“Hi. I’m looking for work.” I start talking before she’s even acknowledged me or said hello.
She doesn’t even bother to look up from the computer screen. She’s wearing glasses, so I can see in the reflection that she’s playing solitaire. “Piss off, kid.”
“I need a job, ma’am. I work hard, I know engines—”
“We’re not hiring. Unless you got a car that needs fixing, go away.”
I leave and keep walking, but I have no clue where I am or where I’m going. Lost. Tired. Sore feet. Hungry. Scared. And then I have an idea: I’ll find a phone book with Yellow Pages, and start looking up all the garages and repair shops in the area.
I duck into the next doorway I see—it’s a Chinese restaurant. I ask to use their phone book and the little old Asian guy tosses it to me without a word. I take it and sit down at an empty booth. I take a deep breath and summon all my attention, then I flip open the four-inch-thick book.
Fuck. Tiny-ass words. How the hell are you supposed to read this shit? Jesus. I turn to the Yellow Pages but it takes for-fucking-ever to find the auto repair section, and even longer to copy the addresses down on the scrap of paper I asked for. My handwriting looks like a five-year-old’s. Childish scribbles and scrawls.
All told, it takes me over half an hour to find and copy out five addresses and phone numbers.
I ignore my exhaustion and hunger, mainly because I don’t really have a choice. After leaving the restaurant, I stop at a little kiosk on the sidewalk that sells magazines and cigarettes and such and ask for a map. The young Hispanic guy behind the counter says he doesn’t sell maps but tells me to try a hotel, which sometimes have tourist maps. So I go in search of a hotel and finally find one. The map they give me is basically a cartoon, but it provides me with a basic understanding of the layout of the island of Manhattan, I realize; it’s probably better for my illiterate ass than a real map, to be honest. Maybe I should venture out of Manhattan and try to look for work in another area—maybe Brooklyn or the Bronx.
Tomorrow, I decide. That’s a long-ass walk, I’m guessing.
In the meantime I manage to find the five auto repair shops on my list. They are scattered across the city, dozens of blocks apart. I spend hours and hours just walking, but not one person will even give me the time of day.
Not hiring, kid.
Sorry, we got all the help we need.
Piss off, kid.
Come back in a couple years.
Go away, kid.
It’s late evening by the time I decide I have to sit down before I pass out. And that’s when I start to wonder where I’m going to sleep tonight.
Central Park, maybe? It’s big, so there’s got to be somewhere I can catch a couple hours of sleep.
Of course, when I finally decide to try it, I’m a half-hour walk away. By the time I get there I hurt all over, and then I have to hunt through the park for somewhere to crash. There are people everywhere, even at this time of the night, walking, running, biking, rollerblading, in couples and alone and with dogs. I see a cop on foot, friendly looking, thumbs hooked into his gear belt. Smiling at people, waving, just strolling through the park.
Okay, correction, Central Park is fucking mammoth. I’ve been walking these damn paths for what must be an hour, and I’m totally lost. There are a lot of paths and a lot of open space.
Dark is coming on fast. There are fewer and fewer people around and eventually I feel like the only person around. Then a few more late-night types emerge—a guy on a bike passes me, wearing a helmet with a light attached, a runner with a headlamp, a couple walking a huge dog, each carrying flashlights.
Finally, after much searching I find a bench located in a shadowy alcove, under a canopy of trees. Before me I can see the tops of the towering buildings—tiny squares of light peeking up over the tree line in the distance.
I toss my backpack on one end of the bench, lay my head on it, curl up and try to get comfortable.
Fuck, it feels good to lie down. My feet ache. My stomach growls—I haven’t had a proper meal in two days.
I miss home: a real bed, real food, shit, I even miss Kyle, just a little.
This is the last thought I have before sleep takes me away from my aches and pains and the deep loneliness I feel.
* * *
Whack. “Yo, wake up, man. Can’t sleep here.” Whack.
Each whack is accompanied by a sharp, painful smack of a hand to my shoulder. I roll, sit up, and I’m blinded by a flashlight, a body behind it, a cop. Blackness behind him, silhouetting the angles of his cap.
