Sketches (5 page)

“I don't care . . . it's a free world.”

“We like to think it is,” he said. “I was wondering, are you self-taught or do you have some special training in art?”

Despite myself, I laughed. “I don't think anybody teaches people how to do this.”

“Not that, specifically,” he agreed. “But art in general. Have you taken courses?”

“I've taken classes in drawing, and I went to art camp last summer.” I'd always dreamed about being an artist.

“Last summer . . . so I assume you've been on the streets less than a year.”

“What makes you think I'm on the streets?” I asked.

“Just guessing. People with homes don't generally do a lot of dumpster-diving. You said that's where you got the spray paint.”

“That doesn't mean I'm living on the streets,” I pointed out.

“No, that's true. But consider this clue: you still have the purple paint from yesterday's work on your hands.”

I looked down. He was right, there were streaks of purple paint.

“I think that most people who had a place to go would have washed that off when they got home last night.”

“What makes you think I didn't use purple today?” I asked.

“You didn't,” he said, shaking his head. “The purple was on yesterday.”

He was right, which shocked me. How could he tell that as he passed by on a train?

“So, how long have you been living on the streets?”

I didn't answer.

“I have something for you,” he said as he stood up.

“I don't want anything from you!” I snapped. “Back off!” And I held the can of spray paint out in front of me like a weapon.

He held up his hands like he was surrendering.

“I have no desire to be part of your next creation. Orange is not my colour.”

He lowered his hands slowly, reached into his pocket, and pulled something out. “I'm going to leave this right here,” he said as he bent down. “This is my business card.” He reached over and put a rock on top of it so it wouldn't blow away, then backed off. “I work for a drop-in centre. But if you need a meal or a place to have a shower, don't bother coming.”

“What did you say?” I asked, not believing my ears.

“I said we're not a place where you can get a meal or get washed up or sleep, although we can help make arrangements for all of those. We're a different type of drop-in centre.”

A useless type of drop-in centre
was what I wanted to say, but I didn't.

“What we offer involves art. We're a place where you can get materials, things like paint and canvas, or clay and a potter's wheel, to use some of that talent you obviously have. The address is on the card. Maybe we'll see you some time.”

He started to walk away and then stopped and turned around. “Ask on the street and people will tell you that the centre is legit. Just ask around.”

He started to walk away a second time and then stopped again. “My name is on the card. I'm Robert Erickson. Who are you?”

I didn't answer. That was none of his business.

“Okay, be careful. Maybe we'll see you at the centre some time.”

He gave a wave and started up the embankment again.

“Hey!” I called out.

He turned around.

“It's Dana.”

He nodded his head. “Okay, Dana, maybe we'll see you around. And I really do like what you've created here. You have some real talent.”

CHAPTER FOUR

THE CAT RUBBED UP
against my legs. It was a beaten-up old orange cat, thin, its tail bent at the end, and it was missing the very top of one ear. Living on the streets had taken its toll on her.

“You're a nice girl, aren't you?” I said.

She rose up on her back legs and I reached out to pet her. She pressed against my hands as I scratched behind her ears and she made a noise—a strange sort of noise. I bent down lower to hear. It was sort of a raspy, uneven sound, but it was unmistakable—she was trying to purr. I shook my head. All beaten up, a stray living in the back alleys of the city, and she was still happy because I was showing her a little affection, a little caring. I didn't know if that was wonderful or sad, or both.

“Maybe I have something for you,” I said. I reached deep into my pocket and pulled out a package of Chicken McNuggets. There were three nuggets left
over from supper the night before. I'd been planning to have them as a bedtime snack but I'd forgotten. I pulled one out of the package.

“I think I can afford to share one with you. Here you go.”

She snatched it from my hand, her little sharp teeth scraping against my fingers. It dropped to the ground and she gulped it down hungrily.

“You're even more hungry than I am, aren't you, girl?” I looked at the two remaining nuggets. The cat needed them more than I did. Besides, they didn't look too appealing. I dropped them to the ground. She grabbed a second nugget, chewed it a couple of times, and then swallowed it down. The third was gone in seconds.

The cat looked up at me.

“That's all I've got,” I said. “Sorry.”

She began rubbing up against me again. It felt good.

“I don't have anything more . . . but maybe I can bring you something some other time.”

She looked as though she understood what I was saying.

“Hey, Dana!”

At the sound of Brent's voice I jumped up, and the cat scrambled away.

“There you are,” he said. He and Ashley were standing at the end of the alley, and they were both carrying newspapers . . . lots of newspapers.

“We couldn't see you at first,” he said.

“Was that a cat?” Ashley asked.

“I was feeding it.”

“That's not too bright,” Brent told me.

“Hey, it was hungry!”

“Every mangy, stray cat in the whole city is hungry,” he said. “Who knows what disease it might have? You've got to think about yourself. Besides, aren't
you
hungry?”

“Not really . . . not that hungry.”

“Good. Then once we sell these newspapers I can have your breakfast as well as mine.”

“We're going to sell papers?”

“Yeah, what did you think we were going to do with all of these?”

I shrugged. “Where'd they come from?”

“We liberated them,” Brent said.

“We set them free,” Ashley added, and chuckled.

“They were locked up, imprisoned really, inside a newspaper box. We just opened up the door and let them escape.”

“You bought them?” That didn't make sense.

“We bought
one
,” Brent said. “We put in fifty cents to open up the box and then we took out all the papers that were in there.”

“All forty-three papers,” Ashley said.

“You stole them?”

“Don't sound so shocked,” Ashley said.

“I'm not shocked . . . not
that
shocked.”

Brent shrugged. “Haven't you ever stolen anything in your whole life?”

“I've stolen things before,” I lied.

