If you believe, you will receive whatever you ask for in prayer. Matthew 21:22.
Coach Freeman believes the Lord never turns His back on anyone, but God doesn’t answer everyone’s prayers. He picks and chooses, deciding who is worthy of His attention. KC’s not among the chosen ones. He’d prayed every day that God would change him, make him normal, unburdened by secrets and shame. But Jesus hadn’t bothered to respond, knowing KC’s faith was never strong. He’s not the Christian the Freemans believe he’s become. He’s a liar, a dishonest fake who told them what they’d wanted to hear, desperately needing to be accepted. He’s a homo who has sex with other guys, sometimes for money. And now he’s a thief too, a fucking criminal who will be thrown into jail when he’s caught driving a stolen vehicle. It’s too late for anyone to save him. If he ever prays again, he won’t ask God to waste any time on him. There are plenty of people more deserving of His help, like the quiet, confident captain of the Beaverton Grizzlies who seems uncomfortable, even a bit frightened, when he realizes he’s being stared at by a young man with a black-and-blue face.
It’s a constant battle with the gas pedal. KC typically has a heavy foot, causing the needle of the speedometer to flutter into dangerous zones. He’s been fortunate so far, avoiding speed traps and traveling below the highway patrol’s radar screen. His heartbeat races each time he sees a cop car in the rearview mirror. He tries his best to look unconcerned and nonchalant as they overtake him in the passing lane. He’s playing a dangerous game, driving a vehicle that’s sure to have been reported stolen by now. Sooner or later, he’s going to get pulled over. He needs to ditch this fucking car in a bus station parking lot the first chance he gets.
He absentmindedly sticks his index finger up his nose to pick at a dry and jagged scab deep inside his right nostril. He gently scratches, distracted by the gaudy tour bus of a country music star traveling to his next gig. He feels something wet and slippery and is surprised to taste blood as he explores his upper lip with the tip of his tongue.
Breathe through your mouth, don’t blow too hard into your hankie, and, whatever you do, don’t stick your finger up there no matter how bad it itches.
He remembers Mr. Chandler’s advice but the damage is done. Mr. Chandler stopped the bleeding by pinching his nose, but it’s hard to steady the car with only one shaky hand on the steering wheel. His clumsy attempt only makes matters worse and now the blood is actually gushing from his nostril. The front of his shirt is turning bright red. An exit for Eugene, Oregon, is two miles ahead. A road sign on the exit ramp, a white capital H on a blue background, directs him to a hospital one and a half miles to the left.
The woman at the emergency room registration desk doesn’t appear to be too alarmed, or even much interested, in a young man with a bloodied face holding a dirty handkerchief to his nose. The triage nurse, a burly middle-aged man with a thick tuft of blonde chest hair sprouting from the neck of his scrubs, is kinder.
“What did you do to yourself?” he asks.
KC is too embarrassed to admit he’d been picking his nose to a handsome dead ringer for the Six Million Dollar Man he used to watch on cable reruns.
“Couldn’t resist sticking your finger up there when the scab got itchy, I bet. Looks like you’ve broken the clot. Now this is gonna hurt like hell,” the nurse warns.
“I know.”
“Go ahead and holler if you feel like it. No one’s gonna care,” he says as he pinches KC’s nose. “What’s your name?”
“Ricky.”
The nurse smiles, but doesn’t comment on the obvious boner rising in KC’s pants.
“Okay, good-looking, that ought to hold you ‘til the doc can see you. Tell you the truth, I’m more concerned about that mark on your cheek. Who bit you? Barnabas Collins?”
KC looks at him, mystified.
“You’re too young for Dark Shadows and I’m too old to know the name of the Twilight vampires,” he laughs. “Seriously, though, we need to take care of that. We need to clean it out and get you a shot. But it looks like it’s gonna be awhile before they can see you. You tell that gal sitting at the desk to call me if you start bleeding again.”
KC nods his head.
“And don’t shake your head. Try to sit still,” he says as turns his attention to a young mother holding a barefoot young boy who’s stepped on a piece of glass.
