by Rhys Everly
“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 shocked as Carol. He’d washed his jumper and trousers, had an extensive shower, cleaned up his hair, scrubbed his face, 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 with bitterness spilling out of her every pore. “Go sort your life out before you come asking for a job.”
That’s what he was trying to do, for fuck’s sake. Frustrated, he walked out of the bar. He kept south, heading toward the busier areas, although he already felt it was a lost battle. Two people had already given him the boot before he could even talk to them, and he doubted 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 fifteen copies of his resume. Thirty places later, he still had fifteen copies. It had been too long since he started, and he had missed lunch in favor of trying harder.
When he looked at the next store’s clock, it was six in the evening. He had spent an entire day being rejected. He was surprised he didn’t want to kill himself. He wasn’t going to quit just yet, however. Sure, 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 long, black, tall tables and white stools outside, mason jars filled with rose petals placed at equal intervals 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 jar candle holders and salt and pepper shakers placed next to each other made the whole place look cold and distant—except 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 made up the actual bar surface. The shelves on the wall housed all sorts of liquor in massive mason jars with little taps 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 daydream. It was sheer 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 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 male, 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 smiling and gentle with their motions. The patrons, a majority of men and a few upperclass families, were all thin and well-dressed, as polished—perhaps even more if that was even possible—as 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 without a fitness regime, 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 put his smile back 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 was almost overcome with tears. He wanted a resumé. Was this place, that had made him feel so out of place a few moments ago, going to be his lucky charm? Pierce nodded and knelt down to retrieve one from inside his suitcase. He felt the guy’s eyes heating the back of his head. He got one out, closed his suitcase, and stood up.
The guy’s eyes were slitted now. He was calculating something. He didn’t take Pierce’s resumé when he held it out to him. Just stared at Pierce.
“Are you homeless, kid?”
There it was. The question he dreaded. Everyone either assumed it or figured it out. No one had asked him upfront 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, 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 are deceiving, aren’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.
“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 on printing my resumé so I can go out 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 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 give him a fucking chance to?”
His anger dissipated as he vented. When he finished, he was breathless and cold. His stomach pulsed and his head was light as he came to the realization that everyone was now staring at him and he had embarrassed himself. Tears started shaping in his eyes. Before he made an even bigger fool of himself, he decided to leave.
“If you can come to work washed and clean-shaven you can start next Friday,” he heard the guy say as he opened the door,
Pierce froze in his position, the tears finally releasing onto his cheeks. He wiped them before he turned to look at the bar manager. “You… you mean that?”
“I only have a need for a weekender, so I can only give you two, maybe three shifts a week, but only if you can come to work like I said,” the guy told him. “And I’m not being an asshole, but I really can’t… ”
“Thank you,” Pierce cut him off. “That’s enough for me. Thank you,” he repeated and his eyes stung as they were threatened by the invasion of more tears.
“What’s your name, kid?” he asked.
“Pierce. Callahan,” he said, thrusting his resumé out. The manager took it.
“Well, Pierce, I’m Vance,” he said and reached into his pocket. He took something out and passed it to Pierce. “Here. Go buy yourself some clothes from somewhere. I’m sorry for being such a dick before,” he said.
Pierce took the bills in his hand but couldn’t believe the man he’d just screamed at had turned into his savior. Who knew screaming could save lives? “You made up for it by being such an angel now. Thank you. I’ll see you next Friday,” he said and opened the door to leave for the third time.
“Oh, what time do you want me here?” he asked.
“I know it’s a lot to ask, but can you please do that for me? It will be the first and last time,” Pierce was sitting at the reception desk opposite the hostel staff member.
He had come with a plan on his way back and now was trying to implement it. Someone had given him a chance and he didn’t want to let him down. Someone had believed in him when his own blood couldn’t.
“I’m sorry. It’s our policy. We don’t accept last minute cancelations,” the guy said. He was East-Asian with near-perfect English. He was rather chubby in the face, but quite adorable nonetheless. He’d be a stud if he let Pierce have his way, though.
“Come on, man. Level with me. I’ve been out all day looking for a job. No one even gave me a second look, and then finally, this guy—this angel—gave me an opportunity. All I ask is that I transfer the second night I paid for to next Thursday so I can come here to clean up and turn up for my first day on the job with the same respect he’s given me,” he told him.
The receptionist grimaced, twitched his mouth, then rolled his eyes. “Okay. But don’t tell anyone I did that. It could cost me my own job.”
Pierce smiled broadly.
“It’ll be our dirty, little secret.”
It seemed Vance had the magic touch. At that moment, he felt like he could accomplish anything. He sprang up, planted a kiss on the guy’s cheek, and strolled out of the hostel with his suitcase and his dignity intact. Life was good!
