Strays

by Ron Koertge

  She leans as close as she can and bats her lashes at me. “You seem shorter. Or maybe that’s because you look so awful.”

  “I’m just upset, I guess. You know what happened. . . . The accident and all.”

  She nods as only a giraffe can nod. “That was a shame. They were young.”

  “It’s not like they were perfect. No way were they perfect, but . . .”

  “Nobody’s perfect, Teddy.” She leans a little to her left. “See that big oaf over there? Nobody can go into that corner by the boulders because it’s his precious corner. He has to eat first. He has to go inside first at night. But nobody wants to see him die. Wasn’t it rather like that with your parents?”

  “Sort of, yeah.”

  “Just being alive at all is pretty much a combination of good and bad, Teddy. This is a bad part. If you can be patient, it’ll get better.”

  “Were you patient,” I ask, “when you were captured and brought here?”

  “It was terrible at first; then I got used to it.”

  “It’s kind of terrible where I am.”

  By now there are people all around me. A dozen fathers holding up their kids while the giraffe nibbles at my hair.

  I say, “Look, I’m just going to, you know, wander around a little, I guess.”

  “Go visit the lions. All boys like predators.”

  “All right. I will. Thanks.”

  I make my way through the little crowd. I’m sure people are looking at me and wondering, but I don’t care.

  When I get to the big cat pavilion, the male lion stands up, shakes his mane, and makes one of those low, coughing roars.

  “Theodore,” he says, “what are you doing here?”

  “I just came by to say hello.”

  “Oh, there’s more going on than that. You can tell me. I’m king of the beasts.”

  “Well, okay.” Finally I take the picture of my parents out of my wallet and hold it up. “Can you see this?”

  “Are you kidding? There are three people — a male and a female and a cub. The male has his arm around the female, they’re both smiling, and the little one’s asleep.”

  “Well, they died. And I’m living in this foster home, and the lady there has this doll and she’s pathetic, and her husband is this old military guy and he’s pathetic, and sometimes I’m just so lonely.”

  “What you need, Theodore, is a pride. If you can get some females to hunt for you, that’s all the better. Nothing beats lying around under a tree while the girls work. But a few young guys — that’s okay, too. Promise me you won’t spend too much time by yourself — the hyenas will get you.”

  “Son?”

  I look up to see two park guards in their blue uniforms. Behind them are a dozen people.

  “Are you okay?” The big guard has his hand on my shoulder. “It says right there you can’t feed the animals.”

  “I wasn’t feeding the animals.”

  “You could have fooled me. Those lions never get that close to the moat, and if they do, they don’t stay there unless somebody’s throwing food.”

  “I was just showing them this picture.”

  He reaches for the photo in my hand. “Who are these people?”

  “My parents.”

  “You’re showing the lions a picture of your parents?” He starts to lead me through the crowd. “They around here somewhere?”

  “No, I’m by myself.”

  “Did you drive?”

  “I took the bus. And before that the Gold Line. I live in Pasadena now.”

  “It’s nice up there. I’ve got family in Pasadena.”

  Down in the enclosure, the lion has his back to everything.

  “You’re not on anything, are you?” the guard asks.

  “Like drugs? Are you kidding? I don’t mind leaving. I know that’s what you want me to do.”

  “Do we need to walk with you?”

  “No. I know where the gate is.”

  They get on either side of me. “I think we’ll just walk with you anyway.”

  The next day I’m dozing when Astin comes in. He’s limping, and his jeans are torn.

  “Hey, man,” he says. “Did you even make it to school? I didn’t see you all day.”

  “I was late, but I made it.”

  “You were dead to the world this morning.”

  “I’m still trying to get over Little Noodle.”

  His grin is huge. “Is that far out or what?”

  I sit up and put both feet on the floor. The clock says it’s the middle of the afternoon. “Is she going to keep doing that?”

  Astin opens the top drawer of his IKEA dresser and paws through it.

  “If she tries, here’s the drill — you see that look on her face and she starts talking about her womb, you’re out the door.”