I shield my face against the blinding flashlight. “All right, all right. Can you get that out of my face?”
He lowers the flashlight and shines it at my chest, the bench, my hands. Checking for weapons, maybe. His hand isn’t quite on the butt of his gun, but near it. Ready to palm it and blast me, probably. Or maybe not.
“Up.” His voice is deep, and judging solely by the sound of his voice, I’m guessing he’s black. “Get a move on, man. Outta the park.”
“I don’t know the way out of the park,” I say.
He shines the beam of light to his left, illuminating a cross-path in the distance. “Take that, it’ll lead you out.”
“Okay, thanks.” I shoulder my bag as I stand up. I stretch and work the kinks out of my back.
“Must be new here if you’re tryna sleep on a bench in the park.” He’s making small talk, waiting for me to get moving.
“Yes sir. Just got here yesterday. Today, whatever.”
“Nowhere to go?”
I head toward the path he indicated. “No sir. On my own.” I may be a teenager, but I was raised by upper-class parents, and they taught me to show respect for cops. Saying “sir” is ingrained.
“Between you and me, kid, you ain’t gonna catch any sleep on a bench. Find an alley, or under a bridge somewheres. Watch your back, but you gotta better chance that way.”
“Thanks, Officer.”
He watches me as I turn onto the path, and then I see his light flick off, and he keeps walking. Humming a song, a tune I recognize from the radio.
The city streets are better lit than the park, but it’s not the rural night landscape I’m used to. No stars, no silence, no crickets. I used to sit out on the dock back home, late at night, listen to crickets and owls and the waves, and stare up at a sky full of stars. Now I’m in the big city, and the only sounds are cars and horns and ambient urban blare.
I have no choice but to walk and walk and walk.
Again, I’m not sure where I’m headed. I’m just walking to stay awake. Walking to be doing something.
Several hours later the sky turns from black to gray and begins to lighten, and I’m still walking. Trudging like a zombie. I crossed a long-ass bridge at some point. Water way below, girders above, semis and taxis roaring past. I’m not in Manhattan anymore, but I’m not sure where I am. The buildings are smaller—there are no highrises here. I notice more graffiti on the walls. Fewer taxis. Security bars on the windows, not as many lights, more trash in the gutters.
Barely past dawn, I see a tall, thin black guy wearing mechanic’s coveralls cross the street ahead of me, carrying a lunchbox. He’s got big bright purple headphones on his ears, the cord trailing down into the open front of his coveralls. He has a bit of a limp, and I can see that his eyes are scanning his surroundings, his head constantly swiveling. He sees me approaching him and halts, tenses.
He tugs the headphones down around his neck.
“What’chu want, man?”
“You’re a mechanic?”
“Yeah, why?” He’s still tensed, hands in his pocket. Probably fingering a weapon.
I keep my hands on the straps of my backpack so they are visible. “I’m looking for work. I know cars, I know engines. I’ll do anything.”
He backs up. “Can’t help you. Sorry, man. I just got work myself. Change the oil and shit. They just hired me, probably won’t hire nobody else.”
“Fuck.” I back up, lift my chin at him. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, man.” He watches me over his shoulder as he walks away.
I keep walking. The gray dawn turns to day, and I’m miles and miles from where I started—that bench in Central Park. Early morning quickly turns to noon, and in that time I’ve changed directions, asked for work at three more garages. It’s all I know, and it’s all the talent I have to offer. I don’t think much of my chances of applying for anything else. Applications mean writing. Mean reading. Answering questions. Name a time you provided excellent customer service. I remember that from the application I had to fill out for Mr. Boyd. He made me fill it out, I don’t know why. So I’d know how, I guess.
I spend the day walking. The entire fucking day. It ain’t like the neighborhoods are labeled or anything, so I’ve got no clue where I am. I’m in a worn-down area, not quite a ghetto but, being white, I stand out for sure, especially in broad daylight.
Near sundown, I see a guy struggling to get a couch onto a moving van by himself. How he got it this far, I don’t know. It’s a big-ass leather couch, and it looks heavy as hell.
“Hey man, need help?” I ask, approaching him.
