.” “How old would you say he was?” “Around my age.” “Really?” he asked. His eyebrows rose in surprise. “We had a John Doe come in around that time.” “A who?” “John Doe. It’s the name the police give to crime victims that remain unidentified.” My heart rate jumped. “Is there any chance that my friend could have ended up at another home?” I asked. He shook his head. “We’ve been on rotation for a month now.” “How many have you had around my age?” I asked then. Had I found Eric’s final resting place? Renewed guilt over leaving him there at Angel’s place made me feel sick to my stomach.

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“Recently?” he asked. I nodded. “Well,” he mused, glancing at the ceiling in thought, “only the one, as far as I know.” Only the one. It had to be Eric. “So I’d say the odds are pretty good that it was your friend,” he said, his thoughts one step behind mine. “But then,” he added, and then his face looked puzzled, “if you’re his friend and knew about his death, why did he go unidentified?” Another potential disaster. I had no idea what Angel did to Eric’s body or the circumstances of its discovery. It was time to do some fast talking before I found myself doing jail time. “I found out from a mutual friend that he passed away. She didn’t know any of the circumstances, just found out from the grapevine, so to speak, and didn’t know when or where he’d been buried.” I gestured with my head in the direction Philip now lay. “I was here for another friend’s service, and thought I might find him here so I could say goodbye to him, too.” When I look back on it, it might have been the mention of a second friend’s death that kept me out of a great deal of questions and trouble. “I’m sorry,” said the worker, and I could see nothing but sympathy on his face. “Rough luck. Give me a moment and I’ll look up the details.” He disappeared into a back room. I stood there waiting and tried not to pay too much attention to the trappings around me. After a moment, Alan came in. “What’s up, Kyle?” “Do you remember me telling you about my friend who died in the apartment that night?” I asked. He nodded. “He’s buried here. The guy is going to tell me where.” “Oh.” Alan looked around, found no decent place to rest his eyes, and then returned back to me. “Well, we’ll be waiting outside. Take as long as you need. We’ll leave whenever you’re ready.” The worker gave me directions. I followed them to find a still-fresh gave with three names written on a temporary marker. The marker itself was a small angel standing on a pedestal. A small card rested where a name should have been. On said card were three names:

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Fanny—no last name. John Doe. Larry Williams. I thought of Eric being laid to rest alone and without the dignity of his name. I sat down on the grass to one side. “Shit, Eric. I’m sorry,” I told him. Could he hear me? “What a fucking mess that was, man. I wish you would have listened to me. Or that we’d have gone somewhere else that night. Or hell, that I’d have had the nerve to kick your ass for thinking about dealing. It’s not fair for you to be here.” I sat there for a few minutes, thinking half thoughts. I hadn’t known him long—had only known him, what, a few days?—but he tried to help me, and that means something, doesn’t it? Then I stood and tried to give my final goodbyes. But I had nothing to leave for him, nothing to show that he was cared for by someone and didn’t have to go it alone. I spotted a nearby tree and had an idea. First I looked around to make sure no one was watching, and then, pack on the ground, I jumped up and broke off a small branch. I sat down again and cut it into two parts with my pocket knife. I cut a thin strip off the bottom of one of my shirts with the scissors, and I wrapped this around the twigs after I shaped them into the form of a cross. The material held the cross together well enough. I set it to lean up against the marker. I’m no Christian and I don’t think Eric was either, but I still felt better. It was at least something. I left, but not before I secured the worker’s promise that he would set things right and give Eric the dignity of his proper name. * * * * * We stood waiting for the bus. Alan asked me, “Do you still plan on leaving?” I nodded. “Yeah. My friend and I made new plans to meet up.” “Where are you going?” “I have no idea yet,” I admitted. “But where ever we go, we’ll go

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somewhere, and I think it’s the going and not the getting there that matters right now.” “We’ll miss you,” Leah said. She came forward and hugged me. She had not yet donned her street clothing, and her form felt slight and almost frail in my return hug. When we separated, she added, “Take care of yourself.” “I will, thank you,” I said. “You guys take care, too.” All Luis had to say was “Bye” before he ran off to look at something that’d caught his attention. Was he indifferent to the comings and goings of others because of the way he’d grown up? Or was it the capriciousness of youth? Alan, Leah, and Luis talked amongst themselves to make plans for the rest of the day. They couldn’t bear to go back to the Cave so soon after saying goodbye to Philip. I took an earlier stop on the route even though it put me farther away from Union square and my meeting point with Jackie. I wanted to say goodbye to the Cave. I waved at my friends before I stepped off the bus. The last image of them I see in my mind is of them seated in the blue, molded plastic bus seats, Alan and Leah smiling and waving, the small form of Luis situated in between them. How would they fare in the coming weeks and months? What would happen now that the group had dwindled so? Would they dig out from the hole they were in? I settled my pack—that old, familiar weight—and went to say goodbye to my makeshift home. I never got the chance. At least, not in the way that I expected. Left to only stand and stare from a block away, I had to say my goodbyes from behind a line of fire trucks. Flames engulfed our building, and our Cave along with it. Could be that a drifter’s fire got out of control and then spread. I’m sure it happens often enough. In the end, though, I couldn’t help but feel that it was personal—that Angel had finally found out where I lived and orchestrated the fire through his thugs. My heart ached most for my friends, who would return home from the funeral of their companion to find their makeshift home destroyed. I

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had already decided to move on, and that shielded me from much of the blow. They had not. There was no way for me to find or contact them. They were on their own, and I wished them luck. In a way, maybe it was good for all of us. I watched our building burn, a not-too-subtle hint that I should leave, and all doubts that I had about leaving vanished along with the structure itself. I’d been given plenty of time in San Francisco. More than I deserved.

Chapter 24

I half expected Jackie to not even show at our arranged time and place. It would be the final blow to my spirit, but I would not let it stop me. The itch to get moving had settled in. She did arrive, though. Her possessions didn’t do much to boost my confidence in her as a traveling companion: a hippie-inspired hemp rucksack served as her backpack. A small, woven blanket hung from the side of the bag, tied there by thin strands of fabric. There’s no way that blanket would keep her warm enough if we had to sleep outside. I’d assumed she’d have a sleeping bag like mine, if not even more belongings, due to her having much more road experience than I. How much could she fit in that thing? I said nothing, not wanting to get our trip off on the wrong foot. We caught a ride south of the Mission District that dropped us off in Broadmoor. Pack on the ground at my feet, I stood and stretched while I considered our next move. “You know,” Jackie mused, “we’re not too far from Colma. Are you up for a side trip?” My mood sank. “I just came from a funeral there. Why would I want to go back?”

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“It’ll be worth it, I promise. I want to show you something.” What could she possibly have to show me in a town full of cemeteries? I reluctantly gave in to her convincing, and we walked the mile and a half or so to Colma, and then to Woodlawn Cemetery. It wasn’t the same place as I’d been earlier—I don’t think I could have gone on if it had been. The sea of grave markers reminded me of my father, of Eric, of Philip. Don’t be such a wimp, I told myself. You can’t get all mushy inside every time you’re reminded of death. I had to get over how I felt. Had to move on. Maybe this was the best way—instead of avoiding it, I would try to look it in the face once again. Jackie led me through the gates, past the main office, and into the grounds. “Do you know where you’re going?” I asked as we walked uphill. “Yes,” she replied. “It’s not far.” The stones and markers were far older than the ones I’d seen earlier. We passed the tiny gravestones of children and line after line of markers for civil war soldiers. She came to a stop before a two-foot tall monument of polished stone. I read the inscription: NORTON I EMPEROR OF THE UNITED STATES AND PROTECTOR OF MEXICO JOSHUA A. NORTON 1819-1880 “‘Emperor’?” I asked1. There were odds and ends and the most random of things stacked on and around the base of the monument: a rubber duck, a stack of pennies, two dice, an American flag, a card bearing the Ace of Spades and the phrase “Le Roi Est Mort”, and various flowers. 1 “Emperor” Joshua A. Norton was a real person.

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“A businessman turned bum,” Jackie said. She sat cross-legged off to the side. “He came to San Francisco and lost all his money trying to corner the rice market. He disappeared for a while, then returned and declared himself Emperor and even had a newspaper print his claim.” She smiled. “After that, he walked around in an old military uniform and made more proclamations. The newspapers printed them. People went along with the whole thing.” “Sounds like he went insane,” I said. “I’m surprised he wasn’t locked up.” “Probably because he did no real harm, and it amused people to humor him.” Jackie, eyes still focused on the marker, kept talking. “Other than the Emperor thing, he was actually sane. Even smart. A few of his proclamations happened, like the building of the Golden Gate Bridge.” She looked at me. “Sometimes I feel sorry for him. Other times, I feel like he was on to something that I’ve missed.” I looked up more about him later on. Emperor Norton the First patrolled the streets of San Francisco, ensuring sidewalks were clear of obstruction, and inspected the local police. Restaurants let him eat for free, and the local Masonic Lodge paid for his meager room. He suffered a stroke and died one morning while on his way to a scientific conference. A few movements, like the Discordians, have appropriated him as sort of a mascot or saint. A man with a plan? Or a man ruined mentally and financially by bad luck? Regardless, he lived by his own rules. How serious did he take himself ? Did I have something to learn from him? Philip, too, had been quick to advise me not to get caught up in the rat race of life. Was I following in his footsteps? Risking everything, only to possibly lose it all and wander, lost and ruined, for the rest of my life? On an impulse, I set down my bag and fished Philip’s wedding ring out of it. It was heavy in my hand. Whether the feeling was the gold or the

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baggage it carried, I don’t know. I placed the ring on the stone base of the monument. In return, I took the playing card. I rubbed my thumb over the ink and wondered what the phrase meant before I put it in my backpack. I later found out that it means “the king is dead.” It was the headline the city newspapers used to announce the Emperor’s death. “What that?” Jackie asked. “Philip’s wedding ring. He gave it to me for safekeeping a few days before he died.” “You’re just going to leave it?” “Why not? I can’t say why, but it feels like the right thing to do.” “But it’s gold. Someone will take it.” I shrugged. “Then they will. What would I do with it? Keep it? Sell it?” I shook my head. “Nah. Let the Emperor keep it for a while. Let it go out into the world.” We sat for a few minutes before leaving. As we walked away, I realized I felt a lot better. A lightness seemed to have settled over my thoughts. I felt a hope, a sense of possibility that, in retrospect, had been missing for too long. I would follow in his footsteps. Norton’s ghost.

Chapter 25

We made good time on the road and went where we pleased and where rides would take us. There always seemed to be a ride available, which was far better luck than I’d ever had on my own. And so it was one day, when a ride had pulled over for us and Jackie was the first to get in, that I realized how different things were. I watched Jackie pull herself up into a truck cab and was afforded a long, magnificent look at her posterior in tight jeans. Had I actually thought our long string of rides was a result of mere luck? Traveling with a girl changed things. On the other hand, there often wasn’t room for both of us, and so she would ride in my lap. There are worse ways to pass the time. We slept outside at times. Our luck could not hold out forever, not when there was no one to admire my companion. The first night, we bedded down in an orchard. Some time later, Jackie called my name. “Kyle?” I don’t know how long it’d been since we’d gotten there. I think I’d dozed off. My guess would be a few hours. “Yeah?” “I was wondering if we could share the sleeping bag? I’m freezing.” I was at once fully awake, elated, and nervous. “Sure.”

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Her small, gray form shuffled over towards me in the darkness. I unzipped the bag to make room. She was shivering. After a moment, she rolled over onto her side and wriggled backwards until her back pressed against my chest and her hair tickled my nose. Her right hand groped behind her, found my arm, and pulled it over her. I slept, and slept deep, a smile on my face and contentment in my heart. For once, I wanted to enjoy something without having to question it. On the next night, and every night thereafter, we slept next to one another, even if we didn’t need to. I didn’t know what that signified. Nor did I care. I think anyone would understand.

Chapter 26

The next day found us at a gas station. Jackie approached a few people at the pumps while I thumbed on the road. They’d shake their heads and she’d move on to a new one. My guess was that she was either asking for money or a ride and hoped she wouldn’t get us in trouble. I saw her next mark shrug, and I nearly choked on my own tongue when I saw her look around and then lift up her shirt. She wore no bra beneath. “What the hell was that?” I asked aloud, still too stunned to know or care that I was talking to myself. I saw the guy hand her something and she disappeared inside. I raised my thumb back up to the road—it’d dropped unintentionally. She came back with a thin cardboard paper box and a drink cup. Once she’d plopped down crossed-legged in the grass, I asked, “So what was that all about?” “What?” She shrugged. “I asked him for change. He said he’d give me ten bucks if I flashed him. I think he was joking and thought I wouldn’t do it. He kinda had to give me the money once I did.” She held out her drink. “Want some of my soda? I bought you some pizza, too.” I stood there, still a bit stunned. Inside the box was a slice of cheese pizza for each of us. And it looked damn good, too. I took the drink. “Sure did surprise the hell out of me.”

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“I did it all the time when I traveled. Easy way to make money.” “It doesn’t bother you?” “Why should it? Looking doesn’t hurt.” She had a point. Or did she? I couldn’t tell. A huge feeling of jealousy had swallowed me. Dealing with it would take some time. It wasn’t even that I felt we were an item. Mostly, my mind cried out: not fair! “Just please don’t do it again here?” I asked. “I don’t want to get in trouble and get run off.” “Doubt anyone else would offer.” I ate the pizza because she bought it for me and I needed food. It made me sick. Don’t think it was the grease. I turned my attention back towards the road and tried to get the image of her smooth, curved body out of my mind.

Chapter 27

Jackie and I had drifted more towards the mountains in another part of the state over the course of a few weeks. There we met Jon, a man past retired age with not much more than a van, a tent, and the stuff he carried with him. It was a particularly cold, blustery day, and we hadn’t had much in the way of luck getting rides or getting out of the weather. His van—a rusty old Dodge that refused to give up life—was a godsend that day. Heat poured out from the bowels beneath cracked vents. “Hell of a day to be out walking,” he’d said when he picked us up. “Where are you going?” he asked. “No where in particular,” I shrugged. “We saw signs for a campsite down the road from here. Thinking about going there.” “Bit cold to go it without even so much as a tent, don’t you think?” “We do what we can,” I said. I was too happy to be out of the cold to be any less optimistic. “I’m going there myself,” he said. “I could do with some company, if you two are of a mind.” I looked at Jackie, who held her hands out towards the vents. The smile she gave me was all the answer I needed. “Jon,” I said, “that would be amazing.”

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* * * * * Jon set up camp with the speed and ease of a routine long practiced. In short order he had a fire going, a kettle of water on a grate over the fire, and his tent set up. Jackie and I sat around the fire on a crate while Jon rooted around in the back of his van. He returned with two mugs, poured water into both of them and handed one to Jackie. “Hot chocolate,” he said. “Help warm you up from the inside.” Jackie noised her thanks and wrapped her hands around the mug. The temperature had dropped fast once evening approached. “I’d offer you some, too,” he said to me, “but I only have two mugs, and this body of mine is too old to go without some extra warmth.” We all chatted about various random things while he cooked eggs, onions and potatoes together in skillet over the flames. The smells made my mouth water—it’d been a while since we’d had a cooked meal. Jon asked our story as we ate, and I felt compelled to give him the truth. He did feed us, after all, and there was an honest, grandfatherly quality about him that made me feel at peace. Jackie and I took turns, one talking and the other eating. My story took the bulk of the time. I left nothing out. “Are there restrooms close by?” Jackie asked when I’d finished. Jon pointed with his fork towards the opposite edge of the campsite. “Down that path there.” She stepped off down the trail. I watched her go. “Girlfriend?” Jon asked once she was gone. “Yes. No. I don’t know.” “One of those.” “Yeah. No idea what’s going on.” “Welcome to the world of women,” he said. “I’m afraid you never will.” I stared into the fire. Where did we stand? Was it up to me to “make a move,” or whatever it’s called in the dating game? There remained some sort of barrier between us, something that I couldn’t fathom, something that I didn’t sense in the other couples I’d seen throughout my life.

