Trapped with a Way Out

by Jeffery Martinez

  Vincent was quiet. "Your family's not going to appreciate this."

  "It's just me, my mom, and my sister when she comes back on the weekends from college. If you find any clothes or stuff in here, it's hers. She stuffs her clothes into garbage bags to bring them home to wash them in our washing machine." Rodriguez paused and looked at Vincent's clothes before returning his eyes to the road. "We can wash your clothes too…since they got all wet in the rain." He added the last part when Vincent growled. Then the boys were quiet until they pulled up to a gate that opened for them, revealing a long, winding drive way, surrounded by trees. Vincent looked around in awe, then peeked at Rodriguez.

  "You really are rich."

  "Not really."

  "Damn fat rich-boy."

  "I'm not fat."

  Vincent returned to watching the passing trees. "Where's your dad?"

  "He's on a business trip…be back in a few weeks."

  "I won't scare your mom?"

  "No. My mom's pretty nice to everyone…but she's a bit strict. That's why you'll have to shower and borrow some clothes before she comes home."

  "She works too?"

  "Yeah, though we don't need the money. She just likes her job."

  They pulled into the garaged, passing a fountain that sat on an island before the front door. The two entered the house through a door in the garage and Rodriguez immediately shoed Vincent upstairs to use one of the showers, showing him where the towels were. While the boy was enjoying the warm water, Rodriguez slipped into the bathroom and put some jeans and a clean shirt on the counter by the white, marble sink and then ducked out of the room and headed for the kitchen to heat up some Campbell's Chunky soup. He grimaced after pouring the container into a larger bowl and covering it in the microwave. Vincent was going to enjoy calling him a fat football player after this. The Campbell's Chunky commercial had damned his soul. He groaned but set to making his own bowl of soup, having wasted his lunch searching for Vincent.

  Meanwhile, Vincent was smelling the bottles of shampoo and conditioner, choosing to use the ones that had the best scent. It had been ages since he'd taken a real shower, resorting to washing his hair in the sink with a bar of soap. This was paradise for his grimy skin, so a smile played at his lips without his permission. He thought of the piano and looked down at his swollen hand, losing his smile. He turned off the water and opened the curtain, grabbing the green towel from the towel rack and drying himself off. After scowling at how big the clothes were, rolling up the jeans a few times to make them fit, he glanced at the mirror and paused. He touched his wet hair thoughtfully, amazed at how sleek and smooth it was…he could run his fingers all the way through it. He shook his head and hung up his towel before opening the door.

  Vincent entered the kitchen and smiled smugly when he saw Rodriguez sitting with a spoon in his mouth, looking at him in surprise. He swallowed and asked the boy how he had found the kitchen.

  "I have a nose."

  "Oh." Rodriguez put the spoon in his soup and gestured towards Vincent's share.

  "Why are you eating?"

  "Because my lunch was spent on finding you…and I had to wait in line to buy your food."

  "Why didn't you buy your own food when you bought the sandwich?" Vincent sat down and spooned some soup into his mouth while Rodriguez ate his with a frown. "Where're my clothes, kidnapper?"

  "Oh!" Rodriguez's eyes flew wide and he put his spoon down to fix his glasses which had slipped. "I forgot to put them in the wash, I'll be right back."

  The dark haired teen smirked to himself when the other dashed out of the room, beginning to eat his soup again. Suddenly someone grabbed the back of his head and he choked on the soup as his face crashed into the granite counter, barely missing his bowl of soup. A hand grabbed his bandages. Red eyes flew opened and a broken cry alerted Rodriguez who ran from the laundry room back to the kitchen and watched in horror as his mother cuffed Vincent's wrists together while the teen coughed and struggled to breath.

  "Oh shut up." The woman hit Vincent on the back, clearing his throat. Swallowing, the boy coughed again and took a shaky breath, panting as his head moved, trying to see who had attacked him, instead he found Rodriguez in the doorway.

  "Mom! What are you doing?"

