The Guy With the Suitcase (Once Upon a Guy #1) (5 page)

Coming out of the hostel, he headed towards the clothing store that he’d seen the night before. They had a few racks of coats on display outside. But Pierce was determined not to steal. He had the money.

He entered the store and a young salesman approached him, inquiring about his needs. Pierce asked to be shown winter coats and their prices. The guy led him to the back of the facility where a wide selection of coats were laid out. He started pointing at each of them, quoting their best features and their price.

“This one has a fur lining so it’s really warm...” he said, showing him the brown inside of a black parka.

“Do you have anything not made by dead animals?” Pierce asked, disgusted at the idea of putting a carcass on his body, for the sake of getting warm, when he had other options. The only animal skin he allowed anywhere near him was his grandad’s suitcase, and only because it was the only thing of his he owned.

The guy nodded and moved him a few feet to the left to show him more jackets. “This one has detachable sleeves, so it can be turned into a spring vest later on. Very functional. It’s $75,” he said holding up a black parka and then pointed at another,
 
“this one is a bit lighter, but warm nonetheless and it’s $60,” the guy said.

Pierce was looking at his options and was starting to doubt his decision to enter the store. “Do you have anything on the cheaper side?”

“What’s your budget?” the man asked, putting his hands together in front of his chest.

Pierce winced, calculating. “About twenty bucks,” he said

The salesman grimaced. “I’m sorry, for that price I only have scarves and pashminas,” he told him putting his arms to his sides, meaning he was done doing business with Pierce. Pierce got the message.

“Thanks,” he said exiting the store.

He walked to the other corner of the block and entered the donut store. A couple of Indian women with a bindi painted between their brows greeted him. He approached the counter, refraining from looking at the goods they were selling. If he did, he’d buy a few, unable to resist his already growling stomach.

“Hi, I was wondering if you had any jobs,” he asked.

One of the women, probably the manager, left the counter and came to his side, eyeing him up and down. Her eyes settled on his worn sneakers and the faded jeans. She squinted. “You have a resumé?” Pierce shook his head. “Yeah, thought so. Well, print one out and bring it to me and if we have any openings I’ll give you a call,” she replied.

A call! A call! How was he supposed to receive phone calls when he didn’t have a cellphone? What number would he put in his resumé, and how would he be contacted? He needed a phone. And a number. Fuck his life. He had already spent all his money on that hostel. He now wished he hadn’t after all.

He thanked the lady opposite him and left the donut place, finding himself back on the streets. He began thinking of his options while trying to locate an internet café to write his resumé. How could he make himself reachable to employers?

He found a place nearby and sat down to use a computer for an hour. He’d never created a resumé before, so that was his first action. He Googled it and followed the instructions step by step.

Name: Pierce Callahan.
 

Birthdate: 02/15/1995.

Email address:

That was it. He had, completely by chance, found the way. He’d just give his email. He hadn’t used it in a while, so it would need a good clean-up to leave space for new and important emails, but he had one and it was free and accessing it was only a buck away.
 

[email protected]
, he wrote.

He filled out the rest of the document with his details, education, and experience, which had been minimal. But every little bit was important. When he was done, he gave it a once over and printed a few copies. Then, he accessed his email.
 

2,405 unread emails. Mostly junk. He deleted every single message, including the ones from the past, before he’d been kicked out to the curb. Clean slate. That was what he needed.

He paid for his services and exited the café reinvigorated with excitement, waving his resumés in his hand as he walked down the street. He would head downtown. It was where it was busiest in Manhattan and where there were surely more vacancies.
 

He saw a job ad taped on the pane of a bar and he decided to pay it a visit. Only when he’d stepped inside had he realized he had never done this before and had no clue what to say or handle the situation. He decided to turn around and leave when someone from behind the bar greeted him.

“Hi,” he answered reluctantly to the barmaid.

“How can I help?” she asked with a wide smile.

He paused a second before replying. “I was just wondering if you have any jobs,” he told her.

