Runaway (19 page)

“All right, all right!” he said, stamping a slip of paper and handing it to me. “Here's your voucher. Go redeem it in the market.”

“You're givin' it to her?” one of the bums said. “Hog's gonna blow a gasket!”

He signaled something to them that I didn't catch. I was too busy racing out of there.

Inside the store I kept my eyes open for the men from the recycle center, but none of them seemed to be following me. So I grabbed a toothbrush and a travel-size toothpaste, and since one of the public bathrooms near the beach has pay showers, I also picked up a travel-size shampoo and conditioner.

Meanwhile, my stomach was distracting me because I could smell roasting chickens. I don't know why the store was roasting chickens so early but they were, and my mouth was pouring saliva!

So I wandered back to the deli, hoping that they were passing out samples, but they weren't. But then I noticed that a whole chicken was only $4.50! So I thought, What the heck! and grabbed one (they were in these thick, see-through, to-go bags under a heating lamp). I also picked up a loaf of soft potato bread. The combination sounded SO good.

And yes, I actually paid for the chicken and the bread. I was planning to pay for everything, but at the last minute I slipped the shampoo and stuff in my pockets. Habit, I guess.

I still hadn't seen any of the guys from the recycle center, but as I was going through the checkout line, I spotted a pack of them out in front of the store.

No one had to tell me what they were waiting for:

Me!

So I handed over my recycle voucher to pay for my chicken and bread, got the change (which was almost $15), asked the checker if I could go back through the store to get some napkins at the deli (she said, “Sure”), walked around until I saw an
EXIT
sign over a door by the meat department, pushed through that, and made a beeline past a bunch of crates and boxes to an open roll-up door.

I looked left and right before stepping outside, then got away from there as quick as I could. I took backstreets and kept a sharp eye out for homeless guys trailing me. The aroma of roasted chicken was driving me crazy, but I didn't stop for anything until I was safely home.

And now that I've been here awhile and have eaten a scrumptious meal of chicken and bread, I'm worried about a lot of things: Are those creeps at the recycle center going to tell that Hog guy about me? (Of course they are. That way he'll stop shaking
them
down.) Will all the homeless guys in town be on the lookout for me now? What if they set up some hobo network to find me? (Okay, that sounds really far-fetched. But these guys seemed like a pack of rotten-toothed hyenas, and I'm feeling really nervous.)

I'm also feeling kind of confused. “Conflicted,” if you want to psychobabble. Here I've snagged some homeless guy's sleeping bag, I'm using his mat, eating his food, cashing in his cans…. He's
homeless.
How low can you go?

Right now I'm thinking I should put it all back where I found it.

But what kind of guy is named Hog? And the recycle guy said he'd been in jail like it was no big deal. Like it happened a lot.

So if this Hog guy's a
criminal,
he probably
stole
the sleeping bag and stuff from someone else, right? Why
would
I return it to him when it wasn't really his in the first place?

         

Am I rationalizing?

Is this like the swimsuit?

Like my mother stealing lipstick?

Or does this qualify as survival?

         

Sunday, October 10
^th

Maybe I am rationalizing, but I can't seem to bring myself to put the stuff back. I love this sleeping bag.

But I keep worrying about what will happen if Hog catches me.

What then?

I hate feeling this paranoid. I can't enjoy
any
thing. There's no school today, kids are everywhere, there's an amazing arts and crafts fair down by the beach…it's a perfect day to just cruise around without having to worry about cops questioning me. But with this stupid Hog problem, I'm constantly looking over my shoulder.

I hate living like this. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!

         

Maybe I should return Hog's stuff.

         

Monday, October 11
^th

Took a shower in that bathroom near the beach (used the hand dryer as a hair dryer—aah!), scored an amazing submarine sandwich (and paid for a quart of milk), and saw Hog.

I'm sure it was him. Long salt-and-cinnamon hair and beard. Ruddy, glowery face. Beefy body. Grimy from head to toe. He was riding a typical homeless-guy bike but with chopper-style handlebars going out to an extended front wheel. He had two black half-full Hefty sacks strapped over the back fender like saddlebags, and a pit bull–rottweiler mix on a rope leash running alongside.

I'm not sure if he got his name from his size, his filth, or his bike, but whichever, I was pretty sure it was him, and then I watched him paw through a trash can and demolish aluminum cans and
knew
it was him. Twist, crunch! Twist, crunch! Bare-handed. Brutal.
Fast.

I'm glad I saw him because it's good to know what you're avoiding.

It's also good to know that his dog is not some sweet, cute, panty thing. I saw him lunge at two joggers in less than five minutes. He's a brute. Just like his owner, but with drool.

So now I don't feel as guilty for keeping his stuff, but inside I've gone from paranoid to petrified.

         

Tuesday, late afternoon

I got the bright idea that cashing in the second sack of cans would be a smart thing to do. It would transform big, bulky evidence into compact bills for future survival needs.

So I located another recycle center (in the phone book—it's about five miles from here), figured out the bus schedule to get me there (there's a stop two blocks from it—seemed easy), hauled the second sack of cans clear to the bus stop, rode the bus through endless stops clear across town, dragged that sack around until I finally found the recycle center, and…it was closed!
Closed.
Every Monday and Tuesday they're closed! What kind of stupid business is that?

And the worst part is, when I got off the bus on the way home, I crossed paths with about five different homeless guys. None of them followed me or even seemed to pay much attention to me, but street people are a lot slyer than you think. If they're not wasted on drugs or booze, they're watching people. Sizing them up. Scamming.

It's easy for them to do.

Nobody wants to look a homeless guy in the eye.

