Gretchen’s lip balm is still in the front pocket. I slide my finger across the tube and run my finger over my lips. Gretchen. I’m not ready to think about Gretchen, so I shove the lip balm way down in the front pocket. How can a lip balm make me feel so crummy? Jill’s bracelet is right here, too.
What Would Jill Do? A fine question. I don’t freaking know. Would she blow almost two hundred bucks on a bed for one night? If I have to stay here longer, I won’t be able to afford a second night at two hundred bucks a pop. It seems pretty likely I’ll be here at least two nights. The math just won’t work out in my favor. I have to find somewhere less legit.
Jill would make friends quickly and couch surf, but that’s easier for girls. And for Jill, specifically. She’s couch surfed a lot.
A balding, cranky old guy delivers my Reuben with extra Thousand Island, chips so thick I can tell they’re not from a bag, the biggest dill pickle I have ever seen, and a root beer. It’s the good stuff, too, in a bottle.
The dressing is tangy, and the rye is toasted. Probably a bit too much sauerkraut, but I can scrape it off with my fork. This may be the best sandwich in the history of the world.
In the history of the world, there must have been loads of people like me: wayward travelers who needed somewhere to stay. What did they do?
Curt passes me on the way to another table.
“Curt?”
“Yeah, man?”
“Any idea where a guy could find a bed for the night?”
“Hotels are mostly booked for Jazz Fest, aren’t they? Best advice I have for everyone: try the hostel. Three doors down, excellent staff, and free waffles for breakfast.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I say.
Now what?
Curt’s closes at ten, and I’m the last person out the door.
“Come again,” Curt says, and I promise I’ll be back.
EIGHTEEN
Everything is different in the dark. Shadows have fallen over everything, making Burlington really freaking creepy. Ten paces past exhausted, I feel super vulnerable. Hat pulled over my eyes, shifting my gaze every which way, I must look like a criminal. No sign of Gary, though, so there’s that.
For real, if I were Gary, I would be hunting me at night. But then, if Gary were here, he would have made his move by now, probably.
Okay, so what’s my next move?
Bed. Or sleep, at least.
For maybe an hour, I poke around the University of Vermont looking for a spot. My best bet for the night is a bench that butts right up to a brick building. It’s somewhat obscured by large trees, which cast enough shadow for me to stay hidden. Kick the duffel under the bench, tuck the backpack under my head, rub a little of Gretchen’s Labello on my lips—good night, Gretchen—and close my eyes.
It’s almost comfortable. Almost. And I’m so on edge, I’ll hear anyone approaching.
As it turns out, I don’t.
“You can’t sleep here.”
I startle to find a cop, wide awake and surly, standing right next to my bench. His uniform suggests he isn’t even a cop, but some second-rate security officer.
“Sorry, I—I must have dozed off.”
Holding a handle stuck into his utility belt, he’s threatening without threatening. “Well, move along, then.”
“Sure.”
It’s well after midnight. Oh my god, so tired.
“Bags up,” he says. “I’ll walk you off campus.”
“It’s okay, I can make it on my own.”
“I wouldn’t want you to get lost, son.” He guides me to a sidewalk at the edge of campus. “Have a good night, then,”
I have nothing to lose to the fake cop. “Any idea where I can sleep?”
“Try the hostel on Main.”
“They’re booked.”
Heaving a huge sigh, he recites, “Spectrum Center for Homeless Youth if you’re under twenty-two. Emergency Shelter on North Street. COTS shelters a couple of places.”
Shelters? “I’m not homeless.”
“Then go sleep at home.”
Touché. “Anything else?”
“If you’re not homeless and not in need, go to a hotel. Bunk with a friend. Call someone. But you can’t sleep on campus. Anywhere on campus.”
“Thanks.”
“Any time.”
How many times a night does he run that script?
“Thanks,” I say again.
“Any. Time.”
“Bye, then.”
