Road home, p.17
Road Home, page 17
Sometime after midnight, I watch Dan and Thomas gorge themselves on fries and burgers, fresh and paid for with cash. Sydney eats from a leftover box she earned outside a restaurant. When she sees me gawking, she hands me what little is left.
“You want food, you got to earn it,” Sydney says. “You can’t just bum off the rest of us. We’re in the same boat, remember?”
Dan throws a fry. It hits me in the head and bounces off onto the ground. I stare at it, wanting to pick it up and eat it, my pride battling hunger for control. I glare at Dan. He laughs. “Go on. You know you want to.”
I say, “Fuck you.”
“That’s more like it,” Dan says. “There’s that fire inside. See? You and me, we’re more alike than you want to believe.”
“I am not.”
“No,” he says, “but you will be.”
house
Thunder rumbles in the far distance of the night sky. Above me, the clouds have gathered into thick dark tufts that reflect the city lights. They’re drifting down in a kind of fog, descending in a soft mist, promising a shower soon.
From the front of our small group, Dan says, “Looks like rain. I know a place we can crash. It’s not far from here.”
Thomas says, “Not at Stevie’s.”
Dan slaps him up the backside of his head. “You don’t wanna come? You wanna sleep outside and get soaked? Be my guest.”
“Who’s Stevie?” I ask Sydney. She shrugs, she doesn’t know.
“Don’t worry about it,” Dan says. “You’re lucky I’m even letting you come along. Fucking sad puppy, following us around, begging for scraps.”
I want to punch him in the face. Tell him to shut the fuck up. But I don’t. I hate Dan. I hate him so fucking much. And I want to leave. But I want Sydney to go with me. And right now I don’t think that’s going to happen. So I guess I’m stuck. I tell myself it’s better to be with people than be alone.
Dan leads the way, talking at Thomas, who doesn’t say much. Sydney follows, smoking a cigarette, and I walk after her.
The neighborhood starts off lined with modest, well-kept houses. But a few streets later, the streetlamps grow farther apart and broken bottles litter the sidewalk, glass crunching under our feet. The lawns become less cared-for or forgotten altogether. One has a rusted swing set lying on its side. Another has an old truck, its tires having been taken away. I imagine eighty or a hundred years ago these places were new, full of loving families ready to start fresh in rooms waiting to be decorated with care. Now those dreams have fallen into ruin.
We walk block after block until we get to a lot. Standing in the middle is a battered house. Paint peels off its columns in thick strips, like bark from a dying tree. Its yard is covered in uneven grass and weeds growing wild. And a waist-high iron gate leans forward, a tall chain-link fence behind it. A sign reads stay out. But beyond the darkness in the front, dim lights flicker from inside the windows behind the trees.
“This way,” Dan says, leading us around to a part of the fence that’s been cut away. While I’m crawling under, my backpack snags on the fence and I have to pull it free. A half-bricked path stops at a sagging porch. The boards creak, giving several inches beneath my weight, as if tired, ready to buckle and cave in. Without knocking, Dan opens the door and strolls inside.
The living room doesn’t have light, except a faint glow from the next room. My eyes peer through the darkness at piles of newspapers, some plastered to the windows, as though wanting to hide this place from the outside world. On a two-legged sofa drooping against the floor on one end, someone smokes from a glass pipe. In a dining room, there’s no table. Just a few bodies slumped against the joint where the floor meets the wall. Dead, or asleep, it’s anyone’s guess.
A rotting smell originates in the kitchen. Piles of mismatched dishes fill the sink and cover the countertops. An old table is littered above and below with pizza boxes, to-go bags, and Styrofoam containers. There’s no sign of a trash bag or trash can. The only sign of care is the floral-print wallpaper, whispering from the past that this was once a happy place.
I follow the others up the stairs, forced to lunge over a missing step. At the top of the stairs, light creeps out from a room at the end of the hall. Plaster is coming off the wall in large abrupt pieces, revealing the wood beams and electrical wiring.
