Sketches (17 page)

“And it's okay to just set up a tent there?” I asked.

“There are lots of tents, but some other people have used scraps to build themselves little houses.”

“Come on, you have to be joking.”

“Nope. Little houses.”

“And nobody has noticed that they're doing that?” I asked.

Brent shrugged. “It would be hard to miss, so I figure the city knows they're there. I just think nobody cares because they're not bothering anybody and they're out of sight. You know, out of sight, out of mind.”

“He's right,” Ashley agreed. “Nobody really wants to
help
the homeless, they just want them to be homeless
someplace else, someplace where they can't see them. I hear it's not a bad place to live.”

“If it's not so bad, how come we haven't lived there before?” I asked.

“It's different,” Brent said. “It's not so much street kids as older people there, people who've been on the streets for years and years, even decades.”

Of course I'd seen people like that around all the time. We didn't really talk to them much, but some of them seemed friendly enough. Others just seemed crazy, pushing around shopping carts filled with junk, or standing on the corner yelling at passing cars, or just plain passed out drunk behind a store or on the sidewalk.

Brent went on, “It's really like a little town, with its own rules—you know, people have to leave each other alone, no stealing, that kind of thing.”

“Rules can be good,” I said.

“It's one of the reasons I want us to stay there now. I never thought I'd be saying this, but I have too much money on me.”

“How much do we have now?” I asked.

Brent looked around, like he was afraid somebody might overhear him, although there was nobody around us. “Close to six hundred bucks.”

I couldn't help but smile. We were more than halfway there.

“You know, usually I'm not a big fan of rules—I had enough of that when I was living at home. But right now this looks like a good trade-off—a few rules for a little bit more safety,” Brent said. “I gotta look out for the two of you, not just me. And I don't want anybody taking our money . . . taking away our future.”

I knew what—and who—he was talking about. I didn't think I'd ever forget those punks who beat us up and robbed us. I could see those eyes, that sick smile, the evil laugh.

Brent said, “We'd better get going. It's going to be dark soon, and we have to get permission and get everything set up before then.”

“Permission?” I asked.

“You'll see,” Brent answered, and we grabbed our backpacks and followed him.

WE WENT UNDER
the expressway, across the train tracks, and then through a small gate in a chain-link fence about ten feet high. It was an eerie scene. There were dozens and dozens of tents, maybe a hundred of them even. Although it looked as though they were all scattered about, you could see that lots of them were clustered together in little groups. Some were small, some large. A few looked almost new while others were tattered and torn and worn and looked like a strong wind might blow them away. They were green and grey—camping colours—and orange and red and
rainbows, all blowing and heaving in the winds coming off the lake. The way they moved, they almost looked as if they were alive.

Interspersed between the tents were little buildings. Most weren't much bigger than the tents themselves. They were made of wood and metal—pieces that didn't belong together and had probably been rescued from dumpsters and alleys around the downtown but somehow came together to make sheds . . . shacks . . . homes. Some were just hastily put together pieces that looked less sturdy than something a bunch of ten-year-olds would nail together to make a tree fort. Others looked more solid and planned. They looked like real little houses . . . almost.

I couldn't help thinking about discarded pieces sheltering discarded people. Somehow that seemed right.

Together in pairs or clustered in groups, people stood on the strips of cement walkway—crumbling, with weeds growing up through the cracks—that formed the streets of the city. A larger group was clustered around a fire in a metal oil drum. People were laughing, joking around, talking. As we passed, some nodded in our direction, and a few even said hello. Others ignored us as if we weren't there—vacant eyes staring out at things I couldn't see. Brent was right. They were definitely older than the kids who lived in squats or slept in doorways. In fact, we were, without a
doubt, the youngest people there. There were some who were old enough to be my parents, or even my grandparents.

The flaps on some of the tents were open and I caught a glimpse of people already inside. Probably tired. Maybe drunk or stoned. I heard one man talking loudly, cursing, swearing at somebody or something, imagined or real.

“Can you tell us where we can find the Mayor?” Brent asked two women who were standing and talking, each holding a paper cup of coffee.

“You'd have to go up to City Hall to see him,” one of them said.

“It's that way,” the other added, pointing down one of the walkways. “You can't miss it. It's right on the breakwater. I think it's two or three down from the water pipe.”

“Three,” the other woman said. “Big place. It has flowers out front. Petunias, I think.”

“Geraniums,” the first woman corrected.

She shrugged. “I was never good with flowers.”

“Thanks,” Brent said.

The Mayor? City Hall? What next, Munchkins with lollipops?

We started in the direction they'd pointed. As we got closer there were fewer tents and more buildings— more shacks and sheds, really. We stopped in front of a place with flowerpots filled with well-tended, blooming
flowers. The pathway leading up to the door was made of crushed red stone. This place was larger than any of the surrounding buildings, big enough to have more than one room, and there was a stovepipe sticking out through the shingled roof. This guy wasn't just here for a few nights. This was his home.

“This must be the place,” Brent said.

The door itself couldn't have been any more than three feet high. It made me think of the dwarfs' cottage from
Snow White
. On the door was a little metal knocker. Brent tapped it against the door three times. There was no answer.

“Maybe he's not home,” I suggested.

“Maybe I should knock again.”

Suddenly the door opened and a man appeared. He was older, maybe in his fifties. His hair was grey and he had a beard, but it was neat and tidy.

“What can I do for you three?” he asked.

“Are you the Mayor?” Brent asked.

“Might be. Who's asking?”

“Me . . . us. I'm Brent. This is Ashley and Dana. We were wondering if it would be okay if we pitched a tent here in Tent Town.”

“Maybe you could. Why are you bothering me?”

“We didn't mean to bother anybody. We just thought we shouldn't go ahead and pitch a tent without talking to the Mayor,” Brent said.

