Searching for Candlestick Park (7 page)

“My name’s Jay,” he said.

I didn’t want to tell him my name. “You can call me Cat Man,” I said.

“I already did.” Jay grinned. “What’s your cat’s name?”

“Foxey.”

“He’s beautiful.”

That did it. Any kid who wore a Mariners’ shirt and thought Foxey was beautiful couldn’t be too rotten. I reached in my jeans pocket, took out my money, and handed Jay two one-dollar bills.

He took them. “Now!” he yelled.

An older boy, about sixteen, leaped out of the woods behind me. As I turned to look at him, he grabbed my wrist and tried to take the rest of the money out of my hand.

I
held tight to my money, and kicked at the older boy.

Foxey ran, pulling the rope taut. I clung to the end of the rope with my left hand while the bigger boy bent my right arm behind my back and attempted to pry my fingers open.

I twisted and jerked, trying to get away from him. He was bigger and stronger, but I was furious and my anger sent strength surging through my body.

“Help!” I yelled, turning toward Jay.

The word was barely out of my mouth, when Jay tackled me.

I landed face down on the grass. Jay jumped on me,
holding me down, while the other boy forced the money out of my hand.

“Got it!” the older boy said.

They both leaped up, and ran off through the trees.

Foxey was flopping with fear on the other end of the rope. I crawled across the grass to him, and crouched over him to help him feel safe. He leaned against me and stuck his head under my arm. He was trembling. So was I.

“It’s okay,” I told him. “They’re gone. It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t okay. It wasn’t okay, at all. The boys had taken all of my paper money. The only money I had left was fifty-one cents in change.

How was I going to get to Candlestick Park with no money? What would I eat? How would I feed Foxey after he finished the one box of cat food?

I couldn’t even report the boys to the police, even though I could give an accurate description of both of them. If I told the police what had happened, they’d want my name and start asking questions and pretty soon they’d figure out that I was a runaway kid and then they would make me go home.

Jay, if that was really his name, and his bully buddy were probably counting on that, I thought bitterly. That’s why he asked me if I was alone, and where I was heading. They knew I wouldn’t want to call the police. They knew if they stole my money, they’d get away with it.

There probably isn’t an Italian restaurant, I thought. It was all a lie, to trick me into showing my money. And I was stupid enough to fall for it.

I sat quietly, stroking Foxey, until he relaxed and started to move around again. We finished his walk. I wasn’t worried about the boys coming back; I knew they’d stay clear of me, now that they had what they wanted.

When it grew dark, I kicked some dead leaves into a pile, for my bed. I thought it would be softer than the ground. It was, a little, but every time I moved, the leaves crackled. Foxey didn’t like that, and I didn’t want to make any unnecessary noise, so I ended up on the ground again, just like the first night. My leg ached; I wished I had packed some aspirin.

I was exhausted, and fell asleep quickly despite listening for dog tags or voices. I awoke three times during the night: once with a cramp in my foot, and twice because Foxey was sleeping on top of my legs and I couldn’t move. Each time, I lay wondering what to do next. I would have to abandon Plan A. Without money for food, I would never make it to Candlestick Park on a bike.

Splashes of pink colored the clouds the next time I awoke. I shifted a little without dumping Foxey off. He purred and dug his claws in and out of my jeans.

A new day and some sleep brought fresh determination. My injured leg felt better, too. Plan B, I decided, would be to call Dad and ask him to send me
money for bus fare. Why hadn’t I thought of that in the first place? For all I knew Dad had a great job with the Giants and made plenty of money. He might even send me enough for plane fare. Wouldn’t that be something?

I walked Foxey around a little and then rode on, watching for a telephone booth. I wanted to make my call as soon as possible, before Dad left for work.

I spotted a phone booth near a gas station. I took my debt journal and pencil out of my backpack, so I could write down Dad’s number. Then I stepped inside the phone booth, deposited my quarter, and pressed O.

“I want to make a collect call to San Francisco,” I said, when the operator answered, “but I don’t know the number.”

“What’s your party’s name?” she asked.

“Atwood,” I said, and spelled it for her. “His first name is Jerome.”

“One moment, please.”

I held the receiver with my left hand, and the pencil in my right hand.

“I’m sorry. There is no listing in San Francisco for a Jerome Atwood.”

“Is there some other town that’s close to Candlestick Park?” I asked.

“There are several,” she replied. “Would you like me to check San Bruno?”

“Yes, please.”

I was getting nervous. What if she couldn’t find Dad’s number?

“I’m sorry,” the voice said again. “I don’t find a listing for a Jerome Atwood anywhere in San Mateo County.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, thanks anyway.”

I hung up, hoping I would get my quarter back. It didn’t come. I was down to twenty-six cents. I stood in the phone booth, looking out at the traffic whizzing past. Although the phone booth smelled as if someone had used it for a bathroom, I was not in a hurry to leave.

Who could I call that would help me? Other than Mama or Aunt May, that is. The only other phone number I knew by heart was Mike’s, my friend from the school I went to before we moved.

Mike! As soon as I thought about him, I knew it was a good idea. Maybe Mike could loan me some money. He could send it in care of General Delivery at the next town on my map.

