Can't Get There from Here (6 page)

“I hate putting those dirty clothes back on,” Rainbow muttered, rubbing paper towels down her bruised legs.

“Maybe we should leave them,” I said, “and go through the library naked.”

“Or like this.” Rainbow pressed brown paper towels
against her breasts so that they stuck. I giggled at the thought of us covered like that and walking past the people with the ID tags.

Then the bathroom door opened again.

And two men came in.

The short chubby one had wavy black hair
and was wearing a blue security guard’s uniform. The other one was tall and broad-shouldered with brown hair and a cigarette stuck behind one ear. He was wearing jeans and a gray shirt with “Bobby” stitched in red letters over the pocket.

“What the hell?” the one named Bobby growled. “Who’s gonna clean up this mess?”

Rainbow and I retreated toward the back wall, covering our naked bodies with our hands.

“Lock the door,” Bobby told the chubby security guard.

“You sure?” the guard asked nervously.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Bobby snapped. “You want to clean up this mess? ’Cause I don’t. And no one can use this place the way it is now.”

I heard a click as the guard locked the door. Bobby pulled a ring of keys from his belt and opened another door, this one to a supply closet. He wheeled out a bright yellow pail with a long wooden mop handle sticking up from it, then put his foot on the edge of the pail and kicked it across the floor toward Rainbow and me. We jumped out of the way and it banged against the wall.

“Get to work,” he snarled, then reached into the closet again and tossed a roll of black plastic garbage bags at us. Rainbow and I were trapped. Still covering our naked bodies with our hands, we started to inch toward the handicapped stall.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Bobby demanded.

“To get our clothes,” Rainbow answered.

A nasty leer crept through Bobby’s lips. “Naw, that ain’t no fun. You get to work the way you are.”

Rainbow and I kept moving toward the stall.

“Hey!” Bobby shouted and started toward us. His work boots skidded on the slimy paper towels, and he lost his balance and started to flail around, swinging his arms wildly to keep from falling. Rainbow and I grinned.

Bang!
Bobby got his balance back and slammed a stall door with his fist. The sound made Rainbow and me jump. “Think that was funny?” He yelled, coming closer. “Come here, you freak.” He grabbed me by the hair and yanked down, pulling me off my feet. I hit the hard, wet tile floor with my knees and elbows. It hurt bad.

“Now get to work!” he snarled, then pointed at Rainbow. “You, too!”

“Hey, Bobby, come on,” said the security guard.

“Naw, you come on,” Bobby yelled back. “Unless
you
wanna clean up this mess.”

“They should do it,” said the security guard. “I just don’t see why you have to hurt ’em.”

“You don’t teach ’em a lesson, they’ll come back and do it again,” Bobby said.

“They’re just a couple of street kids.”

“You don’t like it, why don’t you get out?” Bobby snapped. “Put that sign on the door that says bathroom temporarily out of order.”

Without another word, the security guard left. Bobby followed him to the door and locked it. He turned back to Rainbow and me. “What’re you lookin’ at? Get back to work.”

Rainbow got on her hands and knees on the floor beside me, scooped up the wet, dirty paper towels and dumped them into a big black plastic bag. We were still naked.

“Damn street punks always coming in here and messing the place up,” Bobby grumbled. He stood over us. I was afraid to look up, lest he start yelling again. But as I picked up the paper towels, I watched his scuffed work boots, ready to back away if they turned in my direction. Before long we got all the wet paper towels off the floor.

“In there, too.” Bobby pointed into the handicapped stall. Rainbow and me hesitated. It was one thing to be on our hands and knees out in the bathroom, but another to do that inside the stall.

“Go on!” Bobby yelled.

“Can’t we use a broom or something?” I asked.

The answer was the grooved bottom of Bobby’s work boot on my bare behind and then a hard shove sending
me toward the stall. My hands slipped out from under me, and my chin and chest slid along wet floor.

“Teach you sluts to come in here and mess this place up,” Bobby growled. He stepped into the stall and kicked our clothes off the toilet seat.

