Searching for Candlestick Park

by Peg Kehret

  I climbed the steps and knocked on a closed door.

  “Come in.”

  “Do you have any work I can do?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at me.

  I swallowed hard, aware that my shirt was none too clean and it was three days since I’d had a shower.

  “How old are you?” the manager asked.

  “Thirteen.” That was stretching it some, but thirteen sounds a lot older than twelve.

  “I can’t hire anyone younger than sixteen.”

  “You wouldn’t have to pay me with money,” I said. “You could just give me some food.”

  “Are you hungry, son?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “I don’t remember the address,” I said. “I just moved.” That wasn’t really a lie, I decided.

  “What do you have in that box?” he asked.

  “Just something I don’t want to lose. My daddy gave it to me.” I hoped Foxey wouldn’t choose that particular moment to test his vocal cords. I was pretty sure animals are not allowed in grocery stores.

  He looked at me for a long moment. “Did you run away from home?” he asked.

  “Oh, no, sir,” I said. “I live with my Mama and my Aunt May but times are hard just now and I eat an awful lot. I thought if I earned some food before I go home, I wouldn’t need so much dinner tonight.”

  The manager nodded at me. “Pick up all the litter in the parking lot,” he said, “and put it in the trash bin behind the store.” As he talked, he scribbled something on a slip of paper. “When you’re finished, take this to the clerk in the deli section. He’ll give you a sandwich and something to drink.” He handed the paper to me.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said. “I’ll do it right away.”

  I backed out of his office and closed the door behind me. I raced down the stairs, helped myself to a plastic bag from the end of a check stand, and went outside. There was plenty of trash blowing around the parking lot in front of the store.

  I slid my left arm, which was holding Foxey’s box, through the handles of the bag. I collected trash with the other hand and put it in the bag. I picked up losing lottery tickets, gum wrappers, an orange peel, empty soft-drink containers, store receipts, and a baby bottle that smelled like sour milk.

  As I worked, I thought about the sandwich I was earning. If the deli had hot sandwiches, I would ask for grilled cheese. If they only had cold sandwiches, I’d get either cheese with lettuce and tomato, or egg salad. I wondered if the deli gave a dill pickle on the side. I hoped so. Maybe there would be little packets of mustard, too.

  When the plastic bag was full, I carried it to the back of the store and emptied it into the trash bin. Then I went out to fill it again. Once I bent to pick up a Coke can and spotted a penny under a car. “I found a lucky penny,” I told Foxey, as I put it in my pocket. “Now we have twenty-seven cents.”

  I felt even luckier when I saw a half-full bag of potato chips. I snatched it up, grabbed a handful, and stuffed them in my mouth, savoring the crisp, salty chips. As I chewed, the corner of my lip tickled.

  I wiped my lip with my finger and glanced down at my finger. An ant crawled toward my wrist. A big black ant. I stopped chewing.

  I flicked the ant to the pavement, opened the bag wide, and looked inside. The ant’s relatives were having a party in my bag of potato chips. Dozens of them crawled around on the chips and on the inside of the bag. I spit the half-chewed contents of my mouth back into the bag, rolled the bag up tight, and hurried behind the store.

  As I dropped the potato chips in the trash, I ran my tongue around the inside of my mouth, hoping I would find only my teeth.

  I considered turning my piece of paper in to the deli clerk right then, since I desperately wanted to get the taste of those potato chips out of my mouth, but I had not yet finished picking up all the litter, and a deal’s a deal. The store manager was nice enough to give me a job, and I did not intend to cheat him.

  I headed out again. I was in the far corner of the parking lot, filling the bag for the third time, when the police car arrived. It cruised slowly, as if the occupants were looking over the whole area.

  I dropped down behind a maroon minivan. Had the store manager called the police and told them he had found a suspected runaway? Had he asked me to pick up litter as a way to keep me here until the cops could come? I stood up just far enough to see what was happening, peeking over the top of the minivan.

