“I rolled the garage door. It was half closed when … I saw yellow. The color was another painful reminded. The yellow something I saw was our tandem bike. Our bike. Father and son.
“I stood there, peering into the dark garage, and remembered last summer. Midnight. He woke me. ‘Ahmed! Get up! We’re leaving.’
“I took my time. I thought we were moving—again. We moved a lot. I was too tired to ask, ‘What’s the rush? Why are we moving in the middle of the night?’ I dressed and met him outside. I felt drunk. Or, how I imagined being drunk. Groggy, I guess. I’ve never been drunk. When I saw him standing next to the two seater, I thought I was dreaming. He looked so … proud. He had this smile on his face. I thought, finally, he’s lost his mind. Totally.
“‘Ahmed, get on!’ he shouted. We climbed on the bike and rode off, into the warm summer air. He was a bad father. His temper was horrible, he couldn’t keep a wife or a job to save his life. But he knew something about surprise, adventure, the ‘You’re-NOT-going-to-believe-this!’
“We rode to a new freeway. There were other people. In secret, this group rode down these white, virgin concrete lanes. It was incredible. Here we were, riding bikes on a freeway at three a.m. Maybe that’s why some part of me thought … my father, he’ll accept me? I thought our dreamy, midnight bike ride was a signal. His way of saying, ‘You and I, Ahmed, we are different.’
“I slammed the garage door down. On love, that night or anything good. My legs were heavy. My insides sagged. It took me forever to get to school. Riding, I realized I’d been safe so long as I stayed inside a black outline. The picture of me. My father had drawn it. The minute I’d stepped outside, I’d betrayed him. After that, I was, homo-cidal. I—”
“You mean,” Marci interrupts, “suicidal?”
“No, homo-cidal. Drama! I was more into the idea of death. Doing it, not so much. In English class, we were reading The Bell Jar. And I listened to The Virgin Suicides all the time. It’s a good soundtrack for—”
“When was this?” She jumps on the pop cultural references. Insight! She’s an amateur psychologist. Whatever.
“A few weeks later,” I say. “Two? I’d lost count. I’d stopped sleeping. I was wired. I was afraid something would happen if—”
“Happen? Like what?”
“Um, die.”
“From natural causes or—”
“Coz they poured gasoline on me and tossed a burning match.”
Behind the coke-bottle glasses, her eyes get “Oh, Wow” wide.
“You thought your family would burn you alive?”
“Yes.” This girl has no idea what they’d do—for much less. Or, what I’m really running from. “I avoided my parents in the house. I knew they wished I was gone. That I would run away. I felt shame. I knew. They didn’t need to tell me. In their world, I’d done the worst possible thing. To them. To their idea of me. By writing those words—”
“You said you knew,” Marci says.
“Yeah, I knew, I was the one who was responsible. I destroyed our family. Worse, I’d done it on purpose. My stepmother was nosey. I knew she’d find it. I could have asked her to read it. Or sat them down and told them. Same difference. But I like the drama: shock! discovery!
“One day I passed my stepmother in the dining room. She grabbed my arm and hissed, ‘What a waste!’ With her, at least I knew her hate lived in her voice and face. My father? He wouldn’t even look at me, much less speak to me.”
“Be honest,” Marci asks, “did you try to kill yourself?”
“I’d stand in the shower. Close my eyes and let the hot water pour down on my head. I’d pretend the water was blood. Or, tears. I’d crunch up my face. Fake cry. Really, I didn’t feel anything. Just numb.”
Those feelings come back. A wave. They wash over me. This time, I don’t pretend. I’m not numb. I’m overwhelmed.
“What?” she says. Touches my arm. I’m getting tired of her talk show gesture. I know she means to comfort me. But I want to knock her hand. Slap her face. “Let’s stop there.”
“Okay.”
I want to stop. Then again, maybe it will help—telling someone. My story. The big What Happened. Even though I know, after eleven months, talk therapy is total bullshit. I recall the words, “Transcribed and sent by certified mail to an attorney.” This story is my evidence—testimony. Someday, it might come in handy.
“I might as well finish.”
Chapter 17
“I woke up depressed. Couldn’t get out of bed depressed. I tried. But I felt heavy. Like my body was filled with lead. I lay there and stared at the ceiling. It was white and I was black. Art class. The teacher showed up as a picture and said, ‘Study in contrast.’ Life, same thing. I heard someone pound on the door. ‘Let us in! Let us in!’
