by A.R. Rivera
Adventures in Baby-sitting
The little boy that toddled towards the Palisade earlier was not looking at me. I thought he was, but from where I am now, inside the Squalid, I understand that the little boy didn’t even know I was there. Like Citrina said, he couldn’t see me.
The translucent wall is not only a separator. It’s also a creepy one-way mirror. The little boy was waving at his own reflection.
So people living on the nicer side can look through the Palisade, see the filth and be thankful they aren’t living in an area that I’ve just discovered reeks of raw sewage and burnt oil. While, on this side, when you look at the Palisade, all you see is your own filth and what’s behind you. They can’t see the new rooftops next door and compare them to these shitty overhangs. No clean sidewalks to look at and complain about your own dirt lane.
It’s also much darker over here. Even the night sky above the scant lights seems denser than it was just fifty feet away.
With my sleeve pressed to my nose, I stick to the path of least resistance, winding around the corner of the first building. The lawn is littered with refuse. Once I’m in front of the building, I spot the source of sour air. It’s a massive pile of garbage blocking the roadway.
The trash heap wasn’t there when I first saw this place so I have to wonder where it came from. Stumbling past a particularly rancid patch of rancid air, my dinner starts gurgling. What the hell kind of place is this? There’s no trash receptacle. It’s like the street is one big landfill. I have to squeeze between the side of the building and the garbage pile just to avoid wading through the muck.
Coming around the other side of the heap, I stop dead in my tracks, spotting something that does not belong in the reeking pile of rot. It’s a set of apple cheeks and big brown eyes set close together. A small boy. He can’t be more than two or three, yet he’s standing out here all alone, naked, and knee deep in filth.
It’s the combination of waste and innocence that gets my hands acting independently. Before I think of what I’m doing, the boy is in my arms. He’s trembling; obviously scared silly, probably because he’s being handled by a stranger. He’s isn’t making any noise and there are no tears on his cheeks, either but the crumpled expression says he’s crying.
He smells bad. Really bad. Like the putrefaction I’ve just pulled him from. Like he’s never had a real bath. It doesn’t take a Ph.D. to know he’ll catch something touching this all this trash. From the looks of this boney little guy, he’s sick already. So small, too thin, and bare-assed; not even a diaper. His little feet are black with muck and though the night air is warm enough for shorts, his bare legs feel cold. His stomach is small and tight as he holds a cry.
“We’ll find your mommy and everything will be alright.” Nobody’s out on the dark street, though.
With the little guy resting uncomfortably under my arm, I take him with me up the nearest walkway of the closest apartment where there’s a wide doorway. No knob, of course.
So I knock.
When no one answers, I knock again and wait.
“Where’s your house?” I softly ask. “Do you know where do you live?”
Five minutes pass as I linger, knocking and hollering, waiting for someone to hear or walk out of the building, but the door stays shut. The building stays quiet. The boy won’t talk.
So then I’m searching for anything that looks like it might function as an intercom, but there’s nothing. No Biolock, no panel, not even any numbers to tell the address. These are the most simply designed apartments I have ever seen. As if they were made for function only. Not aesthetically pleasing. No patios or balconies. No decorative lines or carvings. No molding around the high windows. There are lines that look like eaves every few stories, but it’s hard to tell in the dark. The building is a big box with smooth corners and a single common doorway that’s locked. I can’t even find the stairs to get up to the next level of apartments.
No one is answering any of the doors I try, so then I start knocking on the small windows that have lights inside. They’re too high for me to look inside and no one even looks to see what the ruckus is.
Six buildings later, I’m no closer to finding out who this little guy belongs to and resort to yelling for anyone who might know who this little one belongs to. My calls go unanswered.
No one is looking for him?
The way it’s supposed to go is like this: you see a kid toddling down by the road and you stare a lot longer than normal without even realizing it because you’re waiting for the cursory adult to appear. You know, the one with the worried look that washes to instant relief the moment they see what you see—i.e. the missing toddler. But that isn’t happening here.
I ask my little companion, again, to show me where he lives, but he stays quiet with his dirty index finger hooked in his mouth. I can’t tell if he’s scared or just ignoring me because he won’t look me in the face.
I’m about to try the next complex when I notice a bright light down the road. It looks like a headlamp from a motorcycle and it’s only a block or two away. I make my way toward it, adjusting the small boy and trying to balance my backpack at the same time. Both of them endure the jostle in silence.
Once I’m at the side of the road skirting the edge of the trash heap, the moving light stops. That’s when I notice something strange about this light. There’s a bluish hue to it, like most LED lights, but this one has an odd motion within the radiance. Most headlamps cast a ray that shoots onto the ground in front of whatever you’re driving, but this one’s broad and bright, like a spotlight or heat lamp.
