hidden (10 page)

Marci ignores Alphabet Man. Probably, I should, too, but I can’t look away. I’ve never seen anyone like him. He looks like he escaped from that ′80s movie,
Mad Max.
Great. My new reality. It’s an apocalypse now, populated with crazy, hungry people. Who don’t know they smell. Serenity Ridge was “hardcore” but nothing like this.

Alphabet Man moves toward us. Big, monsterish. White spit’s caught between his teeth. He smiles, craaaazzzyyy. The spit pulls apart, taffy or spiderweb. Close up, his eyes catch light, two glittery marbles cock-eyed in opposite directions. His smile vanishes. His hand pushes back his jacket flap. His nails are eagle talons. His fingers wrap around a handle. He slides a knife out his waistband.

I freeze. Why run. We’re gonna die anyway.

“Hey!” An Asian lady crosses the street. Alphabet Man sees her and steps back. Her enormous feet are shoved into stilt-sized high heels. Watermelon-sized boobs spill out a leopard print bikini top. She wears a silver thong. Her daddy longlegs eyelashes bat-ta-bat, flashing purple-gold lids. Asian Lady’s blond wig and body jiggle, same as warm apricot Jell-O. “Motor! Where the fuck you been?!? You got my shit?”

Her question turns us into extras, background for an ′80s video. Whatsit. She was a girl. And this girl was in … trouble? But her bad behavior (caught, cuffed, clink) was … a temporary thing. I saw the
Where Are They Now?
TV special in Serenity Ridge. Romeo Void. Asian Lady could be the singer’s twin. Her sneer turned her eyes to slits; she sang, “She’s got a face that shows what she knows.”

Marci yanks my arm. We run, cross the street and vanish into the shadows.

I look back.

Alphabet Motor Man stands there, looking around, searching for us. But we’re gone and the intersection’s empty.

L
eaving the way we do teaches me how easy it is to disappear. Be quick. Have an escape route. Or, an alley. For instance, the one we’re running down. We exit it, and run down another street, passing the SEXXXY LADY THEATER. It’s slotted in-between an SRO and soup kitchen. The white marquee with capital orange letters promises ONE WEEK ONLY.

“In the safe house, you don’t answer the door,” Marci says between quick, short breaths. “You don’t wear shoes.”

“Why not?”

“People downstairs can hear you walking around. We keep the radio or TV on at all times so people don’t hear you talking.”

Forget talking. I’m exhausted. I can barely walk. We cover—five? ten?—more blocks.

“Here—”

I follow; we turn the corner. She stops outside a brick building: The Cretan. Cretan as in creepy. I’d guess it’s been rundown since it was built … two centuries ago. Some places are like that. A bordello slash punk band hotel slash safe house for runaway gay teens.

“The apartment’s not under my real name.” She looks for her keys. “Same with the phone.”

The front door faces Market Street, a four-lane boulevard.
It’s empty except for a stream of cabs and the occasional streetcar. They rumble by, empty and ghosty. I lean against the doorway, about to pass out. Marci opens the metal gate. Sleep calls my name. Reaches out for my body. I struggle to resist the promise of its sweet, dead embrace.

Marci steps through the open gate, grabs my arm and hustles me inside. We pass through a foyer, a second glass door draped with dirty lace curtains and into a lobby. The ceilings are vaulted, walls covered with billboard-sized mirrors.

I feel eyes on my back. I turn. See a face past the dirty lace curtain and metal grill.

My heart skips. It’s the blue-eyed man from the bathroom!

Blink. He’s gone.

I have a bad feeling. He’ll be back.

“C
’mon!” Marci’s halfway up the stairs. I struggle to make it up the first step.

“Are you, like, a triathlete?”

“Elevator broke.”

We near the second floor. Voices. Marci grabs my arm and yanks me back, out of sight. Shadows move up the wall. The elevator groans. A door opens, slams, shuts. Another groan. Fades. A distant
Clunk!
She motions, move back. Feline, she tiptoes up the stairs, to the next floor. She looks both ways—at what, traffic?—then motions me.

“Hurry!”