  “But she told me if I was difficult, she’d call Ms. Ervin.”

  “No way is she calling anybody, Teddy. What’s she gonna say — that you wouldn’t play dolls with her? Look at it this way: she hasn’t got her hand in your pants, she’s not drunk, and she’s not stoned. But now you’re an official foster kid. You get the I’VE SEEN LITTLE NOODLE T-shirt.”

  “I about lost it. That bra of hers looks seaworthy.”

  Astin cackles, then clutches at his side. “Don’t make me laugh; my ribs hurt.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was helping a buddy of mine work on his rice burner, and when I took it out for a spin, I had a little wreck. I wasn’t going very fast. I’m all right.” He starts tugging at his belt. “I’m going to change my pants, then get something to eat. Come with me.”

  “I just keep seeing those boobs of hers. I may never eat again.”

  “I’m buying. I hate to eat alone.”

  “Call Megan.”

  “She’s making puppets for that AP English class you guys are in. C’mon, we’ll take the chopper. Get you some street cred.”

  “Okay, I guess. I sure don’t want to stay here.”

  Outside, Astin points to the tarp on his motorcycle. “Help me with this.”

  I tell him, “I feel sorry for her. Do you feel sorry for her?”

  “For Barbara? Are you kidding? If I feel sorry for anybody, it’s Bob.”

  We lift at the same time, and the tarp billows a little.

  “Give it a shake and then stand still.”

  I watch him come toward me, one fold after another. He brushes at the tarpaulin, fusses with the corners. I go over what Astin told me: she starts in with the waffles and the womb; I’m out the door. If it works for him, it’ll work for me.

  I follow him into the garage, where he opens the trunk of Mrs. Rafter’s Saturn and stows the folded cover. Then he wants me to look too.

  “What’d your old man drive?” he asks.

  “Subaru.”

  “What’d his trunk look like?”

  “Afghanistan.”

  He opens a varnished box with brass hinges. There’s a fire extinguisher, yellow jumper cables, red flares, one of those aluminum blankets, bottled water, a see-through sandwich bag full of folded maps, and some kind of walkie-talkie.

  “She’s afraid of earthquakes,” he says.

  So there’s Barbara with her doll wondering if the overpass is going to fall on her before she gets to Curves. Oh, God.

  Astin leads me back outside and pats the motorcycle like it’s a big pet.

  “Harley Shovelhead, S&S engine, and a Boyd front end. I drove all over hell and gone to find stuff. And what I couldn’t find I made. This thing is so lean and mean I’ve had guys tell me it won’t run ’cause it hasn’t got enough parts.”

  There’s not much room for paint, but the gas tank is the deepest blue I have ever seen. “It’s nice.”

  “You bet your ass it’s nice. This baby and I go to Daytona Speed Week next year and win some prizes.” He mounts up, hands me a helmet, grabs the handlebars, and leans back. “Get on.”

  I step back. “No way am I putting my arms
around you.”

  “Just grab hold of my jacket. Nobody’ll see you, anyway. We’ll be going too fast.”

  He turns the key, and we’re gone. Dry leaves fly up behind us like a wake. I don’t much want to, but I have to hang on to something because we’re up to at least fifty miles per hour just like that.

  “You okay?” he shouts.

  “Yeah.” Actually I’m a little scared, but I’m not going to tell him that. And it’s nothing like when those three jocks turned me upside down in a trash can. This is kind of fun.

  He leans us into a turn. “Know how to drive?” he yells.

  “A car, yeah.”

  “Not one of these?”

  When I shake my head, my helmet bumps against his. The wind grabs part of our conversation.

  “Get you started in a nice big parking lot where you can’t run into anything.”

  “I’d just fall over, break something.”

  “So I fix it.”

  “I meant something of mine. Like a leg.”

  “Tell everybody you laid it down, lucky to get out alive. Chicks love war stories. Show ’em your scars.”

  He slows down and pulls up to a stoplight. We’re first when the light changes, and he keeps revving the engine.