“You have? Like what?” Ashley asked.

“Stuff,” I said, unable to come up with a more specific lie.

Ashley laughed. “Stuff . . . yeah, right. You probably didn't have enough time to steal anything because you were too busy taking piano lessons and tap-dancing classes.”

“Actually, it was jazz and hip hop,” I answered sheepishly.

“Ooh, hip hop, now that
really
makes you street!”

“Give her a break, Ash,” Brent said.

“That's okay,” I said. “I guess she's right.”

“Of course I'm right. And that's why the two of us have to take care of you.”

“And besides,” Brent said, “we didn't steal those papers, we
liberated
them . . . weren't you listening? When we opened the door all those poor newspapers just jumped out into our arms. Isn't that how it happened?” he asked Ashley.

“That's how I remember it. Can you take some of these?” she asked.

I took a dozen or so off the top of the pile in her arms. “So what do we do now?”

“We find a place to sell them. Forty papers at fifty cents each comes out to twenty bucks,” Brent said. “Breakfast and cigarette money.”

“It would be great if we could get enough money to get a motel room again,” I said.

“That would be nice,” Ashley agreed.

“Nice, but probably not going to happen,” Brent said. “Let's just sell the papers and take it from there.”

“Where are we going to sell them?”

“Down by one of the off-ramps coming off the expressway,” he explained.

“Let's go,” Ashley said. “If we really want to try to get a room tonight we need to sell all the papers and then do some serious panhandling after that.”

I took one more look down the alley. The cat was peeking out from behind a dumpster. I'd be back later.

THE LIGHT TURNED RED
and the cars started to slow down and stop on the ramp. Brent and Ashley walked between the two rows of vehicles, offering papers to the drivers. A car window slid down and Ashley handed the guy a paper and took his money.

We were taking turns going out to sell, and it was my turn to sit on the stack of remaining papers, which was getting smaller all the time.

The light changed and the cars started off again. Brent and Ashley skipped through the cars and reached the safety of the sidewalk on the far side. We were
separated by the stream of traffic—cars and trucks racing off the highway, trying to make it off the ramp and onto the street before the light changed to red again.

I looked off to the side. There were two people coming toward me, a girl and a guy, and they had a dog with them. It was a big, black retriever with a red bandana tied around its neck. Neither of them looked much older than me. As they got closer I could also see that they were street.

“May I pet your dog?” I asked.

“No problem,” the girl said.

I reached over and gave the dog a scratch behind the ears. It turned and started to sniff me.

“Probably smells cat,” I said.

“You have a cat?” she asked.

“No, not really, but I was petting one just a while ago. What's your dog's name?”

“Squat.”

“We called him that because that's where we found him . . . in a squat,” the boy explained.

“Yeah. You should have seen him, nothing but skin and bones,” the girl said.

“It looks like he's been eating pretty good since then,” I said. The dog was actually a bit fat.

“That was months ago. We make sure he eats,” the boy said.

“He eats, even if we don't eat,” she added, a bit proudly. “Some people may think that's stupid but—”

“I don't think it's stupid!” I said, jumping in. “That's just right. He's your pet and you have a responsibility to take care of him, and that's what you're doing.”

“Exactly.”

A car horn sounded and I looked up in time to see Brent and Ashley dodging traffic as they came across the road.

“How's it going?” Brent asked.

“Good, man . . . good to see you,” the boy said as he and Brent shook hands. The girl gave Brent a hug and then hugged Ashley. Obviously they all knew each other already.

“This is our friend, Dana,” Brent said.

“Hi, I'm Spencer, and this is my lady, Anna . . . and you've met Squat already.”

“How you doing, Squat?” Ashley asked as she gave the dog a hug around the neck. “I love his bandana.”

Anna smiled. “Nothing's too fine for our baby.”

“Where you staying these days?” Brent asked.

“Warehouse just south of Queen Street,” Spencer told him. “I think it used to be a shoe factory.”

“I know the one,” Brent said.

“Any space there?” Ashley asked.

“Big place,” Anna said. “Not much privacy and lots of people there every night.”

“Is it safe?” Ashley asked.

“It's safe for us,” Spencer said. “Nobody's going to mess with us as long as Squat's with us.”

“But he seems so gentle,” I said.

“He is gentle,” Anna said, “unless somebody bothers us.”

“Watch,” Spencer said. “Squat!” he ordered. “Defend!”

The dog bared his teeth and started to growl. I jumped away, as did Ashley and Brent.

“Down, boy,” Spencer said, and instantly the dog was silent, and he started to wag his tail.

“Any luck with the papers?” Anna asked.

“It'll make us enough to eat,” Ashley answered.

“Speaking of which, we'd better get going if we're going to get some food today,” Spencer said. “Maybe we'll see you later. Come and crash with us tonight.”

“Maybe we'll do that,” Brent said. “Take it easy.”

The three of them walked away.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Brent turned to me. “You have to be more careful,” he said. He actually sounded kind of ticked off.

“Anna and Spencer? But they seem nice.”

“They are nice, but you didn't know them,” Brent said.

“But
you
knew them.”

“Yeah, but you were talking to them before you knew that. I know lots of people, but that doesn't mean
they're all nice. There's some pretty dangerous people out here on the street.”

“And some of the most dangerous people are the ones who don't even look dangerous,” Ashley added. “That's what makes them so dangerous. You'd know that if you'd been around more. You learn who's safe and who's not safe . . . and sometimes you have to learn it the hard way.”

“Look, Dana, there are a lot of bad people out here,” Brent went on. “Most of the people on the street are no different from you and me and Ashley . . . they're just trying to do what they have to do to survive, trying not to hurt anybody else. But other people don't care what they have to do to survive. If they need to hurt you, they'll do it.”