“‘Great,’ I thought. ‘My stepmother’s going crazy. Again.’ She had a nervous breakdown every other week. One time, I asked her, ‘How many breakdowns do you have in you?’ She hated me after that.
“Then, I heard something. This sound … the door? Wood … cracking? Yes, the door! It was splintering! Because an ax! Had split it in two! Two cops stood in the hallway. ‘Are you—’”
“Not your real name,” Marci cautions.
“‘Ben?’ I didn’t answer. I just stared at them. I guess that was all they needed. They stomped in. ‘What’d I do?’ I asked. I wasn’t a criminal. Except, some part of me knew. I was. They lifted me up off the bed and handcuffed my wrists. I didn’t resist, didn’t try to get away. But I didn’t help them. I played dead. I take that back. I didn’t play. I was dead.
“They carried me out the house and down the front steps. The perfect neighbors stood on their perfect lawns and watched. I should have been humiliated, but I wasn’t. I didn’t care. I knew it was the last time I’d see this place. I wasn’t coming back. Ever.
“Even though I knew what was happening, I couldn’t believe it. All this—the cops, the ax, the handcuffs—was because of me. Me. Three minutes ago, I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling.
“The men led me to an unmarked sedan. Right then I realized, ‘They’re not cops. They can’t do this. I’m being kidnapped.’ Too late. One palmed my head like a basketball and shoved me into the backseat. They pulled a hoodie over my head. I was blind.
“My mind started going. I was Gitmo bound. They were moving me out of the country. Extra rendition. Water boarding. Torture. I started—I couldn’t breathe. Panic—I had an attack. I screamed. I begged them, ‘Please! Let me go! I’m dying!’ I heard them laugh. Call me a liar. Finally, they pulled back the hoodie. They shoved a pill in my mouth; the car jerked and threw me back against the seat. The tires squealed. Zoom! We drove for a long time. I still couldn’t see—they’d pulled the hoodie back down. Overnight, I turned into a gay terrorist.
“I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I told them, ‘Hey! I need to pee!’ I felt the car pull over. The door opened. The hoodie came off. One man led me to a bathroom. Inside, he unlocked my wrists and closed the door.
“I couldn’t believe my eyes. Behind the door, there was a pay phone! You’d think it would be easy—for me to save myself. But when I picked up the receiver, I shook so bad I could barely hold it. I was terrified I’d get caught. I was scared what they’d do to me. I forced myself to dial. I talked myself through it. ‘At least try … if you don’t save yourself, nobody will.’
“I called Stuart. I had memorized his work number. I couldn’t believe it—he answered and accepted the charges. Amazing, he’d help, I was saved! ‘Stuart, I’ve been kidnapped! Help me, can you—’ He said, ‘Your dad—’
“Right then, the man stepped into the bathroom and caught me. He dragged me back to the car. I wet myself. They laughed. ‘Faggot’s wet hisself.’ I felt the air go out of me. Nobody needed to explain. No one could protect me. I was on my own. My family doesn’t want me. Flip side was, I had nothing to lose. My parents abandoning me was bad enough. Them knowing these people would hurt me—some
part of me, truly …”
My voice trails off. My thoughts continue: “I knew they chose to throw me away. Toss me out, like trash.” But I don’t say this aloud. I can’t. Admit this horrible fact—not a guess, or a feeling but a fact—to a stranger.
For some reason, I reach up and touch my face. It’s wet. Tears. I hate this. Feelings embarrass me. I want to keep them to myself. Private. I distrust my feelings. This time, they won’t betray me. I’ll act. Coz now I know better. Fact: I’m in another car, in the backseat. I am trapped. I reach—
Chapter 18
“Let me out! I gotta—”
She grabs my arm. Won’t let me go. I fight. But not too hard. I start crying. I don’t want them to see. I turn my head away. Toward the door. I know, if I really want, I can get out. Handle’s right there. My body, I guess, I need to, I surrender, I let out—
“Uh! Uh! Uh!” I’m filled with shame. Since when did my feelings become a freak show? Me, naked. Oh, look at him! I know they’re looking at me.
