by Carian Cole
My fight-or-flight instincts relax as I watch how much care he lavishes on his dog. The guy seems harmless, but I smile and move farther away from him anyway, glancing down at my watch as I do so. My lunch hour is nearly over.
My gazebo partner looks up at the sky. “It’ll stop in a few minutes. It’s just a quick shower.”
I nod in response, my attention drawn to the earring he’s wearing. The small blue feather dangles on a silver hook and nestles against his mane of long brown hair. The effect is very rocker-cool and reminds me of the bird that flew into my skull yesterday and left its little downy feather on my forehead. I wonder if it was some kind of premonition or a sign.
“You work nearby? Or go to the college?” he asks.
“I work in an office a few blocks that way.” I point off to the right, even though my office is to the left. “And you?”
He tilts his head. “You’re looking at it.”
“So, you…?”
With a nod, he pulls a crushed pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and removes one with his lips. He replaces the pack and retrieves a black lighter from the front pocket of his jeans. “Yup. Work and live here.” He curves his inked hand around the cigarette, protecting it from the wind as he lights it.
Oh. I’ve never talked to a homeless person. Seen them around, yes. Talked to one? No. Another shiver shoots up my spine. Crossing my arms tighter around my torso, I lean against the railing, squashing my purse so he can’t grab it. He probably needs money to eat, or he could be a junkie needing a fix. Screw the rain and frizzy hair, I should make a run for it now before—
“This is one of the nicest towns I’ve been in.” His voice interrupts my racing thoughts. “The people are friendly. They don’t treat me like trash.” He exhales a cloud of smoke and snuffs the half-smoked cigarette out on the bottom of his leather shoe. I wait for him to toss the butt onto the grass, but instead he shoves it in his pocket.
A lump of guilt forms in my throat. I relax my arms as I raise my gaze to meet his. There’s no threat, no mania flickering in those eyes. I see blue—the color of the sky just before it turns to night, that subtle transition that marks one time of day to another. Perhaps his eyes are very telling, and he’s also in a transition of sorts, moving from one phase of life into another.
We watch the rain fall, waiting for it to stop, but I don’t really want it to. It’s soft and lulling and brings stillness with it. The park is empty, except for this homeless guy with the amazing eyes, his dog, and me. By the time the rain stops, I’m fifteen minutes late returning to work, but I’m in no rush to get back. Something about being with the quiet stranger is surprisingly comforting. We leave the gazebo together, his dog trailing behind us down the walkway that leads back to my bench, his guitar-playing spot, and the rusty wrought-iron entrance.
“Nothing more hopeful and beautiful than gray skies and rainbows,” he says as we walk.
I furrow my brow and wait in case he clarifies what he means. He takes his place against the brick wall, across from my bench. He sits on the wet ground and I wonder if rainwater seeping through his jeans will bother him or if he just deals with things like damp clothes. When he doesn’t say anything else, I give him a last look and head back toward my office without saying goodbye.
As I pass through the gate and wait to cross the busy street I see it—a rainbow arching across the cloudy sky. And he’s right. It’s beautiful and hopeful.
Chapter Two
The guitarist is here again today, and he smiles a hello when he sees me. I shyly return the smile and sit on my bench, pretending to busy myself with my plastic container of tossed salad. My focus is truly on the incredibly beautiful rendition of “Für Elise” that fills the air. He plays with so much depth and emotion, I get goosebumps as he plucks each note on his guitar.
Pop, rock, classical…. Is there anything this guy can’t play?
A man in a suit tosses a quarter into the Mason jar, and I want to shove his monogrammed black leather messenger bag up his ass. Does he not recognize beautiful music when he hears it? A quarter buys a piece of bubble gum or a ride on a rocking horse outside the grocery store. That won’t buy live classical music. Huffing, I spend the next minute trying to find my pink wallet, which is lost in the file cabinet of crap I call my purse.
