by E. Graziani
“You bet your ass it sucks. I mean, it’s baby stuff for me, not anywhere near King Kong or anything, you know—I just needed it.”
I nod. I know that means she is an occasional drug user not a straight-out addict. “You were trying to score heroin?”
“Yeah.”
I raise my brows slightly, then look away. I think of Reggie and his warning. Then I think of Connie, and my Gran and my mother, and I wonder what the hell am I doing here.
“You use?” she whispers, pushing her cereal away.
“No, not since last year,” I say in a normal voice, then taking a small bite of cereal. “I was a baby user. Kiddie drugs, weed.” I shrug as I chew. “Want to keep away from that shit. My mom died from meth—messed her up really bad.”
“I hear you. This place, though, that I sleep at sometimes—Brian’s okay. He won’t bother you or anything. He deals but only on the side. He has a repair store, and sometimes he doesn’t make enough, so he gets stuff from his brother, who, like, deals hardcore, and then he sells the stuff to make his rent.”
I nod. Why is she telling me this? The hair on my neck stands on end. “Thanks, but…I don’t need to crash there. I’m gonna stay here for a while and look for a job, try to find a place.” I don’t tell her that I have a hundred and eighty dollars tucked in between two pairs of underwear, both of which I am wearing.
“Sure,” she says. “Well, I gotta go. I’m heading to Brian’s. Hey, if you change your mind—” She gets up and reaches for a pad of paper and a pen sitting on a desk near the phone. “I’ll write his address for you in case things don’t work out. Brian’s okay with letting my friends couch surf. I think he kinda likes me.”
I raise my brows. She slides the paper over to me, and, after hesitating a moment, I pick it up and look at the address, not that I know where it is or anything. I fold it neatly and place it in my jeans back pocket.
“Thanks for that, Emma. And…that’s great for you—that you always have a place to go.” I try to think of something positive to say about an obviously effed-up situation. Not that I am in a better situation myself, you understand.
“Yeah,” she says, after which an uncomfortable silence hangs in the air, our eyes looking everywhere but at each other. We have run out of things to say. She rises, straightens her jeans, and zips up her jacket. “I guess I should go and make some money.” She grabs her satchel. “Don’t lose that address, just in case.”
“Thanks. I won’t.” Emma leaves the dining room and signs out, waving to the day counselor at the desk. I never see her again.
...
I spend the day in and out of stores in the neighborhood, asking if I can fill out applications, using the Triple-S House address as my residence, which may not have been a good idea. I even take my piercings out and throw them away so I look more normal. I am ready to take on the world and show everyone how wrong they were about me, especially Connie.
The next night, I go back to Triple-S and am assigned to a different room, with a different girl. Her name is Katy—at least she says it is. She seems nice enough, and we start chatting about her dad and the fact that he was abusive to her mom and that she left because she couldn’t take his behavior anymore; he was turning on her, too.
After we talk, I head to the shower, taking all my stuff with me, removing the money from my panties, and putting it in my backpack until I can redo the double-panty thing after my shower. The hot water feels good, warming me all over, taking the grit from the car exhaust out of my hair. After toweling down, I fetch my sweats and slip them on, ready to sleep off the long day of walking, trying to find a job.
When I get back to the room, Katy is already asleep, so I place my backpack and jacket at the foot of my bed, forgetting all about the panty thing, and crawl into bed. I think about tomorrow and the fact that I have to do this all over again. Living on my own isn’t as glamorous as I thought it would be. I tell myself that all I need in life is to land a minimum-wage job and find a cheap place to live—a basement apartment shared with others will do me just fine right now, and maybe work myself up from a minimum-wage position to manager. With these thoughts occupying my head, I go from a bazillion miles an hour to out cold in no time, exhausted beyond words.
...
Did I say that Katy seemed nice? Yeah, well, scratch that. Seemed is the operative word here—she was no Emma.