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I stood barechested and barefoot on the concrete floor before the sink and washed myself as best I could and as fast as I could. Goosebumps rippled across my skin. My feet were freezing. The hot water felt great, especially when I dunked my head under the flow and scrubbed my fingers through my hair. I also changed into some cleaner clothes and went through the rest of my routine as best I could, including shaving with the hand soap. Hardly luxurious, but it worked well enough. While washing my clothes in sinks and such was much better than not at all, with any luck, I’d have a chance to make use of a machine and a real shower sometime soon. To dry my hair I bent over and stuck my head beneath the blower meant for drying hands. It would have looked ridiculous had someone walked in on me, but it did the job. Jackie took longer than I did to clean up even though she had a head start on me. When she came back, I noticed her hair had a slightly blown look to it. Had she had the same idea as me? I didn’t mention it, though. I’m not entirely stupid. * * * * * Jon announced that we should stay the night with him and would brook no argument. He rearranged the contents of the van before dark, moving some things into his tent and stacked others up on the driver and passenger seats up front. “There we are,” he announced. “Room enough for one or both of you.” We enjoyed his company and were in no position to argue. The evening hours passed around the fire amidst talking and drinking soda from cans. Jon didn’t bother keeping them in ice chests because the ambient temperature was low enough to cool them. I dragged the picnic table closer to the fire, and Jackie and I sat close. It was later in the evening, but before the campground quiet time,

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when Jon pointed at my guitar and asked me to play something. “No campfire is complete without music,” he said. I obliged, and Jackie sang a few pieces. She had a good voice. Jon joined in, singing in a low voice on the songs he knew. So did I, despite being off key. In the end, I think enjoying myself is what mattered most. Around nine o’clock Jon stood and stretched. “It’s been a pleasure, but I’m off to bed now. Feel free to stay up as long as you like, but make sure the fire has burned down before you turn in. See you in the morning.” “Goodnight,” we replied in unison. We scrunched down on the bench a bit and leaned back against the table after padding it with my sleeping bag. Together, in silence, we watched the night sky overhead as the fire burned down to embers. The stars were bright in the cold, clear air, without cloud cover, city lights or pollution to mask them. Jackie’s hand, cold as ice, slipped into mine, and I put my other hand over hers. “I’d like to go to sleep,” she said some time later. “Okay then,” I said. “Were you coming, too?” she asked. “If you want me to.” “I’d like that.” I nodded. Jackie climbed into the back while I wedged my pack into a space in the front seat. I paused at the back bumper to remove my shoes and coat before following. It took us a few minutes to get situated. We lay together, our heads towards the back of the van, Jackie pressed up against me and shivering a bit. Emboldened by previous events, I wasn’t shy about pulling her into my arms. Jackie rolled over to face me and slipped her arms around me. One leg went over mine. A few minutes of silence passed. I thought I heard a chuckle escape from her. “What?” I asked. “Nothing.”

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“No,” I said, “it was something. What?” “You haven’t tried to kiss me at all in the time I’ve known you. That never happens.” Oh. That. “Well,” I said, “I don’t exactly know how.” For a split second I was hesitant to say so, but then felt glad to admit it. “Aww, really?” She wriggled upward in my arms and before I knew it, soft, warm lips pressed against mine. It wasn’t so hard. I don’t know what I’d been so nervous about. When we’d had a good few minutes, Jackie pulled back and said, “There. Better?” “Mmhmm,” I noised. “Much. Though, I’m still not sure if I have it right. If you wouldn’t mind showing me again?” She didn’t mind. Our hands explored on their own without sight to guide them. First they went under or around, and then they opened, unzipped, and unbuttoned. Compared to the night air, the warm curves of her body seemed on fire.

Chapter 28

A gentle rapping on the back doors of the van shook us out of sleep sometime in the early morning. Jon’s muffled voice came from outside: “Jackie, Kyle, wake up, there’s something I think you’ll want to see.” Groggy and not yet even fully awake, we threw on our clothes and climbed out. Jackie and I smiled when our eyes met. I don’t see how the day could have started any better. It was still dark in the moments before twilight. Jon had a green mug full of hot chocolate and was fully dressed. He actually looked like he’d been awake for hours. “Follow me,” he said. He led us across the road and down into a hollow. Crossing that, we came to a small path, the wear on the ground barely visible. Jon turned to us for a moment to say, “Stay close, and keep as quiet as you can” before taking the lead, Jackie behind him and me bringing up the end singlefile. We walked through trees and ferns for two to three minutes. Jon stopped and turned around. He’d said nothing about why we were there, and Jackie must have been wondering the same thing. Jon pointed two fingers at his eyes, and then out to the woods on our right. Beyond the foliage, three deer grazed in a small clearing a few hun-

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dred yards off. I think they were all female because they had no horns. One closest to us had a long scar down her left flank. We stood stock still and watched them pick and eat at the grass. Then they perked up and bolted—had caught our scent in a shift of the wind, perhaps—and were gone in a single flash of brown in the early dawn light. * * * * * To kill a few hours before camp break time, we talked a bit, and Jon produced a deck of cards. The site of the cards sparked a surge of emotion in my gut. I pulled out the ace of spades from Emperor Norton’s monument and wondered how Alan, Leah and Luis were getting on. With any luck, they’d found another place to go. I took over Jon’s chair and watched as Jackie and Jon took up seats opposite each other at the table and played a few rounds of poker, followed by “war”. I declined because I don’t know how to play poker, and war drives me nuts because the damn game never ends. By nine we were finished and everything was packed away, dense enough to allow Jackie to sit in the passenger seat and me on the floor between them. Jon pulled off the road at a couple turn-outs so that we could get out and take a look at the mountainous view. The scenes of tree-covered rocky slopes and valleys looked fake, like pictures or paintings. Every few minutes I’d tell myself, no, that’s real. “I wish I had a camera with me,” I said. “That’s one thing I forgot to bring.” “Hmm,” Jon said, “hang on.” He left for a moment and then came back with a cheap disposable camera. “I thought I had it sitting around. Bought it a while back and never used it. You can have it if you want.” I thanked him and we snapped a few pictures from the edge. I didn’t know how I was going to pay to have it developed, but I’d worry about that when the time came. Jon dropped us off in the first decent-sized city we came across. I looked around for Jackie as Jon’s van pulled out of the parking

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lot. The girl always had to use the bathroom, it seemed, and so I stepped around to the side of the Chevron store in time to see her slip into the bathroom. I stood around in a place where I could see both the lot and the bathroom to wait while I considered our next stop and where we would eat. The click-chunk of the bathroom door snapped me out of my thoughts. Out of the bathroom came Jackie—followed by a guy. What the hell was this? The guy took one look at me and scrambled off as fast as he could in the other direction. My brain and comprehension lagged behind events. “What was that all about?” I asked. “I got some money,” she said. Comprehension dawned in one cold, hard strike. “What the hell did you do?” “Not what you’re thinking, and nothing I wasn’t willing to.” “Sure. Right.” She frowned. “What’s wrong?” I don’t know what she did in there, but every option my brain dreamt up hurt and stabbed a deep part of myself. Jealousy erupted from there, too, and a bit of anger came along with it. Anger at what or whom I couldn’t exactly say. Nor did it matter. Anger is adaptable. Like water, it changes and flows according to the situation and need not be guided with laser precision. “You don’t know, do you,” I said. “Know what? What’s your problem?” What was my problem? I didn’t know at the time. But as they say, hindsight is twenty-twenty and I know now that my feelings for her had me confused. Her seeming return of my feelings had me confused even more. The night in Jon’s van? The little things we did together? We had all the signs of people who were dating and did most of the same things, yet apparently that didn’t apply to us. I sighed. Was it my fault for assuming? When I realized I couldn’t tell if I had reason to be angry at her, my emotions shifted back to being

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angry at myself. “Nothing,” I answered. The hardest part of all was that she didn’t even know what I was upset about. “Are you okay, Kyle?” “Yeah. I’m fine.” She looked around, unsure of what to do or say. “Do you want to get something to eat?” “No. I’m not hungry.” “Oh. Well, I am. Will you at least go and sit with me?” I shrugged. “Sure.” Jackie led the way to a nearby waffle house, where we were seated by a not altogether nice waitress. My menu remained folded and untouched in front of me. Jackie lowered her menu for a moment and looked at me over the top of it. “You sure you’re not hungry?” she asked. I was, but the feelings I was dealing with at the time killed any desire I had to eat. “No, I’m sure.” Upon the return of our waitress, Jackie ordered a BLT “without the B”, with fries and a soda. She tried to get me to order something. The lady was about to step away when Jackie said, “Oh, and could we get two mugs of hot water, please?” She nodded and walked away. “What’s that for?” “You’ll see.” I sat in silence, thinking and feeling whatever came up and occasionally staring out the window at the parking lot outside. Jackie played with her straw wrapper. “So what—” Jackie began, but the arrival of the waitress with her food and our hot water interrupted her. I was thankful that it also threw her off track. Jackie grabbed the ketchup bottle and squeezed a good portion onto her plate. Then she grabbed a mug of water and squeezed even more right into it. Into this she added salt and pepper from the shakers and then stirred with her fork. “What are you doing?” I asked.

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She slid the mug across to me, its contents now murky red. “Taste it.” “What?” “I’m serious, taste it.” I blew on it a bit to cool it off. It smelled like ketchup. Knowing that I’d probably regret it, I took a sip. The surprise was on me. “It tastes like tomato soup,” I said. She smiled in the middle of mixing up the other mug. “Told ya.” I finished off the rest of my “soup” and later helped Jackie with her fries. For the moment, her playful manner and sharing of the ketchup soup secret drained my feelings of most of their power. But they were not gone. Meal finished, we sat quietly at the table. Jackie contented herself with spinning the ice her in glass with her straw. “We should figure out where we’re going,” I said. “Somewhere warm. I’m tired of being cold.” I mulled that over. “Well, that means west. Or south.” “We could find a shelter for the time being,” she said. I shook my head. “No. No shelters.” The clink of spinning ice stopped. “Why not?” “Because they’re dirty and full of problems we don’t need.” “But I want a shower and to sleep in a bed.” “Then you picked the wrong way to travel,” I shot back. Her complaining and unreasonable wants rubbed me the wrong way. Combined with what’d happened outside, I saw no need to be nice. It felt good to give the anger some rope. “Look,” I said. “You’ve probably stayed in women’s shelters, right?” “Yes.” A curt, single-word answer. Was she upset? Good. “Well, I’m sure they’re no Hilton either, but some shelters are bad. I’ve stayed in them before. Bunch of drunk, smelly, possibly insane people, employees that treat you like some shit they scraped off the bottom of their shoe. Stuff like that. It’s not fun, and not worth it.” “You always think that you know better.”

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I blinked. “Excuse me?” “You always say how ‘things are different’.” “They are. You’re a girl. I’m not. That changes a lot of things. People treat you differently than they do me. You have opportunities that I don’t.” “That’s bullshit.” I shrugged. “If you say so. Think about it, you’ve seen it even while you’ve been with me. People that picked us up wouldn’t have given me a second glance if you weren’t there with me. They’ll go out of their way to help you. But I can’t wave my hands and make a hotel appear, or a bed, or a ride, or warmer weather, just because you want it. We’re hitching, and have what we have.” A young woman around our age passed our table. No sooner had I said “we’re hitching” than she stopped, turned around, and said, “Are you guys hitching?” “Yes,” I replied. It wasn’t a good time for chatting. Couldn’t she see? “Well, there’s plenty of room in our van if you want to come along. I don’t think the driver will mind.” I looked at Jackie and tried to smooth out my tone. Maybe fighting wasn’t the best idea right then. “What do you think?” I asked. “We hadn’t actually figured out where we’re going.” “Yeah, but it’s a ride,” she replied. She was still angry. “Come over and sit with us,” the girl suggested. “Then we can all talk it out and you can decide if you want to go with us. We’d have to okay it with the rest of the group.” “Go ahead,” I said to Jackie. “I’ll tell our waitress we’re moving.” That done, I stopped by the restroom before returning to the table. All told, there were four people, plus Jackie, and they were gathering up their belongings to leave by the time I made it back. “We’ll be outside in the van when you’re ready to leave,” one of them said to us. They filed out the front door. “They seem neat,” Jackie said. “And Nathan is a writer.” I felt a familiar writhing in my gut.

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Hello, Jealousy. Back again so soon? “You want to go with them, don’t you?” I asked. “Yes. You don’t?” “No.” It felt good to swing my jealousy and anger around like a bat, hitting whatever I could. “Well, I’m going,” she said. That caught my attention. “Even though I don’t want to?” I asked. “Well, yeah. If I’d wanted to get stuck with something, I could have stayed at my job.” “So what, you’re stuck with me? Is that it?” “Feels like it sometimes,” she said. “You know what, fine. I don’t care anymore. I enjoyed being with you and I thought we even had something, but I guess I was wrong.” Jackie stood. “Yeah, you were.” She threw down some money on the table to cover her check. “Lemme guess,” I sneered. “That the money you got from the guy in the bathroom?” She shot me the finger and stormed out. A few other patrons looked in our direction. I suppose we’d gotten a bit loud in the end. I stared at the crumpled bills on the table in front of me and tried to convince myself that the money showed me what kind of person she was. Had I missed all other signs? Even Gareth had warned me. “Ahh, fuck,” I said. There was no van in the parking lot when I walked outside. A family climbed out of a four-door sedan. I asked if they’d seen anyone matching Jackie’s description. “She stormed out this way,” the father told me. “Talked to some people in a van real quick. Then climbed in. They went north.” I jogged to the sidewalk. Looked down the road. A string of anonymous traffic and city blocks spread out before me. Did I expect to see the van, still? Did I expect to see her looking back at me through a window, wondering if she made the wrong choice? I was a stupid, stupid fool, and no doubt remain one to this day.