Of course, it had to be then he came to the realization that the temperature outside had dropped considerably.
Describing it as lightly chilly would be the understatement of the year. It was motherfucking cold. It was the clear return to reality. His reality.
He might have found a job, but it would be more than a couple of months before he could rent a room. He didn’t even know what he would be paid, if the place had good tips. It looked like it should. It was a classy bistro in the Village. It’d be crazy if it didn’t. But he would still have to live on the streets most nights to save money for an actual room.
He felt like punching himself. What the fuck was wrong with him? Why was he focusing on all the negatives? What had happened to him? He used to be such a positive person. A healthy man with a passion for his body and an empathy for the planet he lived on.
He was a recycler, an energy and water saver, and a vegan bodybuilder in the making. To an outsider’s eye, he would be the epitome of a hipster, coming from a middle-class Christian family from Upstate New York. But he was nothing like his parents. They were the reason he’d become so pessimistic. Before they kicked him out, he was his own man. Now, he was a nobody at the mercy of the kindness of strangers.
No. Pierce dismissed the negativity for now. He had to look at everything good about his life. He had a job. In a few months, he’d have a room, hopefully sooner if it paid well. His own room.
Maybe next year he could resume college too. If the price of having all that was sleeping on the streets, for another month or so, he would brave the winter.
He would sleep in the subway. He would sleep at Central Park if he had to. He wouldn’t even care if he’d get pissed on or mugged again. If that’s what it took to kick start his life, he would do it.
A shout permeated his ears and he turned to find the source. He couldn’t see anything, but a second scream guided him down the road he was walking and in to an alley between two apartment buildings. Two men were knelt on the ground pinning someone’s hands and legs while a third guy was unbuttoning the victim’s trousers, shutting his mouth with his hand.
The victim was also a guy.
“Shut the fuck up, boy. When you sell that ass, you ain’t screaming.”
“Hey!” Pierce shouted at the guys before he could control himself.
The guy who was doing the unbuttoning turned and, seeing Pierce, stood up. Pierce etched closer. The only streetlight in the alley hit the victim’s face and Pierce recognized it.
It was Rafe.
Six
Rafe
“What do you want?” the asshole asked. The one who had started all this.
“I think it’s pretty clear the guy doesn’t want your dick in his mouth,” his potential savior said, “Frankly, I understand his sentiment. So, why don’t you let him go?”
Rafe couldn’t see his face. The streetlight behind him only gave him a silhouette but no features.
“Run along, boy. You don’t wanna get involved in this,” the asshole said.
He was a five-foot-something man with a cap on and a young face. He had big muscles and a generally big physique. The guy across from him didn’t stand a chance. He was tall and much thinner.
“Oh, something tells me I really wanna get involved in this. I also have the feeling this is gonna end badly for some of you.” The guy paused, then continued with a chuckle. “Don’t—don’t you get the same feeling? Is it just me?”
Rafe’s attacker wasn’t having any of the attitude. “Papi,” he said, hitting his fist on his palm, “you better run away now or you’ll regret this.”
“Ooh, I’m scared,” the guy said, full of
derision. “But, honestly, that feeling is telling me that you will be the one to regret this. Isn’t that weird? I don’t know about you, but I want to put the feeling to the test,” he said and let down his briefcase.
Rafe looked closer. As the guy bent down, the light touched him briefly and he saw blue piercing eyes. And then Rafe looked at the briefcase, which turned out to be a small suitcase.
Could it—could it really be Pierce? Was he so fortunate? When the gillipollas started running toward him, though, Rafe wished it wasn’t Pierce. He didn’t want him involved in his life. He didn’t want him to get hurt for him. He didn’t want that beautiful face ruined by the stitches he’d have to get after that asshole was done with him.
The asshole charged at Pierce with a fist raised in the air. Pierce took a few steps forward, hunched, and forced his arm in the guy’s stomach, avoiding his punch in the process. He swept the other guy's legs out from under him, bringing him to the ground with a thud. The asshole groaned. Pierce punched him in the face several times until he lost the strength to fight back.
“Hijo de puta,” said the guy pinning Rafe’s legs, and he felt the release of the pressure in his ankles as he stood to confront Pierce.
He raised his palms in front of him, protecting his face, and called to Pierce, provoking him. Pierce didn’t take long to catch the bait. He left the short guy to lick his wounds and walked toward the other attacker, who stood almost as tall as Pierce himself. But Pierce didn’t attack him. He waited, jumping left and right, waiting.
Seconds later, Rafe heard the second guy roar as he threw a punch toward Pierce. Pierce ducked and pushed the arm away from him. Then kicked the guy’s groin, which had been left wide open and unprotected.