I have a five-dollar bill and a twenty-dollar bill. Chewing my lip, I look over at the musician. I like looking at him, though he’s not my type. Not even a little bit. He looks like Jesus with his long hair and denim-blue eyes and that ethereal aura that bounces off him. I’m sure Jesus doesn’t look like a homeless street musician, but if he were to come down and be all sorts of cool, I could see him looking like that. People must flock to him in droves, especially women, because he’s got a strange sexual magnetism about him. The guitar guy, not Jesus.
I’ve still got my hand stuffed in my purse, and I’m holding the five and the twenty. Five bucks doesn’t seem like nearly enough to compensate for his talent. But giving him a twenty could be too much—I don’t want to look like a desperate person buying his attention. Or he might think I’m some spoiled rich girl throwing money at the poor, dirty, sexy homeless guy.
I feel I should give him something, though, since I’ve been sitting here for the past week enjoying his music, even though I try to act as though I don’t notice him and the fluid movement of his hands. And the way the feather blows against his cheek in the breeze. Or how his eyes track me when I enter the park. Or the way his eyelids close so very slowly when he’s completely into the song he’s playing. But just because I notice all those things doesn’t mean I’m into him in that way. Homeless men with feather earrings are of no interest to me. I just want to show my appreciation of his craft. A simple gesture of thanks can turn a person’s day around.
As I struggle between the five and the twenty, I notice a man with a food cart across the park. Yes! Food is much safer. I toss my salad container into my lunch bag and head across the park.
“What’ll ya have?” the guy behind the cart asks when I approach.
Contemplating the plastic menu taped to the front of his silver cart, I wonder whether guitar guy is into hot dogs or hamburgers. What if he’s a vegetarian? I finger the heart charm on my necklace nervously. Maybe cash would have been better, after all.
“Ma’am?” he urges, though there’s no one in line behind me.
“I’ll take a cheeseburger, a hot dog with no bun, a bottle of water, and a sweetened iced tea,” I say quickly. “And can I have an empty cup or a bowl?”
He throws me an irritated glance as he flips a patty on his miniature grill. Minutes later, my stomach growls loudly as he wraps the burger and puts it into a plastic bag with the rest of my order. The tiny garden salad I packed for lunch can’t compete with a juicy burger, but I’m determined to stick to my goal of healthy eating.
After I pay, the hunger pangs turn to nervous jitters as I walk down the paved pathway toward the musician. I wait off to the side until he finishes the song he’s playing, not wanting to interrupt. The couple watching him smiles, praises him, and then walks away hand in hand. They don’t tip him. I wonder what that feels like for him. Does it feel like rejection? Lack of appreciation? Or maybe it doesn’t bother him at all and he just likes to play music for people.
He squints up at me as I awkwardly hold the bag out to him. Now that I’m standing closer to him than I was in the gazebo, I can see his perfect white teeth and the tiniest dimple in his left cheek. “I got you a hamburger and a bottle of iced tea. And a hot dog and water for your dog.” I try not to get lost in the endless realm of his eyes as he studies mine. “You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to,” I continue, hoping I haven’t offended him or gotten him something he doesn’t even like. “I just kind of guessed.”
A smile tips his lips. “You guessed right. I’ve been dying for a burger. Sitting here smelling the food coming off that cart every day has been driving me crazy.” He stands, towering over me and makin
g me feel even shorter than my four feet eleven inches. “I almost moved to the other side of the park, but I didn’t want to give up the view of my favorite bench.”
I follow his eyes, and my heart skips a beat or two or twenty when I realize he means my bench.
Is homeless guitar guy flirting with me?
“Sit with me while I eat?” he asks.
The invitation bounces my thoughts around like a ping-pong ball. Although he seems nice, I’m wary of sitting with a homeless person. I have no proof that he might not be a thief, a murderer, or any other brand of criminal. He may just hide it really well, as some do.
At least that’s what they do in books and movies. Maybe I watch too many late-night movies… someone is always a victim or a suspect.
I scan the park surroundings, knowing I should politely decline, but I’m too intrigued by the tiny spark of excitement I felt when he asked me to sit with him. Other than a pizza with every topping imaginable or ice cream in a waffle cone, not much really gets me excited lately.