PART THREE Finding

Chapter 1

That started a series of wanderings around the central valley. It was no way to begin, holding sadness and anger within myself like that, but I had no choice. Emotions were heavy in the aftermath of my argument with Jackie. I regretted that I had no chance to apologize or reconcile. Or maybe it wasn’t my place to apologize, maybe I was right and justified in being angry. In the end, it didn’t matter which one it was. She was gone. I’d forgotten what it was like to be by myself, and had grown used to always having someone else around, someone to talk to, someone to ask questions and make suggestions. In San Francisco I had first Eric and then the others. Then I had Jackie to travel with. I felt like I did when I first left: lonely and unsure. The bravado and sense of purpose I’d felt were gone. With a heavy heart and serious thoughts about going back—though where “back” even was at that point, I had no idea—I set off again. I’m not sure how or why I kept going. I just did. I ate the last of my food on the second night without Jackie. Sitting in some out of the way place, I smeared peanut butter on bread and drank it down with stale water. Right back where I started: with nothing. I let out a frustrated scream and hurled the empty plastic jar at the

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wall of the nearest building. Being plastic, it denied me the satisfying smash that a glass jar would have provided. Instead, it bounced, more resilient than I would ever be. I don’t know where I slept that night—or if I did at all—though I know I didn’t care much about anything. So sour was my mood that I might have even camped out right on the police station lawn had the opportunity presented itself. I thought about Jackie, who was probably screwing some guy in exchange for dinner and a place to sleep, and I felt even worse, both angry and miserable. Angry with myself for falling for her and not taking heed of warnings. Miserable because I liked her and now she was gone. I had no money, no food, no prospects, no contacts. Eating was my first priority, and for that, one usually needs money, and so lo and behold I had a goal in sight. I collected cans and bottles, scrounged parking lots and sidewalks, my head held low and eyes intent on the ground instead of where I was going. Vending machines and pay phones sometimes gave up their treasures in the form of change people had forgotten to collect. They’re not what I’d call jackpots, but finding a dollar here and there is a lot when you have nothing. Meanwhile, I kept my eyes and ears open for any opportunities to earn cash under the table. A man named Jay gave me my first job. He was calm and methodical, one of those people who are infinitely competent with their hands. I have no doubts that if the world were to break, God would call up someone like him and he’d drive over, roll up his sleeves, and say, “Hmm, lets see what we can do.” He was tall and sturdy from years working construction, and had the tan skin of someone who spends his working days outside. I found him and his crew working on a new housing development. I stood quiet at a respectful distance, not wanting to interrupt, while he consulted a large spread of blueprints. “Yes?” he asked, without looking up. “What is it?” I launched into my by-then-well-practiced speech about traveling and being short on cash, and asked if he had need of a laborer. “Oh, thought you were one of my guys,” he said. “What makes you

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think I’d need a laborer?” I shrugged. “I remember seeing jobs like that in the paper a long time ago. Figured it couldn’t hurt to ask. I’ll work off the books for five an hour, and even sign a paper saying that you’re not responsible if I get hurt.” He thought for a moment, then scanned the construction site. “Alright, I can probably find something for you to do. You’re on. Put your gear in the cab of my truck. You’ll find some gloves behind the seat— you’ll need them.” That was the start of my first day, and it damn near killed me. My tasks varied. I cleared trash, ran cuts of wood, shuffled wood and materials from one pile to another. It was nerve-wracking, exhausting work, and I felt like I was under foot most of the time. For the most part I had no clue what I was doing and had to wing it and continually ask for more tasks. Most of the guys gave me directions when they could. We finally wrapped up for the day around five thirty. It was getting dark and I for one was exhausted. The other guys acted like they’d barely done anything all day. Jay called me over, checked his watch, and then counted out twenty five dollars in cash from a wad of bills and handed it over. I had money! “Good job today,” he told me. “I appreciate you making yourself useful and working so hard. Come back tomorrow and I’ll find a place for you.” I assured him I would be back. I lent a hand as everyone packed up and then watched as the group of vehicles pulled out of the lot. With the workers gone, the area seemed unnaturally quiet. Though tired, I walked straight to the nearest fast food restaurant and ordered a super-sized meal. Bad nutrition never tasted so good. I returned to the development that night and slept in an unfinished house. It had a roof and all its walls and windows, but lacked doors and any finishing on the floors. It cut the wind nicely, though, and I had no worries about being disturbed. I spread out my tarp to avoid the plaster dust on the floor and rolled out my sleeping bag.

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Careful to wake before first light and the arrival of the workers, I sat on a stack of wood and waited for them to arrive. My muscles were sore— muscles I didn’t even know I had. The guys were much more friendly and talkative that morning, and many of them that I remembered from the previous day introduced themselves. They also offered me some coffee and donuts someone had brought in. That second day was as labor intensive as the first, but it went quicker and was less stressful because I had a better idea as to what I was doing. Jay also brought a typed waver that released him from any liabilities in the event of an injury. I signed without hesitation, grateful for a chance to earn some money. I stayed on and repeated the same pattern for almost two weeks. The physical exertion and the need to be aware of what was going on for my own safety and that of others made it virtually impossible to think of Jackie or anyone else. Nor was it possible to feel sorry for myself while I was busy working my ass off. I couldn’t work every weekday—sometimes it rained so much that our whole day was shot, or there’d be a job somewhere else that didn’t allow for me to work. But I worked enough. The physical labor ensured that I slept soundly each night. The money I earned allowed me not only to eat well (knowing it for the money pit that it is, I avoided fast food after the first day), but to also purchase needed things like a flashlight, toothpaste, cigarette lighter, a small sewing kit, and multivitamins. It also paid for a load of laundry— and I still had plenty left over. Not wanting to repeat my last mistake with money, I spent an hour one night ripping a small hole in the inside sleeve of my jacket with my pocket knife. Into the lining I sewed a small pocket made from the scraps of my worst shirt. My stitches were uneven and not very tidy, but they worked all the same. Into the pocket went most of my money stash. I carried ten dollars in my pants pocket, enough to get me through each day or to hopefully satisfy anyone who rolled me. Days later, Jay called me over to where he stood beside his truck. It was the last day of work before we broke for the long Thanksgiving weekend. He knew a bit of my situation, that I was wandering and essentially

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homeless, but that was about as far as it went. We’d finished the house. They would be moving on to another work site the next week. “I know that you don’t have any family in the area,” he said without preamble. “I wanted you to know that we always have a large dinner with all the extended family. One more would barely make a ripple. You’re more than welcome to join us.” Though I was touched by the invitation, I shook my head. “Thank you, Jay, but to be honest I’d feel uncomfortable and out of place being around people I don’t know.” He nodded and counted out my pay for the day. “Thought you might feel like that, but no harm in offering.” Money exchanged hands and he said, “There’s some extra there. Get yourself a nice dinner somewhere.” * * * * * Thanksgiving day found me lounging in an empty house. I slept in late, knowing there would be no workers to wake me, and spent most of the day relaxing. My sore muscles needed a break. That night, I walked one of the main strips in town in search of a place open for dinner. I came across a Denny’s, but kept walking. I’d rather eat fast food than dine there. Horrible service and mediocre food seem to be their trademark. Nothing like ordering food that never arrives, or shows up cold, and paying for the experience of it. Around five PM I happened across a Perkins. Limited as my options were, I felt I could do a lot worse. The place was near deserted. The hostess was a middle-aged woman with braided hair. Business that evening was non-existent, and she slumped down, head on fist, elbow on the podium, but perked up when she saw me enter. Awkwardness kicked in when she asked me, “Just one tonight?” “Yeah.” She gathered up a menu and silverware bundled in napkin and then led me through the dining room, empty save for one gray-haired man

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seated by himself at a table next to the wall. At the other side of the room, the sole waitress cut short her conversation with the cook to take my order. I shed my coat, got settled in with my pack in the seat beside me, and ordered a coke. I snuck a peak over my shoulder at the older man I’d passed on my way in. He sat staring into his small white coffee cup. I looked back to my table. Then I turned around, screwed up my courage and walked over to him. “Excuse me,” I said, “I was wondering if I could join you.” He blinked, then said, “Please do” and indicated a chair across from him. I held up a finger to signal and went back to sit down. When my waitress returned with my soda, I said, “Actually, I’d like to move over there if I could.” I indicated the area with a nod of my head. “But if that’s not your section or whatever, I’ll stay here.” “Doesn’t bother me,” she replied. “Sit where you like. The whole place is my section tonight.” I moved my pack over and set it under the table, then made another trip for my drink. “I’m Kyle,” I said. “Art,” he replied. We ordered our meals—the oven-roasted chicken for Art, and the ten ounce New York strip steak with baked potato and green beans with bacon for me—and then began to talk, hesitant at first, in the way of strangers finding common conversation ground. He asked me what I was doing in a place like that on Thanksgiving. I told a shortened version of my story. I was rewarded in my decision to approach Art when he confided in me that his wife of fifty years had passed away two years previous. “I’m still trying to get used to her not being here,” he said, eyes wistful and distant. “We never did much to celebrate the holidays. Maybe made a special dish, but that’s it. Wanted to spend time together, not in the kitchen. Never had children, either. Now, with her gone, I don’t know what to do with myself.” He looked up and his eyes took in the restaurant. “Now I come here.” There was nothing I could say. I caught myself stirring my soda and

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ice around in the glass with my straw. Jackie popped into my thoughts. Had that been her habit or mine? Art excused himself to use the restroom after a few moments of silent staring into his coffee. I watched him go and then turned back to regard his coffee. What had he seen there? Did he see a chipped cup full of dark brown liquid, or did it disappear like some fortune teller’s crystal ball to reveal the face of his wife? Our hostess walked back through the room with a man and a young boy in tow. She seated them next to the table I had been at before I moved. The boy looked over at me. I smiled. Waved. Our waitress brought me another soda and a basket of rolls. I unrolled my napkin, grabbed up my knife and buttered one. I glanced up and caught the boy looking at me again. He jumped as if poked and looked away. My roll didn’t last long—I was starving. I eyeballed the other roll in the basket and my stomach gurgled in approval, but it would take an evil, evil man to steal another man’s roll while he’s in the restroom. This time when I looked up, both the boy and the man were looking at me. They saw me notice and turned back to each other. Was I that scruffy-looking? I tried to pay careful attention to how I looked before I went out for dinner, was even clean-shaven and clad in freshly washed closed, but the lifestyle I led could have warped my perception of what was normal. The man stood up a moment later, some guy in his late thirties, early forties, lucky enough to still have all his hair. He came right up to my table. “Sorry to bother you,” he said, “but my son couldn’t help but notice you over here. He keeps asking me why you’re here by yourself. He also wanted me to ask you if you’d like to eat with us instead.” Hearing this, I shifted my focus back to the table they shared and found the boy looking at us. “I’d appreciate the company,” I said, “but only if my companion can join us as well.” “The more the merrier, right?” He didn’t sound like he believed it.

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When Art emerged from the bathroom—and found himself still in the possession of one dinner roll, I might add—I told him what had transpired. “I’m told we’ve been invited by the young one here to join you,” Art said. “Lets move to a bigger table,” the father said. We chose a nearby table with room for six, Art and myself on one side, the boy opposite me and his father next to him. “I’m Steve,” the elder said by way of introduction, “and this is my son Adam. So what brings you two here tonight?” “We were just talking about that,” I said. I repeated the watereddown version I’d told Art. Art himself said, “My wife passed on a few years ago, and I don’t have any other family. Doesn’t seem worth it to cook anymore, and I’d much rather be around people on nights like tonight.” I know he couldn’t help it, but Art’s solemn admission toned down the mood at the table by a notch or two. “So what about you two?” I asked, hoping for an answer that wasn’t depressing. “Well,” Steve said, “somehow I managed to ruin the turkey I was cooking for tonight. I’m not sure what I did to it, but the whole thing swelled and then exploded. Little turkey pieces everywhere.” “Boom,” Adam added. He went back to amusing himself with folding and unfolding his straw wrapper. “I’ve never heard of that happening before,” Art admitted. “Me neither. I thought turkeys were easy to make. You know, dress it up and stick it in the oven for hours until it’s done. But it happened all the same.” He looked at his son. “So I took the hint and suggested we eat out tonight instead.” Adam capitalized on the opportunity with a burger and fries. I wasted no time in digging into my steak when our food arrived. The taste was exquisite. No fancy steakhouse fair, I knew, but when you’d been living and eating as I had, the scale by which you judge food suffers a significant shift. There was much talking and laughter as we ate. Once our plates were clear, our waitress asked us if anyone cared for dessert. As the resident kid,

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Adam perked up noticeably while us adults glanced around at each other—a sign I’ve come to understand as meaning that each person wants something but hopes that someone else will be the first to order. “I’d like some coffee and a slice of apple pie,” I said, O Brave Soul that I am. Someone has to take the plunge, right? That reminded me of Taylor and the doughnuts we shared in the drop-in center kitchen. I smiled, glad to be amongst people again. Our desserts and coffee came. Adam ordered hot chocolate with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles. “Wow,” Art said, “that looks good.” “I was thinking the same thing,” I added. Adam dug into the whipped cream with a spoon. We stayed through the evening hours and on into the night. We invited our waitress, Jenny, to sit down with us for a moment. “We won’t tell anyone,” Art said. Seeing as we were the only customers, she did so, and let out a sigh when the weight was off her feet. Jenny was in her early thirties, divorced, and had recently gone back to school to get a nursing degree. The divorce portion hit home with Steve, and the two of them hit it off. He too was divorced, though it was clear he didn’t talk much about it. For Adam’s sake, I think. Around nine thirty, Steve said, “I hate to break things up, but it’s time we get going. Someone has an appointment with bed time.” Smiles and a chorus of “Oohhhhs” rang out. Adam asked if they could stay longer. “Sorry kiddo, it’s getting late.” They said their goodbyes, left money for their bill, and disappeared. Steve’s departure started a chain reaction. “I appreciate the break,” Jenny said, “but I’d better get started on my closing,” and off she went. “Well,” Art said, “I suppose the party’s over. I have to say, it was a good evening. Best I’ve had in a while.” “Me too,” I said. “Can I offer you a place to sleep tonight?”

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“I don’t want to trouble you.” “It’s no trouble. I’d be glad for the company, and I imagine you wouldn’t mind sleeping in a bed. Am I right?” “You’re right,” I said. “Thank you, then.” We paid our bills and walked out to Art’s car. I felt bad for leaving such a pile of dishes and general mess inside. Art’s house still showed signs of his wife’s touch, but some portions of the house had a bare look where Art had removed things and not yet replaced them. A single picture of his wife sat on the mantelpiece in the living room. I lay in the guestroom bed that night and thought how it turned out to be a good night after all. As a group, we had a far better time than any of us would have had alone. Good company and conversation—isn’t that what holidays are supposed to be about? * * * * * Art treated me to pancakes and coffee before he offered me a ride back into town. All of which I gratefully accepted. I felt guilty at times for accepting such offers of kindness. Perhaps one day, though, I’d be able to repay my debts. As we drove through the streets under the early morning light, I found myself thinking of Jackie and wondering where she was. What she was doing. If she was okay. Ahh, but she deserted you, I told myself. She’s out of your hands now. You have yourself to look after. Art and I shook hands through the driver side window when he dropped me off. It’s always tough to watch my new friends depart. Yet there was still a pull, a drive to always keep moving on. The longer I stayed, the harder it would be to leave. San Francisco taught me that. Up the street from my drop off point was an Eckerd’s drug store.

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Ignoring the small voice in my head that cautioned otherwise, I went inside and dropped off the film from Jon’s camera at the One Hour Photo lab. My excuse for doing so was that I’d better do it while I had the money, or else I might lose them or never have another chance. It wasn’t so I could see Jackie. Of course not. Amazing how we can lie to even ourselves, isn’t it? I ripped open the envelope on the sidewalk outside the store. The first pictures were of the mountains. They turned out good. Hard to not get a good picture when everywhere you look is like something off of a postcard. I flipped through them, admiring the shots and that I managed to keep my thumb out of them, and then came to a picture of Jackie and I. I stopped. Stared. My stomach did the butterfly shuffle and all the feelings came back, both the good and the bad. It was a good picture. Jon must have taken it at one of the turn-outs when we stopped for a view. Jackie and I stood arm-in-arm, framed by tall trees and mountains in the distance. Jackie had leaned her head against my shoulder. We both wore great smiles. It was the only picture of myself I’ve ever actually liked. I closed my eyes and for a moment remembered how it felt. The good and bad feelings fought a war inside of me. I could still remember how good it all felt, how happy I was in her company, and how incredible our night together had been. Yet I could also feel, as if it had just happened, the sick feeling I got whenever I thought about our argument, how she left without word or seeming remorse, or what might yet happen to her. And then there was Philip, and what he’d tried to explain to me when he gave me his wedding ring. I understood better what I hadn’t wanted to understand at all. After that picture were a few more of us, of the surroundings, and finally a self-portrait of Jon, Jackie, and I. We all stood arm in arm, Jackie

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between us, and Jon snapped the picture. I smiled. Though the bad feelings were there, the good feelings outweighed them, and I found that if I tried, I could ignore the bad and focus on the good. I promised myself that no matter what I did with the other pictures, I would keep that one as a reminder of those days, the fun we had, and the kindness shown to us by a stranger. When I began walking again, I understood why Art kept the picture of his wife: the good will always outweigh the bad if we let it.