He sets the end down, wipes sweat off his forehead. “Sure.” He hops up into the moving van. “Grab the end, lift it up.”
I help him get the couch into the moving van and positioned against the wall.
He hops down. “Thanks.”
I follow him and we lean back against the truck. “No problem,” I say.
He eyes me. He’s Hispanic, short and thick, with a sleeveless shirt revealing tats from shoulder to knuckles. “I got some other shit to bring down. My boy was supposed to help me, but he bailed on me. I’ll toss you a ten-spot if you help me with the rest.”
“Fuck, man, I’ll help you for some food. I ain’t eaten in a few days.”
He digs into the hip pocket of his baggy shorts, the hem of which hangs to mid-shin. “Sucks.” He pulls out a pack of cigarettes. “Smoke?”
I take one, and he lights mine and then his own with a plain silver Zippo lighter. We smoke in silence, and then he tosses his butt out into the road and indicates for me to follow him. His apartment is two floors up, and he’s got his shit packed in boxes, all piled in his living room, a stack of framed posters near the door, a recliner to match the couch, a big TV wrapped up in a comforter.
I spend an hour helping him get his stuff onto the truck. When the apartment is empty, he digs in his pocket and hands me the rest of his cigarettes, his Zippo, and a ten-dollar bill.
“I’m about to do a nickel at the pen, so I got no food to give you. Puttin’ all my shit in storage.”
I extend the Zippo back toward him. “You wanna keep your lighter?”
He shrugs. “It’ll just get taken when I turn myself in.” He holds up his hand, and I clap palms with him, lean in, bump shoulders. The thug-hug, I think of it. “There’s a bridge a few blocks north. Good spot to crash.”
“Thanks.”
He climbs up into the moving truck, rolls the window down, and rests his arm on the door frame, ink covering his forearms and knuckles. He drives off. I never even got his name.
He leans out of the window, about twenty feet away. “Yo, man! Check the bottom of the pack!” Then he turns the corner, and he’s gone.
I bring out the pack, nudge aside the last few cigarettes, and see that he’s stashed a nugget of pot at the bottom. Enough to tip a couple smokes. Score.
I head north and see the bridge he mentioned. It’s just a little overpass; two lanes with a gap between them letting down a ribbon of light. Steeply angled concrete walls rise from the road underneath to meet the bridge overhead, leaving a low, narrow ridge at the top where the two structures meet. Tags mark the concrete, overlapping black and red paint in dramatic swirls and lines and arcs, indecipherable unless you know what you’re looking at. Glancing around for traffic and onlookers, I find things empty for the moment. I climb up the concrete wall and, at the top, the bridge is so close and low that I can’t stand up straight.
There’s a pile of newspapers in the middle of the ledge; most are ripped and torn and stained, obviously having been there a while. Good enough. I lie down on them, put my head on my backpack, and tuck my hands into my armpits. Curl up.
Dark. Cool. Not quite cold, but enough to make me sit up, dig in my backpack for a hoodie. I tug the hood over my head and lie back down.
Concrete, even cushioned by newspapers, isn’t comfortable.
I manage to sleep, though.
For a while.
I’m woken by a vicious kick to my back, knocking the wind out of me. “My spot!” A shout, guttural, enraged. “Get outta my spot!”
Another kick, but I’m already moving, rolling, knees up to protect my stomach and nuts. Take the kick to my shins, make out the face of an old, grizzled white man with a long dirty gray beard. My shins scream from the kick, but I’m up, on my feet, backpedaling.
The old bum lunges at me. “My spot, motherfucker! Stay out of my spot!”
I’m dazed with sleep, breathless from the kick to my back, dizzy and faint with hunger.
Rage suffuses me. “Fuck you, old man! I found it. I’m sleeping there.”
We crash into each other. He’s skinny and wiry, but strong. Hard. Knees and elbows and fists crack into me, ramming into my gut over and over and over. I tense my muscles and take it, shove him back, lash out. Normally, this old man would be down in seconds, but I’m literally faint with hunger. Three days, maybe more since I’ve had something decent to eat. No sleep but for a few winks here and there, all of it interrupted. Hours of walking. I’m not at the top of my game.
