The Absolute Value of Mike

by Kathryn Erskine

He walked his rattling cart behind a freshly painted green bench, took off his jacket, and draped it over the front end of the cart. “This is my office. Have a seat.” He reached over to his cart and pulled out a cell phone. “Tresa! What’s Allegheny’s number?”

  My mouth dropped open. I’d never seen a homeless guy with a cell phone.

  He looked at me and shrugged. “What? Tresa’s dad used to work there, so she knows the number by heart.” He dialed and eventually got a human and, with some very choice words, demanded “crisis assistance” because of an emergency situation at 517 North Poplar with elderly people and a child they were having to care for—me, I guess—and yes, he’d accept twenty-four hours if that was all they were willing to give. He closed his phone and put it back in the cart.

  “You’ll need to get payment to them by the end of the day tomorrow, but at least you’ve got power until then.”

  “Thanks. I’ll take it from here.” Not that I knew how, but at least I had a grace period.

  “No sweat.” He pulled at his shirt collar. “You thirsty?”

  I nodded, looking around for a water fountain.

  He reached behind him and pulled a bottled water out of a cooler in his cart and handed it to me.

  “Wow! It’s even cold!”

  “Yes,” he said. “Ice has a way of doing that.” He looked at my bag. “Do you have anything perishable in there? If so, you can put it in the cooler.”

  “That’d be great.” At least until I figured out what I was going to do next.

  He took the bag from me and put it in his cooler. “You hungry?”

  “Starving,” I said, wondering what else he had in that cooler.

  Reaching into his cart, he pulled out a brown paper bag. “Take one.”

  I wasn’t sure I even wanted to look in the bag, never mind eat anything that was in there. “I—I don’t want to take your food. I mean, what if you want it later?”

  But he practically shoved the bag into my hands. “People give me more than I can eat. You’re welcome to whatever you want.”

  My stomach was growling at the mention of food, so I opened the bag, relieved to see prepackaged bars inside, all pretty boring looking except for a bright Twinkie package that stood out from the rest. I hadn’t had one of those since . . . probably preschool or kindergarten. I remember my mom packing me a special snack and it had a Twinkie in it. I took it, almost reverently, and handed him back the bag.

  “What!” He grabbed the Twinkie from me, his eyes wide, fixed first on the Twinkie, then on me.

  “Okay, okay! I’ll pick something else.”

  He didn’t answer but ran with the Twinkie like it was on fire, reaching an overflowing trash can on the corner and stuffing it far inside, as if smothering it. His eyes blinked rapidly as he walked back.

  “I thought you said I could have anything.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know how that piece of trash got in there.”

  “I would’ve eaten it!” My mouth was still watering for it.

  “I know. That’s why I tossed it. I’m saving your life.”

  “What, it’s a killer Twinkie?”

  His piercing eyes narrowed. “Partially hydrogenated fats. You eat them, you’ll die an early death. I never let them pass my lips.”

  How could a homeless guy be so picky? “So what do you eat?”

  “I like a nice piece of fresh trout with just a touch of lemon butter, some organic broccoli, and maybe a little brown rice, but I could probably make do without the rice.”

  I stared at him. He was as crazy as Poppy and Moo. Now he was grimacing at his hands.

  “Can you get me my hand sanitizer?” he asked.

  “Uh . . . sure. Where is it?”

  “In my cart. Where else would it be?”

  I saw a large bottle of hand sanitizer, but I didn’t grab it right away because I was curious about what else was in his cart. Mostly it was boxes and coolers, but there were also stacks of brochures covered with plastic bags so I couldn’t read what any of them said. I didn’t see any clothes or a sleeping bag or stuff that you’d think a homeless person would need to live on. Where did he sleep? Or take a shower? Or go to the bathroom? I always wondered that about homeless people.

  “Any time you’re ready,” he said, holding his palms out flat in front of me.

  I was still holding the brown paper bag that used to have the Twinkie, but with my other hand I squirted some goop into his palms, which he proceeded to rub together furiously.

