by Gwynn White
“Thank you,” I called out when Gabbi said nothing. “God bless you.”
Their fingers brushed. She pulled back her manicured hand like she feared an animal was about to bite her.
The window rolled up and she drove off.
Gabbi returned to a cross-legged position. I leaned over and brushed a leaf from her shoulder then tugged her hair. “There are worse ways to earn money.”
I didn’t need to say it. I shouldn’t have said it. We didn’t need reminding about other ways we’d scrounged up cash in the past. But that was over. Things were going to be different now. “You know Jimmy’s hankering for that special dark chocolate cake,” I said, trying to change the subject.
“It feels dumb getting money for cake,” Gabbi said. “Especially when we can get a whole box of day-old donuts for free.”
“But he’s desperate for it. You can’t really hold it against him.”
“Watch me.” She harrumphed in that way of hers that tried to cover up how young she still was deep down, how she wanted to belong to somebody, just like the rest of us. But she would die before letting anyone know it. Her parents did that to her. They didn’t throw her away like they did Leaf, but they drove her off all the same.
“He’s still an oogle.” I smiled and showed my teeth. “Like you were—not so long ago.”
“Over a year!”
I realized I hadn’t made her laugh yet. I decided to take this as a personal insult. “Being a runaway isn’t so bad.” I talked in my deepest, most reflective, most professorial tone to match that woman who had stalked us for two weeks. She had wanted to do a college paper on how life was REALLY like for street kids. She kept asking about survival sex, and how often we did this drug or that drug, or how often we’d beaten somebody up, and how many murders we must have witnessed, and how much did we drink. She didn’t want to know anything we really cared about, like how cramped the van got sometimes, and how we wanted more public library hours, and what were our favorite Tumblr blogs, and how at the last park concert Leaf got invited to drum on stage during the band’s encore.
“Being a street kid means you get the freedom to party whenever you want and you don’t have any college debt or responsibilities.” I pushed imaginary glasses up my nose. Like taking care of our food, shelter, clothing, safety, hygiene, not getting pregnant, it was no big deal, true freedom, living it up.
Gabbi smiled—but I wanted her to LAUGH.
“It’s not so bad, not if you’re smart and careful and stay out of the drug houses, shelters, pimp control, gang territory, rich people territory, poor people territory, middle people territory. You know, all the territory.” I leaned over and pantomimed opening a notepad while holding a pencil. “Now please tell me exactly how many blow jobs you gave in exchange for food this week.”
Gabbi’s laughter rang out like a bell. That helpless kind of laugh that started from the belly and shook the chest and made you hiccup at the end.
I toed the sidewalk and hid my smile. She’d be mad at me later for making her bust up like that, but it was worth it. She was fifteen, I was seventeen. But both of us liked to laugh as if we were little kids. I think it was partly because neither of us had laughed much when we were actually little.
Minutes passed. Only one car drove by. An old man popped into the liquor store before I could ask for change. This corner was SLOW.
The digital doorbell beeped again. The old man came out, his plastic bag boxy from a six-pack. He dropped some coins in the jar before I could say a word.
I tipped my head and smiled. “Thank you, sir.”
He nodded. “I’ve been in your shoes once or twice. Good luck to you.”
“Why can’t they all be like that?” Gabbi said after he left. She sighed. “What do you think Spencer will find tonight?”
I leaned back against the wall, happy that at least someone didn’t see us as worse than dirt. “Ano said he was going to swing by the bakery on O Street and try to score some day-olds. That’s all I’m thinking about. And maybe buy some new toothbrushes.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s NOT all you’re thinking about when it comes to Ano.”
“Very funny,” I said, but we both knew she was right, and mostly I didn’t care since he was hot and really nice and we both had a thing for each other.
“Jimmy wants another disposable camera.” Gabbi shook the jar, the coins clanging together amongst the dollars.
Jimmy was the newest to the group. I still hadn’t decided if he was a lifer yet, or if he would end up going back to his family after playing street kid with us. But I suspected he was going to stay. Sometimes you can just tell.
“Heads-up,” Gabbi said.
A man dirtier than us limped across the street. It looked like he’d come from the two-story office building that had been shut down for days—if the pile of newspapers at the door was any indication. His clothes were ragged, his shirt torn at the collar. His hair was cropped short but still somehow managed to look like a terrible case of bedhead.
No one else was in sight. The old guy was long gone. I jumped up and wondered if we should go into the liquor store and hide until the owner called the cops on us for loitering.
For all my jokes and lightheartedness, things could turn mean real fast. Thoughts of Norman came to mind. If he was back, he’d have already heard we’d been spanging on his corner. We’d be in for a beating for invading his territory. I didn’t totally believe in angels anymore, not like I used to when I was a kid, but I still believed that demons were pretty much real—and Norman was a homeless one in human form.
“Is that—”
“Can’t tell.” Gabbi sat on the ground as if she didn’t have a care in the world. But her leg was too relaxed, her fingers too splayed out.
A lone car passed by, blasting hot air. The man tracked it, distracted by the movement or the engine noise. The car and its person and its chance for help disappeared. Silence returned. His right pant leg was ripped from the ankle to his thigh, revealing a bloody gash.