“Don’t look at me!”
I cry. I want to stop. I can’t. I hate them.
“I know what you’re thinking. I’m not some—some pathetic little kid!”
I kick my feet. Hard. Slam! Against the backseat. Nobody stops me. I cry. I scream. I howl. The wind is louder. Forest, park, wherever we are. Nowhere. And I am alone—again—with my feelings.
I cry, curled up in a ball against the side. My balled fists pound the window. I cry until I can’t cry. Until I’m out of tears. The way a storm gives way to drizzle and, finally, stops. I’m hella tired. The way I was before, in my bedroom, when I was so depressed I couldn’t move. This feels different. Still dark. Clearer. Lighter.
Still, the van’s silence makes me anxious. I glance down. The red light glows and the tape moves, unspooling, recording. I have more to say but no energy left to say it. I rub my temples.
“Are we done? Coz after that, I have a hard time, you know, remembering.”
A lie. I remember everything after the gas station. But I don’t owe her that story. Nobody gets that story. It’s mine.
For the first time in the hour—or, three?—we’ve been together, Marci doesn’t answer my question, ask one or touch my arm. The silence makes me uncomfortable. Pride’s the other thing I’m keeping for myself. There are limits. In Serenity Ridge, they’d called me “manipulative.” It’s true. Right now, for example, I know what to say, but it’s too humiliating to say aloud. My father marked me. A big, fat L—Loser—across my forehead.
“You really want to hear this? I still, I know it should be easy but … I can’t believe. They did this. I’m having … after that, you know, a hard time, remembering.”
“Can’t think straight yet, huh?” She smiles.
I shrug, make a face: I don’t get it. Of course, I do. I repeat myself, on purpose. She looks at me. I don’t know if she believes me. I don’t care.
“You can tell me the rest later.” Finally—finally!—the tape recorder clicks. Off. Thank G-D, Allah, Praise Jesus Christ, Lord Shiva and Toys “R” Us. My story gets its well-earned rest. Hopefully, soon I will, too. The engine turns over and the van pulls away. I turn and look back. Same as Serenity Ridge, I want a parting shot. This time, of the interview spot.
The whole time, we were parked under a tree the size of a circus tent. Under a large, black pool. We were always perfectly hidden.
Chapter 19
I peer out the window, in search of San Fran-cis-co. The Gay Ground Zero. Queer Mecca. But instead of believers flocking to mosques and minarets, the streets should be filled with gays. It’s a full moon. The streets are empty. The city’s sexy, horny hotties must be sleeping. The passing landscape doesn’t resemble a “City.” All I see are houses with sloped front lawns and cars parked on severely angled driveways.
The van turns left, then right. The city jumps out. Now the streets look like the tourist brochure pictures. Smoke shops and windows with mannequins dressed in flashback fashion (flowing hippie chick dresses, ′80s New Wave polyester), marijuana dispensaries and used record stores. Victorian architecture.
A group of straggly-looking college types drunkenly weaves down the street. They sing, “Load up on guns and bring your friends.” Sure does, I think, “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”
I glimpse a boy. About my age, he leans into a car window. My body shudders. I look away. I don’t want to see him climb in. I’m forty-two dollars away from doing the same.
“What?” Marci asks.
“Nothing,” I lie. Lying comes easy. Too easy. Get caught in a lie or don’t. Lie, but only if you really need to (and remember the truth). I look back. The car’s swallowed him up. The red taillights bob and blink, gone. Nothing? Why lie. I know what he’s doing in the front seat. If I follow his example, then there’s no point. I’m no better than Haifa’s curse.
RULE #1: DO NOT SELL YOUR BODY. No matter what.
The van makes more turns, quick as on a TV cop show. Abrupt, the van stops in the middle of a street. Marci opens the van door. She jumps (and lands) with ease. She motions me out. Blind, I jump. I land. Hard. My fingers touch asphalt. The van door slides, slams shut and peels off.
I see: Semi trucks. Loading docks hung over barren sidewalks. Metal curtains hide warehouse entrances. The street’s closed up. Abandoned. Still, I feel eyes watching us from behind hundreds of warehouse windows.
Marci sets off. For a big girl, she sure walks fast. I run to catch up.
“What’re you on? Thorazine?”