  "Mom?" Vincent spat out the spoon and waited for the woman to release him, cringing as his hand throbbed. "That was dangerous, I had a spoon in my mouth and I almost choked…"

  The hand let go of him and he was able to sit up and face the woman. His mouth formed an 'o' as his eyes filled with dread. "Rodriguez…you didn't tell me you mom was the chief of police…the Richard Rodriguez."

  "I…didn't think…it'd matter." Rodriguez said quietly, still in shock. Vincent moved his arms and frowned at how uncomfortable the cuffs were. Richard looked at her son in surprise at the familiarity the two had with one another.

  "You know this delinquent?" She frowned when Rodriguez nodded. "Why is he in our house?"

  "I was giving him something to eat and…" Rodriguez began, but Vincent cut him off.

  "He kidnapped me because I wouldn't tell him where I lived. Making me eat soup was part of his plan for torturing me. I haven't done anything illegal, so…can I go now?"

  "No." Richard moved around the stool Vincent was perched on, her eyes full of hate. Vincent accepted the look without batting an eye. "What is your real name? First? Max? Those are fakes, right?"

  Rodriguez edged into the room and he surprised his mother by standing next to the black haired boy. "His name is Vincent, but why are you interrogating him? He hasn't done anything…"

  "He's the crazy one I told you about," Richard suddenly stepped towards them and she forced her hand in front of her son's face, showing the large crescent, dotted scar. "He's the one who bit me."

  Rodriguez's eyes widened and he turned around to look at Vincent who was shaking his head, his hair hanging before his face. "That was four years ago…I was thirteen years old! You're a freakin' scary old bitch to a thirteen year old kid. You cornered me and I fought back."

  "Don't call my mother a bitch!" Rodriguez cut in defensively, and his mother scowled as well, bringing her hand to her side.

  "You still bit me."

  "Do you want me to apologize?"

  Taken aback, the woman stammered something and then glared at her son as if he were the one who had scared her for life. "Why did you bring him here? He's a criminal."

  "I…I…" Rodriguez backed into the counter, not knowing how to answer. "Because of me…his hand…the picture and the piano…"

  "Rodriguez!" Vincent glared at the boy who jumped, but Richard stopped him from continuing.

  "What? Say something that makes sense!"

  "I was going to drive him home because it was raining so hard and he didn't have an umbrella! But he wouldn't tell me where he lived so I told him I was going to take him here and make him clean himself up and eat some food. He hasn't done anything. Because of me his hand was…"

  "Rodriguez! Shut up!" the room lost its volume and blue and green eyes focused on the handcuffed teen who wobbled on his stool once. "Let me go home, alright? I'll walk. I don't mind rain."

  "No." Richard grabbed the boy's shoulder, undeterred by how boney it was. "You're going to tell me where you live, the names of your parents, your name, and then I'm going to drive you home and have a good long talk with your parents or guardians." Blue stared into the red. "Now, speak."

  "How about you drive me home and we can talk in the car…you can keep me handcuffed…but I want my clothes back….they're mine."

  Richard blinked and removed her hand from the boy, stepping away. She jerked at the familiar shirt and jeans and shot a reproachful look to her son. "Fine."

  "But I was going to put them in the wash…" Rodriguez argued.

  "No. You'll bring the clothes now so he can change, then we'll go."

  "But…"

  "Do as I say, Leroy!"

  Richard ordered Rodriguez make sure Vincent di
dn't escape, so he was in the room as the boy changed back into his own grubby clothes. His caved stomach sent chills down Rodriguez's spine and he had to look away as Vincent finished.

  He walked with Vincent to the car, watched as his mother cuffed the teen and helped him into the back of her police vehicle, and then waved at the pale face that gazed at him as the car drove away, painfully reminded that Vincent's injured hand was being crushed against the seat.

  Vincent was quiet as no questions were asked until they left the gate and hit the public roads.

  "Where do you live?"

  "Downtown." Richard turned into a separate road.

  "What's your name?"

  "Vincentimir Max Ramos."

  "Not First?" She put in spitefully. Vincent merely shook his head and looked out the window. It was still raining.

  "What are your parents' names?"

  "My father's was Vincent. My mother's was Sierra."