KC is still sitting in the waiting room two hours later. It’s been fifteen minutes since the last patient was called to be seen. He suspects the sound of multiple sirens outside means the arrival of far more urgent cases than a bloody nose. He reaches for his duffel bag—he keeps it close by his side now, in case of an emergency—and pulls out the envelope to count his remaining money. He’s got less than seven hundred dollars left after paying for fast food and filling the tank and ransoming the rental from the expensive Seattle hotel parking lot. There’s no reason to waste more of it paying a doctor now that he’s stopped bleeding. He throws his duffel strap over his shoulder and walks out the door. A dazzling full moon, white as a bleached skull in the sands of the desert, hovers over the horizon, illuminating the poorly lit parking lot. Ahead, he sees a cop standing behind his car, calling in the license number of a possible missing vehicle. He turns and runs back inside, throwing the keys, evidence tying him to the car, into a trash can in the men’s room.
He locks himself into a stall, resting his feet on his duffel. He doesn’t wear a watch. He always relies on his cell phone for the time. What could be only minutes feels like hours. His butt and thighs feel heavy and numb. Other men come and go. They do their business, wash their hands (well, most of them) and leave. He realizes he can’t hide forever. Eventually he has to emerge. He may as well risk it now he decides, summoning the courage to walk to the parking lot where a tow truck operator in greasy coveralls is hooking a chain to the axle of Darrell’s rental. The cop makes a last phone call, confirming the recovery of the vehicle, and leaves.
KC’s stranded in a strange city, watching his way out of town being hauled away, dangling from a boom. Motels are expensive and even the desk clerk in the worst rat holes would be reluctant to rent a room to a kid who walks in off the street with no car and whose face bears the aftermath of a recent fight. Besides, he has to conserve every dollar and try to never let his nut dip below two hundred bucks. He might not sleep in a bed again for a while. Who knows the next time he’ll be able to shower? He’ll have to piss and crap wherever he gets an opportunity, most likely outdoors on many occasions. He’d better be prepared so he returns to the men’s room to empty the toilet paper dispensers, stuffing the rolls into his duffel. He can’t steal liquid soap, but he grabs a stack of paper towels that could come in handy. He washes his face and hands, paying close attention to the bite on his cheek and carefully avoiding touching his nose. He splashes water on his hair and makes a crude attempt to style it with the palm of his hand. He needs to make one last pit stop at the vending machine in the waiting room before beginning the long walk to the interstate. He buys pretzels, Snickers bars and Oreos, two cans of Coke and a Mountain Dew, his dinner tonight and his breakfast in the morning. He might wait all night before some bored and lonely trucker takes pity on him and offers a ride.
“Hey handsome, what are you still doing here?”
He feels a hand on his shoulder. The triage nurse is standing behind him, a backpack slung across his shoulder.
“I’m just leaving,” KC says sounding like a guilty kid caught stealing cookies.
“What did the doctor say?”
“I’m okay. He said I can go.”
“It’s Ricky, isn’t it? Your name’s Ricky?”
“Yeah, Ricky.”
“What did they say about that bite? Someone did a half-ass job cleaning it. Did you get a tetanus shot?”
“Yeah.”
“You telling me the truth or do I have to go back and look at your record?”
“It’s the truth.”
“You have a script for an
antibiotic?”
“Yeah.”
“You call anyone to come pick you up?”
“No,” KC says, nervously. “I don’t live around here.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Sacramento,” KC says, unable to think of any other answer. “My family is in Sacramento.”
“Let me walk you to your car. I just clocked out.”
“No, that’s okay. I gotta get going.”
The nurse is too broad, too tall, for KC to push past him.
“Ricky, I’m gonna ask you a question.”
He knows the Six Million Dollar Man smells fear dripping from his sweat glands.
“You have a place to sleep tonight?”
“My car. I’m gonna sleep in my car.”
“So, where’s your car again?
“In the parking lot,” he says, unnerved by the man’s persistence. Maybe he’s heard a stolen car’s just been towed off the premises and he’s suspicious. Maybe he’s stalling, detaining KC until the cop can rush back to the hospital.
“So is mine. Let’s walk out together.”
