Less Than Nothing (7 page)

“No question I am. The only open issue is how dangerous,” he says, his smile not as reassuring as earlier. Then his face cracks and warmth moves to his eyes. “Don’t sweat it. You don’t have anything to worry about. I’m a teddy bear with my partners.”

I’m about to say something when he cuts me off.

“Bus is here.”

When we get off the bus at 17
^th
Street and Mission, the neighborhood is scary, even by my standards, which are pretty low. San Francisco has a number of areas you don’t want to go to, the top of the list being the Tenderloin even during the day, followed by Hunter’s Point north of the ballpark, and then South of Market at night. The Mission district isn’t terrible during the day, but once the sun drops into the ocean, the whole character of the place changes, and not for the better.

I look at Derek as a bum shuffles down the sidewalk toward us, muttering to himself. The stink of urine is strong. Even though I’m homeless, I make a big distinction between being a street musician and a vagrant. One tries to earn a living with a skill, the other’s a beggar. It’s probably a difference that’s lost on many, but to me, it’s a big one.

“Are you sure about this?” I ask.

“We might have gotten off at the wrong stop,” he says, eyeing the shambling bum. We push past him as he calls out for some spare change, but we ignore him and keep moving, picking up our pace as we do. Derek looks down at me, and I see the faint smile, and even though I know he’s not bulletproof and invisible, I feel safer. If he’s not worried, I’m not.

We turn a corner and a faded red neon sign flickers at us in the dark.

“Tony Soprano’s?” I ask. “For real?”

“It’s got the best lasagna I ever had.”

“It looks like an armpit.”

“The salad rocks, too. Best of all, it’s cheaper than dirt.”

I eye it skeptically. “No extra charge for the cockroaches.”

“They add a nutty flavor. You’ll like it.”

“I thought they tasted like chicken.”

“Nutty chicken. Crunchy, when done right.”

“Gross.”

“You can always send them back if they’re undercooked.”

We shoulder our way through the weathered double doors. Inside, it smells like garlic and oregano. A small man with a weasel face approaches with a frown, which softens when he sees Derek.

“Eh, you bring a friend?” he says to Derek with an accent straight out of central casting.

“My new business partner,” Derek says in a serious tone.

Weasel guy looks me up and down, and I feel like I need to take a shower after he’s done.

“Right thisa way,” he says and directs us to a booth in a gloomy corner by the bathrooms and kitchen. The vinyl seat is cracked, and the red and white checkerboard plastic tablecloth is sticky, which he remedies with a swipe from a moist rag that looks like it’s also used for oil changes.

We order tap water to drink, which gets a smug smirk, and I look at the menu, which as Derek said, is inexpensive and large. A platter of lasagna goes by from the kitchen, and my mouth floods, cockroaches or no.

“Don’t let the fancy interior scare you off. The food’s good,” Derek says. “Huge portions, though, so unless you’re starving, we might want to split something.”

We negotiate back and forth and agree on a large salad to start, with lasagna for the main course. The waiter, who’s the host’s uglier, meaner twin, takes our order without comment, like he’s late for something really important and got stuck with our table after losing a bet.

When the bread comes, the aroma is like nothing on this earth. Derek excuses himself and goes to the bathroom to wash his hands, and I sit, salivating, waiting for him to get back so I can do the same.

He returns and it’s my turn. The bathroom is everything the exterior of the restaurant promised and then some, and I wonder whether the place used to be a prison. I inspect my face in the mirror once I’ve dried my hands, and for the first time in years wish I had a little mascara and some rouge. Maybe even lip gloss.

I’ve always been a tomboy. I see nothing wrong with that. Whenever I see girls like Melody, who are so comfortable being all girly girl, I’m sure there’s something broken inside me, but I quickly snap out of it. Standing here tonight, though, looking at my plain reflection, I wish I was different, just for a while. Like one of the starlets that adorn the tabloids and glamour magazines I pass at the newsstand.

My throat tightens, and I feel like I can’t swallow. I pat some cold water on my face and stare myself down as I murmur to the girl in the mirror. “Boo hoo. Poor you. Don’t look like a Playboy bunny or a complete whore. Wahhh.”

The self-talk helps. It usually does. I have a zero tolerance policy for letting myself get away with any bullshit. Bad things can happen when you’re distracted by your circumstances, so it’s better to get over it than wallow in the pity pool.

My cell vibrates against my butt, startling me, and I pull it out. It’s Melody.

You in the honeymoon suite with dream boy?

I text back:
No. Having dinner.

Her response comes in seconds.
He didn’t seem to notice me. Maybe he’s gay?

I decide to F with her.
He wants to go shoe shopping later with me.

I can practically hear her screaming at the phone in triumph.
I knew it!

I type back to her:
Kidding.

Her final message:
Use condoms.

When I emerge from the bathroom Derek’s torn a big hunk of the Italian peasant bread off and put it on my plate. I could kiss him. Not as in, stick my tongue down his throat or grope him or anything. More like, gratitude-for-his-consideration kissing. A vision of Melody waggling her tongue piercing at me floods my senses, and I have to bite my cheek to keep from laughing.

I approach the table, and for a few seconds I consider the groping and kissing thing, and it doesn’t revolt me, as it usually does when I think about things like that. The surprises just keep coming. My legs feel weak again, and I’m grateful I can sit down before I fall against Derek.

As if reading my mind, he strips his jacket off, revealing his tanned, muscular arms. The tattoos ripple across the skin. I shift on the vinyl seat and busy myself with the butter, although I’m afraid I’m being way too obvious with my gaze as I watch him in what I consider my stealth mode.

He doesn’t seem to notice, and we dig into the bread. The waiter returns with a salad bowl the size of my head piled high with greens, the entire thing swimming in an herbal dressing that smells like heaven.