  “Okay,” he said, taking the ex-Twinkie bag from me and rummaging in it for a moment. “Here.” He handed me some sort of dark brown bar. “It’s low glycemic, high protein, nice amount of fiber.”

  He was staring at me, so I had to open it and take a bite.

  “How is it?”

  “Kind of . . . cement-ish,” I answered, my mouth working hard on chewing.

  His mouth twitched almost into a smile. “Keep it moving, then, so it doesn’t harden.”

  “Thanks . . . what’s your name?”

  “Just call me Past.” He put the bag back in his cart.

  “Past?”

  “It’s a nickname. So why are you here, Mike?”

  “I told you. I was looking for the power company.”

  He tilted his head and stared at me. He had big brown eyes that looked kind, knowing, even sympathetic. His voice was soft. “No, I mean, what’s your story?”

  “My story?”

  “Everybody’s got one.” He gave a little smile, not to me in particular, more like he was remembering something that was kind of happy but kind of sad, too. That rock-star image of him came to mind again, but it was of a serious rock star like Bono, who went around saving starving children and doing good stuff like that. “So, Mike, what’s your story?”

  I don’t know why—maybe I was tired, maybe the heat was making me delirious, maybe it felt good to have someone to talk to—but I spilled my guts. About crazy Moo. Poppy, the wax figure. Felix, the dead cat clock. Tyrone, the dead car. Trying to get the electricity turned back on so we could get working on a special project, but the garage, excuse me, workshop was dead. And about how critical this project was but how I wasn’t even sure it was going to happen. Which really sucked because that pretty much ruined my high school career and maybe the rest of my life. It was the kind of story that would’ve been embarrassing to tell anyone except a homeless person.

  Past nodded and was quiet for a while. “You know why Poppy’s like that, right?” Past started blinking fast. “Doug—his son—died.”

  “I know, and no offense, but it’s not like Doug was a kid. He was already an old man.”

  “True, but I suspect Poppy is remembering Doug as a boy and feeling guilty about a lot of things. Poppy was one of those old-fashioned dads who didn’t interact much with his son. Do you know the type?”

  “Yeah,” I said. I knew the type, all right. “Still, Poppy needs to snap out of it.”

  Past stared at me, still blinking, his voice grim. “It’s not that easy.”

  “I’m not saying it’s easy, but look at Moo. She’s not sitting around like a vegetable while someone else does everything for her.” The more I thought about Poppy, the more he reminded me of Dad. I wished there were some way to contact him. I had to get some money for Moo. Wait! “Past! Can I borrow your cell phone? I need to get in touch with my dad.”

  “Sure.” He reached into his cart and pulled it out.

  I tried calling Dad’s cell, unsure if it worked over in Romania, but I got his voice mail and left a message to send money fast. In case he didn’t check messages, which he often didn’t—I usually had to leave several before he answered—I also sent a text. There was so much to say, I didn’t know where to begin, so I just went with the bare essentials.

  Dad—Poppy and Moo r POOR! Pls send money fast—Mike

  I handed the phone back to Past. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. I’ll call Moo when I hear from your dad.�
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  “Moo’s phone isn’t working.”

  “What about her cell?”

  I gave him a give-me-a-break look.

  “Not working, either? Well, check back with me here, then. I’m usually in my office. I spend the nights here, too.” He said it so matter-of-factly, like he was one of those big law firm attorneys who work around the clock. Except his office was a park bench.

  He stood up. “We should get you back to Moo. She may be starting to worry.”

  I got up, too, and watched as he picked his jacket up off the cart and put it on. I was stunned that he would want to wear a jacket when it was still so hot. But I was even more stunned to see what was now visible on the front of the cart where his jacket had been draped. It was a photo. Of a boy. Who looked just like me.

  6

  COMMON FACTOR

  —a factor that two or more numbers share

  Cute kid, huh?” Past said as I continued to stare at the photo.

  I nodded. Piercing eyes. Like mine. Pale brown hair, what there was of it that you could see, because he had an almost-buzz cut. His mouth was open just a little, like he was trying to smile, enough to show a missing front tooth. And he was wearing my shirt.

