by Courtney Lux
“Are you always so crass?” Nate is still frozen in place.
Trip shrugs. He gave up on manners a long time ago unless he really wants something. He feels guilty about it sometimes. Pastor Welk went through plenty of trouble trying to make him decent, but the lessons hadn’t stuck much when Trip never had anywhere to use them. Nate’s still stuck in his same place, so Trip reaches for his sleeve and tugs him forward a few paces. “Let’s go see your pictures, Nathaniel.”
• • •
The Metropolitan Museum of Art is one of the only reasons Trip ever comes to the Upper East Side during daylight hours. It’s air conditioned to near-freezing levels in the summer months and warm when the snow falls, and, due to its sheer size, no one notices or seems to care if someone wants to spend one hour or a whole day. For the few dollars price of admission, the Met has always been a temporary escape for Trip. He feels safe and grounded surrounded by oil paintings and marble statues the way he used to feel safe and grounded lying on a mahogany church bench with the smell of Pine-Sol in his nose. He says none of this to Nate.
Going to the Met is as nice a way to pass the afternoon as anything else, but when they arrive at the steps, they are greeted by a sign announcing the museum is closed for an event.
“The damn place is as big as a city block and they’ve gotta close the whole thing for one little dinner?” Trip squints through the window.
“Probably a curator thing or something.” Nate studies the sign posted in the door. “We can go some other time.”
“Yeah, but we have a whole day to kill now.” Trip smiles at Nate. “You got the time?”
Nate raises his wrist and looks momentarily surprised and then angry over his bare wrist. He sticks out his hand to Trip. “Give it back.”
Trip pulls the watch from his pocket. “Why do you even wear the thing if you never check it? I’ve had ahold of that since we got off the elevator.”
“Why do you keep taking my things?” Nate struggles for a few moments trying to get the clasp closed on his watch.
“You make it easy.” Trip snaps his fingers. “I might have just come up with the perfect activity for us.”
Nate has one hand cupped over his watch as if he thinks Trip might take it again. “What?”
“You wanna learn how to do it?”
“Steal from people?” Nate wrinkles his nose.
“Keep it down.” Trip steps closer and drops his voice. “We won’t take anything important.”
“It’s stealing,” Nate hisses back as his gaze darts around the crowd on the steps.
“We’ll give it all back.” Trip makes an “X” over his chest. “Cross my heart.”
“No.”
“It’s gonna be fun,” Trip whines. “Come on, Nathaniel, lighten up. You know you want to know how I do it.”
Nate hesitates. He fiddles with his watch. “Fine. Just once.”
Trip grabs ahold of the edge of Nate’s jacket. He tugs him down so they’re sitting on the steps. “All right, listen close.”
Trip explains the general rules of how to spot an easy mark, which fingers to use to make the grab, the importance of a distracting environment. It’s nothing he’s been taught, so he’s not sure if there are more refined tricks, but the ones he uses have worked well for him so far.
Nate appears to be a more interested learner than Trip thinks he would care to admit. He leans close and nods along as Trip talks, but when Trip stands and announces it’s time they actually put their lessons to use, Nate’s eyes go wide.
“I can’t.” Nate shakes his head hard. “It’s interesting and everything, but I just—I can’t.”
“Sure you can.” Trip crouches back down and scans the crowd for someone easy. His gaze lands on a group of women with their cameras aimed up toward the pillars of the museum. “There. Do you see that family? Whole bunch of distracted tourists. Easy.”
“I’m not taking stuff from a bunch of people trying to enjoy their vacation.” Nate looks reproachful. “That’s awful.”
“I told you we’d give it all back!” Trip lets out an exasperated sigh. “Fine. Just come with me, and I’ll show you.”
Nate must be more willing to bear witness to the crime than to participate because he trails after Trip without fuss.
Trip has his person selected before he’s even halfway down the stairs. She appears to be in her late thirties and she’s built short and sturdy. She’s dressed in jeans, an artificially paint-splattered New York City T-shirt and comfortable-looking tennis shoes, no doubt meant for easy walking around the city. She has her hair pulled back into a slightly off-center ponytail and she’s directing the camera on an iPad up toward the pillars of the museum.