  Richard's mouth twitched and she looked at her mirror to see the boy sitting in the back seat. She noticed the smudges on his sweatshirt and the hungry look in his eyes. "Was?"

  "They died when I was ten."

  "Who do you live with now?" Richard sighed, closing her eyes for a moment. She opened them and looked at the empty road before them.

  "My uncle."

  "What's his name?"

  "Walter."

  "I'll have to talk to him when we…"

  "You can't." Vincent cut in.

  "Why?" Richard's eyes went to the mirror again.

  "He's in the hospital at the moment. He had a stroke, but he's stable…."

  Richard continued in a softer voice. "Then I'll have to visit him there."

  "I said he was stable…but you still can't talk to him. He has been in a comma for almost a year now."

  "And so you've been allowed to run rampant?" The woman scoffed at the circumstances and moved her scared hand.

  Vincent didn't answer and neither spoke until Richard needed more directions. Vincent told her when to turn and anything else she needed. They arrived at their destination thirty minutes after leaving the house. Richard's eyes glazed over as she looked at the run down and barely habitable apartment complex, flinching as a drunk stumbled and fell off the curb, hitting the concrete on the street, hard. Vincent noticed where her attention was and he smirked.

  "Ignore him, he's like a cockroach. If they dropped an atom bomb on this town, he'd be the only survivor. Can you uncuff me now?"

  "Is that a whore on that corner?" Richard stared at the scantily dressed individual and looked doubtfully at the boy behind her. His face was lined with disgust.

  "That's a man."

  Richard's eyes went wide and she stiffly turned to look at the mini skirt again. "Good Lord."

  "He's still a whore though. They like to trick people…it's pretty funny when you hear the guys scream when they find out."

  Richard felt bile rise in the back of her throat as the boy chuckled, and she undid her seatbelt and got out of the car and let Vincent out. He rubbed his wrists, wincing as he grazed his injured hand, and started to walk away.

  Richard stared after him emptily, moving her scared hand as she tried to recall her hatred for the boy, but found that she couldn't as all of the humans in the area saw her car and slowly slunk away in the shadows.

  "He really lives in Hell, doesn't he?" She shuddered and got back into her car.

  Vincent reached his door, pondering what had happened that day, wondering why the woman hadn't doubted his story and then how he was going to pay rent and his uncle's medical expenses with his busted hand.

  At least it had stopped raining.

  Simple was not an accurate way to describe the boy's home, for its state was created by many complicated things. No. Vincent's home was sad, for it was not a home. It was merely a place where he could sleep, where the rain would beat on the roof instead of on his head. It was dry, warmed by the small electric heater he plugged in every night when he was about to fall asleep, but it uncomfortable and hostile to any human tenant. It was empty, in one sense. In another, it was crammed with dusting towers of relatively organized, at least stabilized, things that were owned by the teen's uncle. A small cupboard was forced between a pillar of books, intermittently decorated with a box set in place by several trinkets and other objects that broke the steady pattern of dulled bindings; and the cheap wall paper that covered the wall, so worn away that its stripes and flowers print had become a smear of smoky grey and baby blue. On top of the white painted plywood that constructed the basic rectangular shape of the cupboard, was a hot plate that sat on a section of a broken plastic cutting board, used to guard the wood against the heat the hot plate emitted when it was used to boil water for oatmeal or ramen, a can of soup, beans, or anything else that came to fill the humble cabinet. The saucepan used for all of this cooking was washed in the deep sink protruding like a beige pimple from the wallpaper. Clothes were also washed there, sometimes with free sample packets of Tide detergent or the dish (or regular) soap that had been bought in bulk. 'Laundry' days were nights when the boy found that he had enough stamina left to complete such a task without making a soaping mess. Two off-white dish towels hung from a white ring on the wall, its paint chipped badly and its hinge rusted stiff. Across the square of limited walking space, reaching the far wall in the 'home', was a thick mat large enough for a young child to lay flat on, with a larger navy-blue comforter spilling over its sides. A pillow was set atop this shrine of comfort, clothed with a regular, blue pillow case. The single window that revealed the open, widely spaced world of the walkway on the second level of the building he was living in, was covered by a curtain.