She nodded her head and went to get her manager to talk to him. Could it be that easy? Really? On his second try? He was trying not to overthink things before they actually took place; he didn’t like getting disappointed. But sometimes, the mind does what it needs to do. A woman, older than the barmaid who had answered his question, came out of a door behind the bar and approached Pierce with vigor. The closer she came, though, the more her face changed, until eventually she stopped, the girl behind her bumping onto her. She looked at Pierce up and down and without missing a beat she turned her head to the right, talking to her employee.
 

“Carol, why would you bring me to the front to interview a hobo? Seriously, I got more important things to do in the office,” she said.

Pierce was as taken as Carol. He’d washed his jumper, his trousers, had an extensive shower, cleaned up his hair, scrubbed his face a new one, and given his grandpa’s suitcase a once over. How was it even possible he still looked what he was? Was it that obvious? Had he missed a spot that no one else did? What was it that screamed ‘homeless’ whenever a potential employer looked at him? He really wanted to know, if he was gonna change his living situation.

The manager turned to Pierce next and shouted from where she was standing with bitterness spilling out of her every pore.

“Go sort your life out before you come asking me for a job.” That was all she said and withdrew back to her office.

That’s what he was trying to do for fuck’s sake. Frustrated, he walked out of the bar. He kept south, heading towards the busier areas, although he already felt it was a lost battle. Two people had already given him the boot before they could even talk to him, he was doubting his chances looked any brighter in the Village.

So Pierce ventured into bars, clothing stores, restaurants, and everything else that looked remotely opportune, but no opportunity came his way. While most personnel he talked to were genuinely nice, their bosses didn’t have the same stance. They were all weary of the ‘hobo’ the minute they set their eyes on him. Some looked at him with pity. Some with mere disgust. Most of them felt that it was their duty to advise him to fix his life. As if they had any clue what that entailed.

The more rejections he got, however, the more determined he was. And hopeful. Hopeful that the next place he got in would at least interview him before giving him a pass. At the start of the day, he had printed 15 copies of his resume. 30 places later, he still had 15 copies. It had been too long since he started and he had missed lunch in favor of trying harder.

When he looked at a store’s clock next, it was 6 p.m. He had spent an entire day being rejected. He was surprised he didn’t wanna kill himself. He wasn’t going to quit just yet, however. Surely, he couldn’t go on all day, but until the sun completely set, he would keep on trying.
 

His search had brought him all the way to TriBeCa, and he decided to head back Uptown and try his luck in all the places he’d missed. There were, what? A million stores in Manhattan? One must take him. If not in Manhattan, then Brooklyn, or Queens, or somewhere. He couldn’t rot away before he had the chance to flourish. They couldn’t do that to him. The world owed him that, at least, for having cursed him with societal hate and intolerance. It owed him a minuscule sliver of empathy. And he was determined to find that sliver.

In almost no time he was back in the northern part of the Village and walking around blocks he was certain he hadn’t passed before. He noticed a bistro with a long, black, tall tables and white stools outside, mason jars filled with rose pedals placed in equal lengths across its surface. On closer inspection, he noticed that the rose petals were glued on the glass surface and tealight candles lit up inside the jar. An oval-shaped sign on the wall right next to the glass entrance told him he was about to enter the establishment called Les Fourches.

The entire place was decorated in a similar minimalistic manner to the outside. Black and white furniture with mason jars candle holders and salt and pepper shakers placed next to each other made the whole place look cold and distant; if it weren’t for the candlelight mixed with the yellow hue of the hanging light bulbs and the paintings lining every wall, which made him feel welcome.

It was a small place. He counted approximately fifteen tables. The bar on the left side was a dazzling view. Black and white granite assembled the actual bar surface. The shelves on the wall housed all sorts of liquor in massive mason jars with a little tap to pour the drink. The beer taps were barely visible behind the bar. The whole area was wired with fairy lights, making it look like a place that had sprung out of a drunk man’s day dream. It was mere perfection. He hardly stood a chance.

Three waiters were maneuvering around the tall tables, providing the patrons anything they required. A man, a decade or two older than Pierce, stood by the side of the door behind the host stand, talking on the phone while scribbling something on a paper in front of him. He glanced at Pierce and signaled a moment with his finger while he finished up the call. Pierce took the opportunity to make more observations about the facility.
 