When I wake up the next morning, my leather coat is gone, along with my one hundred and eighty dollars—that lying, thieving lowlife took my money and my jacket—well, what had become my jacket and what had become my money. I messed up and was caught off guard, which cost me plenty—a nice warm coat and my cash reserve.
Enraged and in tears, I rush down to the front desk and hiccup my story to the lady sitting there.
“She took my money and my coat,” I shriek, pointing upstairs. “That stealing piece of crap that you put me with last night!”
She stands up and comes around to my side. “Calm down. What happened?”
“That girl in my room—Katy—I woke up this morning and my money was gone—out of my backpack. A-a-and so was my coat.” I wipe my nose with the back of my hand.
“I’m sorry about that. It happens sometimes. You could have asked us to hold on to it for you—give it back to you in the morning.”
“What do I do now! That’s my money!”
“Look, if she ever comes back, we’ll call the police, but don’t hold your breath.” She shakes her head. “She wouldn’t be stupid enough to return. I’m sorry.” She purses her lips and looks deep in thought. “I think I can help you. Wait here.”
In a few minutes, she comes back with the ugliest coat ever made. “I found a parka from a bin in one of the closets.” Pleased as punch, she hands me a foul, puky green parka that looks like it could have been worn by a giant. “This should do the trick.”
I look at it and frown. “Thanks.” I suppose beggars can’t be choosers, as Gran would say. Man, did she get that right. I had hoped that when I ran out of money, I could get a quick buck by selling the leather jacket. Now, that backup plan is screwed. Yeah, okay. That jacket and money was taken from someone, but it was a fair take. All he had to do was ask Mommy or Daddy for a replacement and it would happen the next day. But me? Taking from me? From someone who’s got nothing? I mean, even if you’re another guest at a shelter, there’s gotta be some kind of an understood code about that shit. It just should not happen. The rage and dejection I feel are all too familiar. I battled these feelings when I was a kid. I thought that I had overcome the worst of them, but time and fate had other plans.
Chapter 19
I coasted through the rest of the winter, totally broke, by staying in downtown shelters and drop-in centers, one step ahead of frostbite and hypothermia. My sixteenth birthday came and went without fanfare. I would find shelters, much like Triple-S House, where I would stay for a few days and then move on to the next one, as I didn’t take much to their approach on assisting me with getting back to school; I didn’t want that, or family mediation or even applying for social assistance. I was too afraid that someone would send me home. Though the last thing I wanted was to be sent back to Greenleigh, I craved a stable home, some place I could call safe, but I also wanted to stay anonymous, be on my own, and live life on my own terms. I was living a dichotomy.
I kept trying to find a job but it was impossible; no one would hire me once I gave them the address of the shelter in which I was staying at the moment. So I panhandled—on the street, in doorways, and outside of fast-food restaurants—wherever there was a high turnover of people.
One of the things that struck me most was how passersby, people who essentially looked like respectable professionals, felt perfectly free to direct negative and disparaging comments my way. I panhandled anyway. And instead of spending my precious money on food, I would eat at homeless shelters and drop-in centers a couple of times
a day. When it was really cold, there were mobile vans that drove around and distributed blankets and food and hot coffee. Some days, I felt like a caveman or something, because my attention and energy were constantly focused on finding a source of food so I wouldn’t be hungry. And the amount of food was never enough ’cause I spent all my time and energy looking for it.
Laundry and maintenance stuff was another issue. When my clothes got dirty, I changed in public washrooms and then took them to a Laundromat—not often though, because that cost money. Most of the time, I washed them at a shelter when I stayed overnight. If they started to poke around and ask questions about what my story was, that was my signal to clear out; they had me in their data base.
As the weather got milder, life on the street began to jump. And it wasn’t only kids, it was all kinds of people. Unemployed people, people with mental health issues, people with alcohol and drug addictions all poured onto the streets to claim their spots like squirrels and bears coming out of hibernation.
