by E. R. Frank
Then
I SEE MYSELF in a mall. I watch myself crying. There’s no part of me that cares one way or the other about it.
I see myself cry and watch the televisions. They’re in a pyramid, all on the same channel. The sound is off most of the time, but I can tell that Browning died. I can tell from the way they show the paramedics carrying out a stretcher with a plastic blanket over it, and no head sticking out. I can’t tell what happened to Mrs. Harper. They don’t show her on a stretcher or anywhere. The picture of me is the one from over the fireplace. It doesn’t look like me. It looks like a little kid. They show it a lot at first.
* * *
I cry so much. I don’t even notice it anymore. I cry so much, things are blurry all the time, on the outside and on the inside. I cry hiding in the fountain until the security guards pass by every night. I cry by the McDonald’s garbage while I dig for fries. I cry under the display beds in Sears. I cry while I’m peeing, and I cry playing video games in the arcade. I stare up at the security cameras and cry and cry, and nobody notices me. You can be disappeared anywhere, if you’re bad enough.
* * *
“Hey,” I see myself say.
The little girl looks up. “What?” the little girl says.
“Can I have those?”
“I need them.” Her shoelaces look real new, and they’ve got dinosaurs on them.
“Can I have them?” I ask.
“Why are you crying?” she says.
“Can I have them?”
“My mom will get mad,” she tells me.
I find the Hallmark where they have the dinosaur shoelaces, plus heart shoelaces, laces with fish on them, striped shoelaces, and shoelaces with candy canes on them. They also have black, yellow, red, purple, and brown shoelaces. I need them all.
* * *
A man catches me wrapping my fingers around three pairs of brown, and he brings me to a room near The Sports Authority. “You wait here,” he says.
Then he turns his back on me and walks out. I see myself follow him so quiet, he doesn’t know I’m there. Then I see myself run down the up escalator and outside into the parking lot. The light makes my eyes squint, but I don’t feel the hurt. I walk a long time, and then I get on a train. It goes to New York City, where you can be disappeared. Where Brooklyn and Lyle were. I watch myself cry on the train.
* * *
I sleep in the park. There are three different places where you can crawl into bushes, and nobody knows you’re there. There are four places where you can crawl and other people are there, but nobody cares and they don’t bother you. You can drink from the water fountains and get clean, too. Sort of. You can live off hot dogs and soda and pretzels and ice cream. If your money runs out, you can ask for some or find some on the ground or steal.
You can walk all around the city and see things. Double-decker tour buses. Taxis and black limos. Revolving doors. People who are lost and trying to be found with signs saying that they’re homeless or sick and to please give them money. You can see eight or ten dogs all being walked by one person. You can see a man who paints himself silver and stands on a bucket so still, he looks like a statue. He only moves after someone puts change in another bucket at his feet. You can see people playing musical instruments right on the sidewalk. You can see them everywhere selling perfume and clothes and sunglasses and watches. And shoelaces. You can see men on bikes wearing tight black shorts and helmets with bags full of packages slung over their chests. You can walk and walk and walk, just like everybody else.
The park is for when you’re tired of walking. I watch myself watching the skaters. The kids with knee pads and helmets who trick-skate on the benches and down steps skate right through me. But the grown people who dance-skate in a circle sometimes nod or stay fallen down for a while near to where I’m sitting, in the grass or on a bench.
“Keep this for me, and I’ll give you five bucks,” this one man says after a lot of weeks of me sitting and watching and crying. I watch myself say okay and then shove his knapsack between my knees. When he comes back, he gives me five dollars and drops himself next to me. His skates are the old-fashioned kind, not the Rollerblade kind. They’re black and scuffed. I’ve seen him a lot, but never without those skates on. He’s one of the best dance-skaters in the park.
“Still crying, huh?” he says.
“So?” I say.
A lady with orange shoes comes up to us and hands him some money. I don’t see how much. She’s been around before.
“What’s up, Ty?” she goes, and he digs into his knapsack and pulls out a plastic Baggie filled with some mess.
“What’s up?” he says, and she takes it and leaves. “You’re not a narc, are you?” he asks me. Then he laughs.
I watch him laugh while I cry, and the skaters in front of us show off for the tourists who take pictures. They never stop moving, the skaters. Everybody crowds together to look at them, like they’re a movie or a circus, and the crowd of lookers always ends up jiggling and bumping in time with the skaters and their music.
“It’ll be cold soon,” Ty says.
“So?” I say.
“So where are you going to sleep?”
Two guys with their shirts off come over and shake his hand. I’ve seen them before, too. They hand him their money. “That your new date?” they ask him, nodding at me. “This one doesn’t look too happy, man.”
Ty gives them their Baggies and doesn’t answer. “What’s your name?” he asks me after they’re gone.
“America,” I hear myself say.
“Beautiful,” he says. “You watch my bag while I skate, and you can crash with me when it gets cold.”
“Don’t touch me,” I tell him.
“Don’t worry,” he says. Then he gets up to dance.