I pushed myself back up to my hands and knees in the dirty, soapy slop. Inside the disabled stall the floor smelled like Piss Alley. My chin and elbows hurt and I felt the old trembling sensation of wanting to cry. When I was little it would blow through me like a gust of wet wind. I could never stop it. It would sweep in, and I would cry whether I wanted to or not. But as I got older I learned to fight it. When they—my mom, her boyfriends, and other kids—called me names and hurt me, I wasn’t strong enough to hit back, but I would clench my teeth and blink hard to stop the tears. As long as I didn’t cry, I won in a way. So I fought it and sooner or later it would pass like a dark cloud that didn’t rain. Then after a while something else happened. Somehow I forgot the feeling altogether. Or maybe it just went away. It was a long time since I cried. So when the feeling came back after Bobby shoved me with his foot into the stall and I fell forward and banged my chin and elbows, it caught me by surprise. I felt it take hold and waited for the tears to come. But they didn’t. The feeling came and went without touching the place that brought the tears. And I wondered if maybe that place had gone away forever and would never come back.

Dragging the plastic garbage bag, Rainbow crawled
into the stall and started to pick up the paper towels.

“You don’t have to do this,” I whispered.

She didn’t answer. Her eyes were empty, and she moved like a zombie. Like she wasn’t there. We picked up the slimy, wet paper towels, but the floor was still covered with the dirty, soapy water. Our clothes lay in a pile in it.

“Okay, get up!” Bobby barked.

Rainbow and I stood up, again covering ourselves with our hands. Bobby pointed at me. “You mop.” He pointed at Rainbow. “You do the counter and the mirror.” He went back to the supply closet and got a big yellow sponge and some blue paper towels and a bottle of Windex. These he put on the counter for Rainbow.

To do what he wanted, we had to stand up and use our hands. It wasn’t like when we were down on the floor. Then Bobby couldn’t see much. Now he could see everything. I felt his eyes—staring mostly at Rainbow’s naked body, but every now and then at mine. I didn’t care. Let him look all he wanted. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except getting out of there.

I swept the stringy mop across the floor. Soon it was soaked and wouldn’t pick up any more water. I gave Bobby a puzzled look.

“Wring it out, stupid,” he snorted. “Don’t you know how to use a mop?”

I held the mop over the bucket and twisted the long bunched up strings with my hands the way I once saw my mom do it. Cold, brown water dribbled into the bucket.

“Not like that, you ugly freak.” Bobby ripped the mop out of my hands. He put it into a metal thing in the pail and pushed down on a short handle. Brown water gushed through holes in the metal thing and splashed into the pail. “Got it now?”

I took the mop. Nothing Bobby said could hurt me. Nothing he did could hurt for long, neither. I’d heard it all before. Been hurt plenty all my life. Like when my mom used to say I was a mistake she wished never happened. She had all those kids and no money and she got fat and men came and left. The men would leave and she couldn’t hurt them so she hurt me instead. It was something grown-ups thought they had a right to do. When they got angry they could find some kid, someone smaller, and hurt him or her. What could a kid do? Nothing, except run away.

Rainbow finished cleaning the counter and mirrors about the same time I finished mopping the floor. “Aw, hell, I can’t stand watchin’ you two anymore,” Bobby grumbled. “What a crap job. Look at the streaks on those mirrors. There’s still dirt all over the floor. I’m gonna have to redo the whole thing myself. Get your clothes and get the hell out.”

Rainbow and me went back to the handicapped stall. Our dirty clothes were lying in a damp heap on the floor. Who wanted to put on wet filthy clothes that have been lying next to the toilet? But we had no choice, and slowly pulled them on. They smelled awful. Hard to believe I smelled that bad when I was wearing them. But I guess
I did. Rainbow pulled her leather jacket on over her wet, dirty sweatshirt.

“Get out.” Bobby went to the bathroom door and unlocked it. The chubby security guard was outside. He stared at Rainbow and me in our soggy, stained clothes. We headed for the front.

“Not that way,” Bobby hissed from behind and herded us to the right, past the guard and toward a door that said LIBRARY PERSONNEL ONLY. The door opened to a hall. It was some kind of storage area, lined with shelves filled with books and videotapes. At the end of the hall was another door with a big red exit sign over it. Rainbow and I pushed through the door. The chilly gray air outside was sudden and unexpected. I guess for a little while I forgot it was winter. Now the cold air cut through our wet clothes and stung our faces. We were in a small parking lot behind the library.

