hidden

by Tomas Mournian

  Marci steps through the open gate, grabs my arm and hustles me inside. We pass through a foyer, a second glass door draped with dirty lace curtains and into a lobby. The ceilings are vaulted, walls covered with billboard-sized mirrors.

  I feel eyes on my back. I turn. See a face past the dirty lace curtain and metal grill.

  My heart skips. It’s the blue-eyed man from the bathroom!

  Blink. He’s gone.

  I have a bad feeling. He’ll be back.

  Chapter 21

  “C’mon!” Marci’s halfway up the stairs. I struggle to make it up the first step.

  “Are you, like, a triathlete?”

  “Elevator broke.”

  We near the second floor. Voices. Marci grabs my arm and yanks me back, out of sight. Shadows move up the wall. The elevator groans. A door opens, slams, shuts. Another groan. Fades. A distant Clunk! She motions, move back. Feline, she tiptoes up the stairs, to the next floor. She looks both ways—at what, traffic?—then motions me.

  “Hurry!”

  I scramble up the stairs, reach the third floor and collapse on the carpet. Filthy, it’s a thousand years old, beaten down by millions of shoes. Marci wheezes.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” She pants, tongue out against her lower lip like a dog. “I’m all right.”

  Happy to hear. Her, gasping for air, worries me: She stands one heart attack away between me and Serenity Ridge.

  “Two of us run this safe house.” Another wheeze. “If we catch you doing drugs, you’ll be evicted—no questions asked.”

  All these rules. Is the test multiple choice or T / F? Marci hangs on a square wood banister, exhausted by the climb or the effort it takes to explain everything. I get a better look: geek girl who wears big Velma glasses. She’s so ordinary looking you’d never suspect she drives around San Francisco picking up queer kids who’ve escaped from gay-to-straight boot camps.

  Marci pushes her body off the banister. We walk down the dark hallway, toward the EMERGENCY EXIT sign’s green glow.

  “You better!” Manic laughter, screechy voices.

  “Is this place haunted?” Marci ignores my question and fumbles with the key, struggling to open the door. The voices become louder.

  “Hey!”

  I hide behind Marci’s body. She could double as a chest of drawers. I keep my head down. I don’t want them to see my face.

  “Hey.” She mumbles and looks down.

  “What’s up with the elevator?” A young guy’s voice. His shadow’s on the carpet. He walks toward us. I want to run. I peek around Marci. He’s smiling. Cops, authorities, anyone who wants to lock you up—they always smile. Right before they reach out and grab you. We’re about to get caught. I feel it. I know, this is it.

  “Need help?” The male voice. I don’t need to see him—I know, he’s a bully. I’ve heard the tone before. “‘Cause I can help.”

  I cringe. He’s drunk. Or, a thief. Another serial killer. At this moment, San Francisco doesn’t seem psychedelic so much as plain Psycho. The voice is low, smooth.

  Marci might be armed with street smarts but she’s scared, too. I can tell. How? Coz I smell it. The scent peels off her pungent like my stepmother’s perfume.

  Click.

  A gun. The safety. Cock. The shadow steps closer.

  “Really. You need help.”

  “No.”

  HIDDEN

  Chapter 22

  Click.

  The key turns, the door opens, we slip inside. My heart beats loud—so loud I know I’m doomed. The door clicks, dead bolts falling into place. I point down to the space between floor and door. Shadows.

  “They’re still there!” I whisper.

  “Close.” Marci exhales. Her body falls against the door. Our “friend” is outside: His shadow paces, pauses outside the door. He better not try to bust it down. Like I said, Marci could double as a chest of drawers.

  “Fucking weirdo!” He hisses. The shadow leaves, voices fading. They’re gone. She touches me. I flinch. My hand’s a balled-up fist.

  “Relax,” she says. “You’re safe.”

  Am I? I want to ask. Is anybody? Safe? I thought I was safe (enough) living with my father. Look at where that idea got me. Here. A runaway. Standing in the dark. Who knows where. I can’t see at all. The only advantage is, nobody can see me, either.

  The safe house is pitch black. But I sure as hell smell it. The safe house reeks of junior high hallways. Hormones, bad breath, and various body odors.

  Marci takes my hand and leads me through the teenage mist.