  The roof shielded the cluttered pack-rat dwelling that had come to be called Vincent's home, from the sheets of rain that continued to fall well into the morning when the teenager uncurled on his two inches of cushioning-mat he slept on, and pushed away the mountain of comforter that was piled on top of him. As to keep to his morning ritual, Vincent got up, stretched his arms over his head as he went to switch on the hot plate, and paused to listen to the first few tinks that came from the hot plate. They always reminded him of the primeval sound of flint stones striking together to spark a fire. The boy then returned to his 'bed' and pulled the pillow from the depths of the warm comforter, pushed the billowing fabric down to minimize the amount of space it used up, and then set the pillow on top of the mound, turning back to the hot plate, refusing to listen to the comforter expand with air and greedily eat up the scanty amount of space left in the room. The plate was reddening, slowly, adopting a rosy blush on the edges of the dark, heating rings. Red eyes glanced over them, checking to make sure that nothing flammable was too close, and then moved on to the cupboard that creaked a little when it was opened. Vincent crouched down, cracking his knees as he ran his hand over the thick shelves. He pulled out the canister of oats and peered through the cloudy white lid to see the skimpy meal that barely covered the metal bottom of the container. Feeling that he too hungry to settle for this, Vincent decided to pull out a cup of ramen instead, and he set it on one of the towers of books.

  Soon the sauce pan was filled with enough boiling water to cook the noodles. Vincent leaned against the window, staring down at the styrofoam cup as he waited for the noodles to expand. When they were done, he drank the hot broth, as if it was coffee, and then ate the noodles with the bits of peas, carrots, and corn in the bottom of the cup. After finishing his breakfast, Vincent pulled back some of the curtain to see how hard the rain was falling. The cascading water prompted him to leave his backpack behind. He figured that there was no need to ruin the expensive textbooks. It was better to leave them and go to school 'unprepared' than to take them and have to pay for the consequences later.

  And so, Vincent pulled up the black hood of his sweatshirt and left his 'home' to begin his walk to school.

  One would wonder if Vincent had always lived like this. No. The teen had been living in a comfortable apartment wit
h three meals a day only a year or so ago. It was when his uncle had suffered a stroke and fallen into a comma, that his life changed. His uncle had some money, they were not exactly poor. But after seeing the bills for keeping the man alive in the hospital, Vincent had decided to never touch his uncle's money again…to support himself with money he earned on his own. The money in the bank would only be used for his uncle's expenses, even life insurance for Vincent was cut out, leaving only his uncle's that needed to be paid for.

  When Vincent was evicted from his uncle's apartment, he had taken the man's favored possessions and had pawned off what was left, putting the money in his uncle's bank account while he adapted to his current living conditions. One to two meals a day, working odd jobs for a pitiful amount of money, always ripped off by those who could tell how desperate he was because of his grungy appearance, unable to complain because they would just report him and he didn't like dealing with cops, getting buried when the pillars of stuff in his room toppled over because of a few low flying jets or because he accidentally bumped into them…his life was different now. But he had grown used to it.

  Sierra and Vincent Ramos had loved each other. Sierra Ramos had loved her son. Vincent Ramos, on the other hand, had found the boy to be a disappointment. Vincent had been an accountant, good with numbers, but largely undervalued by his employers. Bitterness from this bred discontent in the man, and he expelled the feeling by taking it out on his son. Math books, addition, subtraction, multiplication, division, and beginner's geometry; they filled the boy's shelves, marked with red dashes on every page, showing the boy's incompetence. The differences between the two made them into strangers, never allowing them to develop a close bond.

  Sierra had been a musician and a singer. She taught the boy how to play the piano from the tender age of three. And here, the boy blossomed and a closeness was able to grow and knit the mother and child together. Then the lessons stopped. Sierra had died along with her husband in a late night car accident. The young Vincent, ten years old at the time, had been at home, asleep as a watchful babysitter sat in the corner of his room, reading a book with a desk lamp on.