Anonymity

by Janna McMahan

  “They call that a kick down.”

  “Really.”

  “If I had good images to support the story it would be an easier sell, but my editor won't assign me a photographer. You know anybody who would shoot these kids for no money?”

  “I would.” It came flying out of her mouth before she thought things through. She had a flash of panic after she said it.

  “You a photographer?”

  “Sort of.” Why was she backpedaling? “I'm pretty good.”

  “What's your subject?”

  “Mostly black-and-white portraits.”

  “Ever do any documentary work?”

  “Nothing serious.”

  He shrugged, unimpressed.

  “I could show you my portfolio.” Could she still cobble one together from her failed high school attempt? Maybe she could go out and shoot more.

  He got up off the stool. “Couldn't hurt to take a look.”

  “It's just a hobby,” she said defensively.

  He drained his beer, then patted his pocket—the universal cigarette search. He found the pack, snapped it against his hand and one popped out. He placed it in his mouth. Austin is a no-smoking city, so all her smoking customers congregated on the deck and patio. But the bar was almost empty now, so Emily leaned over with a lighter and flamed his smoke. He inhaled and twisted his lips into a devious grin.

  “All right, then.” Smoke curled out of him as he spoke. “So you want to be a photojournalist. Here's my card. Send me some stuff.”

  When he left, Emily turned to closing out the cash register. Frank sat in his favorite booth, watching the wait staff marry ketchup bottles and fill salt and pepper shakers. Emily locked the door after the last waitress left, then she poured a tall glass of orange juice and drew two beers.

  “So who was that guy?” Frank asked when she joined him in the booth. Frank had never asked Emily if she wanted to be bar manager, he just kept giving her new jobs each time an employee left. People don't show, you cover their shift. It happens a few times, you're suddenly in charge.

  “Just some guy.”

  “Really. ‘Cause you didn't look at him like he was just some guy.”

  She smiled. “It was Travis Roberts from Be Here Now.”

  “Ah,” Frank said, a noncommittal sound. No judgment, which was one of the things Emily liked about him.

  Angel came from the kitchen wiping his hands on the hem of his Keep Austin Weird shirt. He took a seat at their booth and gulped down the orange juice. Widely considered one of the best Tex Mex chefs in Austin, Angel put Group on the map with his equally awesome beef brisket, a dish that had put ten pounds on Emily's scrawny frame over the years.

  “Busy night,” Angel said.

  “People drink in good times and people drink in bad times. That's why I'm in the bar business,” Frank said. He raised his glass and they all clinked.

  Group was more than just a job to Emily. It was her comfort zone. Frank and Angel were big brothers. The bar was a community. She knew her customers and their routines. Lunch regulars were contractors, electricians and plumbers nursing hangovers with Bloody Marys. She usually got a retired group of Town Lake walkers and an array of UT professors, cops, firemen, EMS, bank workers and sales reps. Often, margarita slurping tourists would come south across the Congress Bridge looking for the SoCo shops and art galleries promoted by the “Keep Austin Weird” campaign.

  Most regulars came back in the early evening to play in dart tournaments in hopes of winning enough money to cover their Lone Star and tequila shots. Late at night, Group got spillover from the thousands partying on Sixth and Congress. You never knew exactly what would walk in. Politicians, cowboys, rappers, rednecks, frat boys, punks, street performers, computer geeks, movie stars, musicians and even the occasional cluster of suburbanites in their polo shirts and pressed jeans all wandered in on occasion.

  Emily was never surprised, no matter what came through her door, but this night something unexpected had happened. Travis Roberts had stumbled into her bar and offered her a strange proposition. She'd have to get her camera equipment out and take some shots. Remember how the darned thing worked. Photographing street culture was intriguing and the prospect of doing it with Travis Roberts made it all the more appealing.

  Emily

  A BRANCH lashed her cheek.

  “Sorry,” Travis said. She followed him through a wooded area along Shoal Creek. Above the fringe of trees, the tops of million dollar houses stairstepped up the hillside behind Pease Park. Traffic noise had dwindled. The most present sound was the crunch of leaves beneath their hiking boots. The creek was running low due to the summer drought. Trees had half their usual foliage; a lot of leaves had given up and fallen early.