I felt a hand in the middle of my back. Then I was sailing forward. I hit the asphalt and skidded on my face and hands and knees. I heard a grunt as Rainbow crashed to the ground beside me. Burning pain burst from half a dozen places on my body.

Next to me Rainbow let out a cry, then lay still on the cold, rough parking lot.

“You think this was bad?” Bobby said. “I see you two here again, you’ll
really
be sorry.”

We slowly got to our feet. A long scrape ran from Rainbow’s cheekbone to her jaw. The tiny beads of blood were spreading and running together. My face
burned and I knew I had a scrape like that, too. I could see the scratches on my palms and feel the ones where the knees of my jeans had torn. The cold air crept in through every buttonhole and sleeve and tear, coiling inside my wet clothes like a snake. One more thing that wanted to hurt us.

Now that Country Club was dead, OG got a
little brown puppy with long floppy ears, white paws, and a white streak like a bolt of lightning on its chest. OG called him Pest. Pest only wanted to play tug-of-war. He bit the legs of our pants or the sleeves of our sweatshirts and pulled and growled playfully.

OG and me sat on the sidewalk in front of the vegan bakery with Maggot, who was spanging with a cardboard sign that read:

MONEY FOR MARYJUANA

Grrrrrrrrrr!
Pest’s little teeth were clamped on the rope OG used as a leash. The little dog growled and shook his head, pulling as hard as he could. It was funny to see a puppy act so ferocious.

“What happened to your face?” OG asked me.

A long brown scab went from my left eye to my jaw.

“Someone pushed me,” I said.

“You push back?” Maggot asked.

I didn’t answer.

Grrrrrrrrrr!
Pest kept yanking at the leash. Each time he did, he yanked OG’s arm, too. OG went into a coughing fit, one hand covering his mouth and the other holding the leash. He coughed so hard his whole body shook.

“Okay, Pest, that’s enough,” he croaked as he tried to catch his breath.

Grrrrrrrrrr!
Pest kept pulling. He didn’t understand what OG was saying. He probably thought coughing was a human bark.

“I said that’s enough.” OG coughed something red into his hand and wiped it on the ground.

Grrrrrrrrrr!

OG jerked the leash hard, pulling Pest off his feet. The puppy hit the sidewalk with a yelp, then cowered with his tail between his legs. “Aw, puppy.” OG instantly felt bad for losing his temper. He gathered the frightened little dog into his arms and hugged him. Pest started to lick OG’s face. No matter how bad you hurt a puppy, it still loved you. Not like human beings.

A couple stopped on the sidewalk. The man was wearing a dark green coat and carrying a brown briefcase. He was with a black-haired woman wearing a warm-looking red coat and carrying a large black bag over her shoulder.

“Are you serious?” the man asked, nodding at Maggot’s “Money for Maryjuana” sign.

“Why not?” Maggot answered. “If the sign said, ‘Money for food/ would you believe it? Least I’m honest.”

“At least you ought to spell it right,” said the woman.

Maggot turned the sign around and looked at it. “I spelled ‘money’ wrong?”

The man smiled. “He’s got a sense of humor.”

“Not for long if I don’t score some pot,” Maggot warned them.

The woman decided to get sincere. “You’re smart. Why do you live like this? Why don’t you clean yourself up and get off the street?”

“Maybe I don’t want to,” Maggot answered. “Maybe I’d rather live on the street than have to get some stupid nine-to-five job.”

“But at least you’d have a warm place to live and clean clothes,” said the woman.

“Where does it say that everyone has to wear clean clothes?” Maggot asked. “Where does it say everyone has to have a warm place to live? Maybe I don’t want any of that crap. Maybe I’m happy being dirty and homeless and free of possessions and responsibilities. Who the hell are you to tell me how to live?”

The man reached for the woman’s elbow. “I think we should go, Rachel.”

But Rachel didn’t budge. “You remind me of my brother.”

“Oh, yeah? He a street punk, too?” Maggot asked.

“No, he’s in college.”

OG laughed, then started to cough. Rachel and her male friend glared at him, then Rachel looked back at Maggot. “What I meant was, he’s rebellious like you. He questions everything.”

“He raises his hand in class,” joked OG.

Rachel ignored that and said to Maggot, “You’d like him.”

Maggot smiled up at her, but I knew he thought she was crazy. Like we street kids had anything in common with someone in college.

“Does he know about the revolution?” Maggot asked.