“I gotta go to the bathroom first. You go ahead. Don’t wait for me,” KC insists.
“Ricky, why don’t you tell me the truth? There’s no car and you don’t have a place to sleep tonight.”
KC’s eyes well up with tears. He’s embarrassed by losing control and acting like a frightened baby. It pisses him off that he cries so easily lately, like a little boy or, even worse, a girl. He reaches for his dirty handkerchief but the nurse intercepts him before he can blow his nose.
“Whoa. Whoa. We don’t want you to start bleeding again. Stop worrying Ricky,” he says wrapping his arm around KC’s shoulder and leading him back into the treatment area. “You’re not gonna run on me, are you?” he asks. “Christine, keep an eye on our young friend here and call me if he tries to disappear,” he says to a young nurse. “I’ll be back in a minute. Just sit tight.”
None of the staff—doctors, nurses, orderlies, young women carrying baskets of syringes and empty vials, all wearing the same blue scrubs—are particularly interested in the young man seated at the nurse’s station, clutching a duffel in his arms. KC starts to relax, allowing himself to trust his new friend. He suspects the nurse is calling home, warning his wife or girlfriend or roommate, maybe a roommate, another guy, that he’s bringing an unexpected guest home tonight.
Don’t worry. It’s just for one night. Make up the couch. He looks like he could use something to eat. Why don’t you order a pizza?
The nurse might be Christian, following the example of the Good Samaritan, but Christians always find some way to work Jesus into the conversation and he never once mentioned God or the Lord. He could be a gay guy. He did call KC handsome, not once, but twice. Maybe he’ll let KC stay a few days while he figures things out. He’ll think it’s a riot when KC tells him he looks like the Six Million Dollar Man and asks if he has bionic powers. Maybe there is no roommate or boyfriend and he’ll invite KC to sleep in his bed.
“Ricky, this is Mrs. Sutcliffe,” the nurse says when he returns with a tired-looking middle-aged woman. “She’s gonna help us find a place for you to stay.”
Her ID badge says she’s a social worker though KC doesn’t know exactly what a social worker does. She tries to appear friendly, but acts like she’s being imposed upon and wants to move on to more urgent matters.
“How old are you Ricky?” she asks.
“Twenty.”
“Well, the bruises make you look younger. I’d believe you were an abused kid. Tonight you’re seventeen. If anyone asks you for your ID, say you don’t have one. They won’t challenge you. Runaways don’t carry a driver’s license. I made the phone call, Carl. They’re expecting him.”
KC’s devastated by the news. His new friend has betrayed him.
“I’ve got it under control, Carl,” she says. “You don’t need to stick around. Ricky, you’re going to the juvenile shelter for the night. They’ll hook you up with Social Services tomorrow. Wait until then to tell them you’re not a minor. Now be honest with me. Are you clean? They’re going to drug test you in the morning,” she says briskly.
“I think you’re jumping to conclusions. I’ll stay with him until the taxi arrives.” Carl says as she signs off on the cab voucher.
KC’s sure that Carl would offer him a place to stay if only he would ask. But he doesn’t, fearful of hearing the word no.
“Hey, cheer up. They’ll help you get back home if that’s where you want to go,” Carl says when they’re alone.
“I’ve got my own money. I don’t need their help. You don’t have to wait. I’m not a baby,” KC says.
“No, you’re certainly not a baby, handsome,” Carl says kindly as the cab arrives. “Promise me you’re gonna take care of yourself.”
He offers a farewell handshake, and KC throws his arms around his broad back, hugging him tightly.
“You come see me if your ever get back to Eugene so I know you’re doing okay. You’re a good boy, Ricky. I know it. You remind me of my son.”
The ride to the shelter seems to take forever.
“Where are we?” KC asks the driver when they stop at a traffic light.
“Blair Boulevard. You don’t want me to let you out in this neighborhood, believe me.”
