Anonymity

by Janna McMahan

  “So, where you going to stay tonight?” Emily asked. “It's supposed to turn cold.”

  Wrong move.

  “Don't worry about it,” Lorelei snapped in an icy voice.

  “I'm not worried. Just asking.”

  “Don't ask. I can take care of myself.”

  “Hey, I'm not gonna hassle you.”

  “I gotta split.” Lorelei shoved the rest of her sandwich into her bag. She took the glass of juice with her.

  Emily followed her to the back door. The girl shoved outside and started down the alley.

  “You're welcome,” Emily called after her.

  “Whatever,” Lorelei said over her shoulder. Then she stopped and said, “Look, don't think this means we're friends or anything.”

  “Why would I think that?”

  “Because people think if they give you something that you owe them. I don't owe you anything.”

  “No. You don't owe me anything.”

  “I hate charity. Charity's never free.” She jerked her hood over her head, her breath a pale cloud in the alley's last light.

  Lorelei

  SHE COULD have played the sympathy card and probably ended up couch surfing at Emily's. But Lorelei had reacted before she thought things through. Sometimes she had low impulse control, or so she'd been told.

  Now she would have to find a place to sleep. She scanned the unfamiliar street in this unfamiliar part of town. Town Lake was close, but she didn't know that terrain or who might be hanging there. While considering her options, the lights flickered out inside the bar. Lorelei watched from the shadows of an alley across the street as Emily, Angel and Tino came outside into the alley. Emily pushed a bike. They walked up to a rattletrap truck, one her father would have called a rice burner. Tino hefted the bike into the back. All three got into the little truck and drove away.

  Lorelei made her way back down the bar's alley and assessed the wooden fence. She'd been rock climbing, so the fence wouldn't ordinarily present a problem, but her hand was beginning to hurt again. She needed something to stand on.

  She walked to the dumpster, took a deep breath and wrestled open the corroded square access door. A putrid reek hit her in the face. Inside she found an enormous refried bean can and thanked God not everyone in Austin recycled. She shoved the door shut to cover her tracks.

  The can added more than a foot to her height. She'd always been tall, nearly five ten, which had helped her pass as older on the streets. Standing on the can, she could easily get a grip and swing a leg up and over. Bars never opened early, so she was sure she could be gone before anybody showed up in the morning. She'd have to remember to hide the can when she left.

  She threw her bedroll and pack over the fence. Man up, she whispered. Three agonizing tries later, she dangled inside the fence. Her feet touched a wooden bench, and she dropped down.

  It wasn't a large area, just big enough for half-a-dozen tables. Flea market chairs were scattered around a fire dish. Her heart leapt! A fire! In a corner lived a poorly stacked rick of wood and a pile of kindling. She used a long, thin piece of firewood to poke at the ashes gathered in the bottom of the metal saucer. A glimmer of orange hope appeared.

  She needed to stoke the coals. She searched for newspaper to no avail. She opened her pack and pawed through her things with her uninjured hand. She could feel her heart pulsing in her other hand. It was painful, but she could live with it.

  She poked through her pack but found nothing. She rarely carried anything that wasn't absolutely necessary. She could go through the dumpster or take stacks of local papers that always lived in racks along the sidewalk, but climbing back out sounded painful. Then her fingers touched her library book.

  Survival instincts told her to sacrifice the book, but her heart told her that it would be worse than stealing, worse than lying. Books had been her closest companions, her escape from misery. And she knew if she burned it that she would never be allowed to check out another.

  Besides, if she burned Twilight what would she use to entertain herself tonight? Reading held her rapid thoughts at bay until she could fall asleep. Without a good story to follow, her own tumbling, twisting thoughts kept her awake all night, leaving her exhausted and depressed the next day.

  Depression was like an ugly uninvited friend that came for an extended visit, familiar but unwanted. Depression allowed her to finally sleep, but it wasn't the type of sleep that nourished. It was a sucking black hole that made her forget to eat, made her immobile until somebody literally forced her to move along.

  So she tried to stay happy, to focus on the positive, like when she had a good group of friends to hang with, when somebody gave her a real meal, or she found an animal buddy for a while. Lorelei didn't worry about her moods. She had come to realize that hers was a common cycle of the destitute—hopefulness, frenzied restlessness, depression. Nobody was in control of their emotions all the time.

  At the moment, Lorelei was content with her situation. She had found an ideal setup—a private spot where she wouldn't have to sleep on the ground. She decided not to burn the library book. She could make fire from far less than she had to work with here. She'd built fires from practically nothing at that brat camp her parents had sent her to.

  Lorelei found a Naugahyde chair with a hole in the seat. She picked at the cushion stuffing and out came a wad of curly fibers perfect for growing a fire. She gathered all the stuffing she could without it showing. The last thing she wanted was to ruin a sweet spot by calling attention to her presence.

  She decided to use one of her soiled shirts for fuel too, just in case the fibers didn't have enough burn life. She gathered kindling, then a handful of larger pieces of wood, and finally a couple of logs from the stack in the corner. She stuffed her shirt and the fibers in the bottom of the fire dish, added the kindling, then a few larger pieces of wood. She built the embers into a flame that spread their healthy glow to the dry wood, and finally, she arranged the logs on top.