  “That’s my T-shirt,” I finally managed to say.

  “I sincerely doubt that,” Past said.

  “It is! It’s my Buzz Lightyear shirt!”

  “Uh-huh,” Past said, not sounding convinced.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the photo. “And he looks just like me.”

  “He looks nothing like you.”

  “He’s wearing my shirt! And—and he’s got a tooth missing in front! Just like I had!”

  “He’s six, Mike. Every six-year-old has front teeth missing.”

  “True. But still, that’s my shirt! Or it used to be. I had one just like that.”

  “Given that Buzz Lightyear is a Disney character, I would wager that there was more than one made in the world.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “And this boy lives in Romania, so—”

  “Romania? That’s where my dad is! And that’s where my shirt went! I think.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Yeah, Sasha’s—my friend’s—church collects old clothes and sends them to eastern Europe. The kids’ clothes go to orphanages. That’s my shirt! I mean, think about it, how many Buzz Lightyear T-shirts could there be in eastern Europe?”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . . hundreds?”

  “No! That one’s probably mine.”

  I heard a gasp from Past. I looked at him. His eyes were wide. Finally, he was seeing the significance. Then he let out a yell. “Look out!”

  He grabbed me and pulled me behind the cart.

  Tyrone came barreling up on the sidewalk near the bench and jerked to a halt.

  I felt Past release his grip. “It’s okay.” He exhaled. “She stopped.”

  “There you are, Mike!” Moo called, getting out of Tyrone. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “Moo! How did you get gas?”

  Moo clutched Junior and grinned. “I siphoned some out of Poppy’s car. Don’t tell him! But I had good news, so I just had to come find you.” She pulled two envelopes out of Junior’s outside pocket. “Look! My next-door neighbor admitted that she was—uh—borrowing my Oprah magazine that was put in her mailbox by mistake. I can’t blame her. Who doesn’t want to read O? But then she found our Social Security checks inside the magazine and came running over. So now we can pay the bills! The bank and the electric company are closed, but if we hurry, we might get to the phone company in time and we can talk to them about getting service back.” She turned to Past, who was handing me my Shop ’n Save bag from his cooler. “Would you like to come with us, dear?”

  Past took a step backward. “No. Thanks. Listen, are you sure you should be driving? You look a little . . . tired.”

  Moo glared at him. “Of course I look tired. That’s perfectly normal when you’re old as the hills. Goodness, most people my age are dead!” She grabbed my arm. “Come on, now, Mike, hop in!”

  Tyrone lurched and I waved out the window to Past and took a last look at the little kid on his cart who looked like me. And I realized I had never asked him who the kid was or what he was doing on his shopping cart like a poster for a missing child.

  “Hey, Moo, have you seen the picture of that kid on Past’s cart?”

  “Oh, yes. Isn’t he sweet? He’s coming here.”

  “From Romania?”

  She nodded, smiling. “We’re adopting him.”

  I stared at her. “You and Poppy?”

  “Oh, no, it’s a team effort.”

  “Who’s on the team?”

  “The whole town!”

  “The whole town is adopting a kid?”

  “You’ve heard that it takes a village to raise a child, haven’t you?” She looked over at me and grinned. “Well, not really, but it feels like that. We’re all trying to raise money.”

  “Cool. My best friend, Sasha, was adopted from Russia.”

  “Then you know all about adoption!”

  “Well, not all about—”

  Tyrone lurched to a stop in front of a strip of stores with glass fronts, mostly abandoned except for the phone company.

  Moo peered at the door. “Oh, dear. They’re closed, aren’t they?”

  My head flopped back onto the headrest. “Great. Now we have no phone service, either.” And I’d need to make several more calls before I could be sure that Dad would actually check his phone.

  Moo patted my arm. “I’m so sorry, dear. I’m sure you want to talk to your dad. I wish my cell phone worked.”

  I jerked upright. “You have a cell phone?” Maybe Past knew more than I thought.

