“Are you going to respond?”
“I might throw up.”
“Don’t throw up.”
We have the light now. I reach out and put my hand gently on her back. It’s an instinctive move. If I pull away suddenly, it’ll be even more awkward. Go with it, Max.
“Let’s cross,” I say, and Kendall lets me guide her forward.
Kendall
WHEN WE REACH THE OTHER SIDE OF MADISON Avenue, Max stops dead.
There’s a guy sitting cross-legged on a blanket spread out on the corner, his back against the granite of a building. Long hair in dreadlocks, multiple layers of dirty clothes, torn work boots. An empty coffee can sits in front of him, along with a sign that says: HUNGRY HOMELESS VET. GOD BLESS.
“It’s happening!” yells the guy. “You don’t know! Because you don’t ask! That’s what they’re counting on! But I can tell you, it’s happening and it’s going to change things for all of us!”
An older woman pauses in front of the blanket, fishes a dollar bill out of her purse, drops it in the coffee can.
“I’ll give you all the information you’re going to need,” the homeless guy tells the woman with a mix of gratitude and excitement.
The woman holds up her hand and shakes it in a No, thanks gesture. She smiles politely at him, then speeds up her pace.
Max frowns as he watches the woman hurry away. I see the wheels turning in his head and although I don’t know what they’re churning up, I say, “You know he’s not really a vet, right? Or religious. I think these guys do market research on what signs get them the most money.”
“Yeah, I know all that,” he says.
“Also I read an article about some dude who does this and earns thousands of dollars a month.”
“I saw that article, too.”
“And remember, we have that no-money rule. . . .”
“Yes!” he practically hisses at me.
“So what are we doing here?”
“Not sure,” says Max, who hasn’t taken his eyes off the guy. “I just thought . . . what if we listen to what he’s saying? Nobody else is.”
“Because what he’s saying is crazy?”
Max gives me a sideways, twinkle-eyed glance. “Are you sure?”
We both stare at the “homeless vet,” who in turn is staring at the ground as people walk by. He seems to be very interested in everyone’s feet. I guess that’s a tricky thing for him, deciding where to look. It’s not like he can fiddle with his phone or read a magazine.
Finally, Max steps forward and sinks into a squat next to the guy.
“Hi,” says Max. “I’m Max.”
The guy looks at him. Offers a hand wearing two gloves, one on top of the other. They’re both see-through thin. “Josh,” says the guy. “What up?”
Huh. I would not have pegged him for a Josh. A Ronald, maybe, or Horatio, something like that. I’m already thinking about how to sketch him.
“What is it that’s happening?” asks Max. “What don’t they want us to ask about?”
The guy pauses, regards Max cautiously, and frankly I can’t blame him. “The cameras,” he says. I guess I should call him Josh.
“What cameras?” I ask, stepping closer to them.
“The tiny ones on every single building,” Josh says, pointing up and around us. “On every car. Every street sign. Fire hydrants. Mailboxes. Trees. Traffic lights. Any place you can think of, they’re there.”
We’re all quiet for a moment. I’m trying to think of what to say to that.
“Who put them there?” asks Max.
“Private corporations. You’d think the government, right? But the corporations . . . they’re the ones who have the most to gain from spying on everything we do. They want to know what we’re wearing, eating, watching.”
“I have to say,” says Max, “if that’s true, I don’t really have a problem with it. I have nothing to hide. How is that different from the tons of consumer research that’s being done on us all the time?”
“That’s a good point,” I add. “And sometimes security footage helps catch criminals.”
“But it violates our rights,” says Josh, looking at me, and his eyes are very clear. “Listen, I know about this stuff. I used to be in a long-range surveillance unit.”
“So you are a vet,” says Max.
“Nineteen months in Iraq.”
“Where do you sleep?”
“At a shelter.”
“Doesn’t the VA help you?” Max presses.
Josh pauses. “It’s a long story.”