The waiters, all males, were tall and muscular, handsome and lean, but also quick on their feet and intelligent-looking. The bartender was a bit on the shorter side but buffer than anyone else, his muscles flexing as he shook the cocktail shaker. Everyone was clean-shaven and trimmed. Their clothes ironed and tight around their body. They all wore gray, knee-length aprons and carried a smartphone in their hands when they weren’t dealing with trays or food plates.

Everyone was smiley and gentle with their motions. The patrons, a majority of men and a few families, were all thin, white, as polished, or perhaps even more if that was even possible, than the personnel. They all were busy talking to each other or gawking at their expensive gadgets while sipping or nibbling on something. He had walked into a lot of places, but Pierce felt this might be the one that made him feel the most awkward. The most out of place. Sure he had the muscles to match the waiters’, even if they were starting to lose their taut nature as was natural after months on the streets, but other than that he had nothing in common with these people. Not anymore, anyway. Coming from a deeply religious family he probably was never exactly like them, anyway. But close enough.

He turned around to leave.

“Hi, table for one?” the host asked him before he could escape.

Pierce turned to the host with reluctance. He grimaced and paused. Only for a moment, however, before he placed his smile on his face and approached the stand.

“No, actually, I was looking for a job,” he said and his sweaty palm tightened around the handle of his suitcase.

“Okay. I might have an opening for a person. Do you have any experience?” he asked.

Pierce was dumbfounded. The guy hadn’t given him a once over like all the others had. He was actually asking him a genuine question.
 

“Just a little. Bits and pieces over summer vacation and during college,” he replied.

The guy nodded. “Okay. Okay. How old are you, kid?”

Pierce hesitated. He wasn’t even sure if he could work in an alcohol-serving bar before he turned twenty-one. If he couldn’t, he was doomed already. “Twenty,” he said.

“All right. Do you have a resumé?” he asked.

Pierce almost overcame with tears. He wanted a resume. Was this place that had made him feel so out of place a few moments ago gonna be his lucky charm? Pierce nodded and knelt down to retrieve on one from inside his suitcase. He felt the eyes of the guy heating the back of his head. He got one out, closed his suitcase back down, and stood up.

The guy’s eyes were slit now. He was calculating something. He didn’t take Pierce’s resume when he waved it in front of him. Just stared at Pierce.

“Are you homeless, kid?” he asked him.

There it was. The question that he dreaded being asked despite not having been asked it before. Everyone either assumed it or deducted he was one. No one had asked him yet. It was his time to lie. But when he opened his mouth he found he couldn’t do it.

“Yes,” he said and lowered his head.

The guy shook his head and grimaced. “I’m sorry, kid. I can’t hire someone like you, in your state. Come back when you’ve sorted yourself out,” he said in a very fatherly tone that brought memories to Pierce. Memories he wasn’t very pleased with. Memories of his own father telling him what an abomination he was. Memories of his father pushing him out of the door, while he struggled to grab everything and anything that he could.

The anger blinded him that instant and he didn’t hold back. “Come back when I’ve sorted myself out?” he scoffed. “You know how many times I’ve heard this today? Do you? Of course you don’t. You all think you’re so much better than me. You all think you know everything about me. You take one look and you see the hobo you don’t trust. You see a junkie. A pathetic crazy person. You see a beggar. A criminal. A delinquent. Right? Am I right?”

The guy barely nodded, still in shock of being confronted by the homeless kid he had rejected.

“But you see looks deceive, don’t they. You were going to give me a chance before you saw the suitcase, my shoes, my clothes, whatever the fuck it is that gives me away, even though I’ve made myself presentable.” He noticed a few of the patrons had turned to look at the two men’s encounter in the front of the bar. “But no. You have to tell me to go and sort myself out. Like I don’t know that. Like that is not what I’m trying to do. Like that isn’t the reason I’m out, spending whatever money I’ve managed to make to print me resumés so I can go and ask for a fucking job. I could have bought a coat, a blanket, something valuable so I don’t die out in the cold
fucking
winter that is coming. But no. I chose to do this. And you have the nerve to tell me to go and sort myself out. Tell me, how is a homeless kid, rejected by his family because of his sexuality, with no security, no one to take care of him, supposed to sort himself out, if no one will fucking hire him?”