  “Yes, Doug gave it to me for Valentine’s Day, right before he—” She bit her lip and pulled her hoodie strings. She took a deep breath, blinked a few times, and added, “He even prepaid the bill for six months.”

  I counted the months on my fingers. “It’s still under contract! Where is it?”

  She pulled Junior onto her lap and dug around. “Here.”

  “Moo! This is a smartphone!”

  “It is very stylish, isn’t it?”

  “No, I mean, this gets Internet and everything!”

  She shook her head, started Tyrone, and pulled back on the road. “Doug didn’t pay for that part because he didn’t think we’d use it.”

  “Oh.” I tried turning it on. “And it’s dead. Do you have a charger?”

  She looked doubtful. “If I do, it’d be in Junior. Why don’t you take a look-see?”

  I rummaged through O magazines, receipts, a thermos—“Coffee,” Moo explained—granola bars—“I need to have my snacks, Mike”—Dentu-Creme, pens, tissues, even a trial-size bag of dog food—I didn’t ask—before, amazingly, finding a car charger, which I immediately plugged in. Yes! A signal! I called Dad. No answer again. I left a message and texted but wondered if that would be enough. “I need to e-mail him.”

  “Okay, dear, you go right ahead.”

  “Uh, except I need to find Wi-Fi.”

  “Who?”

  “Where’s the library?”

  “In Hedgesville, but it’s not open now.”

  Of course. “What time does it open?”

  “September.”

  “September?”

  “It can’t afford to operate during the summer and can barely stay open three days a week during the school year.”

  “That’s crazy!” I guess my teachers were right. We were privileged. “Do you guys have a coffee shop or restaurant with Internet connection?”

  She smiled. “Mike, the correct term is Internet buffet.”

  I stared at her. She was serious. “Actually, it’s Internet café.”

  She waved her hand. “Buffet, café, either way, it’s food and the computer. No wonder you young people love it so much.”

  “Let’s just drive around some neighborhoods.”
Someone had to have Wi-Fi.

  Tyrone headed up and down streets, but no luck. It wasn’t exactly a Wi-Fi kind of town. The few I did find were locked. I held the phone out of the window, trying to get closer to the houses we passed.

  Finally, I looked down at the phone and saw an unsecured network: AdamsFamily. “Stop! I think I’ve got something!”

  Not only did Moo stop, she ran around Tyrone to my door, putting one hand on it and raising the other high in the air. “Is that better?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m being your antenna.”

  “But I don’t need an an—”

  “Hurry up, before my arm gets too tired.”

  “But—okay, fine.”

  I quickly started an e-mail, putting “FROM YOUR SON” in the subject line so Dad would notice. Between the sender name “Mike Frost” and “FROM YOUR SON,” he might actually realize it was me.

  Dad! Dude! TURN YOUR PHONE ON! Check your messages! Send money fast! Your son, Mike

  “Okay, done.”

  Moo ran around and hopped back in the driver’s seat. “What did your dad say?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  She shook her head. “Well, I don’t think it’s such a smart phone then if you can’t even get an answer.”

  We passed the Kmart, so I knew we were getting close to home, when Tyrone slowed down. “Oh, dear,” Moo sighed. “GAS!”

  “What, again?”

  “Tyrone’s not out of gas. It’s me.”

  “You’re out of gas? Or . . .” I moved closer to the door. “You have gas?”

  “GAS is an acumen, Mike. The first letters stand for items on my to-do list.”

  “You mean acronym.”

  “That’s it! G stands for Gladys, A stands for Allegheny Power—because I have to do both those errands tomorrow morning—and S stands for Shop ’n Save. I should’ve found a way to buy scrapple, at least, because we’re all out and now I have none for Poppy’s dinner.”

  I grinned and held up my five pounds of scrapple. “Don’t worry, Moo, it’s in the bag!”

  “Mike, you are such a savior. Where would we be without you?”

  Moments later, she sang, “Home again, home again, jiggity jog!” Yanking Tyrone’s wheel, she careened into the driveway, spraying gravel everywhere. We were headed straight for the parked Suburban and we weren’t slowing down.