Trip points her out to Nate. “What do you think?”
“She’s distracted and her purse is open and not too close to her body. She’s perfect.” Nate glances her over. “This is awful. Like, really, really awful, Trip.”
“Ya know what?” Trip pauses in their descent. “Let’s make this more interesting.”
“You gonna steal a painting from the Met, too?”
“That’s going to be the final masterpiece of my career. I’m not ready for that yet.” Trip rocks up onto his toes. “No, let’s play a game.”
“Is everything a game to you?”
“Makes life less dull, don’t it?” Trip looks at the pack of women to make sure they haven’t disappeared. “Here’s the deal: You tell me what I ought to pull out of her purse, and that’s the thing I’ll get.”
“How am I supposed to know what’s in her purse?”
“Just look at her and you’ll get a feel for it.” Trip flaps a hand toward their person. “She’s got hand sanitizer, a travel bottle of antacid pills, a pen, some cough drops, a granola bar, her wallet, a compact and probably a whole shit-ton of other stuff. Just pick something.”
Nate sighs. “Fine. You sure about that granola bar?”
“Might be a fruit snack or some crackers or something, but the lady’s got a snack in there.” Trip turns to check her again. “I’m positive.”
“Fine. That then—the snack thing.” Nate sits on the step. “I’m waiting here.”
“Suit yourself.” Trip moves down the rest of the steps. His group is all fast talking and noisy shouting. No one so much as offers him a second glance as he works his magic. He’s gone and back at Nate’s side in a minute.
Nate raises his eyebrows. “So?”
“So I should have put money on this bet or something.” Trip pulls the granola bar from his pocket and tosses it on Nate’s lap.
Nate looks as though he wants to be angry, but then he’s laughing, bright and happy. “No fucking way.”
“Yes fucking way.” Trip points at Nate triumphantly. “I told you!”
Nate turns the granola bar over in his hands as though he needs to check to be sure it’s real. “Incredible.”
Trip takes a bow. “Could show you how to do it, too, ya know.”
“I think I’d rather give things back.” Nate glances at the group.
“Putting shit back is harder.” Trip shakes his head. “I usually just hand it back to them and tell them they dropped it.”
Nate frowns, but it’s not all that angry. “Like my wallet?”
Trip winks. “Just like your wallet.”
“Fine. Let’s give it back then.” Nate pushes himself to his feet. “It’s cold out here.”
They walk down the steps and Trip approaches the women a second time. He taps his mark on the arm. “Excuse me, ma’am?”
The woman pulls her purse closer. She takes a step back.
Trip doesn’t mind. He knows her type. He makes her nervous. He holds out the granola bar. “Hate to bother you, ma’am, but I think you dropped this.”
She stares at the granola bar and then at Trip. “T
hat’s all right.”
“Not asking for a tip or nothing for returning it.” Trip keeps his smile in place, though it’s starting to hurt. “Just would have felt bad not making sure it didn’t get back to you.”
When it’s clear Trip isn’t backing down, she takes it.
Trip salutes her, loose and lazy. “Enjoy the rest of your visit, ma’am.”
Nate watches the group of women, but turns his gaze to Trip when he returns to his side. “She was kind of a bitch.”
“She’s all right. I make some people nervous.” Trip flaps a hand at his face. “She thought I was gonna steal from her or something. She wasn’t wrong.”
Nate follows Trip down the remaining steps to the sidewalk. He clears his throat awkwardly. “Does that ever make it hard doing the park-musician thing?”
“What? Making people nervous?” Trip looks up at Nate as they make their way east. “Doesn’t happen with everyone, and people usually like me better when I’m playing. I don’t seem like an actual person. I’m just a piece of the park or wherever I’m playing. Cheap entertainment, ya know?”
Nate’s pace slows. “No, I don’t. You are a person.”
Trip holds up a hand, rubs his fingers and thumb together. “People pay me either way, so who cares how they think of me?”