Sweat itched down my cheek. I wiped the bead away.
He turned in our direction now as if he had noticed my movement. As if he had smelled us. His hands spasmed open and closed around something small and bloody, like he had dipped wrist-deep into a bucket of blood and pulled out a heart or something.
My mother had always accused me of a vivid imagination—it was why she called me a liar when I said my stepdad had kicked me in the ribs for not getting him a beer one night. I hoped in this case that it actually was my imagination going wild.
“What’s that in his hand?” Gabbi said.
“Nothing good for us,” I said. It might not be a bloody heart, but that didn’t make him Mr. Nice Guy either.
Finally the sound of another engine appeared just as I decided we should risk the liquor store. I waved it down before realizing it was a black and white.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Gabbi said.
“Better than the creep.”
“Not really.”
Officer Hanley leaned over, showing off short, silver hair that still covered most of his head. Cops weren’t my favorite people. They kicked us out from underpasses, and harassed us off street corners, and confiscated our van if we didn’t move it often enough. But Officer Hanley could sometimes be all right.
Cool air blasted through the open window, raising goosebumps on my skin. His aviator sunglasses matched nicely with his scowl. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“It’s a free country,” Gabbi said.
I felt proud she actually stood up for herself, but messing with the police wasn’t such a great idea. “We were just leaving. And your real problem is standing over there, probably spreading hepatitis or swine flu or HIV all over the street.”
Officer Hanley looked, and then dropped his voice so low it was almost a whisper. Officer Hanley never whispered. “How long has he been there?”
Gabbi shrugged.
“Has he been in contact with anyone els
e?”
“What are you—” I said.
“Has he touched, or hurt, or otherwise injured anyone?”
“I don’t think—”
“You need to leave this area. Now.” He grabbed for his receiver and spoke some weird coded words, his voice clipped and fast.
I realized he was scared.
“You can’t kick us off,” Gabbi said. “We have a right—”
“Gabbi,” I said. “We should listen to him.” I pulled on her shirt. She took a resisting step back.
“You girls get out of here.” The window began to close.
Gabbi yelled.
There was a loud bang.
We stumbled backwards as if skateboards had slipped out from under our feet. The creep had thrown himself against the backseat window of the cruiser. His hands smeared red down the glass and crushed whatever he had been holding, and then he dropped away as if knocked unconscious.
It wasn’t a heart, I told myself, no matter how much it looked like a heart out of the books Gabbi and I had poured through together once at the library. Ricker had sworn he was having a heart attack at the ripe old age of thirteen—it had been heartburn but we hadn’t known any different at the time.
A wild look came into Officer Hanley’s eyes. He used his side mirror, then reached for the door handle.
A metallic voice barked from his dashboard. The words sounded like some sort of order. He returned both hands to the steering wheel. His gold wedding band glinted as he flexed his hands.
“You can’t leave us here,” I said.
He hesitated.
The creep hadn’t stood up yet and that freaked me out. A lot. What if he was crawling around the car on all fours?
“Get in,” Officer Hanley said.
A head appeared at the back bumper. The creep HAD been crawling.
I yanked open the passenger door, grabbed a handful of bills and coins from the jar, stuffed them in my pocket, pushed Gabbi into the front seat, and jumped practically on her lap. I slammed the door closed.
The grate kept Gabbi and me from crawling into the back seat. The window had a gap several inches wide. The creep’s grimy, bloody fingers hooked through the gap, reaching for my hair. I couldn’t breathe. Gabbi screamed.
“Do something!” I said, shrinking back.
“I have orders to lead him away,” Officer Hanley said. “Don’t let him touch you, don’t let the blood get on you—you should have run.”
“Story of my life!” I shouted.
The window rolled up enough to pin the creep’s hands in place. The car moved forward several feet then settled into a slow, steady pace.
My stomach flipped. I stared at Officer Hanley because I couldn’t stand looking at the creep’s maniacal face any longer without going crazy myself. “You’re going to, to…You should just shoot him!”
“Can’t,” Officer Hanley said. “Can’t risk the blood.” His forehead gleamed with sweat even though the air conditioning blasted frigid air. That was the only sign that maybe he wasn’t feeling as cool as he acted.
It was like an insane form of dog walking. I looked everywhere but at the creep. The street was empty. Rush hour over, people inside. A couple of cars zipped by in the other direction, not even slowing. Up ahead was a four-way stop. A woman from the corner house dragged her garbage can to the gutter, saw us. Stopped. Stared. In a different house, a face appeared in the window, on a cell phone, also staring.
His fingers were dark red, bright red, grimed with mud and something slimy. He limped alongside the car, unseeing. He twisted, pulled, pinched the glass, let it go. Something wet flew from his hands onto my face.
In my eye.
My eyelid closed on instinct. I flinched back into the seat. I blinked, rubbed at my eye, thought about all the terrible things probably infecting this meth head. I wiped my hand across my cheek. A small smear of blood transferred onto my skin. I wiped it off on my pants. I wanted to cry.
