Freaks and Revelations (9 page)

Stop.

I shake my head and push these thoughts away. I have beautiful eyes,
great eyes,
and this whole day to myself. Time to move forward.

When the stores open, I go into All American Boy and try on stonewashed Levi 501s and a white shirt. I smile at myself in the mirror and at the clerk who finds my size. He’s very cute. I use the rest of the ten for a Coke and two Snickers bars, then spend my usual Saturday, wandering. I tingle and I smile. I’m here—all of me together, just like with Jonathan Grant.

By seven, however, I’m starving and now, I have no money. What was I thinking, leaving that waitress two bucks? What do I do now? Can I use the same story? I check around to find someone who looks friendly, who might help—and spot clam chowder sitting all by itself on an outdoor table, in a round sourdough bread bowl. It’s almost full. No one’s paying attention, the people eating have obviously left— there’s a tip.

Should I grab the soup? A trickle of sweat runs down my left side. I reach over the bushes, pause a second to consider the spoon, then snatch that too. Hey—why not? I’m already going to hell.

I sit on a bench down the street, eat my soup, and watch the sun go down. The sunset is grand. Life is grand. I’m here in my village on a Saturday night, Paco Rabanne and tingles galore. I can stay up till I get sleepy, then crawl into my little nook. Things are already turning out fine.

Something wakes me in the night. Loud talking, and flashing red and blue lights. Did she find me? Am I busted? I hug one wall and peek into the street. A cop and a taxi driver are arguing; the taxi driver has an accent like Madame Nevonksi’s. A homeless guy sits on the curb nearby, cussing at something that’s not really there, moaning, holding his head. The taxi driver insists to the cop that he didn’t see the guy, didn’t mean knock him over the hood of his taxi. He’s mad because now it has a dent.

The faces of the people watching glow like my dad’s velvet paintings, which makes them seem not quite real. They talk about the man who sits babbling, laughing at him, even though blood oozes from his nose and one side of his face got mangled on the pavement. The cop makes the people leave, and helps the homeless guy, still cussing, into the back of the patrol car.

It’s hard to get back to sleep. I don’t feel quite as safe. I have to make myself think good things only—the way The Castro looks in early morning, the guys who gave me money. The laughter of couples. The freedom of being where it’s okay to be myself. My beautiful eyes.

{3}

“You told me the same story three days ago, little man.” The guy looked nice when I asked him, but not now. Now he’s pissed. He snatches my arm and pulls me close, leans down so he’s right in my face. “You want to hustle, do it on Polk. This is my street. I’ll call the cops.”

I yank away and run like hell. I hide in my nook for hours. I’m shaking; I can’t seem to stop. How stupid could I be? I told the same exact story in the same exact place every day this week. What if he does call the cops? I know about the electrical wires they hook you up to. My mom said.

How am I going to eat? I don’t dare ask anybody on Castro but I don’t feel safe anywhere else. I feel like I stand out now—my clothes are filthy, my underwear stinks, both pairs, my hair’s getting matted. I keep my eye out for food on tables, but my luck’s disappeared. I go the next two days without eating. Food is all I think about. I get dizzy when I stand up too fast; my stomach feels like it has knives inside. Then I stop being hungry. This, I know, is a bad sign. Should I go home? I can’t. Ask for help? I can’t do that either.

For the first time, I notice how people dump perfectly good food into trash cans—unfinished sandwiches, half-empty cans of soda. I could snatch something pretty easily, except what if someone sees me and calls the cops? I slip into the alley behind All American Boy. No one’s around so I check out the Dumpster. Busboys drop bags of stuff here all the time. I open the lid. The smell makes me gag, but at least I’m hidden. I climb up on a crate and peer down. A white plastic bag sits on top.

Holding my breath, I tear it open. Half a turkey sandwich appears in a goulash of other food; it’s wrapped up in paper and there’s only one bite taken. I bring it out with thumb and forefinger. The best I can, I brush off whatever’s sticking to it and pick away the part that’s bit into. I open my mouth, then close it. How can I eat someone else’s garbage? Then my stomach cramps and I double over with pain.

It takes me several minutes to talk myself into the first bite, but only thirty seconds to polish the whole thing off and go back in for more. I remember the scruffy black dog I saw when I first got here. I’d growl now too. That was the best sandwich I’ve ever eaten.