I figured it would be easier in the warmer weather. I ran in circles…circles of friends, circles of fellow runaways, and circles of lost, confused children, even living at a mall for a few weeks in the summer because it was too hot to stay on the street in the daytime. While I stayed at the mall, I met up with two girls who looked like they were trying to be equally inconspicuous, though the giant backpacks gave them away. Taylor and Shaylee were their names. Both of them had backstories that would take the jade off of any social worker.
I met them in the coffee shop bathroom on the third floor of the Eaton Centre one morning, toting large backpacks and sleeping bags. It’s a funny thing about street kids. We recognize each other as street kids, even if we’re having a particularly good day and not looking so much like a scruffy mess. And, of course, after introductions, which are usually minimal, the inevitable topic of conversation is why you ran away.
After I told them my sad little account of life according to Faith, I asked what was up with them.
“I’ll go first,” announces Taylor. She’s taller than Shaylee by about six inches, with dark hair and eyes but creamy white skin—she reminds me of a streetwise Snow White. “I’ve been living on the street for two years, give or take a month. My sister and me lived with Mom and Dad until about four years ago, until we were taken away by social services ’cause Mom had us set up on her computer for kiddie porn—both me and my sister, who was, like, only seven when they busted her. Dad knew about it but didn’t do much to stop her.”
Parents can be sick fucks sometimes.
Shaylee tells me she ran away from an abusive home. “I would get beaten for anything. When I was fourteen, I ran away from my house, ’cause my mom was on drugs and hit me. My dad was physically and sexually abusive. I was the only child, and there was no one to protect me, or even to talk to about what was happening. I was so afraid of my parents that I isolated myself from everyone.”
“Oh my God, that totally sucks,” I say. I had it easy compared to a lot of the kids I was meeting.
“Yeah,” agrees Shaylee. “It was only a matter of time before they ended up killing me one day.”
I nod sympathetically. “So how do you guys make money? Do you—you know, stroll?”
“I’ve thought about it sometimes,” says Taylor. “You know, when I can’t get any spange. On a good day I can get about forty bucks.”
“I have a spot downtown where I can make fifty an hour,” says Shaylee. “But I try and respect the spot and not go too often. Selling marijuana is a good way to make loads, too, if you know someone who can get it for you. You have to buy it from them and then sell it to tourists. Tourists can pay two or three times more than a local.” She takes a sip of her chocolate milk, then looks at me with somber eyes. “But working the street—I dunno—I’d have to be really desperate.”
Taylor and Shaylee were my circle for a while, because street life is a transient life and you never know who is going to be there in the morning. And though I was seldom alone, I felt lonely. There were always people who were willing to band together because it was safer in numbers. If you didn’t have numbers, then at night, if you couldn’t get to a shelter, you didn’t sleep—it was just too dangerous to let yourself get vulnerable like that. So I learned that if you’re alone, sleeping during the day is better, and keeping your eyes open at night will bring you into the next day. So far I had managed to stay away from drugs and hadn’t been sexually assaulted, but I knew deep down that, by the end of this, I wasn’t going to be the same.
...
Before long, the winds blow colder, the sky is steel gray, and leaves are turning color. Shaylee and Taylor and I are hanging out in the park when some of the guys we met on the street come up to us. We aren’t best friends or anything; we just kind of hang out together whenever our worlds collide. They’ve made enough money to buy some cheap whisky and some pot.
“We got a couple bottles of Wiser’s and some ganja. You girls wanna come and party with us?” says the guy named Trevor. He looks like he’s just won the lottery or something. “There’s an empty factory down by the tracks. Nobody ever goes there.” Trevor has a strong chin and aquiline nose—not a pretty face but one that stands out in a crowd.
My friends and I exchange glances and then shrug. “Okay,” we say not quite in unison.
“Where and when?” asks Shaylee, acting like she really doesn’t care if they answer the question.
“Meet you here when it gets dark—we’ll take you.”
I admit I’m kind of excited about it. The last time I partied was on my sister’s nineteenth birthday—and though that turned out to be a hot mess, I’m ready to escape the general crappiness of being a homeless person by doing a little ganja and downing some drinks.