  Per instruction, she was slightly grungy. Travis had told her not to talk unless she was pulled into conversation, and she was not to show her camera until he gave her a sign.

  Travis moved swiftly to where he knew a faction of the gutter tribes lived. Drag rats, gutter punks, kids on Guadalupe—just some of the terms used for the young homeless of Austin. Travis explained that the gutter tribes had further broken themselves into individual tribes, each with their own unique calling card. There were the kids who loved animals and used them to panhandle. Another group was seriously punk. The gays banded together, as did the religious kinds and the druggies.

  “We're going to see some Crusties,” Travis said.

  “What's that mean?”

  “They've been on the streets a while. They know how things work. They know the local cops. They're the seniors with all the good spots staked out and strong cred with the other kids.”

  “Okay.”

  “I like this particular group because they don't do as many drugs. They're easier to talk to. Usually, anyway. They're better than the Tweakers. Man, I tried to talk to some of those goons one time, but that was a waste of oxygen. They couldn't focus long enough to answer one question.”

  “Methheads?” She touched the welt on her cheek.

  “Meth and heroin both. We had a wave of bad heroin last year. Found kids dead in the alley down from the drop-in. Right outside the back door of a church. Two kids crumpled up like trash beside a dumpster.”

  “Wow.”

  “And they fight over territory—where they hang out, the places they stake out to fly signs and panhandle. Some spots are apparently more lucrative than others.” He stopped. “That's what we're looking for.”

  Ahead was a clearing where a cluster of logs and tarps made a crude encampment.

  “Home sweet home,” Travis said. He took a deli bag from his backpack. “You've got to ease into things with these guys.” He moved forward more slowly this time and stopped a couple of yards from the camp's perimeter. Logs and broken lawn chairs encircled a struggling fire. Plastic gallon jugs of water were scattered around.

  “Hey,” Travis yelled. “Anybody home?”

  Suddenly, three guys sat up from the ground, leaves and twigs tangled in their hair. One was a big fellow. His overalls were held together by carabineers, and a small camping headlamp held back his wild yellowish dreads. He wore black Elvis Costello glasses taped together in a couple of spots, a usual hazard of being a skater.

  Travis held up both hands in surrender. “Hey, man. We come in peace.”

  “What do you want? You can't come down here, man,” the big one said.

  “Come on, Mook. You know me. I just want to talk.”

  Mook scorched Emily with his eyes. “Who's that?”

  “My friend Emily. She's helping me. Hey, I brought you guys some sandwiches.” He pitched the brown bag to him.

  “Some of us are vegetarians,” Mook said.

  “I know, man. I remember. I brought some fancy cucumber and tomato sandwiches for your girlfriend.”

  He still appeared unconvinced. Hunger washed the pimple-strewn faces of the other two.

  “You got anything to drink?” He seemed irritated by Travis's kindness.

&nb
sp; “Yeah, sure. There's juice in there.”

  “Hold on.” Mook got up and opened a flap in a tarp strung up against a tree. He said something to somebody inside. Emily and Travis waited. A curvy girl emerged from the flap. Red slashed through her tangle of hair. She was ashy, her lips puffy from sleep, but beauty clung to her, bright green eyes against dark skin. She perched on a log and hugged her knees. Mook poked their campfire with a stick.

  “Well, come on then,” he finally said.

  Travis didn't take a chair but moved to sit on a log, so Emily followed his lead. The smell of fallen leaves gave way to serious body odor.

  “Emily, this is Mook.” Travis motioned toward the girl next to him. “That's Mook's woman, Elda. Those two guys are Minion and Freestyle.” They nodded a silent greeting. She wondered if they ever talked.

  Mook handed the food to Elda. She went through it, peeling back plastic wrap, sniffing the clean white bread as if it might be poison.

  “He says it's cucumber and tomato,” Mook said.