*   *   *

For almost a whole week now, not one word has come out of my mouth. It’s like at school, except I never go home and nobody fixes my dinner.

“Good morning, Jason, how are you today?” I say out loud, to see if I still know how. “Just fine, thank you very much,” I answer, making myself smile.

That evening, I follow a group of kids coming out of All American Boy. They’re around a lot, always looking like they’ve got someplace to go. Always laughing too, having a good time. I see them up in Dolores Park, sometimes with a bunch of other kids. Tonight, I trail them as they go over to Polk Street. Now I’ll see what that guy was talking about.

It’s clearly a “gay street,” but way different than Castro. There are kids on street corners. It’s loud, lots of traffic. A couple of boys get into a fistfight a little ways down, calling each other all kinds of “whore” and “bitch.” The other boys laugh at this too, then go their separate ways.

One of them climbs up on a bench. He can’t be any older than me. I notice there are other boys on other benches all around the street, maybe two to a block, in front of stores and bars. I’m wondering how this all works when, all of a sudden, the boy I followed jumps down and slips into a nearby alley. The other kids disappear too, so I duck into a drugstore and pretend to be looking at combs. A cop car cruises down the street.

How did they know?

When I venture back out, the kid’s already back and a silvery blue Pontiac has stopped in front of him. The driver leans over to talk. The hand he puts on the passenger door is fat and fleshy and pale; I can see his face only in silhouette. The boy climbs in the car. I follow them around the corner. The car parks and the boy’s head disappears. I’m not stupid; I know what he’s doing. That’s his business; I don’t really care. I wait anyway. I’m not sure why, maybe to see how he looks when he comes out.

*   *   *

I can’t get the nerve to tell my bus money story again. I doubt if it would work now, anyway. I look different—not fresh like when I got here three weeks ago. But I’ve learned a few things—like, you can’t keep underwear clean so it’s best not to wear any. Like, people drop change everywhere and you can find a least a couple dollars a day, if you really look. Like, there’s a sixth sense you get about how to take care of yourself. That laundry is cheapest down at Angel’s on Mission. Easy too, you put in everything but your pants, and pay attention. People mostly don’t use all their dry time—you can usually get minutes for free, if you’re quick.

I know it’s best to not to go the same gas station all the time to wash up; attendants get nosy. Going to the same Dumpster is good—you can keep track of what’s fresh. Oh, and the 24-hour donut shop gives out freebies to street kids if you come in after eleven o’clock. The guy who runs it is named Tony and he never calls the cops. Lots of kids hang out there. Mostly, they’re friendly.

My nook’s still good. I find a green striped blanket somebody tossed out and an old blue and white comforter that I sleep on. I stay way to the back and sometimes tuck my backpack into the very farthest corner, so I won’t have to carry it all day. I make sure not to let anyone see me slip in. Castro isn’t quite as grand as I once thought, but it’s okay. I’m not sorry I’m here. I love the city, especially Union Square. I sit there for hours and watch people.

I miss my dad, and Marianne. Sometimes Davy too. I know he thinks of me, misses me, wonders what I’m doing.

I see the kid from Polk Street a lot now. He’s got a buddy who’s older, like maybe seventeen, and another one around our age. I don’t think they sleep here. The older guy kind of reminds me of Paul. I like his face; it’s wise, like he knows a lot of stuff. Tonight he’s strolling by himself. It’s around two in the morning. I’m usually not out, but I couldn’t sleep. I expect he’ll walk on past, like usual, but he stops.

“Why you always watching me?” he asks.

“I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are. What’s your name?”

I almost lie. “Jason.”

“Just got here?”

“No.”

“Yeah you did.”

I start inching back.

“Don’t freak, Jason, I won’t hurt you. I’m Tommy.” He holds out his hand. “Pleased to meetcha.”

I take the hand he holds out to me, but don’t know what to say.

“Want some coffee?” he asks. I follow him to the donut shop. We slide in a booth with two other boys.

“Nick. Adam. Jason,” Tommy says, pointing at each of us. “Two coffees, Tony? And a jelly roll if you have it.”

Nick’s telling Adam about a date he had with a fat guy. They don’t pay much attention to me, but I sure do like the company, and the stories of what they do on the street.

“You work?” Adam asks, out of the blue. I blush, everybody’s staring at me.

“No.”

“Why not?” Adam wants to know. “You think you’re too good? You think you’re better than us?”

I shrug and mumble “no.”