“What’s wrong with him?” Gabbi said in a small voice. She’d wrapped her arms around my waist as if I could keep her from drowning.
“Drugs,” I said. I told myself I’d gotten it off. It was fine. I was going to be fine. “He’s high. Hopped up on a new meth recipe, right?”
Officer Hanley looked as if about to say something that would wreck my mind.
Sirens blared from everywhere. The inside of the car flooded with red and blue lights.
“Everyone’s an Oogle at First”
Posted August 10th at 6:46PM on Do More Than Survive: How to THRIVE as a Runaway.
What my stepdad did to me, it made me stronger. People call me a miracle kid because of all the stuff I’ve already survived. People are always surprised at how happy I am about life still. Everything done to me has made me stronger.
He was doing cocaine—that was when I was, like, ten or something. My mom had me change my last name because they wanted to be a family or something. So I changed my name. I still have that name right now. It pisses me off because he would slam my head into the wall.
I don’t think about it except you should know—I thought I knew everything to survive on the street since I’d pretty much been surviving on my own in that house for years already.
It doesn’t matter how street smart you think you are. When you first become a street rat you’re really just an oogle, which just means you’re new to the street and stupid because you don’t know the rules yet.
Until proven otherwise, other street kids are going to think you ran away from your trust fund, or because you think it’s cool—basically, you’re a poser. Accept it.
If you stay on the street long enough, you’ll earn some street cred. But a tweeker never stays anything but an oogle.
I tell social workers I didn’t run FROM my family, I ran TO my family. But be careful about who you get help from. There are real sociopaths and murderers and abusers out there, those are the monsters you should worry about, not the ones the newspapers try to scare you about.
I’d say don’t be an oogle, but you won’t be able to help it. Learn from others—street kids stick together. There will always be someone willing to show you how things are done.
In the meantime, here are a few basic tips to get you started until you find your street family:
Stay clean. That’s first. Clean hands, clean clothes. You’re a dead giveaway and probably going to get the police or CPS called on you if you’re dirty. There are water fountains, public restrooms at colleges and libraries, house hoses (watch out for dogs), water fountains, creeks (but watch out for pesticide runoff). No excuses.
If you’re spanging, that’s different. When you beg for money, it’s important to show your customers a little dirt otherwise they won’t feel good about giving you the cash. Also, spanging sucks. Everyone hates you, even those who give you money or food. It’s the worst part, but it’s the easiest and safest way to make some cash.
Thrift stores are good for changing into a cheap and clean set of clothes. Don’t be a jerk—actually buy the clothes.
Get enough cash to buy a gym membership. Go in for a family plan with friends. Make sure and hold out for a great deal. For less than a $1 a day you can get access to bathrooms, hot water, showers, saunas, pools, and games 24/7 so you can stay clean and avoid getting picked up. This is my best tip because then you won’t ever feel pressured to have sex with someone because they have a shower or a warm place to stay.
Get to know another runaway who has a car. Now you have a moving home and pretty good protection while you sleep. You can park the car in lots more places without being noticed than if you didn’t have one. Plus it’s nice being able to travel without watching the train schedules. You’ll get to have favorite cities and favorite seasons in those cities. You'll stay in one place for a while and then just decide one morning to travel clear across the country to your other favorite city.
Don’t blow all your cash on alcohol and drugs. I know a lot of you will, no matter what I say—even those
of you who think that will never be them—because that’s how me and my friends lived for a while. Just know that if you do, then you become trapped like all the 9-to-5 wage slaves you’re supposed to be better than.
Don’t ever feel like you’ll worry about food. Americans waste so much food it’s kinda evil. If you spend cash on food you’re wasting your money. I’m a vegetarian and have never had any problems getting food I could eat, as long as I was staying in a city. It’s called dumpster-love. You’ll see.
If you want to get picked up, or you’re making a moral statement against consumerism, or you are sticking it to the world, then do the opposite of all the above.
But you better stay out of my way cause if you get me caught, me and my friends will come at you with smileys* and we won’t feel bad about it for more than a minute.
*For you oogles out there, a smiley is a weapon made out of a bike chain and duct tape, or a chain and a combo lock, or a bandana and a lock, or really anything close by that would hurt someone if you swung it at them.
Chapter Two
The creep lay flat on the street, faceup. He twitched, stilled, twitched again. They’d stuck the creep with something that dropped him like a rock.
Every time he moved, I swear my eye flinched.
Two people in something like white moon suits hovered, taking measurements, writing on clipboards. People in navy jackets with yellow CDC lettering were erecting a tent around them.
Gabbi and I stood on the corner opposite the house of the woman and her trash can. The last direct rays of light turned the surrounding roofs a golden brown. The aroma of someone’s backyard grill said a family was eating burgers like nothing had happened. A yellow line of tape hung between us and gawkers with their phones out recording every move. I kept our phone away. I wasn’t like them, no matter how much I wanted to post about this. I wanted to help people who needed it, not enjoy someone’s bad luck.
We were inside the taped circle. I very much wanted not to be. Officer Hanley had been nice to us before—sure he messed with our camps and kicked us off corners and out of squats, but he saved us even though we were street roaches.