“What do you do with the money you take in during the day?” I ask. Max glares at me, but Josh breaks into a grin.
“I spend most of it on photocopies,” he replies, and reaches into a duffel bag, taking out a homemade flyer, aka a letter-size sheet of yellow paper folded in half. He gives it to me, then pulls out another for Max.
Every inch of the front page is filled with handwritten poems.
I fumble to open the flyer with my gloves. Inside, more poems, some scrawled in print, some in cursive, all different sizes. It’s hard to tell where one poem ends and another begins, but maybe that’s the point. My eyes settle on one that’s written larger than the others, the letters slanting sideways.
We fly into the night
Not knowing where we’ll land
In the middle of a fight
Or in pieces on the sand
I glance over at Max, who’s also reading. “Good stuff, man,” he says to Josh.
A police officer breaks through the crowd.
“Every day you have to do this?” asks the officer.
Josh just shrugs, completely unfazed. “It’s a great spot.”
“It’s an illegal spot.”
Josh sighs, gets up, and starts collecting his things.
“Do you need us to call the shelter for you?” says the officer. The set of his jaw has softened and behind his face-swallowing wraparound sunglasses, I can tell there’s some sympathy.
“No, no, sir,” says Josh. “I have somewhere to be.”
Josh steps off the blanket and picks up his sign, coffee can, and duffel bag. Max bends down to grab the blanket, folding it in half, then in quarters. He offers it to Josh and doesn’t even seem to care that the thing looks saturated with filth. I’ll offer him some hand sanitizer once we’re on the next block.
“Thanks, kid,” says Josh to Max, taking the blanket.
“No problem.”
“I mean, thanks for stopping.” His voice dips lower.
Max smiles. “You’re welcome.”
They both look at me. “Good luck,” I say, and then wish I’d come up with something less stupid.
Josh moves toward the corner and disappears into a knot of people. When the knot untangles, he’s gone. Max looks at me and I wish I knew him better so I knew what this look means.
“Do you think he’s mad that we didn’t give him any money?” I ask.
“Did he seem mad?”
“No.”
“He seemed happy that we stopped, right? That we bothered to actually talk to him.”
Happy is a strong word to use here, but maybe un-sad. Then I catch Max’s drift.
“You’re asking if this counts.”
“I think it should totally count,” says Max.
“How was that a random act of kindness?”
Max makes an exasperated sound. “How is it not?”
“I don’t feel like we helped him. All we did was listen to him talk.”
“Exactly!”
There’s so much energy in Max’s smile, it’s hard not to take whatever it’s offering.
I’ve walked by hundreds of these people. Not just in New York but at home, too. There’s a guy who basically lives on Main Street with his shopping cart and a pit bull named Lulu. Then, in Europe. So many that I really perfected the “looking away without feeling guilty” routine. I don’t know what I feel when I think of all of them as a whole. But now I do kno
w this one guy’s name, and that he has ideas and writes poetry that’s not terrible.
“Yeah,” I say finally. “It counts.”
“Two down,” says Max.
“Two down,” I echo. “But we didn’t get a picture to prove this one.”
“Erica will have to take our word for it, I guess. We do have his flyer.”
I stop in my tracks. “Or I can record it another way. Hang on.”
I step toward the wall of a building, take out my pen and notebook and prop it up against the cold stone. Then I slip off a glove so I can scribble Josh’s name and where we met him, what we did. When I’m finished, I tuck everything back into my bag and tug the glove back on. It feels like I just wrote one page in a story.
We start walking toward Fifth again. My phone dings and I glance down, my heart jumping because maybe it’s a message from Jamie. But it’s from Emerson.
I think I may have sent you a text meant for someone else.
I stop for just a second, keeping Max’s tall head in the corner of my eye.
You did, I reply.
There’s a pause. Then:
Shit fuck dammit dammit dammit. Call me.
OK but later, I type back. In the middle of something.
Um, yeah, that’s putting it mildly.