I head down Main Street, in the opposite direction from the hostel. This morning’s high has vanished. The homeless shelter is not an option. I keep smelling that woman in the New York alley, and I am not her. My life has lots of gray areas, but I am not one of them.
There’s that twenty-four-hour Price Chopper store I saw on my walk from the station, but what am I going to do, shop all night? I need a bed.
I desperately, desperately need to turn on Jill’s Wi-Fi and find somewhere to go. How likely is it that Gary could track it?
I already lied to Jill about New York. I can’t also break my promise about the Wi-Fi. Plus, I’m out of the commercial district now, so if I want to break my promise, I also have to steal the Wi-Fi from someone’s house.
Lies? Sometimes okay. Broken promises, maybe. But stealing is one step further than I’m willing to go.
The knife is borrowed, not stolen. I’m not going to steal Wi-Fi.
Next to a brown fence—residential, for sure—I sit on my duffel, contemplating my options.
I just need a break. Where do normal people sleep? Normal people without a house or a friend’s house? Or money for a hotel? People who need to sleep elsewhere, where do they sleep?
I would do anything for a bed at this point. Well, not anything. A homeless shelter surely has beds, but that’s just … embarrassing. I’m only without a bed for a single night, not forever. This is temporary homelessness. Tomorrow I get the hostel for two nights.
What if Gary isn’t caught? Then what? Then where? Am I homeless? No. Homeless people are dirty and sickly and old. There aren’t many in Laurel, but I saw a few in New York. I am not one of them. Am I?
The inky sky holds no answers. Nor does the uneven sidewalk. A brown landmark sign points down the street directly opposite my perch. White letters read COSLEY WOODS.
Woods sound promising. My last foray into the woods was a huge success. And even without Gretchen, how bad can it be, really? Burlington is too urban for bears, and I’ve been battling the herd of mosquitoes since my arrival. Things can’t get worse.
I look up and down Main Street, but no one else is here, let alone tailing me. The brown sign’s road is dark, its residents tucked in for the night.
A forever walk away, far at the end of the street, is the entrance to Cosley Woods. I don’t see a sign prohibiting pedestrians, but then, I can’t see much. The mere sliver of moon hardly helps. At the edge of the parking lot, I spot a huge kiosk like the ones on Laurel’s fitness circuit. I’m sure there’s valuable information here—stuff that has nothing to do with chin-ups or lunges—but I can’t make out the writing.
It’s just one large flat surface without enough contrast for reading. Maybe the kiosk includes instructions or disallows sleeping overnight, but I won’t know until morning and, frankly, I don’t care.
Behind the kiosk is another, smaller sign. A giant arrow, etched about a half-inch deep, directs me into the forest. At its mouth, the trail is quite wide. Two people could walk abreast without touching each other or the trees. Soon, it tapers to a narrower path.
If anyone noticed me heading into Cosley Woods, they might follow to investigate, so I pick up the pace.
This isn’t my thing. The canopy is so thick I can hardly see. Walking with my arms outstretched like Frankenstein’s monster, I stumble over something and bang into a tree. I hate nature.
The quiet is good, but the darkness is unnerving. What else is out here, roaming around?
I hate this. I hate it so hard.
The moon sliver peeks through the canopy, and I use the light to get off the path and walk deep into the woods. Far enough away that morning joggers won’t see me, I drop my stuff on the ground. Bedtime. Finally. Jill’s iPod tells me it’s nearly 2 a.m. The night is half over.
Also, I’m an idiot, because iPods make great flashlights.
My sweatshirt is a little toasty, but will help keep the mosquitoes at bay. Weather that’s too hot for Curt feels just right to me. I tuck myself in the middle of some trees and lie on my back. It’s not remotely comfortable, but my body is too exhausted to care. It’s only one night. Tomorrow at two, I’ll be safe in the hostel for two whole days.
Last time I tried to catapult myself forward a few hours, the shit hit the fan. This time I’ll be patient. The future will come, either way.
How far into the future did Mom dream? How old did she think she would live to be? She accepted the beatings from Gary, but it wasn’t until she thought her life was over that she left him. How long did she expect to live?
