No Parking at the End Times

by Bryan Bliss

  “Okay, gross.”

  Aaron doesn’t stop, though. “And if I thought I could bring her back here, I would. But this isn’t any better. Not really.” He stops, staring at me for a second before motioning to the van and saying, “I know you don’t like it, but I need to make sure she’s okay. Like, now.”

  “You’re not going to fight Skeetch, right?” I ask.

  Aaron laughs quietly. “Yeah, we’re totally going to duel.”

  “I’m being serious, Aaron.”

  He puts both hands on my shoulders and looks me in the eyes.

  “I’m going to go make sure Jess gets her stuff and that she finds a different place to sleep tonight. That’s it. Those guys are probably all so stoned by now, they won’t even notice me. Okay?”

  I still don’t move toward the van, and he sighs. Finally he reaches out his pinky finger and says, “I swear I’ll be safe. That’s the best I can do.”

  I nod, even though I don’t want to. But even if I grabbed him and pulled him into the van, he’d just slip away later. So I raise my pinky and make him swear.

  Before I get into the van he stops me and says, “Thanks, Abs.”

  BEFORE

  THE HOUSE LOOKED SMALLER EMPTY. WITH ALL THE FURNITURE gone, I didn’t recognize anything. The realtor had even painted over the pencil marks on the kitchen trim, Mom’s faithful record of our growth. I stood there, pretending to look at the flyer that called our house “charming.” Pretending not to be angry about all the people who were walking around, looking in every room as if nobody had ever lived here before.

  I told Mom and Dad I was going for a run. We were going to be cooped up in the van for the next two weeks as we drove, and the motel they’d rented for those last few days wasn’t much better. But I couldn’t say I ended up back at the house by accident. From the outside, it looked the same as always. Gray siding with white shutters. A charcoal roof that slanted toward the front lawn. Even the wreath on the door—twisted vines Mom had taken off a tree long ago—was still in place. Nobody had wanted it, and what would we do with a wreath in California? The realtor called it character, but when I saw it sitting on the door it only depressed me.

  The open house was scheduled for another hour, and I stayed the entire time. I went from room to room, smelling the drapes that still hung. Looking at the scarred wooden floors in Aaron’s room. Everything about the house had our names written on it. How would any other family ever fit inside this space?

  When it came time to leave, I couldn’t do it. I asked the realtor for five minutes, and then ten after that. When we were thirty minutes past the original ending of the open house, she told me she needed to lock up. After she drove away, I went back to the porch and sat there until the sun began to set and the shadows reached across the front lawn in long fingers. When the van pulled up, I started to cry.

  Mom came to the porch and sat next to me. I tried to dry my eyes, but the tears kept coming. Mom let me sit there like that for five minutes, not saying a word. When I finally stopped crying, she put her arm around me and said, “I know. But we have each other, Abigail. And as long as we’re together, nothing can beat us.”

  When I got in the van, Aaron was in the back. He wouldn’t look at me. Even Dad was quiet. I told myself not to look at the house as we pulled away. That Mom was right. It was only a house, and we had a lot more than just that.

  ELEVEN

  MOM AND DAD ARE TRYING TO BE QUIET, BUT I HAVEN’T SLEPT all night. Aaron snuck back into the van just an hour before Dad got up and went outside to pee next to a tree hidden from traffic. At first, I was happy to hear their voices. I tried to let the soft monotone drag me to sleep. But then my fainting spell at Brother John’s came back to me—was it only last night?—and now all I can do is lie here, pretending to be asleep, and wish they would go get breakfast without us.

  If Aaron would wake up, he could be my distraction. Then I wouldn’t have to talk to them about church. I wouldn’t have to lie to them, or answer any questions. Because of course they’re going to ask. Or maybe they’ll take my hands and we’ll pray for the sort of assurance that has been fueling Dad since we crossed the state line into California. Another easy answer to our problems.