Dan leads us into a large room. There’s no furniture except a small table in the far corner and a large lamp on the floor. The lamp looks naked without its shade. The light bulb is dim, casting long and tall shadows from every object in its path. Three people sit around. One of them is slumped against the wall, half-asleep, a goofy smile on his face. He looks younger than me. The other, a woman old enough to be his mother, sits scratching her legs, her arms, and her head over and over. She grits her yellow teeth, showing two are missing.
The third hops up with glee when he sees us. “Dan, my man!”
Crossing the room, he wraps his arms around Dan. He’s shorter than Dan, but older, maybe thirty, thirty-five. He’s wearing a trench coat, pants, and untied combat boots. He’s not wearing a T-shirt, so we can see his belly button and a scar just above it.
“Stevie boy. How’s it hanging?” Dan asks.
“Same old, same old,” Stevie says. “I see you brought guests.”
“Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. The more the merrier,” Stevie says.
Stevie nods to Thomas, who nods back. Then Stevie looks me over and says, “Fresh blood?”
“New to the neighborhood,” Dan says.
“Welcome, welcome to my lovely home.” Stevie waves his hand out with a flourish like he’s presenting a palace of gold. “Mi casa es su casa.”
I say, “Thanks.”
Turning back to Dan, Stevie asks, “Are you here to crash or party?”
“A little of both,” Dan says. “It’s been a long week, and I’m feening for some fun.”
“Most excellent.” Stevie’s grin vanishes when he kicks the shoeless woman, saying, “Out of the way, crackhead.” She crawls to a standing position, her shadow contorting against the wall like a beaten animal, then rushes out of the room.
“Dan, no,” Sydney says, touching his arm. “Let’s just go to sleep.”
He yanks his arm away. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do.”
“I’m not, I just, I don’t want you to—”
“So don’t.”
Sydney steps back. Sliding down the wall, she crosses her legs, plops a cigarette into her mouth, and lights it. I sit next to her.
Stevie’s shadow grows bigger and darker as he moves closer to the lamp. He reaches into his pocket and produces a handful of small white bags, knotted into little spheres. Inside some are little white rocks, in others, white powder. He asks, “Weapon of choice?”
“The usual. I’m looking for some bliss.”
“Dope it is.”
After Stevie and Dan haggle over price, they exchange drugs and money. Stevie nods Dan to the corner. On the small side table sits a couple of hypodermic needles, a spoon, and a lighter.
Dan takes a seat next to the lamp. He uncurls the plastic and fusses over the white powder, carefully placing it on the spoon. Stevie hands him the lighter. Dan flicks it on, the flame burning beneath the spoon.
“How about you?” Stevie asks.
“Nah,” Thomas says. But he bites his lip.
Stevie’s smile spreads across his face. “Are you sure? I think you want to. Last time, you were in heaven.”
Thomas hesitates. He looks left to right, then up at the ceiling. He starts tapping his foot against the floor. “Shit, man. I wanna get clean.”
“And then what?” Stevie asks, his voice dripping with honey. “You deserve a night off from the rest of the world.”
Thomas’s foot keeps tapping, more severe now.
“It’s up to you,” Stevie says. “I ain’t forcing you to do nothing.”
Thomas looks to Dan, who nods.
“Fuck. All right, yeah.” Thomas reaches into his pocket. Pulls out a small wad of crumpled cash, smooths out the bills, and counts the money.
So only he can see, I shake my head, wanting to say, “Don’t.”
Thomas says, “Sometimes you just need to feel good.”
Part of me wants to run, but my body is frozen. My limbs don’t respond, except to grip my duffel bag even tighter. Lightning flashes outside the window. A second later, a huge boom of thunder sounds. Then the sky must have opened up, cause rain begins to pour down, thumping against the roof and the windows.
After Stevie deals to Thomas, he turns to me. “Will you be partaking this evening, young man?”