Chapter 2

I survived the crucible of my first months on the road. Emerged whole and with my lessons learned. After that, life on the road took on a different hue. Working for Jay and other odd jobs put money in my pocket. That money and the knowledge I’d gained lifted my situation up from the realm of poverty and homelessness into a sort of free-range vacation, wherein I truly could do as I pleased, much like I’d set out to do when I threw my bus ticket into a motel trash can. I had cash reserves to back me up and see me through—could buy food if needed, pitch in for gas on a long ride, buy a stranger a cup of coffee, or even get myself a hotel room or a bus ticket should the need arise. And so I wandered, going where the ebb and flow of life took me. On Christmas eve, I stayed in a Fresno shelter. I usually avoided them, but the weather was cold and though I tried to deny it, I wanted a hot meal and the company of other people. It didn’t seem right to spend the holiday alone. The St. Vincent shelter treated almost fifty people to a cooked meal of ham, mashed potatoes with gravy, and carrots; afterwards, one of the volunteers led our makeshift congregation in Christmas carols. On January 18th, people all over the world took to the streets to

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march in protest of the threat of war in the Middle East as the United States and United Kingdom prepared to invade Iraq. I was in San Jose at the time and marched in a small protest there. I hiked alone along empty trails and paused to take in views, acknowledge a fallen tree, or watch a squirrel scurry about. I took shelter in a collapsing barn and watched rain fall outside through the open door. I shared meals and stories with strangers, and by the end of the night they would feel like friends, long lost, known for years, and only just reacquainted. I bought food for others and they bought food for me. College professors and students drank coffee with me in small cafés. A retired teacher named Charles offered me a ride on his motorcycle—he’d found out he had terminal cancer, cashed in his retirement fund, and bought the motorcycle he’d wanted all his life. How could I say no? We streaked across a wide, flat expanse of meadows, nothing but the roar of the wind in our faces at what must have been ninety miles an hour. I spent long nights in the passenger seats of big rigs and family sedans, listening to stories of sadness and loss, happiness and great fortune, and told stories of my own, of my times in San Francisco, of the things I’d done and the people I’d known there. That being said, the entire time wasn’t some golden run through some fanciful utopia. There were bad times, too. I just took them in a different light than I might have six months before. I was cold, I was wet, I was tired, I was hungry, sore, drained, injured, frustrated, depressed—I was anything and everything I could possibly be. The full scope of human potential became visible to me. Arrogant police officers who had long lost all sight and memory of their motto “serve and protect” harassed me in any way they could. Friendly officers who happened to be going in my direction gave me a lift. I was spit on and cursed at by ordinary people on the street. I was the recipient of random acts of kindness from those whom I will never

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see again, people who saw a stranger cross their path and responded in whatever way they could, whether a kind hello or a few minutes of pleasant conversation. Most people avoided me, but many people gave me rides. Some went out of their way to take me where I was going, or to drop me off at a better spot than their original destination. Other people picked me up for reasons of their own, like the business man who, once we were back up to speed on the highway, said to me, “I have no interest in talking. I picked you up because you looked clean and now I can use the carpool lane.” I got sick of making small talk, anyways. I did a lot of walking. My original pair of shoes wore out and I had to buy another pair. Yet I was reluctant to throw away my old pair. Why did I want to keep them? Some sort of trophy or remembrance of my travels, I suppose. But they were dead weight in my pack, and thus they went into the trash, along with my thanks. I had my memories and small, token reminders, and that was more than enough by which to remember my travels. There were times when walking felt like the best way, when I wanted to be alone and feel the connection between myself and the earth. Other times I was sick of people and wanted to be alone. Sometimes I walked because I had no other choice. My traveling—especially my walking—showed me how big the state of California is and gave me a whole new understanding of and respect for distance. People hop in their cars and travel where ever they want or need to go, yet they’re closed off from their surroundings by glass and steel. Instead of connecting with their environment and being a part of it, they view it through the windows of their vehicle like a TV screen, the show outside flashing by at speeds so fast that things blur together. Walking along a deserted, two-lane highway in the dead of night with no lights and only the stars overhead showed me how much we take our travel for granted. A ride eventually came along and I took it—I’m no fool, after all—but not before I’d had plenty of time for thinking, and the lesson of the moment did not escape me. The modern man or woman

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has no time to get to know the area around their home, let alone the areas they travel through day after day. We’re far too busy running through life, scrambling to attain a carrot on a stick that doesn’t exist. We go so fast that everything disappears. I wanted to see everything, I wanted to quit and go home, I wanted to see what was over the next hill, I wanted to hop in a car and get to where ever I was going, to hell with “connecting” and all that crap that seemed like fluffy mumbo-jumbo when I was exhausted and twenty miles away from anywhere. No matter what my mood, though, I always kept going. The road had become my home. Above all else, the road endures.

Chapter 3

The machinations of chance brought me to Santa Cruz, California in February, a place known as mostly a tourist city and as one of the greatest surfing spots on the west coast. It’s also a frequent area for shark attacks, but they don’t tend to announce that part. I stood looking at the Pacific Ocean on my first day there, late in the afternoon. White sand sloped down below me to where it met the water. Along my left and down the beach a ways stood an arcade building, and beyond that lay the Beach Boardwalk. Roller coasters and rides towered above all the other buildings: one coaster was wooden, painted white, and the other made of modern green steel. A ferris wheel spun and something that looked like two space shuttles hung from pendulums pulled loop-de-loops to the screaming delight of those inside. During my time there, I fell in with a hippie-throwback guitarist named Gabriel, complete with long hair, woven hemp hat, sandals, and lots of necklaces and bracelets with beads and shells woven into them. Even his guitar strap was a rainbow of bright colors. His ratty, sticker-plastered guitar case had sat open beside him on that first day. I could see gleaming coins and crumpled, dirty bills spread out along the inside liner. The money in the case reminded me of Ralph,

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the old trumpet player I met in San Francisco. Musicians tend to congregate, and though I didn’t consider myself one, I was apparently close enough. We played together for about an hour, and that was the start of a rough friendship. My opinion of Santa Cruz dropped precipitously the next day, however, when Officer Pinchett of the SCPD wrote me a ticket for unlawful sitting.

Chapter 4

That was my first brush against the newly-enacted “Downtown Ordinances” of Santa Cruz1. Aimed at the homeless, youth, activist, and transient populations and enacted under pressure from area business owners, the laws made criminal the mere act of existing by outlawing and providing stiff fines for the commitment of basic life functions such as sitting, laying down, or sleeping in a parked car. The most incredible of which was the blanket ban: a law that prevented anyone from covering up with a blanket in public between the hours of 11 PM and 8:30 AM. There were additional restrictions as well, such as forbidding sidewalk chalking, music instruments, hackeysacks, and “display devices” like protest signs. Area sidewalks and seating areas were either removed (such as the case with the “Hippie Planter” where the aforementioned types were known to frequent; the city counsel moved a railing four inches to eliminate the seat on the edge of the planter. Total taxpayer cost: $7000) or privatized, allowing use only by the patrons of area restaurants and establishments. Gabe didn’t have much to say about it when I told him. “Don’t worry so much,” he said. “I doubt they expect to collect.” I paused and looked up at him. “What do you mean?” 1 - The Downtown Ordinances of Santa Cruz are real, not fiction.

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“Shit man, they hand them out to poor and homeless people. Last I knew, they don’t tend to have a lot of money. It’s just a ploy to get them to go elsewhere. To clean up their damn city for the tourists.” Before I knew it, my hands were tearing at the paper, ripping it to shreds that floated down to land in a pile in my lap. “Better throw that in a trash can,” Gabe said, “or else they’ll get you for littering, too.” We laughed. I scooped up the pieces and dropped them into a nearby can that stank of spoiled food. When I later asked Gabe if he lived around the area, he replied, “Eh, sorta.” “Sorta?” “I drift around. I stay with people when I can, and there’s a girl I know at a campsite that’ll let me stay for free if she’s working, but other than that I’m homeless.” He looked at my pack. “You are, too.” “Yeah. For about four months now.” “You picked a bad place to come. They’ve cracked down in the past few years.” He popped a quick chord strum on his guitar to accentuate his point. “As you noticed this morning.” Gabe was actually from Santa Cruz, and that’s part of the reason he stayed there. He’d hit up old friends now and then for a place to sleep if he needed it. Concerns about pride and about overstaying his welcome meant that he rarely asked. A pretty college-age girl approached us after about an hour. Gabe seemed to know her. He put his guitar down, jumped up and hugged her. “I didn’t expect to see you,” he said. “What are you up to?” Then, remembering me, he said, “Oh, Kyle, this is Jessica. Jessica, Kyle.” She smiled at me. “Hi.” To Gabe, she said, “We’re having some people over at our room tonight, and I wanted to tell you. You’re both welcome to come.” “I should be there, then,” Gabe said. Jessica said her goodbyes and

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then left. “You should definitely come,” he told me once she’d walked away. “Not only should it be fun, but she has some cute friends and we can probably stay there tonight.” Though it sounded like a good time, the memories of Eric saying almost exactly that same thing gave me chills. “What ‘room’ was she talking about?” I asked. “She, her family, and a few of her friends are staying at a hotel nearby.” “Odd time to take a vacation, isn’t it?” “Things are a lot calmer here during the offseason. Though the summers are great—lot of wild people here on vacation, lot of parties going on. Older people tend not to like it, of course, but for the younger crowds it’s awesome.” We met up with the party crowd and spent the first portion of the evening sitting on the beach. When the sun sank and the evening grew cold, we sat on towels or buried our feet in the sand to keep them warm. It eventually grew too cold on the open beach for even that to be effective, and so we moved back to deck and lounge chairs in their hotel’s pool and hot tub area. Jessica was a beautiful girl, and I caught myself stealing short looks at her even when I tried to stop myself. You’d never have a chance, I told myself. She doesn’t even live around here. And neither do you. If she were to become involved with anyone, it would be Gabriel, and not me. I felt lonely then, so lonely that it seemed it would crush me. After all, I’d come along for the ride. I stared out across the sand at the inky blackness of the ocean. The sound of waves crashing against the shore was dim, but audible. I turned around when someone tapped me on the shoulder and offered me a cigarette. Why not? I smoked a bit in high school like everyone else, and liked the euphoria and calmness I experienced, but had never made it a habit. “Why don’t you go get your guitar, Gabe?” Jessica asked.

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Gabe shrugged. “Okay. Kyle, want me to grab yours, as well?” I didn’t know how keen I was on the idea of playing in front of these people, but if I was going to play with Gabe more often and hope to make any money, as we’d discussed off and on, I’d have to get over it. “Sure.” Besides, it would get my mind off of feeling like an outsider amongst the group. “I didn’t know you played, too” said another girl to me. “Yeah.” “He’s pretty good,” Jessica said. “I heard him and Gabe play earlier.” After a moment she asked, “What brings you to Santa Cruz, Kyle?” It was the first time I’d talked to her directly, and the first time the conversation was about me personally. All eyes turned in my direction. Gabe returned with our guitars. I thanked him when he handed me mine, and plucked a few chords to figure out where to begin. “I quit school and have been hitching around,” I said. “I ended up here.” “Must be exciting,” someone else said. A guy, this time. I shrugged and looked down at my guitar strings. “At times. Other times, it can suck, and I want to go home. But I don’t even know where that is.” “Has it been that bad?” Jessica asked. I nodded. “Sometimes.” “Will you tell us a story about a place you’ve been?” Jessica asked. “Some place good?” I paused a moment to think. “The best place was San Francisco,” I said then. “But it was also the worst.” The memories came back one after another then, and I couldn’t stop them. Then someone asked the question I’d hoped wouldn’t come up. I wanted someone, anyone, to say something else, to get another conversation going. But instead, someone asked, “What happened?” I’d never had such a willing audience. Usually when I talk about my experiences, people will show amazement or gasp in horror or murmur supposedly comforting platitudes in all the right places, but they’re not

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listening. I wished I could walk away from it that easy. And so, thus prompted, I told the story of my stay in San Francisco. The words came in short bursts at first as I tried to vocalize thoughts and feelings, some of which I’d buried or tried not to think about, but as I went, the words flowed easier and easier. I never took my eyes off my guitar. It seemed easier to talk that way. Every now and then I’d play a little something, but in the end I’d give up because I can’t play and talk at the same time. Throughout my story I was aware of Gabe playing quiet little somethings on his guitar, always softly so as to not interrupt me. I hadn’t told him much about myself. He didn’t have to look at what his fingers were doing, and so continued to look at me while playing, listening as intently as anyone else as far as I could tell. I could feel everyone’s eyes and attention on me. I told the story of San Francisco, the people I’d come to know there, the people I knew who’d died there, and my experiences while in the city, both the good and the bad. * * * * * I finished my story, aware that I’d come to the end only because there were no more words to say. There was absolute silence. Nobody moved. For me, the moment stretched out seemingly forever as I wrestled with feelings. The damn things hunkered in my mind, in my gut, and wouldn’t go away. And then Jessica rose, sat down next to me, put an arm around me and hugged me tight. I hugged her back with one arm and held my guitar in my lap with the other, eyes closed, as images passed in front of my mind’s eye. Tears leaked from my eyes. Gradually I became aware of Gabe playing, at first gently and then louder than he’d played during my story. Then he raised his voice and sang the lyrics, by himself at first, and then the others joined in one by one. I could hear Jessica’s soft voice right by my ear and could feel her warm breath on my face as we sat together in our embrace. I don’t know

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if Gabe picked the song specifically or at random, but I know the words hit home for me that night, and seemed to sum up everything I felt. I opened my eyes and smiled my appreciation at Jessica, who kept her arm around my shoulders. Her smile lifted my spirits in a way that nothing else could have. I sang, too, uncaring as to how I sounded, knowing only that I wanted to join in this moment and let the words carry how I felt. People caught my eyes with their own and I felt something pass between myself and each one of them. Was it love? Appreciation? Understanding? A mental nod to say, I hear you? With each met gaze, I felt better. These people did not murmur platitudes or turn their attention away. They listened. There, in poolside chairs by a beach under the night sky, we sang, eight or more people, some of whom had never met before that day, all joining our voices together as one. Our words carried out against the buildings and lifted up into the sky, perhaps even to the stars themselves, where they still carry on to this day.