  “That’s the bathroom,” she whispers. “Someone sleeps in there. The closet: someone sleeps in there, too. This is the kitchen.”

  She drops my hand and steps away. My eyes adjust to the dimness. I stand in the middle of a large doorway. Wop! The sound of rubber unsticking. Marci peers into the fridge.

  Something’s stuck to the wall over the stove. A button? I look closer. The button crawls down, toward the stacked dishes. A roach, the gross kind.

  I sit at the round table beside a window. I reach out, lift the curtain and peer out at other apartments. She knocks my hand away.

  “What’s there?”

  “A courtyard.”

  “So who cares?”

  “Someone might look out their window and see you.”

  Honey, I shrank the world. Mine’s now itty-bitty size. I want to leave. I’d turn and leave if—if I knew where I’d go. Already, I feel trapped. The instant the front door shut, I became a different person.

  The safe house scent isn’t just grotty kids. It’s … poverty? Yeah, the safe house smells poor. If I stay, the middle-class part of me—the boy who orders a five-dollar triple espresso percent, no foam latte—dies. Living here, I’ll learn to count. Watch, look, jump. Fear.

  I need sleep. Marci has other plans. She walks to the table. She holds a stack of Tupperware containers in her left arm and a tiny candle with her right hand. She practically skips. I’d guess, whatever comes next is a high point of her sad life.

  “Make yourself comfortable.” She places candle and containers on the black-and-white-striped tabletop. “Take off your shoes.”

  I slide off my kicks and cross my legs, yogi style. My eyes droop and I can barely keep my head up. Either she doesn’t notice my exhaustion or she’s really lonely. There were nurses at Serenity Ridge who’d trap you. They loved to order the boys around. They were hungry for male attention; a fourteen-year-old boy’s would do. Now I wonder if Marci’s a dyke. Or, a straight girl on a crusade to Save the Gay Boys.

  Same as the Women of Serenity Ridge, Marci won’t—can’t—shut up. “I mean, why should I starve myself? If I’m hungry, I’m gonna eat, right? If you knew me three years ago, you wouldn’t even recognize me. In seven months, I went from weighing one fifty-five to two fifteen. One day, I woke up and I was the fattest fucking chick. The Fattest.”

  I don’t believe this story. Marci was always fat. Like the Women of Serenity Ridge, she imagines a dramatic weight gain. I yawn, and cover it with a sigh. I smile, nod, “Uh-huh.” These girls aren’t interested in conversation: They crave undivided (male) attention. Depending on how well the fridge is stocked, this convo could stretch all night. Marci rummages around the sink. Girlzilla knocks over plates and glasses.

  “There!”

  She holds up a butter knife and wipes it on her shirt. She opens the mayonnaise jar, plunges the blade inside and withdraws it. A testicle-sized ball of glop clings to Excalibur. Expert, she slathers the knife on a slice of white bread.

  “One day I woke up, looked in the mirror and saw I had three chins. My body had more rolls than a craps table. I tell you, I was not fucking around. The school doctor, he told me to ‘drop a few.’ He said I was ‘at risk.’ I mean, come on. Who’s not ‘at risk’? Fuck, living is a risk.”

  She pops multiple Tupperware lids and removes food without looking. I’m amazed. In this dark-as-a-cave kitchen, she knows th
e contents of every container by touch. She could be reading Braille. Or, she works in a deli.

  “Voilà!”

  A world record, she’s made a sandwich in seven seconds. Super-sized, the ingredients threaten to explode: mayonnaise, lettuce, bacon, mystery meat, tomato and pickle slices. But then, she is the fattest fucking chick she knows and not about to starve herself. She holds up the fattest fucking sandwich—ever.

  “Want a bite?”

  “Uh, no, thanks.”

  “Oh, don’t tell me you’re not hungry?” She sounds relieved.

  “I’m just …” I yawn. I hope she’ll get the hint.

  She slaps another two slices atop the original two. It’s a quadruple decker! I wonder if the fattest fucking sandwich gives tours.

  “Are you tired?” she asks.

  “Guess so.” I shrug my shoulders. I don’t say, “Yes.” It gives Marci an opportunity to say, “No.”

  “Sure?”