* * *
I watch myself sleep at Ty’s place. His couch is soft and clean. Ty lets me keep my things underneath the couch in a plastic grocery store bag. My things are all my shoelaces. Ty never touches me. He doesn’t have a TV. He reads in his bed in the other room. He hides his books under his bed. Sometimes he has sex in there with his friends.
“Why’s he always crying?” the one with all the earrings says every time she’s over.
“What the hell are you doing to that kid?” another one asks.
I watch myself lie on the couch, hearing them or hearing Ty read. He’ll leave his door open sometimes when there’s no females around, and he’ll read out loud. The first time, I start to fly up to Everest, but then I come back down because it’s this story about some girl way back a real long time ago when there were Indians and houses made out of mud and logs.
“You tell anyone I read Laura Ingalls, and you’re never crashing here again,” Ty tells me.
I watch myself cry and cry and cry.
* * *
There’s not as many people in the park because it’s colder. But Ty still skates and sells every day. I watch his bag and cry every day. I watch us sit on the grass a lot and not talk. Sometimes he skates away and doesn’t come back until dark. I don’t walk anymore. I stay with the bag. I watch myself living like that for a long time.
“You must have some kind of record, or something,” Ty says one day after he’s skated back to the grass with a new blue bubble coat for me.
“So?” I say. I watch myself take the coat and pull it into my lap.
“Doesn’t your head hurt, or your eyes, man? They’re always red as hell.”
“Nothing hurts.”
“So why are you crying?” he goes.
“I’m not crying,” I see myself tell him.
“You’re some weird kid,” he says.
* * *
Mostly what Ty reads is boring, and I lose track of the story. But I keep hearing his voice. His voice is like a light in the blur that is me. When the words fade away, the light is still there. I fall asleep with the light of his voice a lot of times, over and over and over, and then one day, I see myself wake up, and I’m not cryi
ng.
* * *
I don’t feel anything, but it must be cold because there’s snow and ice, and Ty makes me pull the hood of the bubble coat tight on my head. Now he only sells four days a week. I have to stand outside in the empty park with the knapsack while he skates his rounds.
I stand or sit on the frozen grass for a lot of hours at a time. I see myself do it, and it’s like a movie of nothing with the sound off. I watch myself stay in the middle of the grass in the middle of the park in the middle of New York City in the middle of New York State on the edge of America. I am in America and America is me.
It’s not blurry anymore. It’s real clear. It’s quiet.
* * *
I watch myself asleep on the couch when there’s a knock at the door.
“Shit,” I hear Ty say, and then I hear the one with all the earrings go, “What?” There’s another knock, and it’s louder, and the earring girl goes, “Who the hell is that?”
“Shit,” Ty says again. I watch him walk out of his bedroom and stand at the foot of the couch looking at me. “Man,” he says.
“Who is it?” I watch myself ask him.
“Charles Tyler, open the door,” they say from outside.
“Don’t tell me this is a bust,” the earring girl says.
“NYPD,” they say. “Open the door now, or we’ll open it for you.”
“Shit,” Ty says, and lets them in.
“How you doing, Ty?” the first cop says.
Ty crosses his arms and doesn’t move away from the door. “What is this?” he says.
“What do you think?” the cop says. The other cop pushes past Ty and starts to poke around in the front closet.
“Who’s the kid?” the second cop says.
“My nephew,” Ty says.
“I’m getting out of here,” the earring girl says. She’s got her clothes on now, and she pushes past Ty, too. The cops don’t stop her.
“Another nephew?” the cop says.
“Christ,” Ty says.
“Does this guy touch you?” the cop asks me.
Ty looks at me. “Get out of here, man,” he says.
I watch myself not move. Mrs. Harper said if you need help, you can go to a policeman.
“He your uncle?” the first cop says.
“Nuh-uh,” I see myself say.
“He touch you?” the cop says.
“Nuh-uh.” Every time Brooklyn saw policemen, he hid real quick.
“You see him dealing?” the cop says.
“Nuh-uh.” Brooklyn said they’ll beat you worse than anyone. He said they’ll kill you.
They put handcuffs on Ty.
“Keep the coat, man,” he tells me. I watch myself pull my plastic grocery store bag out from underneath the couch. The first cop snatches it and dumps the shoelaces onto the floor. There’s only five pairs left. I’m running out.
“Christ,” the cop says.
Ty snorts while I pick my stuff back up. “That’s some serious dope, huh?” he smart mouths to the cop.
“Shut up,” the cop says.
I watch them put Ty in their car, and then I watch all of us waiting for some other car to come and pick me up.
* * *
Another office. Another chair. Blue carpet on the floor. A gray metal desk. A one-way mirror with the mirror side facing us. I watch myself answer questions.
“Nyack’s a ways away,” the detective says. A phone. I watch myself pick up a pen and write my numbers on a long yellow pad with blue lines. I watch the cop watching.
“How long you been staying with Ty?” the detective says.
“Don’t know,” I watch myself say.
“Couple of months?” the cop asks. “Couple of years?”
“Don’t know,” I say.
“You sure he never touched you?”