  Soon, she had a blaze that she feared might call attention from neighbors, but a quick look around revealed only one-story businesses. There were no second-story apartments to look down on her. She felt confident that the flames weren't visible from the street.

  Lorelei pulled a bench close to the fire and spread her sleeping bag out. She fed the blaze and ate the rest of her sandwich. From a water hose, she filled the red plastic glass she'd taken. It was a good glass. She'd keep it.

  The fire was reassuring, and she made a mental note to acquire the needed equipment for a new tinderbox. Her tinderbox from camp had been in the pack that was taken in Phoenix. Making fire was one of the survival skills she had learned at Nez Perce, the wilderness camp her parents had sent her to when she was fifteen.

  Adults called it wilderness therapy, but all the kids recognized it as their desperate parents’ attempts to reprogram them. The idea was to make a child so miserable, so hungry and cold and tired, that they developed a renewed desire for home. What are a few chores and an early curfew compared to eating twigs and sleeping on bitter ground?

  Only sometimes, it backfired. Sometimes, instead of resulting in a child's submission, the camps served to stoke the fires of willfulness and defiance. Or, as in Lorelei's case, it made the children realize their ability to survive on their own.

  Living in hard circumstances had given her confidence and cunning. The camp taught her how to make temporary shelters and tell time from the sun. She learned there were many edible things that a person didn't have to buy. She learned about hypothermia and sun exposure and first aid.

  They'd dropped her group in the middle of the woods with a compass and told them to find their way out. She'd learned to navigate on foot, how to walk her way out of a situation. She'd never been independent before, had always been driven by her harried mother from home to car to school to car to mall to car and back to home for so many years that she felt as if her feet rarely touched actual ground.

  She discovered that she liked to
walk. Getting around through her own physical efforts felt good.

  Camp made her realize she was strong. Not just strong-willed like her parents insisted, but durable. She'd always lived a cushy life filled with television and Twinkies and temple. But once she went long stretches without eating or sleeping, she realized she was tough. She learned that she didn't cry easily and that she rarely got sick.

  The most significant thing she learned at camp was that she wasn't alone. Nez Perce was filled with other kids just like her—not the popular, not the athletes, not the scholars—kids with parents disappointed in their offspring.

  Back home, she'd kept in touch with her camp companions. Even though Lorelei's father had taken away her cell phone and computer privileges, she'd gotten around that problem with an online account at the library. Her mother was always happy to drop her there.

  For more than a year, she'd written to her Nez Perce friends. Eventually somebody suggested they form a clan to travel around. One boy had an older cousin who lived in a community house in Oregon. He suggested they could all live there and share the rent. One by one, e-mails started to contain stories of adventure. One by one, her camp friends left home and made their way to Oregon.

  As tension mounted at home, Lorelei planned her own escape. She saved money and stocked her travel pack.

  She left in the middle of the night, a note on her bedside table.

  Don't worry, Mommy. I'll come back. I just have to do this. I'm searching. I hope you understand.

  But the road had transformed her, both mentally and physically. She couldn't go back now, even if she wanted to.

  Travis

  EVERY DAY, reporters consider dozens of media releases, everything from nonprofit fundraisers to local politicians announcing candidacies. Most reporters have a love/hate relationship with mass releases. Travis had spent the last hour going through e-mails and three days’ worth of snail mail. He read the agendas of upcoming municipal meetings. He checked the minutes of the last University of Texas board meeting.

  The public had a romanticized idea of reporters as always doing the investigative thing. The truth was so much more boring. Of course, early in his career, Travis had thought he would be the next Woodward or Bernstein. Politicians would quake at the mention of his name.

  He had broken some important stories, won a few journalism awards over the years. Those things didn't go to fluff reporters, not to the sound bite people, but to the real reporters asking the hard questions.

  On occasion, there would be the proverbial manila envelope in the mail (usually from some disgruntled state employee) or hand delivered over a beer with a “you didn't get this from me” caveat. But usually, he'd start checking his Google alerts, and then some minor bureaucrat's background would look interesting. He'd check more and end up discovering a past violation. Travis would follow the electronic paper trail. Other things always appeared. He would request documents, file Freedom of Information Act requests. Information officers, who'd been up his ass when they had a story to sell, suddenly became unavailable when questions got tough.

  Today, his Google search of “Texas” and “homeless” produced a congressional story on new laws that would change the way police and social workers track runaways. It would provide improved social services like extended outreach and shelters. The proposed legislation would allow more time for youth shelters to win kids’ trust before the police entered their names into a national database.

  Travis laughed at that. He doubted David Simpson ever reported any of his kids. Word gets around that you're in the business of ratting out and the kids stop coming.

  A Texas senator sponsored another bill that would provide transportation to school for homeless youth who wanted to continue their education. This could be the hook for his story. Still, he'd need to know its effect on Austin before pitching to his editor.

  “Bob says five minutes, people,” Lily called through the office. “Assignment meeting.”