But I’m desperate. I need to sleep.
So I fight hard. It’s messy, man. He’s a tough old fuck, takes the body blows and gives ’em back just as hard. He smashes my nose with his forehead, and I’m bleeding. I manage to get a knee up and shove it into his groin, a dirty move, but shit, this is about winning. It’s about survival. I’m not sure he won’t kill me if I lose. I can’t lose. Don’t dare lose.
Red stains my vision, and my eye hurts. My eyebrow is split open. I blink the blood away and see that the old dickhead is slowing down, hobbling. I remember vaguely nailing him in the thigh, a move I learned the hard way: if you get nailed hard enough in the right spot in your thigh, it’ll fuckin’ cripple your ass. Now I rush him, both fists swinging in hard sloppy haymakers, one crushes into his cheekbone, the other his ribs. I feel something crack.
He coughs, stumbles, trips, and slides down the concrete. He comes to rest against the pillars separating the road from the embankment.
I watch. He moans, stirs, but doesn’t get up.
Shit, that could be me down there.
I watch for another minute, and eventually he gets up, slowly. Stares up at me. Throws me the finger, but hobbles away, vanishing into the shadows.
I lurch back to my spot. My hard-won spot. I lie down again. The world spins worse than being drunk. Everything hurts.
I’m fading fast, but something keeps me awake. I hear a footstep.
Goddamn it. I just want to sleep.
“Hell of a fight, man.” The voice is deep and slow, a ways off.
I sit up. Peer blearily into the shadows. “Yeah.”
“Ol’ Bruce has been in that spot for years. Seen him wreck some folks to keep ’em off.” Flame spurts, an orange glow appears. Smoke wreathes upward; the glowing cherry illuminates a round, black face, white teeth.
“I just needed somewhere to sleep. He kicked me while I was laying here.”
“I ain’t said nothin’. Bruce is a miserable old fucker. Hates everybody.” The glow brightens, tobacco crackles.
I light my own smoke, stay where I am. Fought for this spot, not giving it up easily. I feel an urge to defend myself, to fill the silence. But I don’t.
Eventually the other guy tosses his cigarette away and I sense he is considering something. “Wanna
make a hundred bucks right quick?”
“Doing what?” I ask.
“I’ll show you.”
I know better. I’m cursing myself for an idiot even as I stand up and follow the guy. I’m gonna get shot. Rolled. Something. I mean, this is really stupid.
But it’s a hundred bucks. With a hundred bucks I could get a motel room and sleep in a bed.
Not much I won’t do for a hundred bucks, at this point.
So I shoulder my bag and follow the guy, leaving the spot I just fought somebody for. He leads me out from under the bridge, and an orange streetlight reveals him to be a black guy about five years older than me, wearing baggy black jeans, Timberland boots, a black T-shirt, black Yankees ball cap turned on an angle, tilted, over a stretchy headband. He walks with a confident swagger. Doesn’t look back to see if I’m following—he knows I am. He’s muscular, heavy-set, but deceptively light on his feet. And as I’m following him, I notice the way the back of his T-shirt hangs over his jeans, revealing the handle of a pistol in his waistband.
What am I getting myself into?
Shit.
He leads me off the main road and down an alley. Shit, shit, shit. I’m for sure about to get killed. I slow down, putting space between me and the other guy.
He notices. “Hey, man. Keep up. I ain’t gonna do nothin’.”
“Like you would tell me if you were?”
He laughs. “Got that right.” He gestures at an old Buick. “Get in. We goin’ for a drive.”
I slide into the passenger seat. The car smells like old car, cigarettes, pot, something harder, crack maybe. He starts the car, and the engine turns over immediately. He revs the engine, and it responds with the deep bass snarl of an engine definitely not original to the Buick.
“What you got under the hood?” I ask.
He glances at me, shrugs. “350. I had my boy hook me up.”
Meaning, he don’t know much about the engine but what his friend told him. There are all kinds of “350” engine blocks, varying by year, original manufacturer, bore, stroke, a whole bunch of shit. Saying it’s a 350 is like saying it’s a V-8—a little vague.
Falling for Colton (Falling #5) Page 5
