Street Love: A contemporary standalone hurt/comfort romance

by Rhys Everly

  But soon the tourists descended, filling the square with all the cultural clichés that one could possibly find in one place. And naturally, the mascots that everyone loved to hate appeared, looking to cash in on another day’s work.

  Pierce was jealous. He was jealous of everyone that had a job, a place to be. An occupation that gave them a purpose—or a sense of it, anyway. Sure, being a waiter for all his life wasn’t his idea of a good life. He had worked on campus when he was still in college and had grown accustomed to the hopelessness that ensued with a job of that calibre, but he would exchange that hopelessness for the one lingering inside of him every day he spent waking up without purpose other than staying alive.

  Reminiscing about a life once comfortable was such a pastime sitting there on the pavement, waiting for people’s charity, that he didn’t notice when a kid started staring at him, tugging his mom’s hand to draw their attention to him.

  “Mommy, can we help this boy? He’s got no home,” he said.

  The mother turned and at first seemed dumbfounded as to why her son found Pierce so interesting, but then her eyes trailed to the sign next to him: My family kicked me out for being gay. Now I have no home. Please help me get back on my feet.

  Her eyes hardened as she reached the end, and then she looked at her son, a boy, probably eleven years old, dressed in pink converse and large clothes on his petite frame.

  “Sure we can, sweetie.” She reached for her bag just as the apparent father caught up with his family. He asked them what they were doing.

  There it was. Pierce was certain, now the father was there, they would all walk away, intimidated by the patriarch’s refusal to help a homeless fag. He’d seen that look a few times. A macho, big guy with dark features and even grimmer expression shooing people away from the sinner. This dad fit the profile.

  Having all that in his mind, Pierce didn’t say anything to them, waiting for the outcome. He was shocked when the father leaned in and said in the kindest voice he had ever heard come out of a man his size, “You okay, fella? Can I get you something to eat?”

  Pierce couldn’t believe he was awake. He had nothing to say. All words had abandoned his brain. He only managed to nod and watch as the guy walked to the nearest food stand. He came back and handed him a couple of paper boats full of food. Pierce took them in his hands, replying with a quiet thanks. And just as he thought they were done with him, the woman knelt down and passed him a few bills, squeezing his hand tight.

  “Here. Get yourself a hostel for the night. I wish I could do more,” she whispered to him, eyes trailing toward her son standing behind her.

  “You can,” he told her and her eyes widened at his response. “You love your son?” She nodded. “Make sure he knows it,” he finished, throwing a glance at the boy.

  The mother’s eyes reddened before she gave his hand another gentle squeeze and got up, resuming their journey.

  He stayed in Times Square for a few more hours, saving the second boat of food for when his hunger hit him again. He loathed the taste of meat on his palate, but being homeless, he couldn’t accommodate his veganism when he didn’t know when his next meal would be or whom it would come from. He had done that the first few days of being on the streets when people offered to buy him some food, and they would eye him warily when he appeared picky or resistant to accepting a burger.

  Another thing about living on the streets was that hunger was a constant enemy he had to battle. Sure, the first few weeks were hard to get used to, when his body was constantly complaining about not being fed every three hours like he used to do when he was in college. Slowly, his stomach got accustomed to a meal a day and learned to appreciate it for what it was. That didn’t, however, mean that the brain ever stopped craving and reminding him what he was missing out on. As if it wasn’t enough that the food odors coming from all sorts of restaurants could make his mouth salivate, his mind would make him lose awareness of his surroundings in order to introduce another imaginary dish into his fantasy.

  Some more people stopped to give him some change. He had found out that if people saw him with food while he was begging, they were more likely to stop and give him their quarters. Not if he was eating, though. That seemed to have a worse result than if he was shooting heroin up his arm. He guessed people liked to see a beggar buy food with his money, but if they saw him eat, they thought he didn’t need any more and might spend whatever they spared on drugs.