I got out the map and studied it. I figured it would take a day or two for Mike’s letter to arrive. I decided to ask Mike to send as much money as he could to General Delivery in Salem, Oregon. Even if I didn’t eat for two days, I would still be able to make it that far.

I deposited my last quarter, relieved when a different operator answered. I didn’t want the telephone company getting suspicious.

This time I said, “I want to place a collect call.” I gave Mike’s number. I even knew the area code, since it was the same as mine used to be.

I heard the phone ring, and I heard Mike’s mother say, “Hello?”

The operator said, “One moment, please,” and then asked me, “What is your name?”

I thought fast. I couldn’t give my real name. I was positive Mama would have called Mike’s mother by now to say that I was missing. But if I made up a name, Mrs. Pinkus would not accept the charges. I realized I should have called person-to-person.

“I changed my mind, Operator,” I said, and hung up. My quarter clanked into the coin return.

I tried one more time, this time specifying that the call was only for Mike Pinkus. Mike’s mother answered again.

“I have a person-to-person call for Mike Pinkus,” the operator said.

“Just a minute,” Mrs. Pinkus said, and I could hear her call, “Mike! Telephone!”

“What is your name?” the operator asked me.

“Foxey,” I replied.

Mike said, “Hello?”

The operator said, “I have a collect call from Foxey. Will you accept the charges?”

“No,” said Mrs. Pinkus. “He most certainly will not.”

My heart sank. Mike must have picked up an extension phone, and his mother had stayed on the line.

“But Mom,” Mike said. “Foxey is . . .”

“Hang up, Michael,” she said, “and tell your friends not to call here collect.”

I hung up without saying anything else. Even though I had not talked to Mike, I was sure he had figured out who Foxey was. He knew I was trying to reach him.

I decided to try again about four o’clock. Maybe Mrs. Pinkus would not be there when Mike got home from school. Mike might try to stay home alone in case I called again. He would accept the next call without his mother knowing about it.

Meanwhile, I needed something to eat. I wished I had not been so greedy with the graham crackers the night before.

I mailed my letter to Mama before I pedaled south again. I wondered if she would believe I was really going to Hollywood.

A
n hour later, I stole a little kid’s lunch box. A Batman lunch box.

It happened right after I stopped to let Foxey stretch. As I put him back in his box, I heard voices. Three little boys ran past me to the corner. They set their lunch boxes, backpacks, and coats on the curb, and began a game of tag in the yard of the corner house. They appeared to be about first-grade age, and they were obviously waiting for the school bus.

While I eyed the lunch boxes, the boys yelled and chased each other around.

Feeling like the number one rat of all time, I rode to the corner. When I reached the kids’ pile of belongings,
I stopped, bent down, and snatched the Batman lunch box. Then I pedaled away fast. The three kids didn’t even notice.

First Aunt May’s money, then the bike, and now a first-grader’s lunch box. How low would I sink before I finally made it to Candlestick Park?

I paid attention to the cross streets as I sped off. After riding hard for a couple of miles, I found an empty lot, sat down under a tree, and looked to see what I was having for breakfast.

There was a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich, with the crusts cut off, and a bag of corn chips. I should have swiped the Lion King lunch box. I had hoped for an orange or banana, and a can of juice, and maybe some cookies for dessert. I guess kids in first grade don’t eat as much as I do. At least the sandwich wasn’t chopped liver.

There was no identification on the lunch box.

After I ate, I took out my debt journal. I’ll probably be forty years old before I can pay back all I owe.

I had no idea what the lunch box was worth, but five dollars seemed fair. I wrote:

I quit writing. He wouldn’t get a letter addressed to a street corner. How could I mail five dollars to a kid if I don’t know his name or his address?

I drew a line through what I had just written. On a fresh piece of paper I wrote, “Thank you for the lunch. I was very hungry.” I put the note inside the lunch box, got on the bike, and rode back to the corner where I had taken the lunch box. The boys were gone.

I put the Batman lunch box on the curb, where the little boy would see it when he got off the bus. I hoped one of his pals would share his lunch with him today.

Still hungry, I rode on. I went through several small towns, and stopped three times to drink some water and to let Foxey out for exercise. I felt hungrier when I stopped than when I was pushing the pedals so I only rested a few minutes each time.

I saw a lighted sign on a bank that gave the time as 3:45. I decided to call Mike again. School got out at 3:20. With luck, Mike would answer the phone.

I found another phone booth and placed a person-to-person collect call. Mike answered.

“I have a call for Mike Pinkus,” the operator said.

“This is Mike.” His voice sounded odd, as if he didn’t really want to talk to me.

“You have a collect call from Foxey,” the operator said. “Will you accept the charges?”

“Yes. But tell him my mother . . .”

“Go ahead, please,” said the operator.

“Hi, Mike. This is Spencer.”

“Spencer Atwood, where are you?” said Mrs. Pinkus.

Spencer realized that Mike’s mother had been on the line the whole time. That’s why Mike sounded strained.

“Your mother is worried sick,” Mrs. Pinkus said. “Tell me where you are and I’ll come to get you.”

I hung up. There was no point trying to call Mike. I would have to get some money another way.

I wasn’t sure what town I was in. I rode along with my stomach growling. The peanut butter sandwich and corn chips had been seven hours ago. I had to get food, or money to buy it, soon.