Anyway, we make our way back to the park after making a stop to a mall washroom and getting cleaned up a little. We give ourselves a cursory wash at the sinks, brush our hair, and then change into the clean clothes we have in our backpacks. I feel good fixing myself up for something.
“You know, I’m kinda psyched for this,” says Taylor as we hurry to the park. The sun is a pink sliver on the horizon, peeking through the last of the clouds rushing by the Toronto skyline. An October wind is picking up, a sobering reminder of my days spent battling the elements last January and February.
“Crap, we’re early,” Taylor huffs, looking at the sun’s aura still lingering in the western sky. “We’ll probably have to wait awhile before they show.”
We get to the park and round the corner to meet up at the bench under the bridge, but what I see makes my blood run cold. There are about six or seven guys, bouncing off each other and acting rough and goofy, like they are already hyped up on something. Scrappy, skinny, and loud, they turn when they see us coming down the incline, our knapspacks bobbing on our backs. I get a bad feeling, the kind where the hairs on your body stand at attention and you get all tingly.
“Yes,” hisses Taylor. “They’re already here.”
“Hi, guys,” coos Shaylee.
“’Sup!” Trevor tilts his head toward us and smiles devilishly. The fact that I’m excited about tonight and that I think he’s kinda cute is overshadowed by the reality that this is now a gang as opposed to an even three for three.
“So these are my brothers, ladies,” he says, motioning to the two familiar boys. “Kyle and Justin you remember from before.” Then he points out to the group behind him, rattling off names. One of them has music blaring out of an iPod, really loud, and I think, Wow—someone somewhere must be missing that toy—freshly taken ’cause it still has juice.
“Shit, I don’t know about this,” I whisper in Taylor’s ear.
“Don’t be a pussy,” she snaps, not even bothering to turn her head toward me. “It’ll be fine.” I wish I shared her confidence, because I feel like I’m about to be the main course at feeding time in a shark tank.
&nbs
p; “Let’s go, my ladies, we don’t wanna be late for the party.” Trevor sounds nice enough. As we walk, he jokes and talks with Taylor. He walks a walk that you have to practice for hours in a mirror in order to be able to achieve that height of swagger. His jeans hang low around his hips and reveal a gray pair of boxers; they’re not really looking like they’ve been freshened up in the last few days or so—but I don’t care. I’ve seen worse, a lot worse.
Shaylee and I fall back with the other boys. She finds conversing easy, while I’m shy and mostly look at the pavement, letting her do the talking. They ask her the usual things kids ask each other: Where are ya from? Why’d you run? What kind of shit do you do? I just listen, smile nervously, and nod from time to time.
We walk for a long time, and finally come to the factory; abandoned and nondescript, it could have been out of a creepy movie with its broken windows and chained-up door. Like those are really gonna keep us out.
“We can get in this way,” says Trevor. He’s still up ahead with Taylor. That kinda makes me pissed. Taylor and Trevor, Trevor and Taylor—damn.
We all follow them through the smashed garage door. Its glass panes have been gauged out to allow for easy entry by squatters. There’s a few meth heads passed out in the shadows, sleeping off their highs. An image of my mother flashed into my head for a split second as I looked down at them, then just as quickly, I shook it off.
“Over there.” Trevor motions to the stairs at the far end of the shop. They look like they lead to an office above the factory floor. “It’s more private up there.” It’s obvious they have partied here before, maybe even stayed here.
We giggle as we follow them into the office. I imagine people worked at manufacturing some nut or bolt or widget here years ago. Now the place has fallen to a bunch of meth heads and runaway teens as their recreation and party room. I can see the ghosts of the workers’ disapproving looks in my mind’s eye.
A few swigs into the party and after sharing a huge joint with the others, I feel very relaxed. My emotions crystallize inside my head—I’ve kept them at bay for so long, not letting myself be affected by all the shit that’s going down around me, I’ve gone almost numb. But the chill-out feeling takes me back to a time I didn’t have to think about survival.