“C’mon,” he urges. “I could use some real conversation.” He rubs the dog’s head affectionately. “He’s a great listener, but he doesn’t talk much.”
His pleading smile convinces me to give in. I hold the bag of food while he packs up his guitar and shoves his Mason jar in his duffel bag. I follow him and his dog to a spot farther away, to a picnic table near an old stone bridge that arches over a road that hasn’t been in use for years. My heart beats a little faster with apprehension as I glance behind us. There are about twenty people in various areas of the park, most of them still close enough to hear me if I let out a blood-curdling scream for help. I finally join him at the old wooden table.
The truth is, though, I think the slow realization that I might actually like this guy and want to spend time with him is making me far more skittish than the possibility that he might have plans to hurt me.
The beating of my heart calms to a normal pace when he fills the paper bowl with water and breaks the hot dog into bite-sized pieces for the dog. Then he unwraps the burger for himself. It’s the second time I’ve seen him show special care for the dog, and I find it very endearing. It proves he’s not an asshole and, in my naïve twenty-one-year-old mind, also that he’s probably not someone who would hurt me. Serial killers torture animals. They don’t worry about them getting wet, and they wouldn’t feed a pet before feeding themselves.
He moans as he chews the burger, and the raw sensuality of the sound sends a heated shiver through my body. I cross my legs and focus on the dog lapping up his water.
“Mmm… this is so fuckin’ good.” He takes another bite with his eyes closed and moans again. “Thank you for this.” He holds the burger out to me. “You want some? It’s delicious.”
“No, thank you.” I lean away from him. Germs scare the heck out of me. I never share drinks with other people or use soap at people’s houses unless it’s in a liquid dispenser. I keep tissues in my purse in case I have to use a public restroom. Who knows who touched the toilet paper in there? Or if it rolled across the filthy floor before it was put in the dispenser?
“I already ate my lunch. I just wanted to give you something to say thank you for your music. I look forward to hearing it every day now.”
“So you took the fast track to my heart by giving me food when I’m starving. Nice move, slayer.”
My cheeks burn as he takes a sip of his iced tea, the rim of the bottle pressing against his full lips. Damn. He’s way too good-looking and talented to be homeless and playing in a park in this small New England town.
After devouring the hot dog and water, his dog nudges my hand, wanting to be petted. Smiling, I stroke his soft, floppy ears, hoping he doesn’t have fleas and that my hand doesn’t end up smelling like dog. Archie the cat will probably bite me if he smells another animal on me. He’s very possessive and territorial.
“What’s his name?” I ask.
Guitar guy finishes off the hamburger and puts the wrapper in the plastic bag. “You want to know his name, but not mine?” he teases with a tone of mock offense.
“You can tell me your name, too.”
“His name is Acorn. He’s been my best friend and traveling buddy for two years.”
I smile at the unique name. “It fits him. He’s adorable.”
He nods and places his hand on the dog’s back. “He’s loyal. And smart. Only took me a few hours to teach him how to wave when people give us money.”
As I pet Acorn’s ears, I catch his owner staring at me. He doesn’t look away, but I do. “And your name?” I ask, focusing on the dog between us.
“Evan. But my friends call me Blue.”
I summon the courage to look at him as I smile shyly. “It’s nice to meet you, Evan.”
He squints, almost as if he’s wincing from a sharp pain, and the left side of his mouth pulls to the side into a frown. “You didn’t call me Blue.”
“Well… I’m not sure we’re friends yet.”
He nods slowly. “You’re right. We could end up being much more. Or less.” He pushes strands of his long hair away from his face, revealing a five o’clock shadow of stubble on his cheeks. I haven’t seen him with this much facial hair before, so he must shave pretty regularly. Or at least does sometimes. I’m envious of his defined cheekbones. “Time will tell.”
I can’t imagine us ever being anything other than a girl who eats lunch in the park and a homeless street musician, but I let him have his faith in time and what it might someday tell.