I scramble up the stairs, reach the third floor and collapse on the carpet. Filthy, it’s a thousand years old, beaten down by millions of shoes. Marci wheezes.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” She pants, tongue out against her lower lip like a dog. “I’m all right.”

Happy to hear. Her, gasping for air, worries me: She stands one heart attack away between me and Serenity Ridge.

“Two of us run this safe house.” Another wheeze. “If we catch you doing drugs, you’ll be evicted—
no questions asked.
”

All these rules. Is the test multiple choice or T / F? Marci hangs on a square wood banister, exhausted by the climb or the
effort it takes to explain everything. I get a better look: geek girl who wears big Velma glasses. She’s so ordinary looking you’d never suspect she drives around San Francisco picking up queer kids who’ve escaped from gay-to-straight boot camps.

Marci pushes her body off the banister. We walk down the dark hallway, toward the EMERGENCY EXIT sign’s green glow.

“You better!” Manic laughter, screechy voices.

“Is this place haunted?” Marci ignores my question and fumbles with the key, struggling to open the door. The voices become louder.

“Hey!”

I hide behind Marci’s body. She could double as a chest of drawers. I keep my head down. I don’t want them to see my face.

“Hey.” She mumbles and looks down.

“What’s up with the elevator?” A young guy’s voice. His shadow’s on the carpet. He walks toward us. I want to run. I peek around Marci. He’s smiling. Cops, authorities, anyone who wants to lock you up—they always smile. Right before they reach out and grab you. We’re about to get caught. I feel it. I
know,
this is it.

“Need help?” The male voice. I don’t need to see him—I know, he’s a bully. I’ve heard the tone before. “‘Cause I
can
help.”

I cringe. He’s drunk. Or, a thief. Another serial killer. At this moment, San Francisco doesn’t seem psychedelic so much as plain Psycho. The voice is low, smooth.

Marci might be armed with street smarts but she’s scared, too. I can tell. How? Coz I smell it. The scent peels off her pungent like my stepmother’s perfume.

Click.

A gun. The safety. Cock. The shadow steps closer.

“Really. You need help.”

“No.”

C
lick.

The key turns, the door opens, we slip inside. My heart beats loud—so loud I know I’m doomed. The door clicks, dead bolts falling into place. I point down to the space between floor and door. Shadows.

“They’re still there!” I whisper.

“Close.” Marci exhales. Her body falls against the door. Our “friend” is outside: His shadow paces, pauses outside the door. He better not try to bust it down. Like I said, Marci could double as a chest of drawers.

“Fucking weirdo!” He hisses. The shadow leaves, voices fading. They’re gone. She touches me. I flinch. My hand’s a balled-up fist.

“Relax,” she says. “You’re safe.”

Am I? I want to ask. Is anybody? Safe? I thought I was safe (enough) living with my father. Look at where that idea got me. Here. A runaway. Standing in the dark. Who knows where. I can’t see at all. The only advantage is, nobody can see me, either.

The safe house is pitch black. But I sure as hell smell it. The safe house reeks of junior high hallways. Hormones, bad breath, and various body odors.

Marci takes my hand and leads me through the teenage mist.

“That’s the bathroom,” she whispers. “Someone sleeps in there. The closet: someone sleeps in there, too. This is the kitchen.”

She drops my hand and steps away. My eyes adjust to the dimness. I stand in the middle of a large doorway.
Wop!
The sound of rubber unsticking. Marci peers into the fridge.

Something’s stuck to the wall over the stove. A button? I look closer. The button crawls down, toward the stacked dishes. A roach, the gross kind.

I sit at the round table beside a window. I reach out, lift the curtain and peer out at other apartments. She knocks my hand away.

“What’s there?”

“A courtyard.”

“So who cares?”

“Someone might look out their window and see
you.
”

Honey, I shrank the world. Mine’s now itty-bitty size. I want to leave. I’d turn and leave if—if I knew where I’d go. Already, I feel trapped. The instant the front door shut, I became a different person.

The safe house scent isn’t just grotty kids. It’s … poverty? Yeah, the safe house smells poor. If I stay, the middle-class part of me—the boy who orders a five-dollar triple espresso percent, no foam latte—dies. Living here, I’ll learn to count. Watch, look, jump. Fear.