  That was yet another thing about being homeless. People constantly assumed he did drugs. It didn’t matter if his eyes were white and clear or if he wore T-shirts with unpunctured skin showing, the homeless-drug-use correlation affected everyone. Which was why he would curse every time he saw one of his 'homies' do illegal substances in front of the public. They were ruining everyone’s chances of getting some money. Sure, some did drugs or ended up doing them to survive the mental demons that crept up in them when living on the streets, but there were some like Pierce who didn’t have any affiliation to any drug of any form. Before he’d been left to die on the streets, he’d been studying nutrition and fitness. He’d actually kill himself before he touched those horrible, mind-numbing things.

  When the sun began to set behind the city skyscrapers, Pierce decided to call it quits for the day and make his way to a hostel. He was thankful that he’d be avoiding enraging homeless shelters, pissing thugs, suitcase thieves, and the motherfucking cold for one night. Hopefully, the money could buy him two nights. He hadn’t even counted the notes the mother had given him. He’d stuffed it in his pants. He didn’t want to be seen counting notes while begging. No one would give him a buck.

  He was glad to find out he had made twenty bucks from all the change and bills he’d been tossed. And even more excited to find he had fifty from the mother. Seventy dollars surely could buy him a couple of nights at the hostel. He was over the moon.

  He made his way up to 116th where a few two-star hostels were situated around the block. He’d tried a couple whenever he’d made enough, but they were all very wary about hosting a homeless man, even though Pierce didn’t look it.

  He had gone to a lot of effort to not appear homeless. He did want people’s compassion and their change when he was begging, which is why he would find a cardboard to lay on when he did, but he would discard it as soon as he’d finished for the day and go on a quest to find a roof for the night. He wasn’t a hoarder. He’d seen those people countless times, carrying all the crap they could find and the way passersby would eye them. He didn’t want that. He wanted to be treated like any other person. How else would he fight the situation he was in? No, for him, his suitcase was enough. Maybe he smelled a little, especially on days when he hadn’t found a shelter for a few nights, but he always made up for it once he had. Tonight was gonna be such a night.

  He decided not to visit one of those hostels he had used before. He took a turn around a few blocks and came to one place he had seen before and passed by but had never actually stayed in. It was very close to a donut shop and a clothing store, both of which could turn out useful the next morning, depending on how much the hostel was charging. Honestly, he wouldn’t mind sleeping there only a night if it meant he could buy a coat for the winter and have a good shower. Or a bath even, if they had one. And of course some laundry couldn’t hurt.

  He lingered outside for a while, not sure about going in. It always happened to him. Whenever he made enough for a hostel, he always contemplated saving the money for something else. Like the coat he so desperately needed, or heavier clothes, or boots. Or simply putting it inside his suitcase and saving it for food or saving it to rent a proper room in a proper apartment. But the former would only make him greedier with his daily meals, and the latter would only happen in a year or so and only if he managed to get a job. As hopeless as these choices sounded, he always considered them before spending his money.

  A drop fell on his nose, sending shivers down his spine. It was going to rain. He couldn’t sleep outsi
de, and the subway would be full of his people on a rainy night. No. He shook his head and let himself in. It turned out the hostel was only charging twenty-five dollars a night, including tax, and had a bed in a two-bedroom dorm.

  That had never happened to him before. He usually had to sleep in a room with eight, twelve, sixteen people, often clutching his suitcase so tight during the night that he’d wake up with a numb arm.

  He booked two nights and decided to keep the rest for sustenance. The girl behind the reception passed him the key to the dorm, and he took the elevator to the second floor.

  As soon as he walked out into the corridor, he knew why it had been so cheap. The hostel was part of a block of flats, the hostel itself owning a few rooms of the entire floor. All the dorms’ doors were colored light blue, like the company’s logo. There were a few doors marked as either Restroom or Shower, and after a quick investigation, Pierce came to the conclusion that they were used by tenants and lodgers alike. Not a very welcoming fact, but it was better than nothing.

