CHAPTER TWO
I wake up when the bus comes to a stop. Feels like I’ve been asleep forever. I don’t recognize my surroundings. We’ve traveled straight from hell to paradise. Outside my window lies the world of the “haves.” Rows of BMWs, Mercedes and sports cars. Shops with security guards at the entrance. Women sporting jewelry that’d fetch a price that could feed our family for life. I take in my appearance. Ill fitting, frayed knit shirt with dried blood, threadbare yoga pants with holes at the knees, and torn zip-up sweatshirt, destroyed in the fight with the druggie. Strike one. Wild, unwashed, unruly black hair, and instead of makeup, I’ve got a hefty layer of dirt and grime. Strike two. Twenty-five percent Caucasian (grandma on my dad’s side), and seventy-five percent African American...I’m not sure the folks around here have seen anything darker than a spray tan gone wrong. My shade’s reserved for their high priced coffee. Strike three. I’m afraid I’ve struck out of whatever the SCI has planned for me. There is no way I am letting those people out there see me like this.
We’re at some fancy mall, one I’ve surely never been to. The average Joe and Jane shopping here...they’ll probably spend more today than I’ll see all year. Designer shoes. Designer clothes. Designer handbags. Designer haircuts. You’d think these people would look overjoyed to be so blessed, but they all look unhappy and hurried, as if their life won’t be complete until they get the next best thing.
“Listen up.” Adam’s standing at the front of the bus, talking into a microphone. “Here’s the deal. You’ll be handed a sign. You’ll be shown where to go. You will sit where you are told and hold the sign. That’s it. There will be no touching the shoppers. No speaking, unless addressed. This is a peaceful demonstration. The average shopper here...they go about their daily lives, living in their bubble, without any sense of what it’s like to live without...anything. On a rare occasion, they may travel to places where they’ll see people living humbly. But they naively assume, or don’t care, that the same thing is happening in their own city...a mere mile away from them. So today, we’re going to educate the privileged on what it’s like to be shackled by circumstances. And, we’re going to ask them to step up and help liberate all of you by helping support their local Clean Slate Complex. SCI staff will be on hand to do the collections.”
“You want us to be a poverty exhibit.” I’m disgusted.
“Yes,” Adam says, without a hint of sorry. “In return, all of you will receive food and shelter. Those who wish may apply to have permanent shelter at the CSC.”
“We have to apply?” someone shouts.
“Standard stuff,” Adam replies. “Drug, mental and health screenings and a background check. Plus, you have to agree to work for your room and board. There are no free lunches folks and this is what you’ve got to do to earn yours.” I think I’d rather starve.
“Won’t we get kicked out?” I ask. “Those people aren’t going to want us here. I need to get back to my mom, not end up spending the night in a cell.”
“A California senator approved the events himself. We’re fully permitted. Best part is, the same thing’s happening at every mall in Los Angeles and Orange County.” Adam sets the microphone down, telling us that he’s done answering questions and that it’s time to get this show on the road. A senator approved this? Parading homeless people through every mall in the area? Crazy. Adam whispers to me, answering the question I’m thinking. “The senator’s sister runs the Clean Slate Complex.” Ah, well that explains it.
We’re each handed a sign. My brothers and I get ones with a picture of us in front of our run-down van. Mine has the words, “Abandoned by father. Has lived in family van for 3 years. Attacked by drug addict this morning.” How’d they find out about my father and how long we’d been living out of the van? I look at my brothers and Lol frowns. “Sorry, Lex. I didn’t know what they were using the information for. They’ve got some sort of portable printer up front.” Seeing my life summed up in such a cold fashion—one that doesn’t even begin to tell my story—pisses me off more than the thought of being a living example of failure to the wealthy.
I glare at Adam. “Chill,” he says. “Those people out there, they won’t see you. They’ll see a harsh reality that they’ve tried hard to ignore. I’ll have you back to your mom as soon as I can. Clinic called. She’s stabilized.” He then pushes past to hand out the rest of the humiliating banners.