  The police car pulled into one of the handicap parking spaces closest to the store. One officer stayed in the car, with the motor running. A second officer got out and went inside. Through the glass window, I could see him talking to the manager.

  My mouth went dry. They were looking for me; I was sure of it. Maybe the manager had seen my picture on the news, and he recognized me.

  The police officer returned to the patrol car, and it cruised slowly up and down the parking lot. I stayed behind the minivan. As the police car turned down the row I was in, I dropped to my hands and knees and peered under the minivan. When I saw tires approaching, I crawled to the back end of the van and then around to the far side. The patrol car kept going.

  When the officers had driven every row, the patrol car double-parked in front of the store, and one cop went in again. A minute later, he came out. Then the patrol car drove out of the parking lot, and went off down the street. I crouched beside the minivan, watching.

  I let out a huge sigh of relief as the patrol car disappeared from view.

  “What are you doing?”

  The voice was right behind me, so close that the hair on my arms stood on end as I turned to see who had spoken. It was a woman about Mama’s age. She stood beside a cart load of groceries, with a car key in her hand.

  “Why are you looking in my car?” she demanded. “Were you trying to break in?”

  I realized this was the owner of the minivan.

  “I’m playing hide-and-seek,” I said. “I didn’t bother your car any; I just used it to hide behind.” I backed away from the van.

  The woman carefully examined the side of her van, where I had been crouched, before she answered.

  “A parking lot is not a safe place to play,” she said. “What’s wrong with parents these days, allowing their children to run wild?”

  “Sorry,” I said. I walked away from her toward my bike, keeping my eyes on the front window of the store, in case the manager was looking out.

  I fingered the slip of paper in my pocket, longing to go to the deli counter and collect my sandwich. But I knew I couldn’t turn in the note. If I set foot in that store, the manager would be on the phone before the mustard for my sandwich hit the bread.

  It wasn’t fair not to get any pay after I did the work, but facts are facts. I had been lucky to spot the police before they spotted me. I couldn’t take a chance that they would return.

  With my stomach still grumbling, I tied Foxey’s box on my bike, and took off. I pedaled the long way out of the parking lot, to avoid going past the front of the store. I also kept a sharp eye out for police cars.

  I went six blocks and then stopped to think. I could wait until the night shift was on duty at the grocery store, and then go back and give my note to the deli clerk. But what if the store manager alerted the night crew? What if he told them to watch for me? By now, the whole store probably knew that if a kid came in with a note good for a sandwich and a drink, they were supposed to call the cops.

  I rode on, looking for a bakery or a sandwich shop. Maybe I could buy day-old bread for twenty-seven cents. There was no point saving the quarter for a phone call, since I didn’t have anyone to call. I might as well spend my fortune on food.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  Two blocks ahead, golden arches curved against the sky. I knew I couldn’t get anything for twenty-seven cents at McDonald’s, but it was a good place to wash. The parking lot litter had left my hands sticky and dirty.
I scrubbed good, rinsed out my mouth, and put on my clean T-shirt.

  When I finished, I walked through the restaurant toward the door. As I passed a table where a woman, a man, and a little girl sat, the little girl said, “I’m not hungry.”

  “Eat your dinner,” her mother said. “There are starving children in Bosnia who would give anything for those French fries.”

  Bosnia? I thought. There’s a starving kid right here beside you who would give anything for those French fries.

  “I don’t like French fries,” the little girl said.

  My mouth watered. On impulse, I sat down in the booth behind them, and listened. If the kid refused to eat her French fries, maybe they would get left on the table.

  “I don’t want the rest of my hamburger,” the girl said.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” her father said. “I don’t know why we bring her here. She doesn’t eat enough to keep an ant alive.”

  I remembered the potato chips, and wished he hadn’t mentioned ants.

  “Can I go play now?” the child asked.

  “One more bite,” her mother said.

  The girl took a tiny bite of the hamburger and then ran outside to the play area. Her mother stood up, gathering coats. Her father started to put the food containers on a tray.