Chapter 5

Gabriel and I slept in the hotel room with Jessica and her friends. By the end of the evening, they’d felt like my friends, too. That night set the theme for the rest of my time in Santa Cruz: I hung with Gabe often, and we crashed at parties or people’s houses or apartments whenever we could. For the most part it wasn’t too difficult to find places to sleep. Whether it was Gabe’s personality or the open, fun-loving generosity of the residents of the area, I’m not sure. Around mid February, I walked north along Pacific Avenue to the Curbside Coffee Company, where Gabe and I arranged to meet in order to pitch ourselves as live entertainment. I didn’t see Gabe anywhere yet, so I picked an outside table away from the others and sat down to wait for him. Around me I could hear the soft conversations of other patrons. We chose the time on purpose so as to not bother the owner during a busy period. Only three or four of the tables had occupants. I contented myself with picking up bits of conversation here and there and watching the activity on the street in front of me. A familiar smell arose around me. It was the smell of Gareth’s cigarette smoke. My heart beat fast. Feigning a casualness I didn’t feel, I turned

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around to take in my surroundings while a big lump of hope lodged in my throat. All around me were empty tables. On another side of the patio, a group of students gathered, and no smoke came from their direction. I found its source on the other side of me, and my hopes died. It was not Gareth, sitting there smoking, eyes looking thoughtful and distant. Instead, it was an older man, sixties or so, with gray hair and a tweed jacket. He had a Tom Clancy novel open in front of him on the table. A cup of steaming coffee sat nearby. Every so often he’d flick his ashes into an ashtray without looking up. I turned back to face the street. It wasn’t until I smelled his cigarette smoke, so physical and potent a reminder, that I realized how much I missed Gareth, missed having him around to talk to, knowing that whatever came up he’d have things in control. He was a friend, but I saw then that I’d almost looked to him as a sort of father figure. I missed seeing him at all hours of the night, sitting and thinking, wreathed in a cloud of smoke like some old wizard out of myth. Thoughts of Gareth turned to thoughts of the others. Of Alan, Leah, and Luis; of my father, too, though I think it was more the potential that I missed than any actual memories. The road had dulled any grief I felt over my father. I missed them all, and as I sat outside in the morning sun, I wished I could have spent more time with them. * * * * * The café couldn’t take us on, but we did get a few other paying jobs here and there. Nothing regular. Most places paid us twenty five to fifty a night under the table. When you lived like we did, it was enough. A few weeks passed. Gabe and I prepared to perform on a small stage outside a local restaurant. The stage itself was only a small box that stood about six inches tall, made out of plywood spray painted black. Shoved in one corner of the fenced outside seating area, it didn’t allow us much room at all. Two speakers mounted on tall stands flanked the stage, one on each side. Two stools and one microphone stand were all

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that were on the stage, and that’s a good thing, because that’s all there was room for. The management packed as many tables as they could into the area. Looking out, I could see a sea of people with table umbrellas poking out here and there. A few of Gabe’s friends had shown up and sat nearby, talking amongst themselves. I sat onstage and tuned my guitar. I’d replaced the strings the day previous, and so they still had a bit of stretch and give in them. On the last string—the high E, or the ‘thin one’ to non-guitar people—I turned and turned the peg to tighten it up to pitch, but it wouldn’t lock in. I turned it a bit more. It snapped. I swore. Having bought new strings, I hadn’t yet bought any replacements. Gabe was nearby, bent over and fiddling with somethingor-other. “Gabe, do you have any spare strings? My E busted and I don’t have a spare.” “I should,” he said without straightening up. “Check my case.” I leaned my guitar against my stool and hopped down behind the stage. The locks on Gabe’s case popped open with a series of sharp cracks. I opened the little cubbyhole under the neck support and fished through everything in there. String packages, a winder, picks, stickers, papers. Then I found what I needed: a single string of the proper gauge in a paper envelope. I shut the lid and was about to turn away when I paused. There was something else on the bottom—I could see it now in my mind’s eye, whereas before I was moving to fast to notice it. I opened the case again and pulled some things aside, hoping I would be wrong. I wasn’t. Wedged into the bottom of the storage area of the case was a plastic bag full of green. My mind worked while my fingers changed the broken string on my guitar. To the best of my recollection, I’d never seen Gabe smoking. Only rarely would he have a cigarette. So where did it come from? Eric’s face swam up in my mind. I’d been warned to mind the com-

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pany I kept and almost got myself killed in San Francisco when I ignored the advice. Was this the same sort of deal? Likely not. But I didn’t mean to make the same mistake again. I looked out at all the people gathered and felt overwhelmed by the futility of it all. Another person, this one my friend by a much longer amount of time than Eric, had gotten themselves involved in bad things. Everything I’d worked for could be in an instant wrecked by my mere association with him. Should I be with him if he got busted, I might get in trouble, too. Sure, looking back, it was likely an overreaction on my part. My justification for it was everything I’d seen and experienced before then. If the explanation feels lacking, then I can offer no further excuse. Then again, perhaps it was life’s way of nudging me along, to ensure I took Gareth’s advice to not stay in one place too long. It was time to leave Santa Cruz. To move on to somewhere else. Somewhere new. I didn’t have much more time for thinking. Gabe took his seat and we were off, playing the first song of our set. There was no way I could enjoy myself that night. There were too many worries, too many thoughts. I knew what I should do, but didn’t want to do it. It was nice to have a friend and some income. Between songs, I wrestled with fear, sadness, and anger that my time in Santa Cruz was, for one reason or another, about to end.

Chapter 6

I confronted Gabriel that night. I knew it would provoke a confrontation and an argument, but it was the only thing I knew to do, the only way I could think of to avert disaster. Some friends of his invited us over to their place after the show. We walked along dark lamp-lit streets, guitar cases in hand. I pondered how best to approach the subject. It didn’t help that I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. I didn’t feel anger. I didn’t feel fear. Just unease. “I found your stash in your case tonight when I got that spare string,” I said. “Oh? You mad at me for not sharing?” he joked. “I’m not joking about this,” I said. “Do you smoke often?” I sensed him shrug his shoulders. “Every so often. Up until recently I haven’t had enough money, but since we’ve played together things have gotten better and I decided to treat myself.” “If you were to get busted for it, would I get in trouble too?” I asked. “It’s not a big deal, man. They wouldn’t have anything on you.” “You’re sure about that?” “Totally.” I thought while we walked in silence.

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After a while I asked, “That night at the hotel pool, did I talk about a guy named Eric at all?” “Yeah, you did. I’m sorry about your friend.” “Me too.” I paused. “I think that’s why drugs make me so nervous now. I didn’t have anything to do with them, and they still screwed me over.” “Your friend was into other shit, though, man. Heroin and all that is a lot different than pot. Whole ‘nother world, my friend.” We stayed at the friends’ place that night. After a few hours the pot came out, and soon after, smoke filled the room we were in. I declined anything that came my way and passed it on to the next person. There was no need for me to have any of it—I had a hell of a contact high. Gabe said how pot was a “whole ‘nother world,” but as I sat with them and watch them get more and more stoned, I wasn’t so sure of that. It seemed to me like they were merely different parts of the same world, with the same dangers, less in scope but still there. I didn’t like brushing up against that world. It left me feeling dirty and paranoid, like some grease or oil had rubbed off on me and no matter what I did, it wouldn’t come off. Paranoia is no state to live in. The hardest part was telling Gabriel that I was leaving. Not only because we had come to rely on each other to provide income, but because we’d had a friendship of sorts and those are hard to break. Telling him was the first step to putting the city behind me. “I’ve decided that it’s time for me to leave,” I’d said one night as we sat idly playing under a beach-side street light. Gabriel stopped playing. “Wow. Why?” “It’s time for me to go. I’m not ready to stay in one place yet.” “But what about our gigs?” he asked. “You’re just going to leave me?” “We don’t have anything coming up,” I told him. “It was fun, but I can’t stay here for ever.” “I don’t like it,” he said. “We were just starting to do well, and money’s been nice. You’re insane for leaving right now, but if that’s what

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you want to do, then it’s up to you.” He hesitated, then held out his hand. “Take care, man.” “I will. Thanks for everything.” Gabriel insisted on buying us some beer to give me a good sendingoff. I drank it, not because I liked it but because he bought it for me. We stumbled around the city at sunset in what had become a sort of going-away party for me. When we found ourselves at the boardwalk, we rode one roller coaster while the attendant watched our stuff. “You can’t leave Santa Cruz without riding the Giant Dipper,” Gabe told me. The roller coaster is probably the boardwalk’s claim to fame: a giant white and red wooden roller coaster built in 1924. We paid our ticket price of almost four dollars and wound our way through the turnstiles. We waited to get the front seats. Once the bar clamped down, they shot us into a dark tunnel and the track dropped. The coaster burst outside— blinding in full afternoon sun, I’m sure, but the sun hung low in the sky by the time we got on board—and then began the ratcheting climb for its biggest drop. I had a good view of the ocean as we rose, but the knowledge of our imminent death-defying plunge sorta ruined it. There’s nothing like screaming out “Ooooooh shit!” at the top of your lungs when the coaster reaches the peak, to see exactly how far you’re going to go and then feel your stomach drop out from under you as you roll over the top and down the other side. It’s strange to clutch the bar with white knuckles, to be scared out of your wits and at the same time loving every minute of it. The coaster dipped in time for us to miss an overhead beam, and then I got slammed into the side of the car as it went into a banked curve. Wood coasters make a lot more noise and clatter than steel ones do, and I think it’s the knowledge that your life depends on mere wood that makes them so much fun. Feeling proud of myself that I didn’t lose the contents of my stomach, we reclaimed our belongings and I wandered off with Gabriel yet again until we found a decent spot out of the way of most foot traffic. It was a little mini-park with some benches and street lamps. We spent the rest of the night there in a drunken haze, playing guitar and singing out

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loud, enjoying ourselves far too much to care about anything else. I left Santa Cruz On Monday, March 3rd, a little later than I wanted to. Partying all night can make it difficult to wake up. For some reason, the urge to get up, pack up and leave isn’t nearly as pressing when you’re tired and hung over. No surprise there.

Chapter 7

My ride out of Santa Cruz was a salesman named Ted. “I’ve never picked up a hitchhiker before,” he admitted. “I’m glad you picked today to change your mind.” “I was driving by you and at first I wanted to stop, but then I remembered all that stuff about how you shouldn’t pick up hitchhikers because they can be murderers or whatever. But then I figured, ‘why not? He doesn’t look so bad.’” He kept tapping the steering wheel and looking at his watch as he drove. “Nah, I’m an ordinary person,” I said. “Most people are. The news likes to show stories of all the bad things. You’ll never see headlines like, ‘Man’s car breaks down, stranger gives him ride home.’” Ted’s fingers tapped out a quick rhythm on the steering wheel. “Look, Ted, I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but there’s no reason to be nervous. You can let me out at the next station we come across if you’re not comfortable.” He took a deep breath. “No. I’m not, I mean. At least, not about you. It’s been a hell of a day.” Ahh, here comes his story. The Story, as I’d begun to think of it. People who don’t have the money or the time for psychiatrists often spill their guts to hitchhikers

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instead. “Oh?” I said. It was my standard opening. Listening, but not prying. Let them decide what and how much to say. “I’ve realized I hate my job,” he said. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I’ve learned—especially through my conversations with people kind enough to offer me rides—that most people do. They all have the feeling that there is something missing, something more, and they’re right, but have no idea how to find it. “I took the day off today,” he continued. The tapping and watchchecking stopped. “Went into work and just sat there at my desk. Realized how much I hated being there, and that if I didn’t leave right then and take the day off, I think I might’ve quit, or even said something I shouldn’t and end up fired.” I said nothing. “I’m in sales, but I hate selling things. Hate lying to people. Hate listening to the others, listening to them talk to clients, knowing they’re lying their asses off. I’ve tried to be more honest in my work, but it falls through. I don’t make the money, don’t make the sales, and then my boss gets on my case. Sales people from other companies snatch up my clients. It’s almost like people want and expect to be fed a line of bullshit, and if they don’t get it, then something must be wrong with that company, I guess.” He paused. I counted him done with his rant, and I tried to formulate an appropriately vague response. “I hate the office politics most of all,” he said. “The backstabbing, the gossip when you’re not around. And the ties.” His tie hung around his neck in a loose loop. He reached up with one hand and ripped it the rest of the way off. “I hate wearing ties.” “Why don’t you quit?” I asked. “Surely you have enough job experience to find work somewhere else.” Ted smacked the steering wheel. “I can’t quit. I’ve already thought about it. I have a wife, kids, a house payment, this car payment. How will I pay for all that if I quit? I make too much where I am now to go anywhere else.”

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I opened my mouth to reply, but he cut me off. “I can’t just quit. Not with all these bills and responsibilities. My wife would kill me. But that’s the thing, I feel like I work all the damn time, work my butt off to provide for them, and I never even get to spend time with them.” “But hell, enough of all that,” he said. “Tell me about yourself. I’ve done enough talking for the moment.” I told him how I’d dropped out of school and had set off to see where my feet take me. “Man, that’s awesome,” he said. I reflected back on the past months. “Yeah. It’s not all fun and games, though.” “Nothing ever is. But I bet it’d still beat the hell out of working nine to five until you die.” We drove in silence for a moment, each lost in our own thoughts. “Damn,” Ted said a while later. “Hearing you talk reminds me of the trips we used to take back in high school and college. My friends and I. Someone would get it in their head to go see some concert, some band, or go to some theme park, and just like that we’d pack into a car or two, pool our cash for gas, grab some munchies for the road and take off. Even if it was in a different state. God, I miss those days.” He glanced my way. “Do you smoke, Kyle?” he asked. I knew what he meant—people don’t ask like that if they mean cigarettes. “No,” I replied. “Never had the chance and I guess I’m too paranoid for it.” Ted laughed. “I know exactly what you mean. Do you want some? I bought some today. Never tried it before. My friends always smoked, but I always said ‘no thanks’ and watched it pass me by, even though I wanted to. What the hell is there to be so afraid of, anyways? So I bought some today, almost without thinking about it. Today seems to be my day to do things I’ve never done before.” He turned to me. “I’ve never taken a day off before. Did I tell you that? Never missed a day of work, period.” His eyes returned to the road. “So what do you say? Smoke a bit with me?” “I dunno,” I said. “I don’t think I should. I still have a long way to go

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and need to have my wits about me.” “I didn’t think of that,” he admitted. “But hey, can you roll? I bought the papers and everything, but I’ve never done it before. Don’t have a clue what I’m doing. Could you roll a few for me for later?” “I don’t know how, either,” I said. “I’ve watched my friends do it. That’s about it.” “Better than me. But if you don’t want to, that’s cool.” What harm was there? He did give me a ride, after all. “Okay,” I said. “Sure, I’ll try it. No guarantees, though.” “Great. None expected. It’s all in the glove box.” I popped the compartment open and withdrew a zip lock full of green buds. I could smell it even through the bag. Underneath the bag was a package of zigzags: papers to roll your own “tobacco” cigarettes. I knew some people who once got desperate and used pages from the bible because the paper was so thin. I opened a paper in my lap and withdrew a pinch of the weed and sprinkled it in, careful not to spill any. Ted glanced over every so often, like he was trying to see how it was done. When I’d filled it as much as I dared, I rolled it up and licked the edge to seal it. The end result was loose and floppy, and looked like it’d lived in someone’s pocket for a month, gone through the wash and then been run over a time or two. But everything stayed inside, and it didn’t come apart. “Can you tell if it’s any good?” he asked. “I have no idea,” I replied. “It smells okay. I think I remember my friends talking about how the cheap stuff stinks. Stems are bad, too, I think, but there doesn’t seem to be that many.” “Good. I bought it from the system administrator at work. I figure he probably ripped me off, but oh well. I probably deserve it.” I got better at rolling as I went. Each succeeding one looked better than the last. Before I knew it, I’d rolled his entire stash. Ted proposed we stop for lunch and expressed a desire for french fries and a burger. “I’m sick of trendy office lunches,” he said. “Where’s your favorite place to get burgers?” I pointed out a Wendy’s, and we pulled in.

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We sat, ate, and talked about things like music and TV. Back on the road again, Ted asked me where he could drop me off, as he was getting close to home. “Any where in a decent traffic area, where you think I can get a ride.” Ted pulled to a stop in a gas station parking lot. “Thanks for the ride,” I said. “Thanks for your help, and for the conversation. Talking with you reminded me of my old days. It’s been good to remember them, but I know they’re totally gone, and that hurts.” He looked at me, and I could see sadness in his eyes. “No offense, but in a way, I wish I’d never picked you up.” I nodded. “None taken.” Ted held out two of the joints I’d rolled for him. “Here, take these with you.” “Thanks, but no thank you,” I said. “No, I mean it, take them. I have plenty. Besides, maybe you’ll change your mind and decide that you want to try it once. Share them with people, or sell them for money if you want to. I don’t care. Just take them, and promise me you won’t let go of your dreams. Don’t forget them. Don’t end up like me, some guy with a boring name working at a boring job and hating every moment of it. Think of me when you smoke them. That’s all I ask.” I took them and stashed them in my pants pocket. Couldn’t say no—not after that speech. I’d figure out what to do with them later. “Okay. Thank you, Ted. I hope you figure things out.” “Me too,” he said. I got out and shut the door. The man with a selfproclaimed boring name and a boring job pulled away. I remember thinking, at least he has a life. Good or bad, and maybe boring, but at least he had one. I shouldered my pack and started walking. Would I trade my uncertainty and freedom for what Ted had? Would I be happy? I think that yes, in the beginning, I would be. Everyone is always happy in the beginning. It’s when you settle in to your routine, when you realize that yes, this

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is the way things are going to be and will always be—I think it’s then that you begin to wonder “what if ” and long for something different. Perhaps that “something different” was something I already had: a sense of freedom. Was I sure I wanted it?