“People need to—” Nate pauses, shakes his head. “I don’t know. It should matter. That’s all I’m saying… you’re a person.”
They’ve reached a subway stop. Trip pauses to the right of the stairs. “That’s sweet, Nathaniel.”
Nate looks toward the steps. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “So…”
“So.” Trip shifts his bag down beside his feet so he can free himself of Nate’s sweatshirt. He’s barely got a grip on the zipper when Nate’s hand comes to rest over his.
“Hold onto it. It’s cold.” Nate’s hand stays where it is, warm and solid as it had been on Trip’s back in the shower earlier that morning. He meets Trip’s eyes and his attention shifts from one to the other. “I’ll see you soon?”
“You know where to find me.” Trip crouches to pick up his bag. The motion won’t allow Nate’s hand to stay pressed to his, and its absence leaves a cold spot on the back of Trip’s hand and wrist.
“You got a phone number or something?” Nate’s brow is knit in a tight frown. He keeps eyeing where the sweatshirt has slipped back off of Trip’s shoulder.
“Community phone.” Trip pulls the fallen sleeve higher on his shoulder. “I don’t carry it much, but if you want the number, you can chat with Scarlett or one of the others whenever you want, I suppose.”
“The others?” Nate echoes. He’s patting his pockets as though he’s lost something.
“Roommates.” Trip unzips his bag, rifles through it until he finds a black marker. He holds it out to Nate; his left hand is still buried in his bag trying to dredge up a spare piece of paper. “Got a whole band of ‘em.”
Nate takes the marker in his left hand, catches Trip’s wrist in his right. “How many?”
Trip does his best to hold still. He watches while Nate writes something across his palm. “Um, four and a half.”
“Someone not live there all the time?” Nate blows on the ink on Trip’s palm. His breath is as warm as his hands.
“Not exactly.” Trip lifts his palm to study it after Nate releases his wrist. A phone number is written across it in blocky print with Nate’s name above it. Trip points to his name. “Glad you added this. Might have forgotten.”
“Sounds like you meet enough guys that you might.” Nate clears his throat, reaches for the back of his neck a second time. “Um, call me if you want. You know where to find me, too, ya know.”
“I know.” Trip drops his hand, steps closer to Nate. “I’ll see you around, Nathaniel.”
Nate pulls the zipper on Trip’s sweatshirt higher. “See you around, Trip.”
Trip could kiss Nate the way you’re probably supposed to kiss people goodbye after they’ve fucked you and washed you and fed you and spent time with you. Trip pushes himself up on his tiptoes, leans close. He licks Nate across the cheek and stays just long enough to see the look of disgusted surprise that crosses Nate’s face. He darts down the stairs to the subway.
To his surprise, a peal of laughter sounds behind him, and he doesn’t have to turn around to know it was Nate. The sound stays with him for the subway ride to Union Square and only fades as he’s closing the door to his apartment.
Devon’s shoving him before he can so much as lower his bag to the floor. “Where the hell have you been?”
Trip frees himself of his bag and steps into Devon’s space. He doesn’t like confrontations that start out this aggressively. They make his skin itch; his hands curl into fists before he can think about it. He’s always had a short fuse, and the abruptness of Devon’s anger only serves to fuel his temper. He shoves him back, harder. “What the hell do you care?”
“You disappeared Monday and didn’t come back, you asshole. It’s almost Wednesday night!” Devon growls.
Trip’s forgotten he didn’t come home Monday. It had been a late night. He’d gone to a club with too-loud music and someone named Amir or Aziz… something like that, who’d ordered overpriced bottles of champagne on ice and held court in a VIP section away from the rest of the club. He hadn’t been so bad. All he’d wanted was a blow job and to watch Trip eat maraschino cherries and flirt with other boys. By the time he’d released Trip back into the world, most of the people in suits were already on their way to work, so there’d seemed little point in going home. Trip had gone to the park and stood ankle-deep in the fountain to keep himself more awake and draw a better crowd.