  “I’m sure,” I think, “that I’m grossed out. By the sound of dough, whipped eggs, dead animals and wilted vegetables sloshing around in your mouth like a human washing machine.”

  “Mummmummm,” she mumbles, mouth full. I stand and follow her back into the safe house. The main room’s pitch black. I’m confused. Is this a big apartment? Or one room and a kitchen? She swallows, toilet plunger style. “You can sleep up there.” She spews sandwich bits all over my arm.

  I step forward. My foot steps on something soft.

  “FUCK!”

  “Up there.” She takes my hands and places the palms flat on wood slats. Ladder, steps. A bunk bed. I climb up. The word heights makes me feel dizzy. But I’m so tired it’s all that I can do to lie down and pass out, already asleep.

  Chapter 23

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  Voices. I’m dreaming. Or, people are talking about me. I might be hallucinating.

  My body’s twisted, circus contortionist style. My left knee’s pressed against something hard. My eyes flutter, half-open. I see a wall and, on it, shadows. I’m not ready to meet people.

  I sleep. Dream. Automatic writing, imaginary pen to paper.

  I stand outside the seclusion room. I peer through the doorway looking into the pink cinder block room. A lightbulb burns, bright and bare, inside its metal cage. I notice there’s a heap on the concrete floor. A pile of trash? Or dirty laundry?

  The heap moves. I look closer. The form comes into focus: The heap is not trash but a person. They turn over. A boy. I recognize his face. Me, on the concrete floor near the drainage hole.

  Vomit covers my Garbage Pail Kids tee shirt. There’s a brown stain on my butt. I’ve shit my pants. My arms and legs look funny, too. My head twists to the side. I look like a rag doll tossed on the ground. Or a corpse.

  A fire hose gushes water. The stream slams the boy. The me-boy dissolves into a colorless puddle, dribbles down the drain.

  ***

  Later—hours? minutes? days?—I wake, reach for my notebook and write on the light blue lines.

  in school, one time I remember

  this one guy called san francisco

  “planet fag”

  i wonder if that’s

  what this place will be like

  A “Utopia”

  like that book we read

  brave new world

  all happy and smiley and good—but not

  a home room for homos? a world apart?

  or somewhere over the gay rainbow?

  A “QUEER-topia”

  where we speak our own language

  i mean if there’s e-bonicks

  we’ll speak in queer-bonicks

  secret words nobody else gets

  or maybe people speak english

  but then they give you

  A Look—zap!—

  queer telepathy

  you get what they say means that but

  that is means something else too

  maybe everyone will love everyone else

  maybe I’ve landed on some queer planet

  Chapter 24

  Something presses against my bladder. Blade? Gun? Nothing so dramatic. I need to pee. I consider my options. I can let go and flood the sheets. But that warmth will turn cold, Snap!

  I crack one eye and look around. The safe house is hella small. Last night, it looked vast. Last night, or the night before last night? In daylight, it’s a tiny, one-room studio.

  A cluster of sleeping forms cover the floor. Good. I won’t meet anyone. I roll over, swing my legs off the side and … Nothing. Air. I’m confused. Then I remember. I’m on a bunk bed. My need to pee trumps my fear of heights. I climb down.

  Ground level, I remember Marci said, “The bathroom’s by the front door.”

  A cardboard square with hand-lettering hangs on a string draped over the knob. OCCUPIED. Damn! I gotta pee. I hop, tightening my pee muscle. Ear to door, I hear shower water. Squeak. Off. I knock, and whisper, “Hi?”

  The door swings open. White steam rushes out. This happens as if by magic. Coz I don’t see anyone. A figure emerges from the steam. A slim Eurasian boy, hair slicked back and towel wrapped around his tiny waist.

  “Yes?” His voice is laced with contempt. He radiates hostility. Awww, hate at first sight. Whereupon “Ben” meets Mean Asian Gay Boi.

  “I need to go.”

  He steps to the side. A little bit. I try to squeeze by without touching his wet, muscular hatred. I lift the toilet seat and—re-lief! Firefighter, I aim. Pee gushes out. Whomp, whomp, whomp! But the sound’s wrong. Instead of hitting water, the pee bangs turds. Eww. Someone forgot to flush. And the water must be warm. It stinks. I reach for the knob.