  “It's got cream cheese too,” Travis said. “I mean, you're not vegan are you?”

  “No,” Elda said. “Just vegetarian.” She took a sandwich and a juice and passed the bag back to Mook. He took a sandwich and threw the bag to the other two guys.

  “So,” Mook said, his mouth half full, “I've already told you we're not interested in being part of your story, so what you doing back here again?”

  Travis shrugged. “Don't know. Thought maybe you'd reconsider. Tell the public that you guys aren't all thieves and drug addicts.”

  He laughed. “Dude, we are all thieves and drug addicts.”

  “That's not true.”

  “What? You want sob stories about how we got here? I told you, man, most of us are here by choice. We're not participating in that rat race. The economy's going to hell, people who chased money like it was a god are going to be shit out of luck and we'll be surviving, man. We'll be the ones who know how to make it on nothing. You don't miss what you ain't got. We don't need rescuing.” Mook suddenly leaned over Travis in a threatening way, but Travis didn't flinch.

  Emily did.

  “Step back,” Travis said as he stood up. “Man, why you got to get all up in my face?”

  Mook grinned and relaxed his threatening posture. He stepped away and took a seat in a busted lawn chair. Travis had passed his test. Mook motioned for him to sit.

  Travis took a moment to let things chill again, then he said, “The city's passing more ordinances about where you guys can congregate and panhandle. Funding for services is up for discussion too. Don't you want the public to hear your side?”

  The boy wiped his mouth on a filthy sleeve. “Fuck that, man. We're going to do what we do no matter what the man does. We're here to stay. We don't want to participate in the discussion.”

  “Some of the other kids need shelter. You can help those kids.”

  “I'm not into politics, man. It's no use trying to fight the machine.”

  “So you feel powerless.”

  “No. We're just under the radar, man.” He moved his hand flat through the air between them. “Off the grid.”

  The others made agreeing sounds and nodded and kept stuffing themselves with food. Travis reached into the long pockets on his cargo pants and took out candy bars. Without a word, he pitched one to each of the kids in turn.

  A rustling from up the bank made everyone freeze. In the distance stood a girl, tall and thin, a hood shadowing her face.

  “There she is again,” Elda said.

  Everyone looked uphill, acknowledging her.

  “You gonna go talk to her?” Elda said.

  Mook considered, then said, “No. She needs to come on down if she wants to hang.”

  “Who is it?” Travis asked.

  “Some new kid showed up about a month ago. Probably an Oogle. I've seen her at the drop-in. I don't know anything about her. Fiona knows her.”

  “She wants to join your group?”

  “Looks that way. She can hang, but she's got to ask.”

  “She got a name?” Travis asked.

  “I think,” Elda said, “Fiona said her name is Lorelei.”

  At Halcyon Coffeehouse, they sipped soy lattes and discussed their interview attempt.

  “Interesting names,” Emily said.

  “They don't give legitimate names,” Travis said. “They don't want to be tracked. That name Lorelei, that's from a graphic novel.”

  “So, what's an Oogle?”

  “A newbie. Somebody who doesn't yet know how to work the street economy. They have to learn where all the shelters are, where they can find a free feed, who to avoid, who to trust. It takes a while to learn the system. Oogles are usually younger kids, you know, fourteen to sixteen. Scared as shit. Looking for anybody to gob on to. Especially girls. Girls are always looking for the safe situation.”

  Indirect rosy light bounced through the front window onto their table, washing Travis in a soft glow. Emily had never worked much with natural light, but she could appreciate the effect. She took out her camera and considered shots of his hands, his strange skull ring, the whirl of foam in his coffee.

  He'd never signaled that it was okay to bring out her camera when they were in the woods.

  “They treat you like an unwelcome friend,” she said as she raised the camera to frame his face and focused.

  “Just be patient,” he said. “These kids don't want their photos taken, just like they won't tell you their names. They don't want to be found. They're throwaways mostly, but some have parents looking for them.”

  “I can't imagine living like that. What about their parents? How can they live not knowing if their children are safe or hungry or freezing?”