That night and his night with Nathaniel shouldn’t matter to Devon, though. He’s never been one to get on Trip’s back about disappearing for a few days at a time. It’s confusing and the confusion only exacerbates Trip’s anger. He steps closer with a wicked smile. “What, you jealous or something? If you can pay, you can have a go, too, sugar.”
Devon shoves him hard. Moves as though he’s planning on doing it again.
“Boys.” Scarlett appears from her bedroom with June on her hip. Her hair is in a sloppy ponytail that’s not entirely centered at the crown of her head and she’s wearing the fake eyelashes and red lipstick meant for nights at the strip club. “That’s enough.”
It’s not like Devon to pick a fight, especially not with Trip. Devon knows where Trip grew up, knows Trip could beat him onto the floor and just keep punching if he wanted to. He knows better than to pick this kind of fight. Trip calms himself enough to remember this, to remember Devon hasn’t been Devon lately and it might be best to let this one indiscretion go. Trip takes a step back.
Devon seems to remember, too, because his shoulders go suddenly loose and his eyes drop to the floor. “You missed a lot of shit.”
“What kind of shit?” Trip flexes his hands at his sides in a weak attempt at calming himself. “Liam dye his hair again? Ain’t much new about that.”
Scarlett notes Trip’s hands. She steps closer and offers the baby. “Jude’s gone.”
Trip takes June, but his gaze stays on Scarlett. “Gone how? Missing?”
“Gone like ‘followed his method-acting heart all the way to Los Angeles’ gone,” Liam says as he steps out of his bedroom, wiping a paint-stained rag over his hands. His hair is a muted shade of lavender. “And, yes, I dyed it. Don’t say one goddamn word.”
“Gone without paying his part of the rent or bills,” Devon adds. He crosses the family room to sit on the arm of the couch and pushes at the edge of the window. “Managed to leave a fuckin’ note, though. Real good of him.”
“We sure this isn’t some sort of acting thing? Like for a role or something?” Trip looks around at all of them. When they just stare back at him grimly, Trip sighs. He sits on the floor with June in his
lap. “Well, shit.”
“Yeah, Morgan, shit.” Devon pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket with shaky fingers. He lights one and holds it out the window. “I was barely gonna make rent as it was.”
“I’m picking up a few extra shifts.” Scarlett gives Devon and his cigarette a look, but she doesn’t comment on it. Apparently the drama with a sudden lost roommate is enough to shift some of Scarlett’s frustrations with Devon to Jude. She looks back to Trip. “I’m sorry that I keep doing this to you, but if you’re not working on something, could you take the baby? I’ll figure something out if you can’t.”
“I got her.” Trip waves her off. He bounces the baby idly on his knee. This is bad. Going into the winter months when fewer people are milling around the parks and able to drop a few dollars for Trip was going to be hard enough with five of them paying rent; with only four of them now to split the cost of everything, it will be nearly impossible to save up enough each month to pay for all of the bills. He’ll have to figure out something else.
Scarlett sits on the floor across from Trip. She reaches for her hair as if she’s forgotten that it’s already pulled up. Her gaze stays on June. She looks tired, and Trip wonders when she last got more than a couple hours of sleep.
They’re all silent for a moment save for June burbling happily while she pulls Trip’s shoelaces loose.
Liam drums his fingers on the doorframe. His fingers pause after too many minutes of silence. “I can maybe pay more. I’ll look into it.”
Liam, unlike the rest of them, has parents he still speaks to regularly. They help him when they can—pay for his bus ticket back to Kentucky at Christmas and offer some cash on his birthday. Trip doesn’t know much about them other than that they don’t have a whole lot in the way of money and they’re supportive of Liam’s would-be Bohemian lifestyle. At least for now, that is.
“They need a dishwasher or bus boy or somethin’ at the club?” Trip chews a thumbnail, tries to dredge up the memory of anyone he’s worked for in the past who might be willing to hire him back.
“They hate you there, and you know it.” Scarlett pulls the hair binder from her curls and adjusts her ponytail so that it’s more centered. “And, no, I don’t have anything for you at the hotel either.”