Josh
Alone in the middle of thousands
Me and myself are best buddies
Together against our
UH. SHIT. I CROSS THAT LAST LINE OUT.
Been having a bitch of a time figuring out the rest, because there are no good rhymes for “thousands.” I tried “hundreds” and “millions” but those don’t work either. Yeah, I know poems don’t have to rhyme but that’s my thing. In the service, I was known for my rap skills. It’s not the rhyme so much as the rhythm.
My days have rhythm, too.
The beats are goals:
Make as much cash as I can before I get booted from my spot.
Eat some protein.
Try to stay gluten-free even when the only thing you find in the garbage is a giant piece of Italian bread. With butter.
Keep myself hydrated without resorting to the water from the public bathroom sink that says “not suitable for drinking.”
Don’t urinate in public even when you have to piss like a racehorse.
Resist the urge to call home.
Resist the memory of my mom’s voice urging me to call home.
Go to the Veteran Service Unit and get back on meds.
I’m able to do all of these things except the last one. But I keep it in the goals, part of the rhythm, so that must mean something.
Those kids.
They stopped.
I’m probably something they have to write a school assignment about. Or a story for their friends.
Know what? I would be fine with that.
Go ahead, tall guy and redheaded girl. Tell the story. Pass along what I said about the cameras, and it’s okay if your buddies laugh as long as it crawls into their ears and curls up in their brains. Because someday they’ll remember, and what they’ll remember is that I was right.
Then wherever I am, even if I finally ditched the idea of being alive, I won’t be gone.
Max
WE STEP INTO ST. PATRICK’S CATHEDRAL THROUGH the side entrance on Fiftieth. No sanctuary from the crowds in here. It’s even more packed than the street. People shuffle through the aisles and slump in the pews, checking their cell phones. But if I look up, toward the soaring buttressed ceiling and the stained-glass windows, all that falls away. Being Jewish doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a dazzling house of God.
Kendall tugs my sleeve and cocks her head toward a woman sitting by herself in a pew. The woman’s eyes are closed and she’s taking deep, in-through-your-nose-out-through-your-mouth breaths.
“What do you think she’s thinking about?” Kendall whispers. The woman bends forward, planting her forehead into her palms. “My guess is, her marriage falling apart.”
“Wow, you went straight there, huh? What if she simply has a headache?”
“Boring.”
“Yeah, well, some people are. We don’t all deserve to be characters in your novel.”
Kendall’s face falls. Shit. I’ve hurt her feelings.
“I didn’t mean . . . ,” I say.
“It’s okay. You just reminded me of something Jamie said the other day, that every moment is full of stories.”
This feels weird, for her to bring up Jamie right now. But of course, why wouldn’t she? Besides, I’ve heard Jamie say that, too.
Kendall tugs my sleeve again and pulls me to the right, deeper toward the heart of the cathedral. We pass one altar, then another. Then she stops.
“This is the one,” she says.
There are two stands full of lit candles, and between them a bronze statue of St. Theresa waits there, watching. I’m not sure if she’s supposed to inspire guilt or hope. Maybe both. (Could be an effective combination, actually.)
The donation box asks for two dollars, and I get the sense the honor system works pretty well here. I dig two dollar bills out of my pocket and slip them in the box. Pick a white candle and drop it into one of the empty blue glass holders. Grab a lighting stick and touch it to a candle that’s already burning, then set mine aflame.
This one’s for my grandmother.
I really miss you, Nanny. You would have loved all the holiday decorations in the city this year. Also, Big E is being extra jerky. Can you give us some suggestions on that?
After I extinguish my stick in a foam-filled box, I look up to see Kendall counting out some coins in the palm of her hand.
“I have a dollar bill plus eighty-seven cents,” she says.
“I’m sure management will spot you the difference.”
Kendall stuffs the money in the slot. She winces each time a coin lands and makes a noise. Nobody else seems to notice, though. Then she grabs a candle and a lighting stick. Surveys the holders. Like it matters which one she chooses. She takes a step to the right and bumps into a boy. He’s maybe ten.