It starts moving again, getting closer. As it approaches, the casting light widens until there is no more beam, just illumination that’s too intense to see anything beyond it and I still can’t tell, even as it gets closer, what kind of vehicle it’s coming from. It could be a round transporter ball like I was in earlier. It could be an actual motorcycle or some android with a flashlight for a face.
“Hey,” I yell towards the light, “I found a little boy!”
A loud humming begins as the light burns from blue to yellow to white. Higher, brighter and louder. The boy covers his ears and smashes his eyes shut and I take a leap back.
The night explodes in a flash of blinding purple light.
When my eyes stop hurting enough to open, I have to wait to for the spots blurring my vision to fade. When they do, I find the street is clear. No more trash. The entire road is spotless as if all that garbage was never there. And whatever thing it was that zapped away the trash is also gone.
The rancid scent still lingers.
I look down, checking the boy in my grasp, knowing that something very bad would have happened to him if I hadn’t been here. Hatred for the person who left him out here takes root and I glare back at the empty windows and closed doors of the nearby apartments... there’s still no frantic mother or father searching for a missing toddler.
It’s as if he was left out here on purpose. As if whoever he belongs to doesn’t want him back.
Shit. Just... shit.
“Guess you’ll be sticking with me for a while.”
His lips jut out as he blows a raspberry. Carrie comes to mind just then, and I remember; when talking to kids, the simpler the better.
“Go bye-bye?”
“Bah,” he attempts in a soft voice.
“Up,” I point at the top of the Palisade wall.
Wriggling the stones from their pouch is tough with only one hand. I try to put my little friend down to take them out, but he won’t let me. Each time I lower him, he hikes his feet up, clinging to me like a little monkey.
Being so small and attracted to shiny objects, the boy reaches for the stones. I pull them back and shake my head.
“No.”
It’s too dark to be sure, but I think his apple cheeks split into a wide grin.
“No,” I repeat. “These are mine.” No. Mine. Dad used to say those were my favorite words.
And then, that feeling of an enormous, grasping bubble gently plucks us from the ground. The ride is smooth and short, and I’m not the only one smiling when we touch down on the other, cleaner, brighter side. My little friends mouth is dropped open, half covered by dirty fingers.
I take them from his face and get my first real look at him.
It’s obvious there’s something wrong with him—developmentally and physically. His small eyes are unevenly set. Not so much that he looks mongoloid, but enough to sure that this abandoned boy has Down Syndrome. His hair is very thin, his head unnaturally slender at the top. His arms are short, his shoulders and ears set lower than they should on his frail form.
“Well, then, let’s get you cleaned up.” I don’t sound angry, which is good and a miracle. I almost sound cheerful.
Using one of my tee shirts to wipe off his filthy fingers, I can’t help noticing the way the kid—I’ve got to get this squirts name, or give him one—continues to gape at the surroundings. I take a quick look around to check no one else is watching. We are alone.
“Never been on this side before?”
My response is wide-eyed silence. His little fingers scrape over the fluffy grass. He marvels while I think of my next move.
I need information about this place. Something like a map. More immediately, we need somewhere to sleep. I wonder if my earlier companions would help, but the dinner conversation at Citrina’s left me with the distinct impression that no one on this side of the wall knows what to do with a kid, either.
There are two protein bars inside my emergency food kit. When the little guy sees one, his large eyes practically pop out. He swipes with an uncoordinated hand, putting all his weight behind it. He misses his target and falls over. I wrangle the wrapper back and break off a bite for him.
“Take it easy, Rocky.” The nickname seems fitting. Besides, everyone I’ve met over here is named after some kind of mineral.
I use an alcohol wipe from the first-aid kit to wipe Rocky’s hands and mouth before giving him another taste the faux chocolate and peanut butter protein bar. He fights me because he wants more. I can’t get it into his mouth fast enough.
He has a mouthful of teeth, so I let him feed himself the second half while I continue wiping. When that’s gone, he wants the next but his tight little belly has grown to a paunch. I hide the food and bring out another alcohol wipe and my canteen. The boy draws a long drink.
He looks happy to have his face clean. He’s relaxed and grinning, making little noises occupying himself while I use the remaining water to wet one of my other tee shirts and continue wiping him down.
He doesn’t fight anymore. Not even when I have to scrub the dried bits of grime from under his arms. Once most of the filth is gone, I use my last spare shirt to cover his nakedness.
“It’s bigger than you, but it’ll do,” I say, tugging on the soft cotton swallowing him.
Warm and full, Rocky closes his eyes. After he’s still, I tie off the end of the tee shirt so he can’t trip over it.