  When Dad finally goes for coffee, Mom sits silently until he gets back. Then they talk about the day, where we’ll get breakfast and how Brother John may need them to help set up for tonight’s service.

  I should know better. They never go anywhere without us. When I open my eyes, Mom sees me first; she smiles and hands me something wrapped in a napkin. “Your father got these at the store. They were giving them away.”

  It’s a croissant, probably days old now. I still eat it quickly. Dad sips from his coffee cup, looking as if he wants to say something. But only Mom talks.

  “Did you sleep okay last night?”

  “Pretty good,” I say.

  “You should take it easy today. Really get some rest.”

  As soon as she says it, Dad turns to her like he wants to object. Mom doesn’t look at him, and he eventually goes back to his coffee. But taking it easy means sitting here, with them, and Dad won’t be able to resist talking to me about God, or what I think my little episode means. Or worse: we’ll end up in Brother John’s office, looking to acknowledge the sign once again. Like I’m some kind of special pig and Dad’s hoping for a prize.

  I sit up and grab my shoes, still damp from last night.

  “I’m going for a run,” I say, forcing a quick smile. “I’ll rest when I get back.”

  Under my quilt, I work my jeans up my legs. Dad flounders in the front seat, looking from me to Mom like his head is on a swivel. I stand up and make for the door without saying anything other than, “Thanks. Love you guys. Back later.”

  I take off as soon as I leave the van, letting the movement of my legs wipe away everything in my mind.

  I run. Fast and hard until I’m doubled over at the entrance of the park—barely able to breathe. The trumpet man, only feet away from me, plays a few notes and then yells, “I am bound!” at a group of people trying to rent a bicycle. They pretend not to notice him.

  Trumpet Man, however, wants their attention. He yells, “Wide extended plains!” and begins walking toward them, horn in hand. He’s only a few steps away when the guy trying to rent bikes tells him to go away. Trumpet Man stops and again says, “Wide extended plains.”

  “I’m going to call the cops,” the worker says, shooing him away like a pigeon. Trumpet Man laughs loudly, his head back.

  When he blasts a loud and long note, the bike manager comes from behind the desk swatting a stack of flyers in front of him. Trumpet Man jumps backward and then runs down the hill toward the tunnel. As the worker goes back behind the desk, he looks at me and says to the couple, “Sorry about that.”

  I stand up as he’s talking, almost ready to start running again. As I cross the path, the woman renting the bike backs into me. Before I can apologize, the bike manager curses and says, “I’m so tired of all you homeless kids. Is it possible for me to rent bikes and not have you sit up here all day jerking off? Is that possible?”

  “I’m not homeless,” I say, shocked.

  “Yeah, of course you’re not,” the man says. “Just get out of here, or I’ll call the cops on you, too.”

  I turn around, careful not to mimic the trumpet man’s movements—to draw any comparison between us. As I begin to run, I hear the man tell the people renting bikes, “You just have to be tough with them, that’s all. Welcome to San Francisco!”

  We aren’t like the trumpet man, or even Jess and her friends. One month doesn’t change you, not in that way. There are people who go on the road for months, looking for adventure—trying to satisfy a primal wanderlust. Those are the ones we’re like.

  We can go back. We have a place.

  I run through the tunnel, into the bright park, each footstep more of a denial than the last.

  I push myself hard up and down the asphalt trails, blo
wing by moms with strollers and little kids yelling up to the sun. I run and run and run, but it doesn’t make me feel better. It only makes my legs weak, enough that when I finally stop I have to lay in the grass. The coolness crawls up my back, prickling my skin at first. But as I lay there, my body relaxes and I can feel every blade of grass pushing against me.

  If we are homeless now, at what point did it change? When we sold our house, technically. Even if we went back home, what happens next? There’s no job for Dad. No warm bed waiting for any of us. We could sleep on Uncle Jake’s couch, but that still isn’t a home.

