Less Than Nothing (20 page)

He gets up and walks to the restaurant. I have no doubt he’ll charm some ice out of one of the hostesses, who are as regular a feature of these places as farmhand breakfasts and coffee that’ll strip the enamel off your teeth. Derek’s as smooth as they come, and in spite of my anger and fear over his rage, I feel the familiar stirring that reminds me why I’m following him to the ends of the earth.

But something’s changed, and that makes me sad. It isn’t that I won’t follow him – I have no choice at this point, and no better option – what’s changed is I no longer trust my reactions to him. I would have gladly let him do anything he wanted to me at the start of the day, was in fact hoping for him to, but now all I want is for this to be over so I can sleep and figure out what I’ve gotten myself into.

Another morning in a truck stop, another questionable breakfast, and a feeling in my gut like I swallowed battery acid from all the high-octane coffee. Derek and I are sitting by the restaurant, the sun already blistering in the humidity even at 8:45 in the morning, and almost all the trucks that were there when we arrived are now gone.

We slept for a couple hours apiece, but the sleep deprivation’s starting to wear on us. Derek’s getting dark circles under his eyes, and not just from yesterday’s fights. When I check my reflection in the bathroom mirror after cleaning up, I look like the losingest raccoon in history.

Melody responded to my latest texts, which were vague and nonresponsive to her badgering about whether Derek and I did the nasty yet and wanting all the juicy details. I send her a message saying I’ll be offline all day, in the wilds of Tennessee, and will text again when I can.

I feel like I didn’t get any rest at all. The caffeine’s giving me a headache, and my splurge on a Snickers bar did nothing for me. Derek’s quiet, watching the traffic fly by on the freeway, and we’re both listless, like two prizefighters who’ve battled to a draw and are waiting for the final bell.

The morning grinds on as we alternate dozing while whoever’s awake asks the inbound truckers whether they’re willing to give us a ride, but there are no takers. I’m not surprised – I’ve still got a faint handprint on my face, and Derek looks like he went a few rounds with a bear. It’s bad enough we’re broke and homeless, but now we both look like trouble with a capital T, and there aren’t many who want to invite a hassle into their life.

At noon I call Helen. It’s all I can think of doing. She answers on the third ring, and I hear the familiar sound of her truck motor humming in the background.

“Hey, Helen. It’s Sage. You gave me your number?”

“Right! Sage, how you doing?”

“Not so good. We’re stuck in Tennessee and could use some help. Can you see if you know anyone who would give us a lift?” I ask, feeling guilty.

Her voice is chipper, though, and she doesn’t sound like she minds too much. “Sure. Let me make some calls and see who’s on the road around there. Where exactly are you?”

I give her the name of the truck stop, and she laughs. “I know that place too well. A pit, even by my standards. How you holding up?”

“You know. Life of a rolling stone.”

“Yeah, well, let me see if I can get you rolling again. Leave your phone on, and I’ll call if I find someone. In the meantime, let me know if you find a ride.”

“Will do. And Helen? I appreciate it. It’s been a rough twenty-four hours.”

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

I glance over at where Derek’s slumped with his eyes closed, out of earshot, but still lower my voice. I tell her about last night and the would-be rapist and my concerns about Derek. She’s silent for a long time, and when she speaks, her voice is soft.

“That’s a tough one. But from what you say, he saved your ass, right?”

“He did, but it’s the way he did it that’s tripping me out. He was like…I don’t know how to describe it. Like some kind of psycho.”

“How much do you really know about him, Sage?” she asks, her words carefully pronounced.

“Just the usual. I kind of told you everything I know when we were talking. Why?”

“You need to have a heart-to-heart and ask him to explain. It sounds like you’re jumping to some pretty important conclusions, and if there’s one thing that I’ve learned as I’ve gotten older, it’s not to assume anything. Right now you’re trying to figure out what’s happening in his head based on his actions. But that’s not going to work. You don’t have the faintest idea what’s really going on with him, but you need to know if you’re going to make this work.”