Chapter 8

I stepped into a Starbucks one morning for a bit of pick-me-up. Dropped my pack at an outside table and went in, but paused a moment to look at the title of a book a fellow outside was reading. Satisfied, I turned and walked in the door— —and right into an attractive girl carrying a mocha and a textbook. The drink splashed up through the lid, but didn’t spill. “Hi,” I breathed. “Hi there,” she replied. She graced me with a smile and slipped around me. I don’t remember what I actually ordered, my mind being elsewhere, you see—mostly seated outside, across the table from the girl I’d bumped into—but I got a cup of whatever-it-was and returned outside to my own table, where I put my feet up and made a strong effort to look off in another direction. Which is to say that I only stole glances every now and then. A few torturous minutes passed wherein I wrestled with a jittery feeling that arose from somewhere in the region of my stomach. I scraped back in my chair and went over to her—chance often opens the door for us only once. “Would you mind some company?” I asked.

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“It’s about time you came over,” she said. She moved her backpack to make room for me. “I’ve flipped through this chapter three times already.” * * * * * Her name was Keri. She was a graduate student at a nearby university. A few days passed wherein we met up at various places in the city. Then we skipped all that and went straight to my spending a lot of time at the house she shared with three other roommates. I’d once again found a reason to stay put for a while. One night, Keri and I sat on the floor, me against the couch and her in front of me. One of her roommates had the TV remote and flipped through channels, only to stop at a CNN broadcast. Men on the TV ran through the alleyways of Iraqi cities. Tanks and armored carriers rolled down streets and through the desert. Keri said, “Greg, I don’t want to watch this stuff.” “I want to see if there’s anything new,” he said. He shifted his bowl of cereal. “Then I’ll change it.” “We went to war?” I asked. “Yeah,” Greg said. “About a week ago.” Keri leaned back and cocked her head to look at me. “You didn’t know?” I stared at the images on TV. “No. It’s hard to get news sometimes when I’m traveling. Is it just us?” I asked Greg. “Pretty much. Us and the British.” The United States had gone to war in Iraq without the backing of the United Nations. My only experience with war was the Persian Gulf war when I was young. My father watched it every evening. The first televised war. But those were distant memories and I’d been too young to understand what was going on. I wasn’t any longer. I was old enough to understand, old enough to

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realize that war meant people dying. Old enough to know that a lot of the soldiers were guys my age. I sat there with the comfortable weight of Keri against me, my arms tight around her and the smell of her shampoo in my nose as I watched clip after clip of footage. The warmth and touch of her body gave me comfort. All I wanted was to be right there in that spot, close with someone. It helped to lessen the feelings of sadness. Arm-in-arm with Keri, I hugged her tight as buildings and vehicles smoked and burned while men in desert fatigues scurried for cover.

Chapter 9

Keri and I never talked about me leaving. I think we both knew that chances were slim that I’d be able to stay for any extended period of time. Instead, we focused on each other, on enjoying ourselves. The first few nights after I became a fixture around the house, she would go to sleep in her room and join me on the couch in the early morning hours. Not long after that we gave up entirely on the notion of sleeping apart and I joined her in her room every night. The whole experience, the ease with which things evolved, was so different than my time with Jackie that it made my head spin. That it could be as easy as it was seemed both crazy and perfectly reasonable. The comforts of a house are inexplicable in their subtlety and simplicity. After what amounted to an extended party in Santa Cruz, it was nice to return to something a little more normal. One night towards the end of March, I entered Keri’s room to find her flipping through the pictures I carried with me. I’d been looking at them earlier in the day and had left them out. She jumped when I said hello. “Oh, Kyle, I’m sorry, they were out, and so—” “It’s okay,” I said. “I know I left them out. I don’t mind.” I sat down beside her on her bed.

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She held one of the pictures of Jim, Jackie and I in Yosemite. “Who are these other people?” “That’s Jackie, a girl I traveled with out of San Francisco for a while. And that’s Jon, a friend we made on the road.” Keri knew parts of my past, but not all of it. She flipped through the other pictures and came to the end of the stack. The last picture was the one of my mom and aunt that I’d rescued from a box in Howerson’s office. That day felt like ages ago. “And these two?” She asked. “This one looks a lot older.” “It is. That’s my mom. And my aunt.” I told her my story of not having my mom as I grew up, and then of what came to light when my father passed away. By the time the story was told, my mood had come down a bit, and I stared off in space. She embraced me wordlessly. Some time later, Keri said, “I’m so sorry that you lost your mom. To not even know her or what happened to her. No one should have to go through that.” “I tried to find out,” I said. “I tracked down my aunt—her sister— but she didn’t want anything to do with me or memories of my mother. Looked for my grandparents, but nothing.” I held the photograph in my hand and looked at my mom. She smiled into the camera that day. Was she was still looking down upon me? Was she still smiling? “I’ve hoped to find out something, anything, about what happened to her,” I said. “But I’ve reached a dead end.” “Maybe someday—” Keri’s roommate Chelsey popped into the room and interrupted her. “Hey guys, we’re—Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” “No, it’s okay,” Keri said. “What’s up?” “We’re gonna go out to eat, if you two want to go.” Keri and I looked at each other, shrugged, and agreed. Once Chelsey left, I admired from my seat on the bed while Keri changed her clothes, and we all piled into Mike’s car to get something to eat. I never did find out what Keri meant to say about “someday”.

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A thick column of black smoke darkened the sky in one direction. Mike drove, Greg road shotgun, and Chelsey, Keri and I filled in the back seat. “Looks like a fire somewhere,” I said. “Yeah,” Greg replied. “Shit, I hope it’s not the liquor store. It’s in that direction, I think.” “Do you think they’d save the booze?” Mike asked. The fire was in the same vicinity. The alcohol was indeed safe— it was a restaurant that was in flames. A steakhouse a few doors down from the liquor store had caught fire and grown in intensity such that it seemed the fire department had abandoned hope of putting it out. They still sprayed it every now and then to keep it contained and under control, but the entire roof was on fire and mostly the firefighters watched and kept people away. Tongues of flame reached ten feet above the building while smoke poured out of holes and windows. Traffic slowed in each direction as drivers joined those on the sidewalk in gawking. “I guess some people aren’t gonna have to pay their bills, at least,” Mike said. Some people weren’t going to have a job, either. We ate at a Don Pablo’s across the street. Those of us waiting for a table stared across the street at the fire. Our hostess seated us in a section that had windows that overlooked the action. The glow of orange flames and the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles punctured the dining area. The building burned silently to the ground as we ate, a flaming backdrop that most of the diners ignored. * * * * * A feeling of unrest built up in me. The urge to go, long-cultured, fought the urge to stay. I’d set myself on an endless quest. There seemed little point to staying the course to nowhere in particular. Not when I had something good building with Keri. Some of Keri’s roommates had begun to look at me in a different

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light. My presence caused a strain on their living situation. I chalked it up to mere imagination until I caught a portion of conversation that was not intended for me. “He has to go,” Mike said. “Why?” Keri asked. “He pays part of the rent and cleans up after himself. What harm is there?” “He wasn’t part of our agreement, Keri. I have nothing against him. But this house is too small for five people. Hell, sometimes it feels too small for four of us.” “What about the others?” “They feel the same way—they’re just too considerate to tell you.” It was life’s way of giving me another shove. * * * * * Keri and I lay together in darkness one night, chatting about this and that, and I brought up the subject of me traveling. What surprised me is that it didn’t surprise her. “I knew you wouldn’t be staying,” she said. “I’m sorry, I—” She put her fingers over my lips. “I don’t mean that in a bad or accusing way,” she said. “I’ve known all this time.” “I wish I could. I heard you and Mike talking the other day.” “He didn’t mean anything by it,” she said. “But he’s right, in a way. It is crowded here. And somehow, something doesn’t feel right. I want to stay.” I could hear the frustration in my own voice. “But something keeps calling me away.” “Maybe you still have something else to do,” she said. “Like destiny or fate or something.” “I don’t believe in that,” I said. “I don’t think that matters.” Silence dropped over us. After a time, I said, “I think I should leave soon, though.” No response.

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I kissed the top of her head and said, “But I promise I’ll come back to see you soon. I want you too much to be able to stay away for good. Whatever is drawing me away will draw me back.” She rolled over on top of me and kissed me. We didn’t sleep much that night. When morning light peeked through slits in the blinds, it found us still awake, bodies entwined in a form of communication so natural that it had no need of spoken words. When I left two days later, I could still smell her perfume. In one hand, I held the photograph of my mother and aunt—I’d never repacked it since the day Keri and I looked at it together in her bedroom. My other hand I held out towards the road, thumb extended. If destiny wanted me so bad, it would have to provide the lift.

Chapter 10

I could say that I never looked back, never doubted, but that would be a lie. Doubt is the yardstick by which life measures our worth and our resolve.

Chapter 11

Once the haze of routine life and the drowning bliss of a new love cleared, I realized there was one specific thing that I needed to do, after all.

Chapter 12

A computer programmer and then a retired park ranger brought me to the gates of Yosemite National Park. Cold weather and the forest echoed memories of Jackie. I listened to them as much as I could, accepted them and the sting, by then long dulled. I had Keri, and nothing between Jackie and I—past or present— could ever compare with that. I accepted those memories and feelings, and then I pushed them aside. I would dwell in the present, not the past. The next morning, I hiked two miles to the top of Sentinel dome. Once there, I dropped my pack and looked out at the three hundred and sixty degree view of the valley. Trees on the distant mountainsides looked like tiny models. A crisp breeze blew, cooling the sweat-dampened back of my shirt. I willed Eric to see through my eyes from wherever he was. I spun and took in as much of the view as I could. A nearby rock provided a convenient post. I sat and smoked a cigarette for Eric, as he told me he wanted to do. A calm sense of quiet blanketed me as I watched the wind carry off the smoke I exhaled. My mind was absent of thoughts. Before I left, I pulled a piece of paper and a pen from my bag. On it, I wrote:

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I blew the last breath of smoke skyward and said, “Hope that finds its way to you, Eric.” I placed the paper face-up on top of a nearby rock. A gray stone went on top of that to ensure it would not blow away. That done, I made my descent. The rain and sun would eventually wear away my ink and even the paper itself, until nothing remained but bits of fiber, but it didn’t matter. God did not speak, as Eric had wondered, but I like to tell myself I heard Him all the same.

Chapter 13

I bypassed the backpacker campgrounds in Yosemite and took the first ride that came my way. If I was going to sleep on the ground, I certainly wasn’t going to pay for the privilege. The trek up and down the mountain had drained me, and I didn’t care where I went, with whom I rode, or what the signs said along the way. Thus, the place my ride dropped me was a nameless city in my eyes. Content to let it remain nameless, I cared only for finding a place to hole up for the night, and duck and wove between streets and through alleys in search of a suitable spot. Another turn brought me to another street, this one narrower and not even marked or painted with lines in any way. A hundred or so yards down I saw a police cruiser with its lights on. I froze and considered backtracking. In my line of living, it’s easier to go the other way. Something caught my eye. The lights were on, spinning their lazy circles, but I could see no officer. The driver side door hung open. A spot of road basked in the light of the interior lamp. The sound of physical struggle reached my ears at the same time I saw a ticket book on the ground beyond the car door—it’d come loose of the metal clipboard accompanying it and its pages lay sprawled out in

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a loose fan. I ran around the other side of the car and, only able to guess where the sounds were coming from, ran down another alleyway. The next sequence of events took place over the course of a second or two at most, but in my mind they unfold slowly, like the replay of a touchdown pass in the Super Bowl. I turned the corner and saw three men, two in civvies and one in the crisp, deep navy uniform of an officer. His uniform was so dark that it looked like a hole in the night. They struggled, one civilian sent offbalance and flying as the officer wheeled around on one leg, but the other civilian had a tight hold on him and the officer overbalanced. I’m stuck in place, like I’m rooted in cement; one portion of my mind screamed that I needed to do something—anything!—while the rest of my brain forgot where it stashed the operator’s manual. My muscles, patient as ever, waited for input. The officer hit the ground butt-first and tumbled back against the building. His feet and legs came up off the ground like a two year old rolling onto his or her back. My brain had a split-second to toss out a thought (wow, his shoes are shiny) before I saw the remaining civilian’s arm raise in a smooth arc. Extended from it was cold, blue steel that looked black under what little light fell into the alley. As the officer scrambled to get up, the conscious part of me hit the manual override switch and I lurched forward, willing myself to get there fast enough, without knowing what I was going to do when I got there. The man squeezed the trigger as I ran. I knew this because the gun jumped and the briefest flash-tongue of flame slipped from the barrel, followed by the sound, a deafening explosion that bounced off the surrounding walls and made my ears ring. I had time for one last thought— oh my god I’m too late he actually SHOT him—before I crashed into the shooter with my full weight and gathered momentum. I swung, elbowed and kicked as we both went down, intent on doing as much damage as possible. I felt something grab my shoulder and

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it dawned on me that I’d forgotten about the second man, the man who now had me outnumbered and prone and I knew a moment of true fear before I realized it was my backpack strap, still hanging onto my arm. The other strap broke during the struggle, and I had a death grip not on the assailant, but on my own backpack. I looked up to see both men running away, the first only the briefest white flicker as the heel of his hind sneaker turned the corner. I shrugged myself out of my pack and scrambled on all fours over to the officer. His eyes were closed when I knelt down beside him. I nudged him with my hand—it touched something warm and wet. My mind flashed back to a day long before when I followed Gareth one night and witnessed the stabbing of a homeless man. Once again, I fought the urge to vomit. And I would help this time, if I could. At my touch, the officer’s eyes opened. He was much younger than I first thought. Early thirties at most. “Are you okay?” I asked. Stupid question, I knew, considering I saw him get shot and had his blood on my hand. “Mmmnnn,” he mumbled. I couldn’t understand what he was trying to say. His eyes focused on mine for a second and then went wholly white as they rolled up into the back of his head.

Chapter 14

There was a microphone clipped to his shoulder and wondered if I should use that to call for help. I pressed my hand against the wet spot on his chest, against a hole where there shouldn’t have been a hole. Warmth spread over my hand as I fumbled for the microphone with my left hand. It wouldn’t come unclipped. He moaned. I might have pressed on the wound too hard, but I didn’t dare let up the pressure. “Are you Christian?” I asked. “Do you want to pray?” I don’t know why I asked that. I think I saw it on TV once. He mumbled something, which I took for assent. “Our Father”, I began, and there was a rushing sound in my ears. My own voice seemed so very far away. The clinical, detached portion of my mind noted that I wasn’t even sure if I knew all the words to the prayer. He said something that might have been a muttered “Our Father.” “—Who art in Heaven—” —Pure mumbling this time— “—Hallowed be Thy name—” And then I got no response at all. The rushing sound in my ears faded enough for me to hear that I’d abandoned all efforts of piety and

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was instead saying, “Oh shit, don’t die, oh shit, don’t die”, over and over again—my own sort of prayer. And still I couldn’t get the damn microphone unclipped. Sirens approached. Good, I thought. They’ll know what to do. Tires wailed nearby. Car doors slammed. I clamped my mouth shut to stop my babbling. A male voice boomed, “Get flat on the ground with your hands behind your head!” I tried to tell them that the man was injured, he needed to see a doctor and was bleeding badly, not to mention all over me, and— —pain flared and filled my awareness and the world went white for a moment before it faded back in. As it did so, I could feel myself falling over on the ground. In front of me, still in the center of my vision, was the slumped form of the unconscious or possibly dead police officer. My last thought before the end of my curtain call, before I blacked out, was to wonder if anyone had called an ambulance. * * * * * I must have only been out for a moment. When I came to, I was laying on my stomach, still in the alley, with a knee shoved into my back. My head hurt something awful. I tried to shake the fog from my head, but that’s hard to do when you’re pinned down and can’t move. The subsequent pain of my arms being wrenched behind me did the trick, though. “What’s going on?” I asked. I’m not sure how close it came out. The answer was to be jerked off the ground by the handcuffs on my wrists. My shoulders screamed in protest and pain. Had they been ripped out of their sockets? I fought to get my feet underneath me, to get the weight of my body off of my shoulders and wrists. I was trying to formulate my next thought when whoever was behind me—they had to have been big to toss me around like that—rammed me into the back fender of a patrol car.