  He found his room number and unlocked the room. There was no one inside. The lights were out, both beds plainly, if not terribly, dressed. Pierce flipped the switch and hid his suitcase under the bunk bed, placing his t-shirt on the bottom mattress to mark its occupancy. He held the keys in his hands and left the room to find a shower. When he found one, he locked the door and took off his shoes. His once white socks now screamed with dirt. He bent to take them off, simultaneously looking at the shower. The head was a single pipe protruding from the wall, covered in moss, and the floor was not in any better of a condition. A couple of bottles of shower gels were thrown on the ground. Having sufficiently undressed, he inspected their contents. They were almost empty but both had enough for one shower.

  Score!

  Both were shower gels, but he used one, the better smelling to wash his hair. The other one to lather up his body.

  Once he felt decently washed and finally rid of the stench of piss that’d been following him around since the previous day’s incident, he wiped his body with his trousers, the cleanest of his clothes, and let his hair dry up naturally. He returned to his room, piled up all his clothes, and walked around the corridors in his underwear, looking for the laundry room. Of course there were none on this floor, so he called the elevator and rode it down to the basement.

  He needed only a few quarters and to let his clothes run the cycle. He returned to his room; he was finally able to relax. Until he had to go back down to take his clothes back, but that wouldn’t be for another couple hours. He spread out naked on the mattress and pulled his suitcase from under his bed. He placed it on his lap and flipped it open.

  Everything he owned was in that bag. The money he had made today was there. A couple of packets of chips that he’d bought while contemplating the hostel. And the photographs.

  He took the pile in his hands and browsed looked through them for the millionth time. Photographs from all over the world: Paris, London, Berlin, Mexico, Peru, Toronto, Melbourne, Sydney, Cape Town, Beijing, Tokyo. Pictures he wished he could live in rather than in this horrible reality that he had to tolerate. The photographs, faded as they were, brought a smile to his face, a flutter to his heart, and a burden to his stomach. They always made him feel so bittersweet. They always reminded him of him.

  Four

  Rafe

  Rafe left his latest patron’s apartment complex and wrapped his jacket tightly around himself. He scanned the area, trying to locate a phone booth, but none were around. It was too early, anyway.

  He really needed to hear his mamá’s voice that instant, but she was still at work. He tried to shut his brain off and go about his usual business, trying to put the demons in their place. He always felt so confident being picked up, driven around to be fucked senseless wherever the customer found desirable. Until of course he actually let the men put their hands on him and use him as they wanted, as they found pleasurable, as they found payable.

  The money he received at the end of each transaction only gave him half his dignity back. He left the other half behind him as he left the customers. Little by little, one would think, he’d have no dignity left, but it always managed to surprise him.

  But that was his only way of making any sort of income. If he was gonna save money to buy his meds and get off the streets, it took a sacrifice. So what if he sacrificed his soul and all he was in the process? He was a good rentboy, but it didn’t mean he enjoyed it one bit. He knew how to lure and seduce, how to please and satisfy, but it didn’t mean he enjoyed sharing sweat and fluids with strangers. It was his life now, however. He wasn’t proud of it, but then again what homeless guy was?

  He walked around the streets and found a cafeteria to sit down and gulp some coffee. There was another challenge for him being a street man. What did he do between the last night and the next, after he’d fucked or been fucked and slept the night in a wet and warm bed? He always got coffee, but the after was always an unknown factor. A factor that changed. All he had to look forward to was the phone call to Mamá.

  Sipping on a coffee with a few caramel drops, he made up his mind. He grabbed his backpack and set off down for Queens, caught the bus, and got off as soon as he’d reached his destination. He’d been meaning to visit but always cowered. Today he had the balls to find the Social Services Center and walk into it.

  “Hello, how can I help you?” a cheery woman asked him at the reception.