Over the salad, I launch my information-gathering offensive, thinking of Melody as I do. “So, Seattle, huh?” I lead with.

He nods, chewing.

“How long have you been in the Bay Area?”

“Three months.”

“Were you on the street in Seattle, too?”

Another nod, matter of fact. “Yeah. Since I was fifteen.”

Perfect lead-in to my next question: “How old are you now?”

He pauses, calculates, and then smiles. “Eighteen.” A long pause. “Today’s my birthday.”

My mouth drops open like a largemouth bass, and I try to decide if he’s kidding. His eyes are as free of guile as a newborn’s. I raise my soda. “Congratulations, and happy birthday.”

He clicks his plastic cup against mine. “It’s been my favorite one, so far.” His eyes lock on mine. “A really good day.”

Words have suddenly fled my brain. I feel like I’m falling from a great height, dropping into his gaze, swimming in a bottle-green sea. He’s looking at me in a way I’ve never been looked at before. I’d remember if I had.

Sure, I’ve had a few guys who totally wanted to get into my pants look at me with complete lust, usually accompanied by a beer smell. For some reason the last one, at a backyard keg party in my neighborhood six months ago, springs to mind. A senior named Brett had been putting the moves on me for weeks, and decided after some liquid courage that the words, “I’m so horny I’m gonna explode,” were what every girl wanted to hear. That didn’t end well, and when he didn’t take no graciously, I kneed him when he tried some bullshit power move that would have been more at home in a UFC ring than on a date. Obviously, none of those experiences compare to what I’m suddenly feeling now.

I shake it off and break away. “Wow. Big occasion. I guess I’m buying,” I say, feeling like I should do something for Derek. He’s spent his birthday singing with me, and chosen to spend his special evening having dinner with me. And all the while I’ve been suspecting him of being a stalker or a menace. I feel about two inches tall.

“I’m really glad it turned out this way. There’s nobody I’d rather be having dinner with.”

I hear the words, but I’d already seen the truth of them in his eyes before he spoke. I shiver almost imperceptibly. This is not at all what I was expecting. I don’t know what to say, so I opt for a forkful of salad. Derek’s hand slides toward mine, and I feel a thrill of excitement in my gut.

Which collapses when he breaks off another hunk of bread and puts it on his plate.

The haze that descended over me lifts, and I force myself to snap out of whatever spell I’ve fallen under. What would Melody do – WWMD?

Scratch that. I know all too well what Mel would do right now. Derek would be getting the birthday treat of his life, maybe before even leaving the restaurant if the bathroom door lock wasn’t broken. Instead, I opt for more questions.

“So you’ve been on your own for three years?”

“I guess that’s how the math works. Seems longer.”

“You’ve been making it by singing the entire time?”

“Yeah. Not a lot of opportunity for fifteen-year-old dropouts,” he says, his tone bitter.

I so want to ask him why he ran away, but I don’t feel comfortable doing so, and something about the guarded look that’s now in his gaze stops me.

“The whole time in Seattle?”

He shakes his head. “Spent last summer in Portland. That was kind of cool. But still way too much rain. I made it as far as Vegas by the time the season was over, thinking it would be fat city there, but I wound up living in the tunnels underneath the Strip. It sucked. I got warned off of L.A., so decided on San Francisco after a Vegas winter. This is way better.”

“What’s wrong with Los Angeles?”

“Nobody walks. So good luck as a street musician. The only people you see are tourists, and they believe we’re scum, for the most part.”

“I never really thought of it that way.”

“Yeah, and the cops in San Diego are supposed to be complete ass hats. The Bay Area has a good reputation. So here I am.”

“But you mentioned you’re leaving?”

His face darkens, but we’re interrupted by the arrival of the lasagna, which is as big as a boxcar. The waiter dips into the oversized trough with an oversized serving spoon and leaves the service to Derek.

“Oh. God. Is there meat in that?” I ask, horrified.

He falters, and his face falls for a moment before he rallies. “Do the cockroaches count?” He pauses, trying to read me. “I think the giveaway’s that it’s called meat lasagna.”

“I didn’t really look at the menu.”

He nods. “Should we order you something else?”

I’m crestfallen. My lower lip trembles, and then I smile. “I’m F-ing with you. Bring it on.”

He stares at me like I just screamed at the top of my lungs, and then we laugh together, too loud. The table a few over, a family of four, everyone on their cell phones texting or web cruising or whatever, glares at us with distaste. I don’t care, and neither does Derek.

The pasta’s insanely good. I eat until I’m going to burst, and I’m not a small eater – when I get the chance. Derek scrapes the plate clean, and we sit back, stuffed. My questions have slowed to random chewing sounds and occasional slurps, but now that we’re done eating, I resume my drilling.

“Any brothers or sisters?” I ask, hoping that’s a safe question. You never know why someone leaves home, but it’s the only place I can think of to start again.

He looks away. “Two brothers.”

“They still in Seattle?”

“I haven’t spoken to either of them for a while.”

That sort of stalls everything. I try again. “So if we keep making money the rest of the week, you still planning on leaving?”

When his eyes shift back to me, I see pain and confusion in them, but only for a second. He nods. “Yeah. It’s something I have to do.”

I’ve been about as nosy as I can justify, but I decide to plow ahead. I don’t understand that flash of emotion I just saw, but it’s gone now, so whatever it was, it didn’t have to do with leaving.

“Are you in trouble?” I ask softly. I’m wondering whether the cops are looking for him for some crime.

“Are we back to me being a serial killer?” he asks, his tone playful again.

“I don’t know. You say you have to leave and then go all Mr. Mysterioso on me.”

He shakes his head, and I’m reminded of how awesome his hair is.
Focus, Sage. Do not start down that road. You’re making progress dragging info out of him.