“Oh, um, sorry, I don’t have any cash,” I say as an excuse.
“First one’s on the house,” Stevie says with an inviting smirk, as if offering fresh-baked cookies.
“I’m good.”
“Come on,” Thomas says, slumping down next to me. “There’s nothing like it. It’ll make you feel better.”
“No, thanks.”
The white powder turns into boiling brown liquid on Dan’s spoon. My nose burns with the reek of hot vinegar.
Dan catches my eye. “I see you,” he says. “I know what you’re thinking. So go ahead and think you’re better than me. But when you’ve lived on the street as long as I have, you’ll need some pleasure too. Whether it’s heroin or fucking dudes or whatever gets your rocks off, you’ll need it. You gotta have something to live for. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
The needle inhales the dark liquid. Dan finger-thumps the upturned needle, squeezing out any air bubbles. Then he slides it into the crook of his arm, and squeezes down. In almost no time at all, a look of immense pleasure crawls across his face and his eyes roll back in his head. Thomas borrows the spoon and lighter.
“Let’s go find another room,” Sydney says. She stands, nodding for me to follow.
“You sure you don’t want to stay?” Stevie asks. “You can party with me.”
“Not my scene,” Sydney says.
I follow her down the hallway, past one inhabited room, and into another. There’s a single mattress on the far side, with no sheets or pillows, with someone sleeping on it. There’re two makeshift pallets of cardboard, and a couple blankets on the floor.
“You sure you want to sleep here?” I’m not sure if I’m asking her or myself.
“Better than being outside,” she says. Sydney takes the first pallet and lies down, using her purse as a pillow. I take the next. I keep my backpack on but use the duffel bag as a place to rest my head. I lay in the corner, with my back to the wall, so I can see the room.
I want to sleep, but I can’t seem to close my eyes. My whole body is on high alert. Sweat starts to leak out of me. Knots from in my gut. My heart is in my throat, beating too quickly. I try to address the shortness of my breath, to take slower inhales, to exhale more slowly, to calm myself.
Inside, I’m all turmoil. A storm, ready to drown myself. Inside, I am crumbling. So I try to get outside of my thoughts. I try to survey my surroundings, to make shapes out of shadows. Sydney’s form is a row of rising, gentle hills. The wood floor is an alien landscape. The patterned wallpaper is a set of faces, watching me.
With the window broken, the steady downpour echoes around the room. I recall all the times, being a little boy, sleeping under my Star Wars sheets, my window open, the rain outside lulling me to sleep with its natural rhythm. Everything felt so easy then. The only thing that scared me then was the monster under my bed. Now everything scares me.
* * *
I drift back and forth, between sleep and my cardboard pallet.
I dream of Russell’s house, except it’s empty. He’s gone. All his furniture is gone. Even the fridge is empty. I walk down the shotgun hallway, and at the end is the back door. I step through, and I’m in my dad’s house. It’s empty too. I run from room to room, shouting, but no one is there. Outside, I run down the streets. There are no cars, and no people. And all the house doors are open and no one’s inside any of them.
I feel like I can’t breathe, and I crumple onto the sidewalk and start crying.
Then I hear screaming.
Real screaming.
And I’m awake.
The light flashes on in the room, a bright overhead light, and there’s a man in the doorway. He has wild hair, a wilder beard, and his clothes are filthy. He has a knife and he’s swinging it out in front of him, as if someone is there. He’s screaming, “Leave me alone! Get out of my head!”
Sydney and I are both standing, backs against the wall. The other person who was sleeping in the room leaps off the mattress, runs into the closet, and slams the door closed.
The man with the knife continues to swing it, grunting and spitting. When he spots me, he bellows, “Why are you doing this?”
“I’m not doing anything,” I say, holding my duffel bag in front of me like a shield. “I swear I’m not. You’re okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“I’m not okay,” he says, punching himself in the head repeatedly. “They’re in my thoughts. They’re getting everything. Pulling it apart. Pulling it out.” He remembers the knife and starts swinging again. Screaming, “Get out of my head! Get out of my head!!”
