The Runaway

by Mike Walsh

  Did he have a final goal in mind? Who knew... Maybe Hollywood?

  He briskly walked along the side of the road until the sun came up. Traffic got heavier. He stuck his thumb out, walking backwards as fast as he had walked forward. He slowed down near the top of a hill. Trucks shift down going uphill and tend to stop for you when they are almost stopped anyway.

  Sure enough, a loaded grocery truck stopped and Michael climbed in to Kisses Sweeter Than Wine on the radio. The driver turned down the volume and asked Michael where he was headed.

  “New York, sir. If you’re going that far.”

  “All the way into Manhattan and across into Jersey, boy. What you gonna do there?”

  “My sister’s got a job in a big department store and I’m going to stay with her while school’s out. She’s got an apartment with some other girls.”

  The driver cracked a big smile. “Gonna get lucky, huh? Ha!”

  Michael slept all through Connecticut and watched the scenery and traffic the rest of the way into Manhattan.

  “I’m staying on Route One across the Washington Bridge, boy. You get out here and go straight, you wind up in Times Square.”

  Michael thanked him politely, climbed down and waved as the truck drove off.

  • • •

  Michael walked for a couple of hours and realized he was lost. That was easy, because he didn’t know where he was to begin with. He saw some signs saying he was in someplace called the Bronx. And there was Yankee Stadium, a big sign announcing “New York Yankees — World Series Champions — 1950.”

  He found a gas station and bummed a map. Pretty soon he was back on the road to Manhattan. He used the George Washington Bridge as a guide post, knowing he would be crossing it into New Jersey soon.

  Michael ate meagerly, mostly blue plate specials at cheap cafes, and slept in all-night movies. Some guys would sit next to him when the entire theater was about empty, but when they saw the handle with the razor imbedded in Michael’s hand, they moved on. Michael had this weapon since he made it when he was ten years old. When you grew up in Providence and traveled three miles into downtown and back again, a boy ten- or twelve-years-old alone didn’t stand a chance without some weapon. Michael’s blade had a lot of old blood-stains on it.

  • • •

  Michael loved New York. People roller-skated in the park and he sat through a free concert at a domed outside theater. He watched the new color TV through the store windows for hours. I Love Lucy, Superman, Dennis the Menace, and war stories about Korea. Michael wished he were old enough to fight for General MacArthur. When he ran out of money he needed to find a job washing dishes somewhere. That’s about the only job he knew of where no questions were asked and paid in cash and food.

  • • •

  As he walked Times Square for the first time, he found it overwhelming. However, Michael was starving and the different foods in the window were not very satisfying, being behind glass. He didn’t know how to get around back to ask for dish washing time for a meal and was ready to go in the front. He was always afraid to walk in the front, they always ask “how many” or the sign says “wait to be seated.” He never went into the front of a real restaurant, but was never in New York before, either.

  Michael had learned that people don’t pay attention to what is right in front of them when they are traveling back and forth to work or school or whatever. You ride the trolley every day and after three years or so, you notice the trolley doesn’t turn around. You dozed and missed your stop but that’s okay, the last stop is the next, just a couple of blocks, and the walk will do you good. You get off and watch the conductor walk to the other end of the trolley and put something in gear. He gets off and pulls the cords that disengage the pulleys from the wires and guides them around to the other end and carefully attaches them back to the wires. He climbs aboard and off he goes in the opposite direction. You never knew that.

  And a lot of other minor stuff you never paid attention to. A fifteen-year-old boy in a strange city won’t pay attention to the stalker, the man picking up on him, noticing he can’t be a city boy. Pedophiles thinking there are possibilities here – following to see what develops. He doesn’t want to get mugged in an alley after luring the boy in and having a gang pound all over him. Starting to learn that lesson, over and over again. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. But this one – the clothes, the gazing around – definitely first night in town. Getting closer now, looking around, don’t see any cops, crowded streets, everyone minding their own business, should be easy. Michael felt he was the exception.

  The hand clamped on his shoulder, scared the hell out of him. He thought, “Oh no, three days from home and I’m caught already.” He looked up. He knew his eyes were wild with fear, his stomach felt empty and heavy. The man wore a gray felt hat, saw that first. The man spun Michael around. He saw he had on a shabby dark suit including a tie. He didn’t see cop, saw enough to know that, so figured “queer,” going to pick me up and play. Well, he knew how to dodge this one. The guy came out with a typical line, “you look hungry, boy. You want something to eat?” Well, Michael thought, this would be easy, get some chow and split.

  “Yeah, but I don’t have any money to buy.”

  “That’s OK, c’mon, my treat. You look like a runaway, have all the earmarks.”