  He shrugged. “Some parents don't give a shit. So, don't get emotionally involved.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “I didn't imply you couldn't.”

  “I guess I just never really thought about how they live. I mean, I've been downtown for years, and I suppose I just sort of think of them as background noise. You know they're there, but you just tune them out.”

  “Well,” he said, “now you know.”

  Travis considered his coffee. He seemed relaxed, as if hanging out with a gang of teenage squatters was just an average day. His slightly dangerous ways were attractive. He had an aggressive approach to getting a story, but she sensed something softer about him. As if his professional bravado masked a more sincere side.

  “Why don't you let me take your photo? I can do better than that awful headshot you use in the paper.”

  He considered Emily's offer, scratched his goatee, then said, “Fine. Shoot away.”

  She snapped a few frames—one with his coffee to his lips, a wistful glance out of the window.

  He finished his drink and motioned that he was leaving.

  Outside, he lit a cigarette and stood for a minute, thinking. She snapped another picture, but he waved her camera away.

  “Save it for the story,” he said. Then, “You need a ride home?”

  “No thanks. I got my bike.” Why did that make her feel ten years old?

  He nodded and walked toward uptown. She headed south for Group. Down the alley, she opened the kitchen door and stepped into the steamy wet food smell of dishwashing in action. Tino looked up and gave her a wink, then went back to blasting plates with his industrial sprayer.

  Angel waved Emily over. He was slicing brisket. Reddish-brown juice flowed onto the cutting board. She thought about the Crusties and their hungry eyes.

  She pinched a piece of beef and the spicy meat fell apart in her mouth. Angel's steel prep station held a dozen plates of Tex Mex in various stages of completion. He finished constructing a couple of brisket sandwiches, slung them into the service window and rang the pick-up bell. He grabbed the fry basket of sizzling chicken fingers and hooked it to the side to drain, then moved on to tossing cheese.

  “Are you in the weeds?” Emily asked.


  “No. Dart tournament, but we're under control.”

  She leaned through the window and looked into the bar to see only a normal busy night crowd. Frank was switching out a keg. The barback was hustling to dump ice. Angel was right. Everything looked under control.

  “How'd your interview go?” Angel asked as he worked.

  “It was kind of scary.”

  He stopped and gave her the fatherly, raised-eyebrow look. “Scary weird or scary bad?”

  “Scary strange. Travis was with me, and he's totally cool around them. No worries.”

  “Be careful. They're desperados.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Ten cuidado, Bonita.”

  “I am.”

  She grabbed her bike from the dry pantry and wheeled it out the kitchen door. She eased out of the sour alley past a kissing couple on the sidewalk and into the bike lane. Traffic was light. Night air flowed like liquid over her skin. She clicked past a couple of porch parties in her neighborhood. People waved. Raised beers.

  While she waited for the kettle to heat, Emily booted up her laptop. She attached her camera and uploaded her shots of Travis. He was photogenic. The diffused light from the coffee shop's window accentuated his cheekbones. One shot was so good it needed no retouching. She wrote and rewrote the e-mail to accompany the shot. What could she write to a writer? Anything she said might sound stupid. She decided on short and sweet and e-mailed the shot to Travis at the paper.

  When she hit send she let go of the breath she'd been holding.

  Gone. Nothing she could do about it now.

  She sipped tea and her fingers rattled across the laptop searching for the graphic novel Lorelei. She got a few hits and Lorelei turned out to be a character from a failed 1980s comic book, a big-busted, muscular redhead who stalks the streets of New York. Lorelei was a photographer known for controversial subject matter, but through a series of ill-fated events, she died and was resurrected as the soul-stealing incubus, Lorelei, who reduces evildoers to a withered husk. An angel of vengeance who preys upon those who would prey on the weak.

  An avenging photographer appealed to Emily. But Lorelei didn't seem anything like her alter ego. The real Lorelei hovered at the edges, waiting for a sign of welcome. The homeless were like cautious animals, on the prowl, always watching. They grouped in the shadows of alleys, huddled in entryways during rain. Police and security constantly moved them along.