  “Hey!” The voice startles me and I sit up fast. Jess stands there looking happy, but confused. She takes a long sip from a water bottle, as if she can’t figure out what to say next. “Aaron’s never around during the day. I think he might be a vampire.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “I mean, I’m surprised to see you here. I’m happy, you know? Yay?”

  She takes another sip from the water bottle and bites her lip before saying, “I can leave if you want. I realize I’m being kind of a freak.”

  “Join the club,” I say, patting the grass. The truth is, any distraction would be welcome. Another freak added to the collection.

  Jess sits next to me on the grass and offers me the bottle, which I take.

  “So you’re a runner? That’s cool, I guess. Personally, I think running is for the birds. That’s what my mom used to say about everything. Working, for the birds. Quitting smoking, for the birds. I’m officially adding running to that list.”

  I’ve almost downed the entire bottle as she says, “For. The. Birds.”

  Jess opens a granola bar and looks in the opposite direction, toward a group of people carefully turning their bodies, like slow-motion kung fu.

  “That’s definitely more my speed,” Jess says. “Plus, ninja skills. So, bonus.”

  She chops the air and laughs.

  “You run a lot?”

  “I used to. In school.”

  “Oh. School.” She breaks off half of her granola bar and hands it to me. “I would’ve given anything to get out of school a few years ago. For the birds, you know. Now, I think I’d like it.”

  “You could go back,” I say.

  Because if it could work for her, then maybe it would for us, too. You can start over, right? Even if it’s something as small as going back to high school. There have to be do-overs, no matter how many times you need them.

  She chews and swallows before saying, “Maybe. I don’t know. What about you?”

  “Oh, we go to Ford,” I say, but it’s rote. A programmed response that I’m not sure is still true. Do we still go to Ford? If we end up staying here, will we start a new school? I try to imagine wearing the same pants day after day. To have people figure out we live in our van. Is it something Mom and Dad have even considered?

  “Maybe we’d be in the same class,” Jess says. “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen,” I say.

  “I’m seventeen,” Jess says. “Eighteen if I’m trying to buy cigarettes.”

  She laughs, but doesn’t say anything else until a thin man with at least three jackets on comes up and asks if she has a lighter. She hands one to him and says he can keep it.

  “It’s almost empty,” she tells me. “So, whatever.”

  I’ve never smoked or even held a lighter except for the long ones they use to light the candles at church. The long silence is awkward, but I don’t know if we have any common ground except age and Aaron. So that’s where I start.

  “Did Aaron come find you last night?”

  She rolls her eyes and says, “Yeah, the idiot. I’ve been out here for a long time. I can take care of myself.”

  “He was worried, that’s all.”

  She nods. “I know. But there are some things that you have to ignore. Some people, especially.”

  “Like Skeetch?” I ask.

  I expect her to jump at his name. Instead, she bites the side of her thumbnail, inspecting it a few times before she sighs. “He is definitely candidate number one.”

  “How do you even know that guy?”

  She laughs again, just as sad and sharp as the previous. “Can we not talk about it? I went over all of this with your brother last night and, honestly, right now, all I want to do is forget about Skeetch. Okay?”

  I don’t really want to think about him either, so I agree. Jess stands up and claps, so quickly I’m sure something’s bit her. But then she pulls me up off the grass, too, and says, “All right, we need to get out of the park. See the world.”

  “Oh, I probably should get back to the van,” I say. “I was only supposed to be gone for a quick run.”

  “Well, how long do you usually run?”

  “An hour? Maybe?”

  The truth is, sometimes back home I’d be gone for hours. Running through the cobblestone sidewalks of our downtown, waving at people from church. When I’d get back to the house, it would be dark and time for dinner. The food always tasted so good after those runs.

  “An hour? That’s plenty of time. Besides, I don’t want to be alone.”

  I look up at the sky, as if there will be some kind of sign, an arrow in the clouds definitively saying, Go back to the van; everything is fixed. But the only clouds I see are a formless gray clump. And what do I have to go back to? Another five hours spent waiting in the van? Another conversation about God?

  “All right, fine.”