We file out of the bus, and a warm breeze washes over me. Even the air here’s better. There’s several silver buses, all carrying the homeless, except one I think. That one brought a fleet of the SCI Henley/Femley-attired clones. Once everyone’s off the buses, we’re lined up behind “staff,” and then marched through the wide, outdoor walkways to our respective spots. We pass several kiosks set up with SCI representatives, ready and waiting to talk about the SCI’s “Clean Slate” campaign. And to take donations, of course. Eventually, we come to a stop and I’m parked between a Neiman Marcus and a Tiffany’s. Awesome. Couldn’t I set up my slop shop near a store that might attract a more normal crowd? Target? Forever 21? All I want to be doing is taking care of my mom. I know this day will feel like forever.
A mom and her daughter sit to my right. They’re keeping to themselves, holding up their sign. However, I’ve got a really chatty fellow about my age on the other side of me.
“Hey lovely. You’re quite the fighter. I thought for sure you’d take that Icer out. I’m the one who told the bus driver to stop. You should thank me.”
“Uh yeah, ok. Thank you then,” I respond. He scoots a little closer. Lucky for him, I’ve reached my quota of fights today. I take in his appearance. The clothes: ratty, worn and oversized. Scruffy face. But everything else about him seems a little off. He smells clean, as if he just showered. His teeth are straight and white. His hair is chestnut-brown and mostly covered by an oversized hat. The layer of “grime” looks more like makeup than dirt. He’s cute. Throw on some different clothes and he’d look more like a model than a street dweller. And his eyes are the lightest shade of blue I’ve ever seen, almost as if they’re colorless.
“Nice to make your acquaintance.” He reaches out to shake my hand. I quickly shake and release. Even his hands feel too soft. “And you are?”
“Alexa Knight,” I answer.
“Alexa. Alex. Lexie. Lex. Bee-autiful brown-eyed girl,” he rattles off. “I’m Joshua, Josh, JB.”
“Nice to meet you, Joshua, Josh, JB.” I chuckle at the way he introduced himself. “How long do we have to sit here? My mom’s super sick and I want to get back to the clinic to see how she’s doing.”
“No pain, no gain. Just be glad there’s no rain. It’s a glorious day for a sit-in don’tcha think?” He rambles on and on. When he’s not talking, he’s drumming a beat on the ground and singing wacky lyrics about the SCI. “Better watch out or else you’ll die. At the hands of the SCI. Don’t think you’ll end up in the sky. Where you’re going, you’ll surely fry. But it don’t matter, don’t matter. Because you won’t remember, remember.” Guy’s crazy, but entertaining. Good singing voice. His antics make the time pass faster. Helps me to ignore the stares we’re getting.
Just as I’d figured it’d be, the shoppers don’t want us here. Most are trying hard to avoid the lot of us. There’s many looks of pity and “I’m so much better than you.” Some people walk by slowly, reading each sign and murmuring comments to their friends. “Oh, well that one looks like they deserved what they got.” Or, “See what happens when you don’t get a good education. Nothing good comes out of it.” My personal favorite: “They don’t have a single good thing to offer society. They’ve got nothing of value.” I think that’s where they’re dead wrong. They can go about collecting every material thing of worldly value, but they’re missing everything that truly counts. When you’ve got nothing else, family means everything to you. Far as I’m concerned, funny jokes, sharing the good and the bad, and supporting each other’s better than all the fancy cars, houses, and clothes in the world.
There’s a few of the homeless folks who don’t like the running commentary of the shoppers and decide to talk back. SCI workers are quick to make the peace and get the “rebels” out of the mall. No free meal for them, I guess.
A thin lady, about my mom’s age and wearing a purple suit with fur collared trim, stops and gasps at me. She looks like she just walked out of a beauty salon, every bit of her shoulder length, blonde hair in its perfect place.