  “Don’t,” Eurasian boi says. I look back. He’s dropped the towel. I can’t help but stare. His naked body’s off-the-hook gorgeous. Water droplets tumble off his dark gold skin, tiny jewels.

  I turn back to the john. Look. Someone’s stale junk’s still in there. Give me a break. I reach—

  “No! It’s not time.”

  “Time for what?”

  “If we flush too much, we run up the water bill. The landlord will figure out seven people live here.”

  “Oh.”

  He steps into a pair of tight briefs, pulling them up, over his lean, muscular legs. The waistband hugs his tiny hips and looks like a cinched ribbon. He looks me in the eye, shoves his hand down the front and arranges his package. His goodies look like a big, balled-up fist. There’s not enough steam to hide my embarrassed face.

  “Can I take a shower?”

  “‘Course.”

  “Are there any clean towels?”

  “Sure.” His eyes flicker, down, at the towel on the floor. “You can use mine.”

  His attitude, voice and girlie gestures remind me of the queeny boys at Serenity Ridge. Their attitude was, “If you don’t like it, fuck you, I’m a bitchy girl. If you don’t like it, hand me that knife. Coz I’m gonna stab yo’ face.” The counselors left them alone. But whatever. I’m not about to use someone’s towel, especially when I see … (light brown) scootch marks?

  I return to bed, climb back up top. Back to dreamtime. I’m an honorary Aborigine. Creating reality as I walk it. I step into the room. The door muffles sound, seals out light, numbs feeling. Numb. Yes, I feel numb. That’s fine. But I can’t shake the nervous feeling. The presence of one Mean Girl suggests there will be others. I burrow, deep, into sleep. I want to avoid waking. They’re waiting. Catfights, claws, cuntiness. I’m a hot (tense) mess, even in my sleep.

  Chapter 25

  “Wass’up?” and “Muthafucker don’t!” I lie there, silently listening to the verbal IMs. The safe house doesn’t just smell like junior high school, it sounds like one, too. I bury my head under a pillow. Silence, sleep, where-forartthou? The voices persist.

  “You escaped?” A finger jabs my ankle. “Yo! Yo! Yo! I’m Peanuts. And I know yous awake.”

  Peanuts. Aiight. Yous a hims or a hers? A hes or a shes? A s / hims or a s
/ hes? Yous name doesn’t give mes any clue as to whos the hells or whats yous is. My head rolls to the side. I crack my right eye. Peanuts. Like the social worker, like Marci, Peanuts arrives armed with questions I don’t want to answer. I want shut-eye. I glare, Skippy Peanut Butter, be gone! S / he doesn’t budge.

  “Yo! Dolls! Yous just escape?”

  Yeah, dolls, yous fishing. I’m not biting.

  “I had hella lotsa g.f.s. See, I was in this state hospital, right? They put me in there ’cuz I’m butch. Yous know what that is?” Then, Peanuts makes a weird hand signal that’s either gang related or ASL. Maybe s / he shouts ’cause s / he’s deaf? Peanuts seethes, ghetto as … TV. “My homies so scared a me.”

  I knew it. I should have jumped out the van and ran. I could have lived on toilet paper. Stayed in the bus station bathroom stall. Bathed with liquid hand soap. Currently, I’ve been abducted and am being held by gang of deaf gay bangers.

  “Everybody!” Marci says. “This is Ben.”

  Fuck, I’ve been called out. Officially. Can’t hide, can’t sleep. I roll my head and face the room. Sunlight lines jabs the cracks in the tarp-covered windows. The floor is empty, sleeping bags rolled up, mattresses stacked against the wall. I face the firing squad. Six—seven?—faces look up, all at moi. I wave. “Hola, amigos.”

  Marci stands next to a Tall Black Girl. T.B.G. almost looks like that biatchy TV supermodel. T.B.G. wears a Catholic schoolgirl (pleated) miniskirt, knee-high boots and white dress shirt. Shirt open to the belly button, her twenty-six pack abs pop, black against the starched white material. Her long hair, pulled back into a ponytail, is held back by pink, baby girl bar-rettes. She tilts her head down, blinks and flashes a brilliant movie-star smile. “Hello, I’m Ahh-nee-tah. Fixx.”