  Travis made it to the conference room in time to see Bob fling his editorial calendar onto the table.

  “This is every cover for the foreseeable future. It's sparse. All ideas are up for discussion. No reoccurring events, please. Special sections are coming up.”

  There was a collective groan. Writers hated special advertising sections—fashion, home, sports, summer activities issues.

  “All right, folks. Shut up. I don't hear you groaning when you get your paychecks.”

  “Where's interns when we need them?” somebody said from the back of the room to a round of halfhearted laughter.

  “No sloughing off on the interns,” Bob said. “Resources are slim. I need everybody to be willing to cover things outside their normal beat.” He paused, then said, “So, ideas, please. Lead stories and covers.”

  “What about the renovations to the skate park?” the sports reporter suggested. “They've got twelve-foot bank ramps and seven-foot quarters, a ninety-foot pool with a waterfall. And they added new rails, mini-ramps and wedges. All built with private donations.”

  “We just covered their fundraising efforts last summer. Remember? We even ran the skate terrain master plan,” Bob said.

  “What about the baby koala at the animal park? That would make a cute cover,” Kristen, the annoyingly perky social writer, suggested.

  Bob looked to be considering it, and Travis couldn't help but interject. “We've done a lot of light covers lately—Oktoberfest and that Dracula ballet. It's been a really airy month.”

  “That's true,” Bob said. “We have been a little light lately.”

  Others nodded.

  Kristen shot Travis a scowl. Travis smiled back. Too bad. So sad.

  “We haven't covered the drought,” Bob said. “Water management's a hot topic right now. What about it, Travis? You up for it?”

  “Sure. City's still rationing. Gentrified areas are whining about their lawns. Charity car washes are banned. Fountains are off around town. I'll take it.”

  “It might not be cover material, but it'll be substantial,” Bob said.

  Damn, Travis thought. He hadn't had a cover he cared about in six months.

  One of the associate editors piped up. “I was watching the Weather Channel last night. It said we might actually get some rain from that tropical storm that's moving through the Gulf.”

  “That's good to know,” Bob said. “But even if it rains, we'll probably still have a water deficit the rest of the year. Travis, find out about the repercussions of this drought. What's the water level in the lakes? How's it affecting business, tourism? You know the drill.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Back at his desk Travis made a list of questions about what the National Weather Service was calling “an exceptional drought.” He started with the city's website where revised water restrictions would be posted. Austin residents and businesses were limited to watering with sprinklers once a week and would face stiff fines for violations. Golf courses could water fairways once a week and tees and greens every other day. Restaurants could serve water only to customers who requested it. The city was limiting water use, including cutting back on spray park times. Due to wildfire threat, outdoor burning was banned throughout the county.

  Travis made a note to call the assistant director for environmental affairs at the Austin Water Utility to see how much the levels had dwindled in the two nearby lakes that supplied the city's water. He'd have to call the city manager to check how many employees the city would add to enforce the new water regs.

  The story was shaping up. Travis decided to take lunch and go over his notes. Outside, it was day two hundred and ten without a drop of rain. The force of the Texas sun had bleached color from the world, leaving everything depleted and seared to the bone.

  Travis grabbed a hot dog from a corner vendor and headed to the walking path around Town Lake. The earth was hard-packed, dusty fissures under his feet. Weather.com had said that Tropical Storm Gordon had blown by Cuba, inflicting only minor damage. If
it stayed on course, Gordon could make landfall somewhere between Brownsville and Galveston. The storm wasn't expected to develop into a hurricane.

  A hurricane would make for a better story and probably dump a ton of water on Central Texas. Travis envisioned a tornado-like cover image, buildings caught up in the vortex. Readers were always interested in severe weather. He realized the bad karma of wishing a hurricane on your hometown, but it was guaranteed to move papers.

  Lorelei

  RAINDROPS EXPLODED in hard plops. They smacked against the plastic tarp she had draped over a rope between two trees. Lorelei had enough experience living outside to know that big drops meant a lot of rain was on the way. She repositioned her tarp to buffer against the sudden wind and used rocks to anchor the bottom where water might run in. She figured she'd have to pack up, but she didn't want to be premature about it.

  She lay there listening to the random patter against her flimsy shelter. She could see the engorged sky, low and gray and disgruntled. There was no lightning or thunder, but the clouds were vast, bold inflations ready to unload their burden on the world.

  The SoCo area hadn't been accommodating to her homeless status. She had always prided herself on never dumpster diving or eating out of trash cans, but in SoCo she'd been reduced to both. Scraping old refried beans out of jagged cans a couple of nights was enough to send her back to Mook's clan by the creek.

  The rain picked up and her friends began to wake. They seemed confused at first, as if rain were a part of life wiped from their memory banks.

  Mook walked out of his lean-to, his arms extended skyward.

  “Thank you,” he said to the clouds. “Thank you, Mother Nature. Bring it on.”

  Elda came out and began to twirl, raindrops plunking into the parched dirt under her bare feet.

  They froze when two police officers stepped through the underbrush into their space. Mook's face washed with recognition and he relaxed.