There’s a bar on the corner with a rainbow flag draped above the entrance. The neon beer signs—Bud Lite, Coors—all prominently feature the universal symbol of pride, proof of the breweries’ commitment to the beer-drinking gay community. The place is called Lucky’s. Easy enough to remember. He could tell the driver to drop him here, but tonight an uncomfortable mattress and smelly blankets feels like a better option than standing around, waiting for some horny guy to offer him a place to sleep.
Either breakfast at the shelter is better than KC expected or he’s so starved that he’s grateful for a plate of powdered scrambled eggs and a piece of dry toast. The intake counselor says he’s concerned about the bite on KC’s cheek. He thinks it looks like it’s getting infected, KC lies and says he had a tetanus shot at the hospital. He refuses to answer any more questions and insists that the duffel and money they’d confiscated for safekeeping last night be returned to him. The counselor warns him he can’t return tonight if he refuses to pee in a cup. It’s eight o’clock in the morning when he walks out the front door. He hopes the gloom is only lingering fog and not the promise of a wet, drizzly day. It seems like forever since he awoke in a Seattle hotel room yesterday morning. He feels like his head is clear for the first time since the Odyssey. There’s something he owes the Freemans for all they have done for him. They deserve a response to the last text he’d received from the Coach before losing his phone.
YOUR AGENT IS HAVING TROUBLE WITH THE
RANGERS. NEED TO SPEAK TO YOU. WE NEED TO CONVINCE
THEM IT’S NOT TRUE.
He can’t stay silent and allow Coach Freeman, a devout Christian man, to break the Ninth Commandment by bearing false witness for him. He’d opened his Bible this morning as he shoveled eggs off a paper plate and the words from John 8:32 almost leaped off the page, And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free. He takes it as a sign that God wants him to confess.
He wanders the streets, in search of a pay phone to call Sacramento. There’s no dial tone on the only one he’s able to find, a rusty and dented box on the wall of a service station.
“That thing don’t work. Line’s been dead for more than a year. I don’t know why the fucking phone company don’t come and take it away. Those fuckers would charge me a goddamn fine if I ripped it out myself,” the attendant says. “I think there’s a pay phone at Walgreen’s. Why don’t you try there?”
The walk gives him a few moments to think. Words always fail him whenever he has something important to say. He mumbles, unable to finish his sentences, never able to express his meaning. The Augustinian priests who taught him in high school tried to build his confidence, assu
ring him he was smart and capable, despite his pitiful grades. But he’s only comfortable on the ball field where no one ever expects him to speak. He dials the Freeman’s number on the phone at the Walgreen’s and an automated voice asks him to either swipe a credit card or deposit three dollars and seventy five cents in coins. He hangs up and asks the lady at the cash register to change a five-dollar bill. She can’t open the register; he needs to make a purchase. He wanders up and down the aisles as if he’s in a daze, not wanting to waste money on something he doesn’t need. He chooses a protein bar and a bottle of Muscle Milk. Walking back to the register, he passes the stationary rack. Inspired, he invests in a tablet and a cheap ballpoint pen. He’ll write down what he wants to say in a letter to the Coach.
The sun is burning off the damp morning haze. There’s a small park on the corner dedicated to the Indian woman who traveled with Lewis and Clark. Her statute is caked with bird shit, the shrubbery is brown and dry, and the garbage cans overflow with trash. But there’s a comfortable bench and the sun feels good on KC’s bruised but healing face. Soon enough he’ll recognize himself in the mirror, a familiar face with a different nose. He’s drinks the Muscle Milk and saves the protein bar for later. He opens the tablet and begins to write.
The first draft is sloppy, with words and entire sentences slashed through with ink. He fills the pages of the tablet with scattered thoughts that are briefly considered and quickly discarded. It takes all morning and late into the afternoon until he’s satisfied with what he has to say. But there was no point writing it down if the Coach can’t read KC’s chicken scratch. So he painstakingly makes a more legible copy, printing the words in big, block letters.
Coach. There are so many things I am sorry about that I don’t know where to start. You and Mrs. Freeman are the only family I have ever known except for my Pop-Pop and I am deeply ashamed by how I have treated you. I am sure you didn’t want to believe the terrible things you heard when I was kicked off the team. I wish I could tell you they are all lies and that none of it is true.
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