  Michael grabbed his ear. What was he talking about? He’ll have to think about that one. He said, “alright,” and the man marched him past the wonderful looking food, down the street and across to a corner cafeteria. Inside, all the food was behind little windows you had to open to take the plate out. Michael got lots of stuff that included custard pie, his favorite, with a bottle of milk, and sat down where pushed. The guy was babbling all the time. He couldn’t figure out what he was talking’ about, but was too interested in the food, and didn’t care what he was saying anyway. “…and we can make a lot of money and buy a house and get a car and…” whatever all that was about.

  He finished his food with a loud burp. Michael guessed he was a pig, but no one seemed to notice. Then the guy who looks like everyone else on the street except more seedy starts to poke him on the arm, “Are you listening? Can’t you understand what I’m saying? You want the cops to pick you up?” All ears now, he didn’t need the cops to send him back.

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Michael didn’t know what else to say. Then, what the hell, “are you a queer?”

  The man sat back in the chair and looked at him. It scared Michael even in the crowded dining room.

  “No, you little shit, and I ought to smack your face for saying that to me. I’m Charlie Dantz, the king of the doggy show, you little putz. I’m giving you the chance of a lifetime. You want it or not, you schmuck? I could drop you off to a cop and in two minutes see where you’d be. You want to listen, or not?”

  He shrunk down in his chair, getting pie off his teeth with his tongue, and nodded, he would listen.

  • • •

  Michael had the dog and the paper, one in each hand, and walked the park, watching Charlie from the side. He would point this way and that, and off Michael would go. He said this was a dry run for training, whatever that was, so off he went. The dog was cute. He never had a dog, and liked this one. His name was Tiny and he was small. The paper was open to the classified “lost pets” and Charlie circled one ad in particular. Michael thought he put the ad in himself, ‘cause he read it like he thought it was great.

  Pretty soon an old lady with fur on her collar was pointed out by Charlie. Michael headed over like they went over before. He sat down next to her and Tiny started whimpering when squeezed a little, just like Charlie said to do. “What a cute little puppy you have, young man,” she said looking over and twisting around.

  “He’s lost,” Michael said, extending the paper with the ad.

  “I think this is him, here, in the paper.”

  She was chucking Tiny under the chin and reached for the paper. Lost Pomeranian, mixed color, answers to
the name of Tiny. $200.00 reward. 555 W. 54th St.

  “Why that’s real close to here, and that does look like the dog in the ad,” she says. She was now holding Tiny.

  “Why don’t we take him to his owner and collect the reward. We could each have $100.00. Oh, look, the tag on his collar says Tiny: 555 W. 54th St. Why there’s no question this is the dog. Let’s go bring Tiny home.”

  “I can’t do that,” Michael said, “I got to get home or I get whipped real good. My stepfather is real mean and he don’t tolerate me being tardy. I’ll just take Tiny home with me. Charlie, my stepfather, will know what to do.”

  “Well now,” she said, huffily, “I did help you determine the ownership, and I am entitled to half the reward. And I do have the dog. You’ve got to come with me.”

  “Well now,” he said, “look here, I can’t go, so just give me Tiny, and I’ll be on my way.”

  “Look,” she says, “let’s make this easy.” She tucks Tiny under one arm and comes up with a small purse from under her coat and snaps it open. “I have $75.00 here, I know it’s not half, but I do have to take a cab to take Tiny back. You take the $75.00 and get on home, and I’ll take Tiny home to his loving owner. How does that sound?” she said, extending the money out to him.

  Charlie said this was a dry run and he didn’t know what to do, so he snatched the extended money and ran for hellfire. He looked back and the old lady was heading for the park entrance pall-mall. Charlie grabbed him by a bush, pulled him back in and gushed, “Great job! She went all the way with it.”

  Michael said, “Well, what about Tiny? Is he gone now? I really liked the little fella.”

  “Naw, he’ll jump away as soon as he gets a chance, and come running home. He always does. Don’t worry, he’ll be back.”

  The dog was back in less than an hour.

  • • •

  Charlie had a room on a street off Times Square, a long block from the noise and lights. He was on the second floor front, just a room and a closet. The stairs went straight up with no landing. Charlie had left him there alone that night and came back for him with the dog in tow late the next morning. After scoring from the old lady, Charlie had gone to his girlfriend’s house and left Michael with Tiny in the room. He said he’d be back in the morning and not to go out.

  Michael rummaged around the tiny room, poking into this and that, opening drawers. He found a roll of bills as big as his fist in a drawer, rolled up in a pair of socks. His heart pounded in excitement and fear. He had never seen so much money. Panicked with fear, he decided he had to get out. This money would get him to California, his ultimate destination.

  His hands and legs were shaking. He opened the door a little and listened. Tiny tried to get out, but he kicked him back, gently, so as not to scare him. He squeezed out and closed the door. He could hear various sounds from other rooms. Michael tiptoed to the stairs and almost fainted. Charlie had come in the door and was starting up the stairs. He froze and Charlie looked up.

  “Hey!” he shouted. Charlie was bolting up the stairs. Michael shoved the roll in his armpit.

  “I just came from the bathroom,” Michael shouted, as Charlie reached the top and grabbed Michael by the arm, “What’s the problem?”