I shrug. I don’t want to think about Serenity Ridge. I feel happy. I want to enjoy the night. I feel like I’m moving through taffy.
“The safe house where you’re going to live,” Marci says, “is a closed, long-term.”
The stoplights blink, red, furious. We ignore their warning, cross the street.
“What’s that mean?”
“Nobody leaves. You stay inside, twenty-four seven. You don’t go near the windows, don’t answer the phone, don’t open the door.”
A second intersection. There are so many bright, yellow lights, it could be day at Valencia and Sixteenth. The street’s divided in two. On one side, hipsters. On the other, homeless people. That’s America. I wonder, what side of the divide do I stand on? People sleep everywhere: on a brick, half-moon-shaped plaza, bus benches and cardboard boxes. Dealers slang weed, and panhandlers push shopping carts. Everyone looks very awake.
A giant man appears. His giraffe legs take four steps. He’s next to us.
“Hey, baby.” He smiles, gold capped teeth catching the blinking neon red light. Marci grabs my hand. “Wanna partay? Got chronic, PCP, rock, X, got G-H-B …” He rattles off a dozen more letters. I can’t figure out if he’s selling drugs or the alphabet.
Marci ignores Alphabet Man. Probably, I should, too, but I can’t look away. I’ve never seen anyone like him. He looks like he escaped from that ′80s movie, Mad Max. Great. My new reality. It’s an apocalypse now, populated with crazy, hungry people. Who don’t know they smell. Serenity Ridge was “hardcore” but nothing like this.
Alphabet Man moves toward us. Big, monsterish. White spit’s caught between his teeth. He smiles, craaaazzzyyy. The spit pulls apart, taffy or spiderweb. Close up, his eyes catch light, two glittery marbles cock-eyed in opposite directions. His smile vanishes. His hand pushes back his jacket flap. His nails are eagle talons. His fingers wrap around a handle. He slides a knife out his waistband.
I freeze. Why run. We’re gonna die anyway.
“Hey!” An Asian lady crosses the street. Alphabet Man sees her and steps back. Her enormous feet are shoved into stilt-sized high heels. Watermelon-sized boobs spill out a leopard print bikini top. She wears a silver thong. Her daddy longlegs eyelashes bat-ta-bat, flashing purple-gold lids. Asian Lady’s blond wig and body jiggle, same as warm apricot Jell-O. “Motor! Where the fuck you been?!? You got my shit?”
Her question turns us into extras, background for an ′80s video. Whatsit. She was
a girl. And this girl was in … trouble? But her bad behavior (caught, cuffed, clink) was … a temporary thing. I saw the Where Are They Now? TV special in Serenity Ridge. Romeo Void. Asian Lady could be the singer’s twin. Her sneer turned her eyes to slits; she sang, “She’s got a face that shows what she knows.”
Marci yanks my arm. We run, cross the street and vanish into the shadows.
I look back.
Alphabet Motor Man stands there, looking around, searching for us. But we’re gone and the intersection’s empty.
Chapter 20
Leaving the way we do teaches me how easy it is to disappear. Be quick. Have an escape route. Or, an alley. For instance, the one we’re running down. We exit it, and run down another street, passing the SEXXXY LADY THEATER. It’s slotted in-between an SRO and soup kitchen. The white marquee with capital orange letters promises ONE WEEK ONLY.
“In the safe house, you don’t answer the door,” Marci says between quick, short breaths. “You don’t wear shoes.”
“Why not?”
“People downstairs can hear you walking around. We keep the radio or TV on at all times so people don’t hear you talking.”
Forget talking. I’m exhausted. I can barely walk. We cover—five? ten?—more blocks.
“Here—”
I follow; we turn the corner. She stops outside a brick building: The Cretan. Cretan as in creepy. I’d guess it’s been rundown since it was built … two centuries ago. Some places are like that. A bordello slash punk band hotel slash safe house for runaway gay teens.
“The apartment’s not under my real name.” She looks for her keys. “Same with the phone.”
The front door faces Market Street, a four-lane boulevard. It’s empty except for a stream of cabs and the occasional streetcar. They rumble by, empty and ghosty. I lean against the doorway, about to pass out. Marci opens the metal gate. Sleep calls my name. Reaches out for my body. I struggle to resist the promise of its sweet, dead embrace.
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