His expression became thoughtful. “Showing some consideration,” he said. “Lots of kids don't understand consideration.”

“We thought it wouldn't be right to just come without being invited . . . you know, it wouldn't be
respectful
.” He paused. “You are the Mayor . . . right?”

He smiled. “I'm the Mayor. So, you want to stay here, do you?”

“If that's okay with you,” Brent said.

“Anybody can put up a tent . . . for a night,” he said. “You looking to stay for more than a night?”

“Hoping to,” Brent said. “We heard this is a good place. Better than the streets.”

The man laughed. “A lot better than the streets. We got order here. Rules here. Laws here!”

“Do you think maybe we could stay longer?” Ashley asked.

“Maybe. Let me ask you a few questions first before we decide anything.”

“Go ahead,” Brent said. “It's your town.”

He smiled again, and the smile erupted into a burp—a burp smelling of alcohol. So, why shouldn't a mayor be drinking? The mayor of the city where I used to live ran his car off the road, across the sidewalk, through a fence, and into a backyard, and it finally ended up at the bottom of a swimming pool. I heard— everybody heard—that he'd been drunk as a skunk. He
didn't even get charged. All he got was a chauffeur-driven car.

“Any of you ever been in prison?” the Mayor asked.

“Never!” I exclaimed.

“Me neither,” Ashley said, and Brent shook his head in agreement.

“Ain't like it's something to be ashamed of,” he said. “I've done my time.”

I'd already noticed the crude ink tattoos on his hands. I'd seen them on lots of people on the streets. Brent had told me that they were prison tattoos. I wondered what the Mayor had done to get himself into prison.

“Might even be better if you had been in prison,” he continued. “Rules here are pretty much the same as there. Main thing is that you stay out of people's places. Don't matter if it's a door or a tent flap. You don't go in if you're not invited. Just 'cause people don't have much don't mean they shouldn't get to keep what they have. Understand?”

We all nodded.

“Same goes for things you see lying around. Don't touch and don't take what isn't yours.”

“We wouldn't,” Brent said.

“Does that mean if we left something in our tent nobody would take it?” Ashley asked.

“They'd better not, unless they want to deal with the Mayor!” His eyes got dark and threatening. “How
about drugs or alcohol? Any of you have any problems?”

“I don't do drugs, or drink!” I exclaimed.

“I don't care if you do or don't. Sometimes people got to do what they got to do to ease the past or the present. I just want to know if any of you have a problem that will cause the rest of us to be bothered.”

“We won't bother anybody,” Brent said.

“You better not. We treat each other with respect here, and that means when it gets dark we all get quiet. People gotta sleep. And nobody goes around hitting or hurting anybody else.”

“You don't have to worry about that,” Brent assured him.

“I have to worry about
everything
and
everybody
. That's my job. That's what a mayor does. Any of you carrying any weapons?”

“I've got a knife,” Brent said.

I held my breath. Was he going to toss us out, or take away the weapons? I knew there was no way Brent was giving up his knife.

“Where is it?” the Mayor asked.

“Here in my pocket,” Brent said, patting the leg of his pants. “Do you want to see it?”

“I don't
ever
want to see it. It stays in your pocket.”

Brent nodded.

“Another thing. We got a curfew. The gate is locked at eleven-thirty. If you're not in by then, don't bother
trying. And don't even think about climbing the fence or—”

“Hey, Mayor!” a voice yelled out. We all turned around to see three men rushing toward us. They looked to be in a hurry. They looked serious.

“He's back!” the first man said loudly.

“Good. Let's go,” the Mayor said as he suddenly pushed past us.

“Should we get somebody else?” one of the other men asked.

“Why?” the Mayor asked. “There's only one of him and four of us . . . five, if you count him,” he said, pointing at Brent. “You willing to help?”

“Sure,” Brent said.

I had to fight the urge to ask what they wanted Brent's help with. This didn't sound like a good thing.

“Good, 'cause that's my last question. Wanted to know if you three were willing to help enforce the rules.”

“Does that mean we can stay?” Ashley asked.

“You can stay for a few nights and we'll see how it goes. You follow the rules and you got yourselves a home.”

A home . . . is that what this was? I guessed it was better than living in an abandoned building or under a bridge. Actually, I was willing to bet it was better than a lot of places in the suburbs that had doors and
windows and fancy kitchens. Besides, this was just temporary until we got our own apartment.

“We'd better get moving,” one of the men said.

“Why? You think he's going somewhere?” the Mayor asked.

“Doubt it. He went right into his tent. I just thought we should get it over with before it gets too late. We don't want to disturb people.”

“Good point.” The Mayor turned to face us. “It's good the three of you are here. You get to see up close what happens to people who
don't
follow the rules, who
don't
show respect to people.”

The Mayor started off, the three men fell in behind him, and then the three of us brought up the rear.

“What's happening?” I hissed at Brent.

“Don't know exactly. I think they're kicking somebody out.”

They stopped in front of a small, beaten-up old tent. The flap was closed, and while I couldn't see anybody inside I could see a faint light shining through the nylon.

“Harrison!” the Mayor yelled. “We need to speak to you.”

There was no answer.

“Harrison!” the Mayor yelled even louder.

“I can hear you, I'm drunk, not deaf,” a voice called out from the tent. His words were slurred, confirming the drunk part.

“Come on out here,” the Mayor ordered.

There was no answer and no movement.

“Don't make me come in there to get you!” the Mayor yelled. His voice was angry and filled with authority.

“Don't make me come
out
there to get
you
,” the man mumbled back in response. Despite it all, I had to fight not to laugh.

“You trying to make me mad?” the Mayor thundered. He had a look of pure anger plastered across his face.