“Leave him alone, Adam,” Tommy says.

“He’s staring,” Adam says. He reminds me of Davy.

Nick laughs. “You’re so paranoid.”

“Stop staring,” Adam says, pouting.

Knowing people helps. I start hanging out at the donut shop every once in awhile. I hear how Tommy’s from L.A. and got here three years ago. I learn stuff about surviving—about how you can stay under benches in Golden Gate Park when it rains. The avenue side. Or if you have change, you get on the green bus. You mind your business and curl up in the corner in the very back. If nobody complains, they usually let you ride all night. Sometimes I go for days without thinking about my family.

{4}

“Waiting for someone?”

I’m startled. I’ve just snatched a piece of pizza left on a plate in front of the café. I stop, mid-bite. I didn’t see the guy coming. “Excuse me?”

“I wonder if I might treat you to dinner? If you’re not otherwise occupied.”

“Sorry. I’m not a working boy.”

He smiles, glances at the pizza in my hand. “I thought perhaps you were hungry.”

His name is Nigel. We walk to a Chinese restaurant down the street. Inside is painted red and gold, with a huge dragon that takes up one whole wall. Its eyes follow me. I think of Jesus. Nigel gets a booth at the back. He orders tons of stuff I don’t recognize and then tries to show me how to do chopsticks. I almost get it, but then drop my moo goo whatever on the tablecloth. He laughs and gets me a fork. I try everything he orders.

“Dessert at my place?” Nigel says just after the waiter sets down the fortune cookies. “I’m just around the corner.”

I’ve heard all about sugar daddies from Nick and Adam. How they’re usually older. How they give you a place to sleep and take good care of you, and all you have to do is be nice. Is this it? Have I met mine?

Nigel lives in a light blue apartment building just off Castro, a converted Victorian I’ve walked past a billion times. He unlocks the iron gate and we go through a tiny garden of miniature trees, with a small statue of a boy peeing into a pond. I giggle and Nigel smiles. He leads me up a spiral staircase and into his apartment. It’s like nothing I’ve seen before. It’s perfect. The colors, the shape of the furniture, the stuff hanging on the walls—all of it fits.

“Do make yourself at home,” Nigel says. “I’ll be out in a jiffy.” I hear him turn on the shower.

I sit on the sofa, bounce on the cushy loveseat. Two tall bar stools whirl all the way around, I spin a couple of times on each of them. I can’t stop smiling. I wander into the kitchen, which is arranged exactly how I would want mine, if I had one. I peek into the bedroom—the bed looks fluffy and has tons of pillows.

Nigel comes out in a pair of lounge pants and a dressing jacket. His hair’s wet, combed back, and he smells delicious. He looks younger. He asks if I’d like to smoke some weed, which seems so weird I start to giggle again. He smiles.

“Haven’t you ever been high?”

“Yeah, sure, lots of times, with my brother,” I say, thinking of Paul, and how Davy and I sneaked it with him sometimes at the old house. “It just seems strange that you do it.”

“How old are you, Jason?” he asks, as he brings out a water pipe that looks like it came from Ali Baba and his forty thieves.

“Almost seventeen,” I lie, and shrug. “Just small.”

After we smoke and nibble some amazing chocolate truffle cookies, Nigel runs me a bath with bubbles. The bathroom’s all silver and white. He sits on a stool beside me and we talk as I wash up. Or he talks, mostly about his friend Jean Louis who’s gone back to France to visit his mother. How much he misses him. How lonely he gets when he’s gone. He washes my back. We have another dessert—green tea ice cream and some dark chocolate thing that melts in my mouth. Then we crawl in his supersoft king-size bed.

I wake before he does and wonder exactly how he’ll ask me. “Jason, I simply must have you stay!” or “Dear boy, would you consider living here?” I run through the choices, smiling the whole time. I’ll do it. I will. I like him. I like the apartment, it feels safe. When he goes to work, I’ll stay in and tidy up, maybe learn how to cook. He won’t miss Jean Louis so much. Maybe he won’t miss him at all. Maybe Jean Louis will have to find another place to live.

The alarm goes off. He opens his eyes.

“Hello,” I say, smiling. I’m sitting cross-legged down at the end of the bed. It takes him a minute to speak.

“Jason,” he says, obviously surprised that I’m here. “Good morning.” He sits up and sighs, pats my arm. “I’m sorry, sweetie, I’m afraid I have to go to work.”