  I jumped to my feet. “I’ll clear the table for you, sir,” I said.

  He looked surprised, but handed me the tray. “When did McDonald’s start offering this service?” he asked his wife, as they headed toward the play area.

  I put all of their things on the tray and carried them to a booth on the other side of the restaurant. I sat with my back to the play area, so they wouldn’t recognize me if they happened to look my way.

  I ate the French fries first, drenching them with catsup and savoring every bite.

  I stared at the half-eaten hamburger, and debated what to do.

  The problem was, I decided awhile back to be a vegetarian. Aunt May said I was out of my noggin. Mama said, “Don’t be difficult, Spencer. It’s hard enough to get a meal on the table without worrying about some cultish religious beliefs.”

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with religion,” I told her. “I just don’t want to eat animals anymore. I like them too much. It’s like eating a friend.”

  “Pigs are your friends now?” Mama said. “Chickens are your friends?”

  “They have faces,” I said.

  “We don’t eat the faces,” Mama said. “Those animals are raised to become meat. That’s their purpose.”

  “That doesn’t make it right,” I said. “Animals feel pain and fear, just like we do.”

  “That boy,” said Aunt May, “is going ’round the bend.”

  “Suit yourself,” Mama said, “but don’t expect me to cook tofu casserole.”

  “He reads too much,” Aunt May said. “That’s the problem. He gets crazy ideas from books, and he thinks about them. Why can’t he just watch cartoons, like my kids do?”

  That first night, after I told Mama my decision, she fixed fried chicken. I took an extra helping of mashed potatoes and green beans, and ignored the platter of chicken.

  I had expected it to be hard at first, to pass up meat. I thought I would feel deprived. Instead, I felt peaceful. That’s the only word for it. Peaceful. I had wanted to be a vegetarian for a long time, and all that while I felt guilty every time I bit into a hamburger or swallowed a spoonful of turkey soup.

  The plate of mashed potatoes and green beans was the first meal I’d eaten in months without imagining the eyes of the animal that gave its life for what I ate.

  And so, with my empty stomach grumbling, I sat in McDonald’s and stared at that little girl’s hamburger. I knew if I did not eat it, it was going in the garbage can. It was too late to save the cow’s life, but what about my life? If I was going to survive, I needed to eat.

  I decided it’s easier to have high moral standards when your stomach is full. I picked up the hamburger and took a bite.

  I held it in my mouth for a moment without chewing, and then spit it into a napkin. I couldn’t eat it. Not anymore.

  I could almost hear Aunt May saying, “That boy is daft, for sure.” Sometimes I suspected she was right.

  I picked the remaining hamburger meat out of the bun, and ate the bun. I wrapped the meat in a paper napkin, and put it in my pocket. I couldn’t save that cow’s life, but I could save Foxey’s, and I knew it wouldn’t bother Foxey one bit to swallow that piece of meat.

  I decided to stay at McDonald’s for awhile, and offer to clear the tables for other people. There was probably a lot of wasted food in a place like this, and there was no reason why it shouldn’t go in my stomach, instead of in the garbage can.

  I wandered slowly from one end of McDonald’s to the other, watching to see who was almost finished and what they might be leaving behind.

  It took nearly an hour, but I managed to get most of a banana muffin, part of a chocolate milk shake, and two more half-full containers of French fries. I soon discovered that little kids were my best chance for leftovers, and I smiled whenever a family with small children placed an order.

  Through all of this, I kept a close watch on my bike. Foxey’s box was tied to it and I didn’t want anyone bothering him.

  It was past sunset before I left McDonald’s and began to search for a place to spend the night.

  For the first time since the boys had stolen my money, I felt optimistic. There had to be plenty of fast-food places between where I was and Candlestick Park. Maybe I could scrounge enough food each day to keep myself going.

  I couldn’t find another park to sleep in, so I settled for a schoolyard. I figured it would be quiet at night, and there was a soccer field where I could walk Foxey.