She absolutely thought she would make it to my graduation. And to drive me to college. I might have to take another Greyhound to Tulane. Maybe Janice will drive me? She didn’t exactly ask to take on another son, though.
Mom said we had made it, but she was wrong. She didn’t make it … and I may not make it. Mom will never visit Tulane for Parents’ Weekend. I’ll never know how she would have decorated her empty nest. For months, Mom had promised to live vicariously through my college years. And now? She’s going to miss everything.
Something cracks in the distance, and I’m wide awake. It cracks again. Something is out here. Not bears, for sure not bears. Not bears. Crap. What types of animals are lurking out here?
Not Gary. Probably not Gary. Just a rabbit or something. Something nocturnal. A raccoon, maybe. Maybe not.
Clutching the knife, I open and close it several times. Sleeping with an open knife is a terrible idea, but if I need it, I want to know how to use it.
Open. Close. Open. Close.
No more creature noises.
Open. Close. Open. Close.
I close my eyes again. I’ll be okay tonight, but what about tomorrow? I feel too vulnerable out in the open. I need to be inside, back against the wall, so I can maintain constant vigilance, on high alert, until the hostel opens. Somewhere free.
I’ll figure it out in the morning. I’ll make it be okay.
Sometime between sleep and sunrise, the rain starts. In minutes, my stuff is muddy and I’m soaked.
I fashion a face tent out of my backpack and rain jacket and try to find sleep again in the cold, wet darkness. Nature makes a lot of noise. I’ll never fall asleep out here.
_______
“Xander!”
Sun up. I am completely disoriented. Voice yells my name again and I sprint in the other direction before I even know I’m standing. I open the knife while I’m running. Thank god I practiced.
Louder, Voice calls again. I don’t recognize it, but anyone calling my name in Burlington is bad news. And Voice is angry, impatient.
I sprint through trees in our reverse game of Marco Polo. My foot catches the bank of a stream and I’m flat on my belly. I right myself and take inventory as I run.
Nothing broken.
Just keep breathing.
Voice screams, “You can’t run forever, Xander!”
I stumble over the stream twice more. I’m running in circles! Haven’t seen the path. Haven’t found the edge of the forest.
A dog barks, frantic.
Would they send dogs after me? Is it the police?
I am the dog, turning in circles between Voice and the barking. They’re closing in on me.
But who are they?
I run again, away from Voice, who knows my name. Through the damned stream this time, soaking my Chucks, which make me even slower.
The dog, a stupid-happy golden who just wants love, finds me first. He licks my hand and rolls over in case I’m interested in rubbing his belly.
“No time for that, buddy.” I run from Voice. The dog follows. We’re running and running through the trees.
And then we’re not. Turns out the edge is on a cul-de-sac. I hide the knife behind my back.
Some guy is watering his garden the morning after a downpour. Children play with Nerf bows and arrows. Running will make all these people suspicious.
Not running could kill me.
The dog licks my hand. I squat to pet him while I think of my next move. The moronic gardener waves timidly and I wave back. No big deal. I’m just a guy, hanging out with my dog. Casually walking through the woods.
Voice doesn’t call again.
The dog’s collar jingles when I scratch behind his ears. His tag is an enormous silver bone. One side reads, “If found …” and information about his owners. The other side is etched with his name: Sanders.
It all comes together.
What a stupid name for a dog.
His human yells again, “Sanders!”
“You’d better run,” I tell him, and he bolts back through the trees.
NINETEEN
It’s almost eleven when I make my way out of the woods with all my crap. I’m starving.
At the trailhead, the kiosk tells me everything I need to know: no camping, no sleeping, stay on the trails. Also, leave no trace, and I actually abided that one since I can’t afford to lose what little I have with me.
I’m so grateful to have a bed tonight. And a shower. My teeth feel like I’ve swallowed a cat, and the night’s rain weighs down my bags.
After another Reuben from Curt’s Deli, I beeline it to the Free Library, where I can sit and read in a corner for two whole hours before checking in at the hostel.