  “Oh, okay. Thought you were leaving. I just came back to get Tiny. There’s no dog food here and he’s going to get hungry.”

  Charlie took Tiny and left, leaving Michael alone in the room. He put the roll of money back, just in case. He wasn’t leaving tonight.

  The next day, Charlie came to get Michael and they went to breakfast and then to the park. They spent all day and got no takers. They had dinner at the automat and headed back to the room. Charlie said he wanted to leave Tiny with a friend that lived above him.

  Charlie got to the top of the stairs and made a U-turn past the railing to the front of the building and his door. He opened it with an old-fashioned skeleton key. Michael followed him in. He had told Michael he only used this room when he wasn’t staying with his girlfriend, which was most of the time. The room was small with a double bed against the wall where the front window was. There was a dresser on the left and next to the door was another door to a closet going back off the hallway. Charlie threw his coat on the only chair on the right of the room.

  “Make yourself comfortable, kid. You know where the bathroom is.”

  “I’m going upstairs, see that friend of mine, have a few beers. I’ll be back in awhile. I’ll take Tiny with me.”

  After he left, Michael found a clean towel in the closet and went down the hall to the bathroom to go to the pot and wash up. When he got back to the room, he climbed into the bed and went right to sleep, leaving the light on because Charlie was coming back, his coat being on the chair.

  • • •

  The car looked like a late 30’s sedan, black with a shiny chrome grille. It was dark, and a cloudy haze was swirling around the car. It was almost to the top of a boat ramp, with water and large ships behind it. Warehouses and old metal buildings were on both sides. It was trying to get over the ramp start hump, and he reached out to it. Something pulled at his clothes as he got close. He pulled away and tried to get to it again, but was pulled back again. He kicked out but the car slipped away. He tried again but could not reach the car. It slipped back more and he reached out more. The hand pulled him back more.

  • • •

  He opened his eyes, it was dark and he could hear the breathing. His underwear was being tugged as he was kicking away at the intruder. He heard Charlie’s voice.

  “It’s okay, kid. It’s only me. Relax, it will be alright. Stop kicking. I won’t hurt you.”

  Michael smelled the beer breath and felt the rough hands. His mind swirled and he was dizzy with sleep. Snapping out of it, he estimated where Charlie’s head was and kicked out as hard as he could.

  “Motherfucker! You broke my nose!” He was off the bed and flung open the door.

  Michael saw him heading for the bathroom, cussing loudly, holding his face. Another broken nose. This is getting to be a habit, Michael thought. He was scared shitless, but somehow calm. Michael pulled his clothes on and rifled Charlie’s coat. He had seen him put the $75 in an inside pocket. It was there. He shoved it into his pocket and started out the door. He stopped, remembering the roll of money. He pulled open the drawer and reached back grabbing the hard sock where he had returned it. He sprinted for the stairs and ran into Charlie coming down the hall holding a towel to his face.

  “Where the hell you think you’re going, you little shit?”

  He grabbed Michael by the shoulder, got a hand-full of jacket and spun Michael around. Michael pushed hard and Charlie let go, falling and tumbling down the stairs. He let out a yelp once and was silent when he hit the bottom. Michael was holding the rail post and looking wide-eyed down at Charlie when a door opened and an old lady stuck her head out.

  She looked right at Michael and backed back in her room slamming the door. Downstairs, a door opened and another woman came into the hall. When she saw Charlie, she looked up and saw Michael.

  “You!” she screamed. “You killed him! I’m calling the police!”

  Michael ran back to the room and pulled up the window. It only went half way but he was able to get out onto the fire escape. He ran down the four stairs to the ladder that slid down to the bottom when he climbed onto it. When he got to the sidewalk, he ran as fast as he could towards the lights and noise.

  His chest was heaving already with exertion and fear when he saw the cop coming down the street on the other side. He ducked into a stairwell and saw the cop run by, angling across the street behind Michael. When he was lost in the dark, Michael continued running towards Times Square. He knew the river was on the other side and there were lots of places to hide if he got across the busy Manhattan streets.

  • • •

  Michael was now lost in his own fear of getting caught and paid no attention to pedestrians or traffic. He heard horns blowing but kept
on running as fast as he could. He crossed several wide boulevards and eventually came to a darker residential street, not unlike the one he started from.

  He didn’t slow down until he had gone the several blocks to the river. There were old buildings blocking the water and he spun right and ran past until he came to some piers. He slid down the side of one and slipped under the decking. He laid back on the incline and coughed until the stitch pains went away and he got his breathe back.

  He had not realized the tears were coming all the while he was running. He had no thoughts except getting away. His hands were empty and bloody. He had dropped the money sock somewhere along the way. And his old flight bag with his stuff in it was still in the room. He felt his pocket. He still had seventy-five bucks.

  After awhile he listened hard and didn’t hear anything except traffic in the distance and scurrying around, probably rats.