  “Hi… um, I’d like to… uh… sign up for Medicaid?” he said with uncertainty in his voice.

  “You need to go on the second floor and ask the reception for registration forms,” she replied without missing a beat and pointed to the elevator.

  He nodded a thanks and followed her directions, finding himself on the second floor. He saw a desk marked as Administration and approached the woman behind it, a much older lady with thick glasses, loose hair, and a leathery skin. She wore a fuchsia turtleneck and a beaded cross necklace around it.

  “Hi, can I have the registration form for Medicaid?” he inquired.

  The woman lifted her eyes and inspected him as if she was trying to put a name to the face. Rafe could have sworn he had never seen her before. After a few, uncomfortable seconds, she spoke, her eyes still small slits staring him up and down.

  “Uh-huh.” She nodded. With some difficulty, she took her eyes off him and opened a drawer under her desk to pull a pile of sheets from inside it. “Here you go. You need to fill that in. There’s a lot that you need to include on that registration. Once you’re done, bring it back to me with a birth certificate, social security number, proof of address, and the last four weeks of pay stubs,” she told him in a screechy voice that could make Rafe slap her senseless. It was that annoying. As was what she was telling him.

  Pay stubs? Proof of address? He didn’t have a second pair of socks, let alone a proof of address. It seemed as if his reluctance to visit the center wasn’t so stupid after all. He’d just have to sleep with a few more clients, maybe raise his fee a little bit, and buy his own medication and make it last for as long as possible. How was he supposed to make one-a-day pills last six months on a one month prescription without killing himself?

  The woman coughed and shook her hand that held the papers. Rafe took them from her and dropped them in his backpack, making his way back out into the streets. What now? Where was he supposed to go? He looked at the time. It was three p.m. and he was only a few blocks from his house. It’d been a while since he’d done it, but he decided to take a walk by his old neighborhood. Catching a glimpse of his mother would probably suffice instead of calling her. She was going to get back from work any moment now.

  He crossed the street and went into the next right. He saw her getting off a bus, not too far from their address at Forty-Six. She walked down the road with her bag in hand and her skirt flowing as she took the steps.

  Mamá.

  He hadn’t seen her in so long that she looked older, stranger. As if she was a strange
r. But he’d missed her arms and her soothing voice. He’d missed her food and her singing. He wanted to catch up with her, talk to her, but he couldn’t. So instead he imagined what he’d say to her if he could.

  She unlocked the front door, and before disappearing behind it, she turned. She looked around, inspecting the street. Her eyes trailed over Rafe, staring from afar, and he ducked behind a wall so that she wouldn’t see him, his heart racing. He waited a minute, then looked back. His mamá was still there, looking at where he was. She waved at him, and his heart plummeted. She knew it was him. She was looking for him. She missed him. But going to her would be risky. Fighting down the tears that were pushing through his eyes, he turned his back to her and walked away hastily, unwilling to acknowledge her. He just hoped she knew he did it for her. She was a smart woman. He hoped she knew. He crossed himself, praying to María Guadalupe to keep her safe.

  He decided to take the subway and ride back to Manhattan. He had to make it out for her. He just didn’t know how.

  He found his way back to Times Square and headed south. Mario’s Pizza was only a couple of blocks around the corner. It wasn’t particularly busy, but it had been open for over forty years, so Rafe’s guess was they made enough to stay open, and despite their lack of a constant stream of business, they offered Rafe and a few other homeless kids food for free. Especially Latinos. They had a pay-it-forward jar for customers, and instead of taking tips, patrons would leave a couple dollars for those who came in and were short of change or simply had none at all. The majority of the pay-it-forward service was used by the homeless of the area. Rafe was one of them. Marissa was another, a friend of his. They always met at four for late lunch at Mario’s before Rafe would go out to call his mother. Today that would not be necessary. He had seen her and she had seen him. It was more than he could ask for at the moment.