  “Hey!”

  I glance to my right, where a white standard poodle, groomed like he’s up for Best in Show, has his head out the window.

  I reply, “Hey, yourself.”

  He nods toward the driver, a woman with too much Botox in her lips. He says, “All I do is cruise up and down this street with Ms. Fancy Pants, so I know what I’m talking about. Watch out for a cop parked behind that Shell station up ahead.”

  “Thanks. Are you all right?”

  “So-so. I wasn’t bred just to ride around in a Lexus, but I can’t complain. How about you and your boyfriend?”

  “Hey, it’s not like that.”

  “Sorry. I got a look at myself in the mirror this morning. Do you believe this haircut?”

  On the green, I lean forward and tell Astin to take it easy for a block or so.

  “Why?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  Sure enough, not thirty seconds later there’s the snout of a black-and-white cruiser peeking out, then the driver holding a radar gun.

  “Too cool, Teddy!” says Astin. “You can ride with me anytime.”

  We pull into the parking lot of Blue’s Burgers, which pretty much straddles the dividing line between San Marino and Pasadena.

  I think of those chimp wars Mom told me about because guys from Alhambra and Santa Mira and Pasadena and Arcadia mill around in their letterman’s jackets. It’s like a watering hole in Africa, too. There’s a lot of sniffing and snorting and jostling for position.

  I’ve heard about Blue’s, but I’ve never been here. My parents didn’t eat out, and, anyway, all I needed was to show up somewhere cool with my mommy and daddy. I guess I could have ridden down on my bicycle, but why? People who go to Blue’s want to see and be seen. I wanted to be invisible.

  Astin squats down beside the motorcycle, takes a handkerchief out, and wipes the chrome. He talks without looking at me. “Pretty soon, Bob’s going to take you off KP and give you the garbage detail.”

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  “Nope. It’s a promotion.” He glances up at me. “You know why Bob’s always out in that workshop, don’t you?” Astin doesn’t wait for me to answer. “She wants to adopt, but he doesn’t. She gets pretend kids and he gets a check every month, but she won’t let it go. So he’s just like, ‘Adios.’” He wipes his hands carefully. “I’d pity any baby she ever got her hands on. She’s more screwed up than my mom, and that’s saying something.”

  I ask, “What’d your mom do?”

  He doesn’t look at me. “Drugs, booze, any guy in a leather jacket.”

  “Do you ever see her?”

  “I think she’s dead.”

  “I know mine is.”

  “Lucky us. Let’s eat.”

  I follow him at top speed. He pushes past everybody. Slips in between two customers leaning on the grimy-looking counter. “Billy! Two of everything.”

  A man in a sport coat says, “I beg your pardon.”

  Astin doesn’t bother with him. He’s grinning at the guy on his right, who has a shaved head and one of those beard-and-mustache combinations that looks like a toilet brush.

  “Do you,” he asks, “beg my pardon too?”

  “Get lost.”

  “And,” says somebody from the back of the pack, “get in line like everybody else.”

  “Well, that’s not going to happen.” Astin turns, puts both elbows on the counter, and leans back. Standing like that makes his chest stick out. Male prairie chickens do this during mating season. I don’t think I’ll tell him that.

  “And it’s not going to happen,” he says, “because I’ve been coming here forever. I look out over you guys, and I don’t know any of you. So don’t tell me to get in line at my own place. Okay?” He meets one set of eyes after another. Then he says, “Good.” And he turns around.

  In the dog world, Astin would be called a dominant biter.

  Then I hear, “Somebody ought to kick your ass.”

  Now there’s fear-based aggression in the mix.

  “But nobody’s going to.” Astin pulls a handful of napkins out of a bent dispenser.

  “We might.”

  There’s a couple of grimy guys who look like they’ve been digging a grave. They wear the same kind of sunglasses and the same kind of Timberland boots with the laces undone. They’re probably on the football team, and they’re probably not very good.

  Astin strolls toward them. Gets close. Too close. Right into their space.