He lunges at me with the knife. I throw my duffel up. The knife sticks into it. I push with all my might, rushing forward, knocking the stranger onto his back. Then Sydney and I are racing down the stairs, out of the house, and into the rain.
We’re blocks away when we see a bus-stop shelter. We run under the roof, to protect ourselves from the rain, even though we’re already soaked. I lean forward, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. Sydney does the same.
Finally, I remember. “What about Dan and Thomas?”
“Fuck ’em,” Sydney says.
shake on it
Last night was pretty fucked,” Sydney says to me.
“It really was.” I ask, “Does that kind of stuff happen a lot?”
“More than it should,” she says. “I’ve seen some wild shit. There’s always crazies. Especially when drugs are involved. I try to stay out of crack houses, but sometimes . . .” She starts biting her fingernail. “It’s nice to have a roof over your head.”
We’re sitting outside of the pancake restaurant, the morning light peeking over the eastern buildings. Both of us have our signs leaned up against our legs, in case we can collect change while we wait for leftovers. So far, no one has come out with a to-go bag. It might be one of those days.
A pang of guilt rises up in me about Thomas. And Dan too, I guess. I hate him, but I don’t want him dead. I ask Sydney, “Do you think Dan and Thomas are okay?”
“Who the fuck knows?” Sydney says, all hard. After a beat, she softens. “I hope so.”
“Is Dan your boyfriend?”
“Depends on the day of the week.” Sydney spits out part of a fingernail. “Not really. I mean, I enjoyed hanging with him sometimes. And, yeah, I thought he was a stud. I sure know how to pick my men, huh? Always assholes who love their drugs.”
She’s about to put her fingertip in her mouth, but stops herself. “Fuck, I hate when I’m out of cigarettes. I can’t stop biting my nails.”
“What if he got hurt?”
“Then he got hurt,” Sydney snaps. “Nothing we can do about it now.”
“But that guy with the knife—”
“Jesus, Rex, let it go.”
“I’m sorry, I just—”
“I don’t want to think about it, okay?” She puts her hand up between us, bites her lip, closes her eyes like she’s wishing me away. She says, “I have to take care of myself. No matter what happens, I’ve gotta be priority number one.”
“That seems so lonely.”
“It is.”
“Then how do you keep friends?”
“Friends?” Sydney laughs. “Out here, everybody’s looking out for themselves. Most of ’em just waiting to stab you in the back. First chance they get, they’ll steal your money, your clothes, your shoes . . .”
“You wouldn’t do that.”
Sydney shakes her head. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”
I say, “Then I wouldn’t do that.”
“Not yet, maybe,” she says. “Give it time.”
“No way. Not gonna happen. I won’t let the streets turn me into . . . into . . .”
“An animal?” Sydney says. “All we do is scavenge for food and water and a place to sleep. We’re chasing basic needs. Nothing else. If that’s not an animal, I don’t know what is.”
* * *
All the change we earned this morning adds up to less than six dollars. We split it.
After, we walk awhile. Then we sit, tucked under a bridge, hiding from the sun. Bored, I pick up pebbles, set them on the edge of the decline, watching them start to tip, then tumble their way down the slanted concrete toward the stagnant water below.
“Guess tonight I have to work,” Sydney says.
“Work?”
“Turn some tricks,” she says.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I do if I want to eat.”
“So eat tomorrow.”
“If I don’t eat today, there’s no guarantee I’ll eat tomorrow. Then I’ll be too weak to fight off someone if they wanna hurt me. I need my strength if I’m going to work. Better to earn money while I can than wait until I’m delirious from hunger.”
“I’m coming with you, then,” I say.
“It doesn’t work that way. I can’t have you hanging around in the background looking like my pimp.”
“But you said it yourself, it’s dangerous.”
“Every day is dangerous,” she says. “You just have to face it.”