  Foxey gobbled up the little girl’s hamburger and then refused his cat food. I should have given him the cat food first, and saved the hamburger for dessert. I had refilled the water jar at McDonald’s and he was glad to get a drink.

  He seemed glad to explore the schoolyard, too. He trotted along, as if he knew where he was going, stopping once to sniff at the bottom of the slide.

  It was almost dark by then, but a streetlight allowed me to see where we were going.

  There was sand under the swings and Foxey decided it was the world’s largest litter pan. When he finished, I used the napkin from the hamburger to pick up his deposit and throw it in the trash barrel. I didn’t want some kid stepping in it the next day.

  We bedded down against the back of the building. I had kept track of the days, and I knew the next day was Saturday. With any luck at all, no one would arrive at the school until I was wide awake and out of there.

  For once, everything went as I had planned. I did not open my eyes again until daybreak. Foxey was already up, rooting around and trying to get in the backpack. He probably smelled his cat food.

  With no hamburger to dull his appetite, he was plenty happy to eat the cat crunchies, and I gave him a long walk before I put him back in his box and started off.

  I was more hungry than I had ever been in my life. I used to ask Mama for a snack before dinner and when she said no, I complained that I was starving to death. But I had never experienced true hunger before, and believe me, it isn’t much fun. The leftover French fries seemed a lifetime ago.

  I walked my bike through the business section of town, hoping for another fast-food restaurant where I could be the unofficial busboy. I didn’t want to go back to McDonald’s. I had ridden at least a couple of miles beyond that, and the last thing in the world I needed was to go backward.

  When I reached the outskirts of town without spotting another restaurant, I went into a Quick Stop gas station/grocery store and looked around, hoping to find something I could afford. I saw nothing. There was a display of cookies on the checkout counter and I longingly eyed the individually wrapped chocolate chip cookies. They were huge—about four times the size of the ones Mama made. They were also seventy-nine cents each.

>   “May I help you?” asked the young man behind the counter.

  “Do you sell anything for twenty-seven cents or less?” I asked.

  He thought for a moment. “Just these,” he said. He pointed to a fishbowl filled with chocolate-covered mint creams. “They’re two for a quarter.”

  It would have to do. I took two mints and he rang up the sale. Including sales tax, it came to twenty-seven cents. I handed it over and walked out.

  I took tiny bites of mint and sucked each bite until it dissolved, making the candy last as long as possible, but my stomach did not even realize it was being fed. When the last piece of mint was gone, my belly hurt just as much as it had before I spent my money. My right leg felt okay, though. At least only one part of me hurts at a time.

  All right, I told myself. There will be a McDonald’s or a Burger King or something else in the next town.

  It was time to put some miles on the bike. I rode hard all morning, stopping twice for water and to let Foxey out.

  At the city of Longview, I crossed the Columbia River. The high, narrow bridge had no separate bike lane, so I had to ride on the shoulder. I pumped hard to get up the steep approach to the bridge and rode nervously across with cars whizzing by on my left and the long drop to the river on my right. By the time I reached the other side, I was dripping with sweat. But it was worth it; I was now in Oregon, and that seemed lots closer to my goal than Washington had.

  It was past noon when I came to the town of Grafton. I walked my bike along the sidewalk on Main Street, looking down. Maybe I would get lucky and find some money. When I passed a pay telephone, I put my fingers in the coin return, just in case someone had forgotten to pick up their change. It was empty.

  I passed an appliance store that had a row of television sets in the window. All of them were tuned to the same channel: a baseball game. I stopped to watch, and a tingle of excitement ran down the back of my neck.

  “It’s the Giants,” I told Foxey. “The Giants and the Pittsburgh Pirates.” My spirits rose and I stood close to the window, staring at one of the screens. It showed the score, and I saw that the Giants were batting in the bottom of the seventh. That means the Giants are home team, I thought. This game is being televised from Candlestick Park.