He leans back against the edge of the table top and stretches his long legs out. The soles of his black motorcycle boots are worn thin. “You’re supposed to tell me your name now.”
“Oh. It’s Piper.”
He repeats my name, and on his lips, it sounds different than I’ve ever heard the word sound before, as if I’m a special and mystical being.
I wish I was special and mystical, but I’m just… not.
“That’s different. Does it mean something? To your parents?”
I shake my head. “No, my mother just liked how it sounded. Apparently, she bought a bunch of baby name books when she was pregnant, and Piper was her favorite. My father doesn’t like it. He thinks it’s a stripper name.”
He lets out a deep laugh. “I’ve never met a stripper named Piper, and I’ve met my fair share.”
I laugh along with him. “I’ve often wondered why my father was thinking of strippers, but that’s probably something that’s better left alone.”
“Agreed.”
A glance at my watch shows I’m five minutes late for work, but I don’t want to leave the park to go back to the stuffy office and answer phones for the rest of the afternoon. Time drags there, as though the moment I walk through the door, the clock comes to a screeching halt, every minute an eternity. Yet somehow, my hour lunch flies by in the blink of an eye.
“Sucks to be on a schedule, huh?” Evan asks.
I sigh, but don’t move. “Yeah, it really does.”
“So don’t go back to work. Spend the day how you want to. Go shopping. Go home and nap. Go for a long drive to nowhere. Sit here with me and people-watch.”
How awesome any of that would be. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll probably get fired. That’s why.”
“Would that really be so bad?”
I frown. “Of course it would. I can’t not work. I’d be broke in a month. I’d lose my car. I wouldn’t be able to buy clothes or pay rent….”
I want to eat my words immediately. I may have just insulted the only guy I’ve actually felt any sort of connection with or had any real conversation with in months. “I’m so sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean—”
He shrugs casually. “Don’t apologize. I’m okay with what I am and what I do. I chose to live this way.”
I narrow my eyes at him, thinking that I must have heard him incorrectly. “You chose to be homeless?”
> “Yup. One day I grabbed my guitar and a bag of clothes and started walking. And I kept on walking.” His eyes meet mine, all blue and serene with a splash of wild. “I still haven’t stopped.”
My imagination soars with visions of Evan walking non-stop, from one town to the next with Acorn. Sleeping under bushes and huddling under freeway bridges during downpours while cars race past them. I’m fascinated and also a little skeeved out over the concept of choosing to live on the streets. Just thinking about how he must live—not having a clean bed to sleep in—makes me feel itchy.
“Don’t you worry about being able to eat… or where you’re going to sleep…? Or—I don’t know—where you’re going to shower and all that?”
He shakes his head, the feather earring swinging against his mane of hair. “Nah. It all just works out. Like it did today. The girl I’ve had my eye on for days bought me and my dog the best lunch I’ve had in a long time, and now she’s talking to me.”
A blush heats my face, and now I wish I could blow off work and sit here and talk to him. But I really do have to get back to the office, so I stand and brush off the back of my pants.
Before I walk away, he grabs my hand and pulls it closer to inspect my tiny wrist tattoo.
“Ladybugs are supposed to mean good luck,” he says.
“I know.” That’s why I got it, actually. Because ladybugs are cute and dainty and lucky. Everything I’d like to be. But instead, I’m awkward and clumsy and not very lucky.
“Did you also know in Norway, there’s a myth that if a man and a woman see a ladybug at the same time, they’ll fall in love and are destined to be together forever?”
The warmth of his rough fingertips gliding along mine is comforting, like slipping into a pair of favorite sweatpants on a chilly day. I slowly pull my hand away from his.
“No, I didn’t know that.” How does he even know about the myths of bugs in Norway? Is he some kind of guitar-playing bug studier?
“We just looked at yours at the same time.”
“That doesn’t count,” I throw back with a smile. “It’s a tattoo. It’s not a real ladybug. And we’re not in Norway.”