“Oh! I’m sorry!” says Kendall.
“It’s okay,” says the boy. He’s staring at the candles. They light up unmistakable tears in his eyes.
“Are you all right?” I ask him.
“Where are your adults?” Kendall adds. This is, of course, the more appropriate question.
“My mom’s right there,” says the boy, pointing to a woman in the nearest pew. She’s hunched over her phone. “We just came in so she could write an email.”
The kid stares at the candles again.
“Are you going to light one?” Kendall asks.
The boy shakes his head. “I wanted to. For my dad. But Mom won’t give me the money if it’s for him.”
Kendall looks at me with a raised eyebrow. It’s funny that we already have this language. I don’t know her at all, really. But damn if I don’t know what she’s thinking.
Kendall glances at the mom, who’s still engrossed in her correspondence. Then she offers the stick to the boy.
“Here. I paid for that candle. I want you to have it.”
The boy bites his lip and shakes his head. He’s got long bangs that fall across his face. He looks up shyly through them. “My dad’s not dead. He’s just . . . gone.”
We’re silent a moment. Processing what that might mean. Could be a hundred different things that are all pretty much the same.
“Sometimes gone is worse than dead,” says Kendall with a nod. “Take it. Quickly, before she sees.”
He glances furtively at his mom again. Grabs the stick. Lights it from the closest candle. Touches the flame to the fresh one. It takes slowly. At first, I’m worried it’ll just die out and the symbolism will be too much to bear. But then the flame grows and the whole thing blazes.
“Nice job,” says Kendall as he hands her back the stick.
The boy stares at the candle he lit. His features settle into something like relief. He takes a de
ep breath.
“Winston?”
Here comes Mom. She puts her hands on his shoulders. I was all prepared to hate her. Now that I see her face . . . well, I can’t. She looks loving, but spent.
“Come on, sweetie,” she says, and takes his hand. He lets her. As she leads him away, I keep waiting for him to look back at us. Flash a smile. Mouth the words “thank you.” Anything. Come on, kid. Give us whatever you’ve got.
But they’re gone.
“That was good,” says Kendall as she stares at the flame.
It takes me a few seconds. “Oh. You want that to count.”
She gives me an exasperated look like I’m ten, too. “I am not going to have this argument with you every time one of us does something. Of course it counts!”
“Maybe his father’s a criminal. Or just the world’s biggest asshole. What if the kid needs to let him go and we stopped him from doing that?”
Kendall shrugs. “Could be.” She bites her lip, staring at St. Theresa. I wish she hadn’t insisted on this particular, high-pressure altar. “Could be that doing this helped him let his father go. We’ll never know. But did you see the expression on his face? It meant something to him. That’s all that matters.”
She’s so sure. What choice do I have but to believe it, too?
Winston
THE CANDLE BURNS, AND THE FIRST THING IT REMINDS me of is Dad’s cigarette lighter.
He used that lighter on the fire pit in our backyard. This past summer, he was finally going to let me do it. He said I was old enough.
His friends in lawn chairs around the pit. Some of them smoking, and not just cigarettes. Dad never did that. At least, not when I was there. They take out their guitars and they sing and they beg me to join in. I say no, I don’t know the words. Except of course I do.
The candle burns, and I imagine him feeling the heat wherever he is. Catching it flicker out of the corner of his eye. When he turns to look, there’s nothing there. But he knows what it means.
Winston’s still here.
Mom says I won’t understand. Mom says she’ll explain more when I’m older. Mom says all I need to know is that she loves me and she’ll never, ever leave.
She treats me like I’m eight, not eleven. She thinks I don’t read her text messages and emails on her phone when she’s left it in the bathroom, even though she’s always leaving it in the bathroom. I mean, duh, of course I’m going to read them. She uses a lot of really inappropriate words on that phone, mostly talking about my dad. She needs to wash her own mouth out with soap.
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