         

Tuesday night

A sweet-looking little old Mexican lady busted me lifting boiled eggs from her market. She grabbed me by the arm and frisked me until she found them in my pocket. She was strong! I was afraid she was going to call the police, but she just scolded me in Spanish and shoved me out the door.

I'm still embarrassed.

Busted by a little old lady.

         

Wednesday

Where did my good luck go? I was sitting at the bus stop with the second sack of cans between my feet when guess who came moseying my way, trolling through trash bins for cans?

Hog and his dog.

“Come on, bus, come
on,
” I whispered because he was getting closer and closer, and bus stops around here are made out of Plexiglas that you can see right through.

When the bus finally pulled up, Hog and his dog were only about 30 feet away, digging through a trash bin on the grass between the street and the beach.

The bus doors opened, so I clanked onboard with my cans and dove into the first open seat. I stared at the doors, hoping,
praying,
that Hog wouldn't charge onto the bus.

The doors closed.

We pulled away.

I started breathing again and looked out the window.

Hog was staring right at me.

         

Two stops later

Okay, it's stupid that I've hauled this out to write in again, but I'm freaking out! What if Hog's arranging a welcoming committee for me at the other recycle center? He must've figured out where I'm going with this fat sack of cans, right?

What if he's putting the pedal to the metal himself? At the rate this bus is going, he could ride his chopper bike to the recycle center and greet me personally. Then what? I could abandon the cans, but he's still going to want his sleeping bag. And the money from the other cans (which I only have about half of left). And his sack of food (which is also not exactly all there…).

What am I going to do?

         

Riding the bus home

I'm rich! No Hog waiting for me…just a really nice retired marine sitting in the trailer reading a magazine, waiting for people to come along with their recyclables.

I cashed in the voucher, no problem, and splurged on a new flashlight and batteries. The store had a camera counter, and on a whim I asked whether they had batteries for watches and they did! The lady was real nice, too. She said they weren't supposed to install batteries for customers anymore, but when she saw me fumbling with the jeweler's tools she'd lent me, she said, “Here. Don't tell anyone,” and did it for me.

I also (
ahem
) acquired a book. It's about three single mothers who run a kiddie day care but are secretly a ring of diamond thieves. (Their ex-husbands are diamond dealers, and the women are getting back at them.) It might be really good or really stupid, but I'm dying for something to read, and the only other books they carried were repulsive romances.

I'd start reading now, but I don't want to miss my stop.

Actually, I
do
plan to miss my stop. I'm going one stop past the beach stop just in case Hog and his dog are watching and waiting for me.

         

1:15 p.m.

I'm freaking out again.

Who says I'm paranoid? We just pulled away from the beach bus stop, and guess who was there?

Hog and his dog and a bunch of homeless hyenas!

The place was teeming with bums!

They weren't waiting right there
at
the stop. They were actually pretty inconspicuous, waiting in the distance, camouflaged by trees or trash cans…. But once I spotted Hog, I started seeing the rest of them. They weren't there because it's the beach stop and a really cool place to hang out, either.

They were waiting for me.

How do I know?

Well, when the bus pulled up to the stop, Hog whistled between his fingers, and the hyenas who were awake turned and watched the people who got off the bus. The more I think about this, the creepier it gets. Can you imagine being chased down by homeless people? It's like ghouls from the garbage instead of the grave! All tattered and dirty and staggering around…

This is too weird to believe!

What am I going to do?

I'm living in a freakin' nightmare!

         

Saturday the 16
^th

I'm on the run again. I'm so tired of hiding and lying and stealing. I'm so sick of getting nowhere and feeling like no one.

What's the use?

Why am I doing this?

I have no plan.

I have no place.

I have no purpose.

I want more than to just survive.

Just surviving gets you nowhere.

         

11:30 p.m.

GOODBYE

Smoke wafting skyward

Thinning, then disappearing

A flame's wave goodbye

         

I think it's Wednesday, but I'm not sure

I'm glad I had that book to read. It turned out to be really funny. The three women were hilarious but in a real tough-as-nails kind of way. Their ex-husbands never stood a chance. It was a revenge-against-betrayal story. Not deep or allegorical or metaphorical or anything educationorical (ha ha!), but I liked it. I liked it a lot.

So I'm not feeling as bummed as I was, but I definitely need a new plan. A
real
plan. Starting with a better place to live than under this overpass. I'm far enough away from Hog where I'm not worried about him anymore. (I don't know what direction I went, but I stowed away in a musty, humid
mushroom
truck for almost two hours, which seemed plenty long enough.)

There are about six people camping under this overpass, and they're already working on my nerves. It's not because they're drinking or swearing or talking to themselves like drugged-out lunatics. They're bugging me because they act so superior. Here they sleep on cardboard mats under a bridge, they're filthy from head to toe, they wear shoes that don't match (and two of them have only one sock), they smoke cigarettes and pee against the wall…and they act like everyone besides them is stupid. It's unbelievable.

To be fair, there is one guy who doesn't act that way, but he's actually the one who creeps me out the most. His name's Martin and he doesn't say much, but I catch him checking me over a lot. He has dozens of snake tattoos coiling around his arms and around his neck and probably around his whole body, which is just nasty. Why would anyone wrap themselves in snakes?

I keep telling myself that being here is better than being hunted down by a pack of homeless hyenas, but I really, really, really miss my little spot among the eucalyptus trees. I didn't have any choice about leaving, though. I barely got away from Hog in time.

The good news is that I managed to escape with the sleeping bag, so at least I've been warm at night. I can actually stuff the sleeping bag inside my backpack. Not much else fits, but carrying a sleeping bag under your arm or even strapping it onto your pack is just too much of a giveaway that you're living on the road.