“Uh-huh.”
The detective pulls out a pack of gum from his back pocket. “You want some?”
I watch myself shake my head. He drags out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He holds out the cigarettes. I watch myself ignore the cigarettes and take the lighter instead. I watch him watching me light the lighter and stare at the flame.
“So why’d you leave Nyack?” the cop says.
“Had to.” I used to like the yellow of the flame with the blue at the bottom. I used to stare at it. Now it’s nothing. I don’t like it. I don’t not like it. But I have to stare at it.
“Your parents looking for you?” the detective asks.
“Nah,” I say.
“Anyone looking for you?” the detective says.
“Maybe the cops,” I hear myself tell him.
“Oh, yeah?” the detective says. “That why you left?”
“Yeah,” I say. I turn the wheel of the lighter to make the flame as high as it will go. I used to like the way the yellow and blue met in a little black line if you look at it just right.
“What’d you do?” the detective asks.
“Killed somebody,” I watch myself tell him.
“You what?”
“Killed this man,” I tell him.
“Are you shitting me?” the detective asks.
I watch myself look up from the flame. “Nah.”
* * *
There’s five other guys in the van besides me. Three black, one white, and one Puerto Rican.
“Freak,” one of the black ones says to me.
“He’s Cambodian, or some shit,” the Puerto Rican says.
“Are you Cambodian?” the white one says. I don’t answer.
“What’d you do?” the second black one says.
“Weed, probably,” the first one says.
“You sold weed?” the Puerto Rican says. “You going to jail for weed?”
“It ain’t jail, man,” the third black one goes. “It’s R and D.”
“What’s R and D?” the white one says.
“Reception and Diagnostic.”
“Reception and what?”
“They receive your ass, diagnose your ass, and then send your ass to do its time.”
“How much time is he going to do for weed?” the white one asks.
“You sold weed?” the Puerto Rican goes. “That’s all you did? Sold some weed?”
“Nah,” I watch myself say.
“Y’all better leave that one alone,” the guard in the backseat calls out. He’s leaning the side of his head against the window.
“What’d he do?” the first black one asks. “Unload some fake Louis?” He cracks up.
“Says he killed a guy,” the guard goes, closing his eyes. “Burned a guy up.”
“You fried a guy?” the white kid goes.
I watch myself shrug. They leave me alone after that for a long time.
A long time. A lot of days. A lot of weeks. A lot of months. It gets hot again, but there’s no skaters. They leave me alone. Then it gets cold again, but there’s no blue bubble coat. Then it gets green again. They still leave me alone. A long time. A real long time.
* * *
I watch myself watching them argue. It’s a social worker, a lawyer for me, a lawyer against me, a cop, a judge, and some people.
“We’ve located a missing person matching this boy’s information,” the social worker says, “but there’s no warrant involved.”
“However, Your Honor,” the lawyer against me says, “there is record of a death by fire.”
“The guardian reports the boy disappeared a full eighteen hours prior to said fire,” the lawyer for me says. “In addition to which, the fire was cleared of arson and declared an accident. Smoking-in-bed situation.”
“The kid can’t keep his hands off lighters, Your Honor,” the lawyer against me says. “Not to mention that the kid confessed, here.”
“Is the boy wanted for a crime in Nyack or not?” the judge asks.
“He is not, Your Honor,” the lawyer for me says.
“However, it would be prudent to reexamine the case, given the boy’s recent confession,”
the lawyer against me says.
“You’re repeating yourself, McKinsey,” the judge tells him. “I heard you the first time.” Then he looks at the cop. “Is family of the deceased asking for a reopening?”
“No, Your Honor,” the cop says.
“Is the guardian asking for a reopening?”
“No, Your Honor,” the cop says.
“Is Nyack asking for a reopening?”
“No, sir.”
“Where is the guardian?” the judge asks.
“She’s unable to care for the boy, Your Honor,” the social worker says. “But she’s expressed the desire for him to return. She expresses a strong attachment to the boy.”
“I believe I asked where she is,” the judge says.
“In a nursing home, Your Honor,” the social worker answers. “In Nyack.”
“The guardian is in Nyack?” the judge says. His voice gets louder. “How long was this boy detained at R and D?” I see the quiet and the way the judge’s face turns red. “Why is this boy in Manhattan?” Nobody answers. “Why is this boy in front of me?” Nobody answers. “Anyone?” the judge says.
“I got lost in the system,” I watch myself say.
“Jesus Christ,” the judge says.
Now
“I WANT TO remind you that next Thursday will be the last session before our two-week break.”
“I want to work in the kitchen.”
“Hmm.”
“I want to cook.”
“Did you hear what I said, America?”
“Yeah, I heard you. You think I’m deaf or something?”
“You didn’t respond.”
“Because I don’t give a shit about your stupid vacation.”
“Hmm.”
“I’m trying to talk about the kitchen, here.”
“Okay.”
“I’m a good cook.”
“Really? How did you learn?”
“Huh?”
“How did you learn how to cook?”
“Time up yet?”
“You know we just started, America.”
“Boring.”