Though I’m traveling light, lugging everything everywhere is a pain. I wish I could leave my wet, stinky duffel outside the library door, but that would be even more suspicious than the guy who brushes his teeth in the library bathrooms.
Yeah, I do it. Slimy teeth are gross. And though I haven’t showered in days, clean teeth make me feel human. Human-like, at least. I’m starting to smell less than human. Or very human, depending on how you look at it.
My clean teeth and I settle into a comfortable chair for the morning. The nonfiction section is wanting, but The History of Science has been on my list for months. Based on the bits I catch between regular surveillance of the area, it’s downright fascinating.
Here’s irony: it’s called the Free Library, but you’re only free to check out books if you have a Burlington address. At ten to two, I reshelve my book before hightailing it to the hostel.
The HOS¯EL. The stairs are brighter this afternoon. The girl—the same girl—is at the desk, and more attentive than yesterday. She reads aloud off my fake. “Graham Bel of Georgia. I haven’t visited Georgia yet. How do you find it?”
Um … “Hotter than here?” I’m an idiot. Of course Georgia is hotter than Vermont. Desperate for nuggets about Georgia, my obsession with travel becomes an asset.
“American Stonehenge is in Georgia! And Savannah, which is allegedly the least friendly city in the whole country. And peaches! Peaches, peaches, peaches. Hey, you know, Georgia was one of the original thirteen colonies, so even though they were admitted to the union just three years before Vermont, Georgia has had it together fifty years longer than Vermont. So, one could say mine is a more American state than yours.”
I’m a terrible liar. Just terrible. And pompous.
She isn’t fazed. “I’m Welsh. My name is Mia, by the way.”
Mia offers an information packet and tells me to vacate by 11 a.m. for the cleaning crew’s mandatory checkout. “You can check back in tomorrow at two.”
I seriously could have used some recon before this trip. Mandatory checkout? For three hours, thrust back into the world in plain site of … anyone?
Still, I have a place to breathe. Thanking Mia, I walk toward the dorm at the back of the building. The mixed dorm is big and bright with
six empty beds. I can’t tell whether this is better or worse than the dingy dorm room I expected.
I choose the bed closest to the window and dig through my bag for toiletries. All my clothes smell a little musty. I’ve been trying to separate the clean and dirty clothes but, well, I’m not trying that hard.
After a long, hot shower, I lie on my cot and settle into Jill’s iPod. I’m not using the hostel’s free Wi-Fi, but I’m thinking about it. Thinking about what everyone else is doing, and how much email they’ve sent me.
But I promised Jill I wouldn’t, and it’s her iPod, so I don’t.
She has a million new games on here, including some college-prep educational stuff. Definitely no. The mushroom icon for “Save Ur Ash” is cool, but it turns out to be a nuclear apocalypse survival game. Dumb. On my first try, I see the bright flash of the mushroom cloud and I’m toast. On my second try, I miss the flash but can’t find my way out of the street where I was standing when the bomb dropped. Ash falls and I’m radioactive.
Apparently, if you’re not immediately dead, you have to run as far as possible to escape the impending ash shower. When I see the flash on my third try, I actually blurt out, “Screw you!”
But I don’t stop playing. I let the mind-numbing app suck me in because, in the safety of the hostel, a numb mind is absolutely welcome.
TWENTY
By 7:10, I’m still alone, still haven’t won the stupid game, and still hungry. I swing by Curt’s for another sandwich before my scheduled call with Jill.
Curt narrows his eyes and points at me. “Graham. Extra dressing, right?”
I fork over my cash, bemused that he remembered me. Maybe he knows everyone in here. One old lady in slippers and a gnarled, curly wig is literally licking her plate clean. No one pays her any attention. It’s normal life.
“Hey, Curt, do you know where I can find a pay phone?”
“No idea. Haven’t seen one in years.”
Crap.
He surveys the other customers, who shrug and shake their heads.
Life Before Page 9