I need sleep. Marci has other plans. She walks to the table. She holds a stack of Tupperware containers in her left arm and a tiny candle with her right hand. She practically skips. I’d guess, whatever comes next is a high point of her sad life.

“Make yourself comfortable.” She places candle and containers on the black-and-white-striped tabletop. “Take off your shoes.”

I slide off my kicks and cross my legs, yogi style. My eyes droop and I can barely keep my head up. Either she doesn’t notice my exhaustion or she’s really lonely. There were nurses at Serenity Ridge who’d trap you. They loved to order the boys around. They were hungry for male attention; a fourteen-year-
old boy’s would do. Now I wonder if Marci’s a dyke. Or, a straight girl on a crusade to Save the Gay Boys.

Same as the Women of Serenity Ridge, Marci won’t—can’t—shut up. “I mean, why should I starve myself? If I’m hungry, I’m gonna eat, right? If you knew me three years ago, you wouldn’t even recognize me. In seven months, I went from weighing one fifty-five to two fifteen. One day, I woke up and I was the fattest fucking chick. The
Fattest.
”

I don’t believe this story. Marci was always fat. Like the Women of Serenity Ridge, she
imagines
a dramatic weight gain. I yawn, and cover it with a sigh. I smile, nod, “Uh-huh.” These girls aren’t interested in conversation: They crave undivided (male) attention. Depending on how well the fridge is stocked, this convo could stretch all night. Marci rummages around the sink. Girlzilla knocks over plates and glasses.

“There!”

She holds up a butter knife and wipes it on her shirt. She opens the mayonnaise jar, plunges the blade inside and withdraws it. A testicle-sized ball of glop clings to Excalibur. Expert, she slathers the knife on a slice of white bread.

“One day I woke up, looked in the mirror and saw I had three chins. My body had more rolls than a craps table. I tell you, I was
not
fucking around. The school doctor, he told me to ‘drop a few.’ He said I was ‘at risk.’ I mean, come
on.
Who’s not ‘at risk’? Fuck,
living
is a risk.”

She pops multiple Tupperware lids and removes food without looking. I’m amazed. In this dark-as-a-cave kitchen, she
knows
the contents of every container by touch. She could be reading Braille. Or, she works in a deli.

“Voilà!”

A world record, she’s made a sandwich in seven seconds. Super-sized, the ingredients threaten to explode: mayonnaise, lettuce, bacon, mystery meat, tomato and pickle slices. But then, she
is
the fattest fucking chick she knows and not about to starve herself. She holds up the fattest fucking sandwich—
ever.

“Want a bite?”

“Uh, no, thanks.”

“
Oh,
don’t tell me you’re not hungry?” She sounds relieved.

“I’m just …” I yawn. I hope she’ll get the hint.

She slaps another two slices atop the original two. It’s a quadruple decker! I wonder if the fattest fucking sandwich gives tours.

“Are you tired?” she asks.

“Guess so.” I shrug my shoulders. I don’t say, “Yes.” It gives Marci an opportunity to say, “No.”

“Sure?”

“I’m sure,” I think, “that I’m grossed out. By the sound of dough, whipped eggs, dead animals and wilted vegetables sloshing around in your mouth like a human washing machine.”

“Mummmummm,” she mumbles, mouth full. I stand and follow her back into the safe house. The main room’s pitch black. I’m confused. Is this a big apartment? Or one room and a kitchen? She swallows, toilet plunger style. “You can sleep up there.” She spews sandwich bits all over my arm.

I step forward. My foot steps on something soft.

“
FUCK!
”

“Up
there.
” She takes my hands and places the palms flat on wood slats. Ladder, steps. A bunk bed. I climb up. The word
heights
makes me feel dizzy. But I’m so tired it’s all that I can do to lie down and pass out, already asleep.

“W
hat’s wrong with him?”

Voices. I’m dreaming. Or, people are talking about me. I might be hallucinating.

My body’s twisted, circus contortionist style. My left knee’s pressed against something hard. My eyes flutter, half-open. I see a wall and, on it, shadows. I’m not ready to meet people.

I sleep. Dream. Automatic writing, imaginary pen to paper.