  “Just wait your turn,” says the big one, who’s wearing an Alhambra High T-shirt.

  “No.”

  From behind the counter, a cook pleads, “Don’t cause trouble, Astin.”

  He doesn’t even turn around. “I would never do that, Billy. I would never cause trouble for you. If it comes to that, we’ll take it down the street. So here’s the question — is it going to come to that?”

  Alhambra says, “There’s two of us, and your buddy doesn’t look like much.”

  I don’t move. Astin glances at me. “Leave him out of this,” he says. “It’d take more than you two to make me need backup.” Then he opens his hands, shows them the palms first, then the other side so they can see he’s not hiding a big ring or brass knuckles or a bomb. “Just good old-fashioned fists,” he says. “We’re not gangbangers.”

  I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of this, and my stomach turns over a time or two.

  “Astin!” The cook pounds on the counter with the palm of one hand. “Your food’s ready. Come and get it.”

  “Fellas?” He appeals to his foes. “Last chance for glory.”

  They look at him, then at each other. And then away. One of them grumbles, “Next time, fucker.”

  Astin just laughs, slaps down a twenty, and takes the cardboard tray. I fall in beside him, and we head for the nearest table.

  I ask, “What was that about, anyway?”

  “I didn’t want to wait in line.”

  I shake my head. “You’re really something.”

  He shrugs. “I just like to mix it up, you know? And I’m not scared of getting beat on. Most guys are. They’re afraid they won’t be pretty anymore.”

  Astin puts the food down. He settles in, sitting backward on a folding chair and putting both elbows on the scarred wood.

  “What’s it like to be you?” I ask.

  “It’s okay, I guess. Megan says I’m totally predictable.”

  I watch those two guys from Alhambra stop by their truck, turn around, and stare at us. Glare at us. I tell him, “I should have stepped up before. I should have said I’d fight, too. But I was scared.”

  “Do you know how?”

  “To fight? Get serious.”

 
“Then you’d just be in the way, wouldn’t you? For the record, though, and we’re just talking here — when was the last time you were heads up with somebody?”

  “That I got in a fight or that I just got hassled?”

  “Who hassled you?”

  “Mostly this guy in my old high school. Scott McIntyre.”

  “Not the douche-bag quarterback who led the Titans to a memorable three-and-eleven season?”

  “I didn’t go to any games, but yeah. That Scott McIntyre. He and his crew never left me alone. I mean never. I mean every day.”

  “I hate that shit. If I’m riding and I see some like middle school kids throwing it down and it’s three against one, I am off the bike and right in their faces.”

  “Astin, you just picked on two guys you never saw before.”

  “That’s different. They were bigger than me. Together they were, anyway. That would’ve been a fair fight. You against McIntyre, there’s no way. He was a jock and you’re . . . what were you, anyway?”

  “I sold kitty litter.”

  “There you go.” He waves at somebody he knows who’s sitting a dozen yards away. Then he asks, “Were you just smarter than him or what?”

  “Than Scott? Anybody’s smarter than Scott. No, I was just one of those guys who gets picked on. Even in first grade I always took a lot of heat about my parents’ smelly old store.”

  “First grade’s a bitch.”

  “And there were a couple of things that sort of followed me around.”

  “Yeah, like what?”

  “Just stupid things.”

  “Like hitting gunpowder with a hammer?”

  “You did that?”

  “Or setting your teacher’s briefcase on fire?”

  There’s nobody around and they probably wouldn’t care, anyway, but I still lean in. “Like in grade school I was at this party and nobody wanted to, you know, be my partner for Seven Minutes of Heaven, so I kind of trashed this desk, and then a couple of years ago I got caught sitting in some girl’s car.”

  “Trying to hot-wire it? It’s not like in those old movies. You have to know what you’re doing.”

  “No, I was hoping she’d come out to get the mail or walk her dog or something, and I’d say, ‘Why don’t you like me? I never did anything to you.’ I guess I wanted to start over or something.