  She leads me out of the park, past the bike seller who doesn’t look up from his magazine, and up a hill until we’re across the street from a train stop. People stand in one long jumbled line, all of them staring down the empty tracks.

  “Are we taking the train?”

  I must look crazy because she says, “Uh, yeah . . .”

  It’s not that I think she’s going to lead me to some dangerous part of the city and leave me. But getting too far away from the van makes me nervous. I look up the street; the train still isn’t visible.

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “Of course you don’t, because you have a pass,” Jess says. “Remember?”

  I shake my head and she sighs. “Look, we’re going to get on in the back of the train and act like we both have passes because, honestly, where we’re going is really far and I’m not some runner chick. So let’s try this again: you have a pass. Right?

  “Oh,” I say, “yeah.”

  She raises her eyebrows and nods, but I can’t escape the nerves.

  “Hey, nobody’s dying here,” Jess says. “We do it all the time. Cool?”

  She smiles, hitting me gently on the shoulder. I smile back and say, “Yeah, cool.”

  “All right then. Let’s do this.”

  She talks until the train comes. About Aaron, the city—every topic getting no more than a few seconds before she pivots and moves on. When the doors open, she talks all the way to the back of the car. I can feel every single person in the car looking at me, all of them waiting for me to produce this mythical pass. I wait for the conductor—do these trains have conductors?—to come charging toward us, ready to call the police.

  I sit with my butt on the edge of the plastic seat, ready to jump up and run if I need to. But nobody says a word. If anything, it’s as if we’re not even on the train. Whenever I happen to make eye contact with somebody, they immediately look down or up—anywhere but at me. Even Jess eventually closes her eyes.

  This is what it feels like to be invisible.

  The speaker above us says, “Metro Civic Center Station/Downtown” and Jess pops up, shouldering her backpack in one quick movement. We follow the surge of people exiting the train out on to a street filled with cars and people. Jess doesn’t stop the way I do, unsure of how to navigate these crowds. She turns left, and I have to run to catch up.

  “If you ever come down here by yourself, you have to be careful,” she says as we walk. “There’s some really sketchy people around here sometimes.”

&nbs
p; We turn a corner, walking past a group of men working on the sidewalk. Without looking, Jess walks into the road, narrowly missing being hit by a car flying up the street. She ignores the horn, hoisting her middle finger into the air as she keeps walking. I wait for a delivery truck to squeeze down the narrow road before I follow. When I catch up to her she says, “And I never eat down here either. The big church down the road is always serving, but it’s just too crazy in there. The line is stupid with assholes.”

  Mom and Dad have never brought us down here, and I can’t say that I mind. It’s hectic, dirty, and there seem to be men sitting against every building we pass, all of them whistling or slurring words through their thickly bearded faces. We walk two more blocks and right before turning another corner, Jess turns to me and says, “Okay, so I realize that the opportunity for disappointment exists. I think this is amazing. Not like Mount Rushmore amazing, mind you. But definitely better than, say, the mall. So make sure you gauge your expectation somewhere in between national treasure and mall.”

  I let my shoulders drop as I say, “Oh, I really hoped we were going to the mall.”

  She waits a moment, and then laughs, putting her arm around my shoulder. “Oh yeah, we’re totally going to go get makeovers next. But first I need to get Dad’s credit card. Hey, should we take your BMW or mine?”

  I’m not sure what to expect when we go around the corner. But when I see the building, columns around it like a skeleton’s ribs and a top that shines in the bright morning sun, I can’t explain the excitement. It’s only a building—city hall, I soon find out from a sign. But it’s glorious and excessive and I love it.

  We run the last block toward the building like kids unleashed in a theme park. From further away, I didn’t notice the trees. But the closer I get, the more I’m captivated. They twist and knuckle up from the ground, hundreds of them flanking either side of an unnaturally green rectangle of grass. Their top branches are cut close to the trunk like bad haircuts. Jess bobs and weaves between them, her long red hair flying behind her.