“Your neck, young lady. It’s terrible. Were you really attacked?” she asks.
“Yes ma’am,” I respond softly and politely. It’s a strain to get anything out.
“You really have no home?” So many who’ve come by have made rude remarks, that I’m surprised to see tears in her blue eyes.
“Used to, ma’am,” I answer.
She points at my picture. “You’ve been sleeping in that van?”
“Yes, ma’am. Just until we get back on our feet.” I repeat the words my mom’s been saying to me every day for the last three years.
“Oh, sweetheart. That’s just not right. The people at The Second Chance Institute—they’re helping you?” A tear cuts a line through her thick makeup as she speaks.
“Well, my mom’s sick and they’re tending to her at their clinic. I’m really grateful for their help, ma’am. She could’ve died.” Still might. I can still see her coughing up blood and hear the horrific sound that went with it.
“I’m going to march over there and contribute,” she tells me. “In honor of you and your mother.” She gives me a sweet smile and then heads over to a kiosk. I see her talking excitedly to a couple reps, one being Adam who seems to have purposefully positioned himself at the closest kiosk so he can keep an eye on me. And, hopefully to deliver news about how my mom’s doing. Eventually, the rich lady pulls out her cell phone and passes it to Adam, who reads off some information on a piece of paper before handing the phone back to her. Once she leaves, Adam makes his way over to me.
“That lady just donated a small fortune to the Clean Slate Complex. She specifically asked that your mother’s medical expenses be covered, and for you and your brothers to be offered a home at the CSC,” Adam says with a smile so big you’d think the lady’d offered to take in all the world’s stray puppies.
“And if we don’t want to stay at the CSC?” I’ve never seen the place, so I’m not going to commit to living there just on Adam’s word. Or because a complete stranger felt sorry for me, so she decided to make a donation.
“Why wouldn’t you?” Adam asks. He’s looking at me like I’m a crazy person for not jumping at the opportunity. “Wait until you see it. You’ll want to stay forever. Besides, they’re taking awesome care of your mom. She’s sleeping peacefully. No coughing.” Thank goodness. My stomach’s been churning with worry. Plus, I feel less guilty sitting here knowing she’s resting. If she were awake, I’d want to be there.
“Thanks for the update, Adam,” I reply. Joshua starts drumming and humming loudly, to which Adam tells him to “be quiet.” The silence only lasts as long as it takes Adam to get out of earshot, and then Joshua’s back at it. “Never, never, never count on forever, forever, forever. Get cozy and you’ll be re-al-lo-ca-ted. Like cattle, you’ll be crated. Won’t even be sedated. Boom. Off the planet, and then you’re mated.” He inserts a hand drum solo and then continues with, “Why, why, why, not deny the SCI? Bunch of crazies own the pie, dictate to subject you and I, to rules and tests, and then Exile.”
“Got a grudge against the SCI?” I finally ask.
Joshua shrugs. “Why would you ask that? I’d never speak out against the SCI. I’m just bored. And trying to keep your mind off your mom.”
“Well, thanks. You’re pretty good actually. Your voice I mean. The lyrics could use some work.” I comment with a laugh. “Unless the next big thing in music’s all about conspiracy theories.”
“Just singing what comes to mind. And my mind’s full of creepy tales.” He winks at me and then starts to sing again. “Oh, Thera, Thera, Thera, I can’t a’bear ya bear ya bear ya …”
By mid-afternoon my stomach’s rumbling. A few shoppers offer food, but I politely decline. I don’t want a handout. Especially after hearing the things they said about us. Finally, the SCI gathers us unwanted folk back up, loads us onto the buses, and we’re taken back to the complex. I sit by Joshua on the bus, which seems to annoy Adam. Since I plan to rest anyway, I’m not sure why it matters. Joshua hums to me until I fall soundly asleep.
“When you jump for joy, beware that no one moves the ground from beneath your feet.”
—Stanislaw J. Lec
Clean Slate Complex (a daynight story) Page 2