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My first instinct was to stick out my hands to stop myself, but the joke was on me, because they were handcuffed behind me. Puzzlement wafted across my mind when my hands didn’t respond in the split second before impact. The momentum carried my torso over the trunk hood and knocked the wind out of me. A foot kicked my legs apart as hands frisked through my clothes and over my limbs. I could hear my rights being read to me and tried to tell them to wait, that something was wrong, but I didn’t have a chance because I then found myself tumbled into the back seat of the patrol car. My hands and arms were again temporarily unable to help me—so sorry—and I banged my head on the opposite door. There was just enough time to jerk my legs up before the door slammed on them. I righted myself as the driver’s side door opened and the officer got in. He was a big guy. Like a football player. All I could see through the grill separating us were his upper shoulders and the back of his neck, hair close-cropped all around. His bulk filled the entire driver’s seat. In front of him was the dashboard with a variety of radio and computer equipment. “Excuse me,” I began, “I think—” “—Shut your mouth,” came the reply from the front seat. “Or I will shut it for you.” “But I—” “—I won’t tell you again.” Point taken. What a mess, I thought. The jail house was a large brick building. I was led through a series of corridors lit by harsh fluorescent lighting. All in all, it reminded me of the Everlasting Faith Ministry. God, I hated that place. No pun intended. Any attempt I made to talk was met by a sharp pull upwards on my wrists and a hand shoved in the middle of my back, a double move that made me wince in pain and stumble to keep my balance. After a few attempts, I gave up trying to talk. They asked my name, fingerprinted me, and then threw me into

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a cell with about six other people. They pushed me in so hard that I stumbled my way across the cell and fell ungracefully onto a bench seat at the back. The door clanged shut. I righted myself and stared at the floor, too shocked to even think. I also wasn’t too sure that I wanted to look around me. A touch of my fingers to the back of my head encountered something crusty and a large lump. Dried blood? “Whoa, I never seen someone treated like that,” I heard one voice say. “What’d you do, man?” “He killed a cop,” said another. “I heard them talking about it.” “No shit?” said the first. “Right on, man.” “I didn’t kill him,” I said, not looking up. “The hell he did,” spoke a third, “you think a skinny shit like him could do that?” “I was trying to help him,” I said. “They got the wrong guy.” There was laughter from all around. “Buddy,” said a new voice, “tell us one we haven’t heard before.”

Chapter 15

I spent the rest of the night in jail. I kept to myself, and the others left me alone, whether for awe and respect of my supposed cop-killing or because I was a kid, I’m not sure. I do know that I didn’t give a rat’s ass either way. I had to pee. The bare toilet in plain sight of everyone dared me to. I decided I didn’t have to go that bad, after all. * * * * * The early morning passed without word. I waited so long with no word that I tried to work up the courage to ask again. A few of my fellow occupants from the night before had been released or transferred elsewhere. At last, when I could stand it no longer and wanted some sort of news, another officer, this one tall and thinning in the hair, came for me. He read for a brief moment from the clipboard in his hands, and then looked up into the cell. “Dearmond!” he called. I raised my hand. “That’s me.” At last, I was getting somewhere.

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Where ever that might be. “Come with me.” I stood up and waited inside the door. He gestured to someone else and the door lock buzzed. I stepped out and crossed my wrists in front of me. “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “This way, please.” He lead me through more corridors until at last he indicated a door on his right. “Go on in and have a seat,” he said. “Someone will be with you shortly.” With that, he closed the door behind him. The clock on the wall—black hands and numbers on a stark field of white—read just before ten o’clock. Ten minutes passed wherein I occupied myself with pacing the room. The door opened, admitting a man in a modest suit. “Kyle Dearmond?” he asked. I nodded. He pulled a wallet out of his inner coat pocket and flashed his badge at me. “I’m Detective Fuller. Please, have a seat.” “I don’t know what’s going on, but all I tried to do is help the guy,” I said as I grabbed a chair. Fuller’s hands went up in a stalling gesture, but I didn’t pause. “I didn’t shoot him.” “I know you didn’t,” he said. I blinked. “You do?” He nodded. “I was assigned to investigate the case. The officers on scene thought it was a slam dunk, no questions asked, but even in cases like this we always open an investigation. It’s routine. But things got unroutine pretty quick when we dusted the weapon and didn’t find a single print of yours on it.” The guy dropped the gun. That was good. “So I’m being let go?” I asked. “Not yet, but you will be soon. You’re not longer a suspect, in any case. If it’s alright with you, I’d like to get a report of what happened last night.” I nodded. Fuller opened the door real quick, said something to someone outside, looked at me a moment, added something else, then closed the door again and sat down in front of me. He asked me to tell

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the full story in my own words. I did as best as I could. Part way through, another uniformed officer came into the room bearing a cup of coffee and a soda. He set them down on the table, along with a little plastic cup an inch high with two little white pills in it, and then left. Fuller gestured to the soda and pills. “I heard they got you pretty hard. That’s aspirin, it’ll help.” We spent about an hour together before Fuller said, “Well, that should be everything I need. We can go sign you out now and get your belongings.” He stood and held the door open for me. “I had to search your pack as part of my investigation, but I put everything back as best I could.” Oh no! The joints that Ted insisted I take were still in my bag! I must have gasped or shown some sign, because Fuller chuckled. “Yeah, I found them. But with what you’ve been through, I’m willing to turn a blind eye. You should quit, though.” “I don’t in the first place,” I said, relieved. “A guy I got a ride from gave them to me. Wouldn’t take no for an answer.” “Figured it was something like that, since they were all mashed up at the bottom of your pack and no longer worth much.” He took me to a counter. The lady behind it took my name and returned with a huge plastic bin. In it was my pack, some of my miscellaneous items, and an vanilla envelope containing my money. She had to make a second trip for my guitar. I saw a tag tied to one of the case locks, and I shivered. It reminded me of a toe tag. I emptied the envelope onto the counter and stashed my belongings in their appropriate places. Halfway through strapping on my watch, I noticed that the glass face had been crushed in and the display was blank. I must have hit my watch somehow when I struggled with the shooter. Fuller had me sign some paperwork and walked me to the main doors of the station. “You’re free to go, but if you have a few minutes I’d like you to come with me to the hospital. Officer Albreight wants to talk to you.” “Who?”

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“The officer whose life you saved.” I blushed. “Oh. Sure.” “I’m sorry about the way you were treated,” said Fuller during the drive. “I know it’s not much of an excuse, but we sort of take it personally whenever one of our own is hurt.” I felt the bump on the back of my head. “I noticed.” We parked and wound our way through the hospital. It took a few stops and asking for information before we found Albreight’s room. He was fresh from recovery and lay staring at the TV when we entered. Albreight clicked the remote and the TV went dark. “I understand I have you to thank for being alive,” he said to me. “Thank you.” I made some sort of noise in my throat that I hoped sounded like acceptance. Though he had ten or so years on me, it didn’t seem like much at all when I looked at him sitting in the bed with his torso bandaged up. Fuller filled the silence. “The paramedics think that Kyle’s attempts to stop your bleeding kept you alive long enough for them to get to you. Even given one shot, it would have been close had Kyle not been there.” He looked around the room at the flowers and cards scattered everywhere. “Have the guys given you a hard time yet?” he asked. “Not too bad so far,” Albreight replied. “Hmm,” Fuller noised. Then he smiled. “You wait. They will.” “I figure I’m not lucky enough to escape it,” he replied. “Not in the least. Now if you two will excuse me, I have some other things to attend to. Kyle, nice meeting you, sorry it wasn’t under better circumstances, and thanks for your help. Take care.” With that he was gone. I stood, feeling awkward, until Albreight nodded towards a chair. “Have a seat. If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear what happened. People have been a little fuzzy on the details.” I told my story again. Halfway through, I was interrupted by a nurse. “There you are,” she said when she spotted me. “I’m supposed to take a look at that head of yours.” When I protested that I was fine, she shook her head. “Detective’s orders, so just sit quiet, please.” I gave in and sat while she examined my head, took my blood

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pressure, and shined a flashlight into my eyes. “Looks okay.” She cleaned up the blood on my head, instructed me to come back if symptoms developed, and then left the room. I finished my story. Once my initial nervousness wore off, I found that I liked Albreight a lot. He still seemed to have a lot of his younger days left in him. He admitted to still playing video games, for one thing. After about an hour of talking, a young woman rushed into the room. She flew over to him and they kissed. Albreight introduced me. Behind his wife, Rachel, was their daughter Kaitlyn, a little girl with light brown hair past her shoulders. Rachel lifted Kaitlyn up to sit on the edge of the bed. They all hugged one another, heads and faces close together, and I felt like an intruder in that special moment. “I came as soon as I could,” Rachel said. “I got the call that you were awake, but couldn’t get away at first.” I felt my nose tingle. My eyes watered up a bit. “It’s okay, I’ve had company,” Albreight said, and then he looked at me and smiled. “Kyle here’s been updating me on what happened.” Rachel turned to look at me. Tears rolled freely down her cheeks. She wiped them away with the back of her hand. “Hi, Kyle. Thank you for what you did.” Once again, embarrassed, I murmured, “It was nothing.” “No,” she said, and she looked at Albreight. “Far from nothing.” I couldn’t bear to shrug her off. Not with that sort of look in her eyes. All I could do was nod. Kaitlyn hopped off the bed and came over to stand in front of my chair. She seemed so tiny. Her t-shirt had the characters from the Veggie Tales cartoon on it. “Did you save my Dad?” she asked. “Well, I guess so, I mean, they say I did,” I babbled. Rachel had sat down on the edge of Albreight’s bed. “Yes, honey,” she said. “He did.” I can’t be sure, but I’d bet I blushed again at that point. “Thank you,” Kaitlyn said, and in one smooth, quick motion she ran forward, kissed my cheek, and then scampered off again to jump in

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her mom’s lap. Rachel and Albreight locked eyes. “Kaitlyn, honey,” Rachel said, “why don’t you grab a dollar out of my purse and go buy a soda from the vending machine.” Kaitlyn said, “But I don’t know where it is.” I saw the look between the two adults. “I do,” I said, and stood. “C’mon, I’ll show you.” I took the little girl down the hall to a vending machine in the waiting room. Kids have something in them that, by their very nature, causes us to look at the world in a different way. Hoarding my money had become second nature to me, but there was no hesitation at all as I fed my own dollar into the soda machine and watched Kaitlyn push the button for orange. * * * * * Rachel had to return to work not long after that. She fretted over not being able to stay with her husband. “Don’t worry,” I said, “I can stay with him.” “Are you sure?” “No problem at all.” Kaitlyn elected to stay with her father and I. Albreight said to me, “I don’t want to keep you from anything. She worries too much. You don’t have to stay.” I shrugged. “I don’t have much else going on,” I said. At that point, he asked me questions about myself while Kaitlyn played with the TV remote until she found a show she liked. “Is this on or off the record?” I asked, half serious, half joking. “Completely off,” he said, and smiled. So I told him my story—not the whole thing, and I skipped over the emotional parts, but I told enough of it. “Any luck with finding out about your mom or grandparents?” he asked when I’d finished. “None. I’ve hit nothing but dead ends and now I’m stuck.”

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“Did you try calling the sheriff and police offices of neighboring counties?” he asked. I shook my head no. “How about hospitals, too?” Again, no. “I never even thought of that,” I admitted. I would have to check to see if Howerson had. “How much help would they give to some random person on the phone?” I asked. “Most records are restricted.” “Hmm,” Albreight mused. “I bet they would if a police officer called. Maybe I can help you out.” “You don’t have to do that,” I said. “That’s not why I told you.” “I know,” he said. “But it’s the least I could do. I owe you, after all.” He overrode me when I protested. “Besides,” he said, “it’d give me something to do. It hasn’t even been a day yet and I’m bored out of my mind. I’m not sure how long they’ll keep me here, but I know even once they let me go they’re not going to let me do anything or return to work anytime soon. I’d appreciate something to keep me busy, and if I can help you out in the process, all the better.” There wasn’t much I could say to argue. I thanked him, and we moved onto other topics of discussion. All the while, I felt a renewed hope—a feeling that stayed with me for the rest of the afternoon.

Chapter 16

The nurses ran me out of the room at 7 PM. Rachel had come by to visit and take Kaitlyn home about an hour before. Albreight had set me up with a place to stay for the night. “I called a substation not too far from here,” he said to me. “You can stay there for the night. It might be uncomfortable and a bit noisy at times, but it’s sleeping inside and no one will bother you.” It was dark when I stepped through the large glass doors of the hospital’s main entrance. Albreight had given me directions to the substation. “I hope I’m not bothering you,” I said to the fellow behind the station’s desk. “Not at all,” he said. “I heard about what happened with Albreight. Happy to have you.” * * * * * During my visit with Albreight the next day, he asked, “Kyle, could you do me a huge favor?” “Sure.”

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He gestured over to the table at his bedside. “Could you take my wallet and go down to the cafeteria for me? I’m dying for a hamburger or something. When I asked the doctor, he said I can eat whatever I want, and by hell I’m going to. Hospital food is the pits.” “Alright.” I’d grabbed his wallet and was almost out the door when he stopped me. “Oh, and Kyle? Don’t tell my wife. Doctor’s go-ahead or not, I’d still get in trouble.” * * * * * Rachel and Kaitlyn arrived around 6 to take Albreight home. I felt like a fifth wheel for the most part, walking behind the three of them as a nurse pushed him through the hospital in a wheel chair. I stood behind Albreight’s chair out in front of the entrance with my hands resting on the handles. Rachel had left to bring the car around. “You’re welcome to stay with us a while, Kyle,” Albreight said after a moment. “No, thank you. That’s kind of you, but I’d be in the way—you don’t need company at a time like this.” “Actually, we do. Rachel still has to work, and Kate has school during the day. I could use some help around the house until I get back on my feet again.” “I don’t know,” I trailed off. “Besides,” he added, “you need to at least hang around until I make some phone calls for you, remember?” * * * * * TV and pizza occupied the hours that night. It felt weird to sit there with them, but they didn’t seem to mind my company. Kaitlyn even wanted to show me her bedroom, and then later on her coloring books. We sat on the living room floor while she showed me picture after picture. I didn’t know what to say, on account of never having younger

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bothers or sisters, so I fired off vagueties that I hoped satisfied her. Rachel gave Albreight his next dose of painkillers about halfway through the movie. He fell asleep thirty minutes later. Kaitlyn spread an afghan over her slumbering father. Rachel suggested I bed down in their office: a small room that contained their desk, computer, bookshelves, and other such odd things that didn’t have a place anywhere else in the house. “I don’t know what we’ll do with all of this if we ever have another child,” she said to me. She tried to get out and inflate an air mattress for me, but I was firm in my resolve and politely forbade her from doing so. I would be fine with the things I had, I assured her; I’d long grown used to sleeping as I did. Rachel closed the door behind her, but not before a pajama-clad Kaitlyn poked her head in to say goodnight. Had my own family been like that, once upon a time, before the disappearance of my mother? I missed my father, but even more so, I missed the things I’d never had. * * * * * Albreight settled in to do some phoning after the chaos of family breakfast the next morning. “You’re going to want to go out and do something,” he said then. “This is going to be a long, boring processes. It won’t do you any good to sit and wait.” I came back to the house to prepare lunch for the both of us. Afterwards, Albreight and I sat in silence, crumb-filled plates still scattered around us and glasses nearly empty save for the melted remains of ice cubes. “Where will you go from here?” Albreight asked me. I paused before answering. “I haven’t thought about it yet,” I admitted. “Thinking about it beforehand doesn’t always help.” “Think you’ll ever go back to school?” “Doubt it.”

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“I don’t want to be the one to harp on you and lecture, but you might want to give your future a thought. There are a lot of fast-track school programs out there. You can get in and out of schooling in six months to a year or so, right into a job, and avoid all the silly degree stuff.” I made a non-committal noise. “Give it a bit of thought. That’s all I ask. The streets are no place to be willingly. I don’t want the next body we pull out of the river or find in a dumpster to be yours.” “Do you have to do that often?” “Often enough. You’ve lived the life. You know how things are.” I did. The homeless and transient lifestyle didn’t always bode well for a person’s future. Did I mean to carry on like this for the rest of my life? And if I did, how long of a life against the odds did I think I’d have?

Chapter 17

Albreight yelled for me a few days later. I stepped into the living room. “What is it?” Albreight stared down at his pad of paper for a moment. I waited. Had he heard me? “I think I found something,” he said then. I asked him to repeat himself. “I think I found something. It’s not much, but I’ve found someone who said they have a person in their care that matches the general info you gave me.” “What? Where?” “A nursing and rehab establishment in Fresno.” “What’d they say?” “They wouldn’t talk at first, until I told them who I was, gave them my badge number, and held the line while she called the department to verify my identity. Years ago, the local hospital transferred a woman into their care. Between ages thirty and forty, brown hair. She has amnesia, can’t remember much at all about herself. Not even her name.” “Now get this,” he continued. “I got the attending doctor’s information from the nurse at the home. A call to the hospital netted me some more details: the woman had been in a car accident. A bad one.

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Treated for head and internal injuries, and also for a smashed leg. She had no identification on her. When she recovered from surgeries, she couldn’t remember anything about herself, let alone anything that could identify her. No prints in the system, either. She was transferred to the home until she could make a complete recovery and has since moved out on her own. I’ve attempted to contact the paramedics listed on the report. I’m waiting to hear back from them.” My brain tried to keep up with the leaps that Albreight made. “So that means what, exactly?” “So,” he said, “we have a woman that fits a certain profile and can’t remember who she is. It could be nothing, but it’s worth looking into.” “You think it could be her?” I asked. It couldn’t be that easy. Could it? “No,” he replied. “No, I don’t. But we have to start somewhere. I’ll know more if either of the paramedics return my calls.” I sat down on the couch, my mind heavy with thoughts. Hope was there—a dim flicker of a flame. I dared not fan it any brighter. Could my mother actually be alive? That she hadn’t passed into anonymous death, but somehow fell through the cracks and lived on? It didn’t seem possible. Modern life is sophisticated. All those networks, computers, databases, inter-department communications. I could see no way for someone to pop up out of nowhere and not be tied to someone or something. I wanted to believe it—but I couldn’t. I waited. Waited for hours and hours that day, and stewed in my own anxiety. That evening, I was in the office, and my eyes fell on my backpack, sitting in the same spot I’d left it the week before. I had all the means of travel that I needed at my disposal: two feet to carry me, a thumb to get me farther, and I could fit everything I owned into that bag. Back in the living room, I told Albreight: “I’m going to leave tomorrow.” “What do you mean?” “I’m leaving for Fresno tomorrow.”

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There was a moment of confusion. Then he understood. “Kyle, I haven’t even heard back from the paramedics yet. That lady could be anyone. The odds of—” “—I know that,” I interrupted. I felt more sure about my decision to leave as each minute passed. “But I have to go. I was in Fresno,” I said. “I spent Christmas in a shelter there. I could have been in the same city as her. I can’t sit here and wait, knowing that there’s a chance, however small, that that woman could be my mother. Could you?” Albreight looked at me in silence for a moment. “No,” he sighed. I asked for the address. “Promise me one thing, though,” Albreight said. “Promise me you’ll be careful in the way you approach the subject. The shock of a longlost son popping up out of nowhere will be huge, whether or not you’re right.” “I”ll be considerate,” I said. “I’ve come too far to be reckless.” He nodded, satisfied, and scribbled the address on a piece of paper. I said my goodbyes to Rachel and Kaitlyn that night. * * * * * Sleep was fleeting. Try as I might, I could not get my mind to calm down. I awoke at first light and gathered all my things together with practiced ease. Included in my belongings were some hand-me-down clothes of Albreight’s that he no longer wore or needed. Rachel gave them to me, with his permission, to replace some of my more worn items. Albreight was awake in his chair when I slipped out into the living room. “Still determined to leave?” he asked. The only light in the room was the dim glow of the muted TV. We spoke with an early-morning softness. “Yeah.” “I’d offer to make you breakfast,” he said, “but, you know.” He gestured at himself in the chair. I knew.

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“It’s okay,” I said. “What are you thinking?” he asked. “A lot of things, actually. But mostly I’m wondering how I’m going to know. Even if I were lucky enough to stumble across her, I never knew her. How will I know?” “I don’t know,” he said. “You have the old picture. I guess beyond that, you’ll have to trust that you’ll know.” Our goodbyes were short and ended with a prompt handshake. He’d given me their phone number on a scrap of paper. “Call us if you need something,” he told me. “You’ll always be welcome here. Check back in a few days, maybe I’ll have more information by then.” I nodded. “I will. And thank you for letting me stay here.” “Thank you,” he said. My last sight of him was as I slipped out the front door and closed it behind me. He sat in the recliner, bathed in pale light from the TV, torso bandaged and surrounded by tissues, pill bottles, and empty glasses of water. However bad his situation might have been, though, I’m sure he didn’t mind too much. The alternative was much worse.

Chapter 18

The next few days passed in a blur of dark stretches of highway, harsh lighting of gas stations and truck plazas, musty car interiors, chatty drivers, the dull haze of sleep deprivation, and a constant need for haste.

Chapter 19

I don’t know how many times I looked at the picture of my mother and aunt as I stood across from the address on my scrap of paper. The house itself was nondescript in a suburban way, two-toned with trim, a tidy lawn, and even flowers in the kitchen window. A lawn mower bellowed from somewhere off in the distant dusk air. I didn’t have the courage to go up and knock on the door. There was too much at stake, too much wrapped up into a single hard ball inside of me. Had I come all this way to stare and then slink away? I had to know. A dark sedan cruised down the street and pulled into the house’s driveway. I’d lost my chance due to my cowardliness, and I could only watch as a gray-haired gentleman in a suit stepped out of the car. There were flowers in one hand and a smile on his face. He rang the bell. I waited with him from across the street. For what seemed an eon, he and I waited for someone to open the door. The door opened. The breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding escaped in one long sigh when a woman stepped into the doorway. It was my mother—of this, I had no doubt. Albreight had been

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right. Though she came to the door in a smooth evening dress and heels, I could plainly see in her the same features as the woman in the photograph I held. Surgery after the accident had not covered or changed them enough to hide her. A silver cross, like the one in my picture, hung suspended from her neck. I’d found her.

Chapter 20

Movement was denied to me as the woman smiled, accepted the flowers, and kissed the visitor. She pulled the door closed behind her as she stepped outside. Arm in arm and both wearing smiles, they walked to the car, where the man opened the car door for her before getting in himself. And I’d almost knocked on that door first. “She looks so happy,” I said. “She does,” agreed a voice from behind me. The paper dropped from my hand as I spun in surprise. The front door of the house behind me was open, and its occupant—an elderly woman in a threadbare flower-print dress—had come outside. “And none too soon, either,” she said. “The poor dear had to build her life all over again after an accident.” “But there’s no need to listen to this old lady gossip,” she added. “You look lost—can I help you?” I stole a glance over my shoulder. As the car drove down the street, I saw the man lift my mother’s hand to his lips. It was with great effort that I tore my gaze away. “Actually, you can,” I said. “I’m looking for a friend’s house, and it’s supposed to be around here somewhere.” “What’s the address?” she asked.

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I picked up the piece of paper. “3350 16th Street,” I lied. She shook her head. “Oh no, my dear. This is 16th place. You must have the wrong street.” The brake lights of the sedan flared briefly as they rounded a corner and passed out of my sight. I smacked the heel of my hand against my forehead. “You’re right, I do. How silly of me.”

Chapter 21

“And you didn’t say anything?” Howerson asked. He and I sat at a tiny café. I’d called and invited him to lunch. I had news and a request. “How could I?” I said. “She looked far too happy for me to wreck her life all over again.” Telling him of my mother had been the news. And my request? It was two-fold. First, I’d had a realization of what I wanted to do, and I needed help starting my own restaurant with the money my father had left me. Second, I needed a way to get the rest of the money to my mother without her knowing about it. “I’ll find a way,” Howerson promised me. Towards the end of lunch, Howerson remarked about how I seemed different. “A lot happened after I last saw you,” I said. * * * * * I was able to open a small restaurant. Nothing big. Just a cozy place

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by a particular college campus where people could go to eat. I also ran a small soup kitchen with help from the campus. My time on the road had shown me how important food was to me, and it was almost second nature to feed other people. Lance was one of my first customers at my new place. I closed down that night, and we stayed after-hours, drinking, while I told him all that had happened. It seemed fitting that we’d come full circle in another restaurant. * * * * * With the help of Howerson, Albreight, Lance and the police and paramedics who responded that night—including the paramedic kind enough to return my mother’s necklace to her when he found it at the accident scene—we’ve been able to piece together enough to get the overall shape and picture of the puzzle. After David kidnapped her at gunpoint that night, he drove them at high speed for what must have been a few hours, based on the location of the wreck. We still don’t know what caused it. It could have been my mother struggling, it could have been pure chance. I don’t want to think of what might have happened had the car not gone off the road. When emergency crews responded to the accident, they found a vehicle smashed beyond all recognition: the car had hit a barrier, flipped over it, and then rolled half a dozen times. The driver, to them not a kidnapper but only a man of middle age, had been killed instantly. The passenger, a woman, was badly wounded, having sustained multiple injuries to her head, torso, and right leg; she was unconscious, but still alive. As the paramedics put her into the ambulance, they swear that she regained consciousness for a moment, long enough to say, “Tell my husband I love him.” Thinking her husband was the driver, they made to lie their asses off and reassure her everything was okay—only she’d already faded out again. After multiple surgeries and several weeks in a coma, she woke to

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find herself in a hospital with no memory of who she was or how she’d come to be there. We’re still not sure how she managed to slip through the notice of law enforcement as to the kidnapping. Not one single person has had any ideas. I think they’re reluctant to place blame for fear of lawsuits. * * * * * I visited my father one cloudy day to tell him what had happened. It would be a few years before I returned. “She seems happy,” I told him. I removed a stray bird feather from his marker. “And so I hope that now you can be, too.” There was no other family to tell. My aunt had already made her thoughts clear long before. * * * * * I’ve managed to keep in touch with some of the people I met in my travels. I looked up my old dorm roommate, Jason. He graduated and got married to a beautiful woman, as I knew he would. They have a baby on the way. Jason spends his Saturday afternoons out in the driveway, tweaking on the old Camero he keeps around. I’m not sure if it runs or not, but something tells me that’s not what matters. I still have an interest in life on the road. As such, I tend to lurk in communities on the Internet devoted to hitching. One day, I saw a familiar moniker and, after my shock passed, I emailed the owner. Little Bear is still doing his thing. We’ve held steady correspondence since then. I had his PO Box address all that time, and intended to write to him, but life often got in the way. As I promised, I first wrote and then later visited Jim at his bar. Told him that I had my own place now, too, and that seemed to please him. I tried to give him his guitar back, but he insisted that I keep it—said that

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I’d had it so long and played it so much that it’d forgotten who it once belonged to. He passed away not long afterwards. I attended the funeral, as did many of his patrons. I think most of them were even sober for the occasion. I checked the mailbox one day and discovered a letter from Alan. The post office stamp was from San Francisco, California. I ran inside and tore open the letter—I’d forgotten how much I missed them. Alan and Leah eventually decided to make their constant ribbing and competitions official and got married. Their next act was to adopt Luis. “She’s still a terror at cards,” Alan wrote, “and can’t win a game without gloating. She just read that over my shoulder. Boy am I gonna get it later.” Alan started his own business and they all work out of their house. I grinned. They had a house! Alan had more to say. Shortly after their wedding, they received a small package in the mail with no return address. Inside was an unsigned card congratulating them on their wedding. Underneath that was a brand new deck of playing cards, along with a slip of paper containing my address. How Gareth got my address, I don’t know. But then, it doesn’t surprise me, either. Also doesn’t surprise me that there was no address on the package. Had there been, it would have been false. Though I will probably never see him again—and that saddens me to no end—it’s good to know that Gareth is still out there somewhere. Sometimes, when I’m cleaning up after-hours, I catch myself hoping that he’ll stop by one day. It will be totally at random, of course. I’ll pause in the cleaning of a glass or the stacking of chairs, unable to believe my eyes as he walks in the door, and he’ll act like it’s the most normal thing in the world. I’ll finally get a chance to treat him to some food, and we’ll talk and smoke—I don’t smoke, but on this night I would make an exception—for most of the night before he moved on again at first light.

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Albreight sent me a Christmas card that year. There was a family portrait in there—I have no doubt that we’ll watch Kaitlyn grow up into a young woman too beautiful and smart for her age, one who plays soccer, does well in school, and makes her parents nervous to no small degree. Albreight has had desk jobs ever since his injury. “My wife and daughter are too important to be back out there again,” he wrote.

Chapter 22

I often marvel at the incredible chain of events that had to take place in order to get me where I am. Had one slightest thing gone different or not have occurred, there’d be no telling where I would have ended up. The odds of things happening like they did are so small. It humbles me and has rendered me forever grateful. All that I’ve seen and experienced has confirmed my belief that there is no one set path, no one way that is right for everyone. Some people were born to move the world, to knock it onto a different path, to turn it upside down, to compose symphonies that move us, machines that help us, make discoveries that heal us or kill us. The rest of us must look to our daily lives and see the good and beauty within them. Life is not about the things that we try so hard to convince ourselves that we need. Life is created, lived, and made special by the small, mundane things we take for granted and are usually too busy to notice. By ignoring what was expected and forced on me from the outside world, I was able to find myself and to find happiness. Little things mark the path I’ve chosen for myself—small moments of great worth that are always there if we look for them. I intend to cherish every one of them.

Epilogue

The hallway on the graduate student floor was deserted. I walked the length of it and checked the name plates next to each door. Eric Schaffer. No. Angela Ramirez. No. Keri Jones. The office door was open, so I looked inside. She sat at a desk, reading a textbook by lamplight. Books and papers made a jumbled mess all over the desk’s surface and the floor. The same backpack I remembered from the day I met her lay draped over the top of a filing cabinet. I knocked on the open door. She used her finger to hold her page. The book folded closed as she looked up. I smiled. She smiled back. “It’s about time,” she said.

November 1st 2003 August 20th 2004

Appendix

Below you will find some organizations devoted to helping the homeless, whether on the level of daily individual needs or at the roots of the problem. While print media goes out of date much faster than that available online, I feel I would be remiss if I did not include some level of information as a springboard. I should note that the appearance of an organization on this list does not constitute an endorsement of the contents of this story. This list is intended as a starting point. Those curious or wanting to help should hit the Internet and local resources for more information. U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development http://www.hud.gov/ National Alliance to End Homelessness http://www.endhomelessness.org/ National Low Income Housing Coalition http://www.nlihc.org/

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National Housing Institute http://www.nhi.org/ Goodwill Industries http://www.goodwill.org/ NPR Reports: Housing First http://www.npr.org/news/specials/housingfirst/ Note that “Housing First” is also the name of a program. More info can be found at: http://www.endhomelessness.org/section/tools/housingfirst Street Connect http://streetconnect.org/ Salvation Army http://salvationarmy.org/ End Homelessness http://homelessness.change.org/ Do Something http://www.dosomething.org/ Helping Hands Clinic The medical home for the homeless http://hhcg.org/ P.O. Box 1481, Gainesville, FL 32602 352-372-8523 Ext 17 FAX: 352-372-2524

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Coalition for the Homeless of Central Florida, Inc. http://www.centralfloridahomeless.org/ Homeless Shelter Directory http://www.homelessshelterdirectory.org/