I don’t have any snappy comebacks. She’s talking sense, and as much as I dislike having to confront Derek, it sounds like I need to.

“Sage, the thing you need to remember is that nobody’s perfect. Most of us are damaged in one way or another. Just because someone’s damaged doesn’t mean they can’t have a good life. But there are some kinds that don’t repair well, and you need to figure out whether he’s got the kind he can put behind him, or if it’s going to define him. And you need to be brutally honest with yourself about what you can, and can’t, put up with.”

“Good advice,” I say, and it is. The problem is that it’s against my nature to follow it. I don’t do well with anything that resembles confrontation, and no matter how gently she describes it, that’s what she’s suggesting – confronting Derek about his behavior.

“Sage, the most important thing I can tell you is that almost anything can work if both people are honest with each other. The only other advice I have is that when you have your discussion, you need to be in a good place in your head. Calm, no judging. You want to know what makes him tick. If you’re uncomfortable talking about it, and I know how I was at your age, do it under the guise of your musical partnership. You have a right to know who you hooked up with. In fact, thinking about it, I’d leave your feelings out of it. Guys respond better to logic than anything, so keep it all about business. You’re concerned about some of the stuff you’ve seen, you want to know more, to understand, and if you can, to offer support if he’s having a rough time. That’s what partners do – support each other, right?”

“I guess so.” I’ve never had one before, so this is all news to me. Although she makes sense.

“Before I go, let me ask one last question, okay?”

I cringe. Anything that requires that kind of a softener isn’t going to be pleasant. “Okay.”

“How do you feel about him? Do you want to be with him or not?”

Crap. She would ask the one that’s been stewing in my gut. I think about it for a few beats before answering.

“I do, but I don’t. I’m kind of scared. I thought he was this dream guy, and now I’m not sure who he is.”

“That’s understandable.” She pauses, and I can hear the radio in the background, Garth Brooks crooning about lost love. “I’m going to say something now, and it’s going to sound really harsh. I don’t mean it personally, okay, Sage? So just take it for what it’s worth.”

“No problem.”

“You said he’s been on the street for three years? That’s a long time. People don’t wind up on the street if everything’s fine in their life. He’s probably been through some major league shit. Your job is to find out what, and decide whether you want him in your life or not, warts and all.”

I think about Ralph and his venom and anger, and my mom, her frail body wasting away from alcohol abuse, her mind gone. Yeah, we’ve all got some baggage, all right. And then I remember what Helen said about not judging.

“How am I supposed to decide if I’m not going to judge?” It makes no sense. We’re always judging everything, every minute. I don’t cross the street until I judge whether it’s safe. I don’t do drugs because when I’m offered them I judge the negatives and pass. When I look around, I’m making a dozen judgments about what I’m looking at, what to focus on and what to ignore, how to interpret it.

“I meant when you’re talking to him. Think of it as information gathering. You want to get as much honest info as possible, without showing approval…or disapproval. Once you have all the facts, then you can decide what to make of them. But the main thing is stay totally calm, and do not, under any circumstances, get angry or make it about you. It’s not about you.” She sighs. “Pretend you’re a detective and you’re looking for clues as to why Derek does what he does. What makes him tick. You want the most possible clues without passing judgment. Make sense?”

“Yeah, it does,” I say, trying to keep the reluctance out of my voice.

“You need to do this, Sage. Sooner than later.”

Yes, Mom.
I hate being told what to do. Frigging hate it with a passion. Especially by someone who’s right. Which sounds suspiciously like judging, to me, when I think about it. But she’s not ordering me to do anything. She’s making a suggestion she thinks can help. I have to stop being a butthead and remember who my friends are.

“I will. You make sense.” I don’t have anything more to say, and I don’t trust myself to speak. I don’t want to sound like an ingrate, and I know I will if I keep yapping.

We say good-bye, and I stab the call off. Derek’s still asleep, and I watch him with a heavy heart, Helen’s advice ringing in my ears. Anyone on the street’s there because of some serious trauma in their life, for sure. I can only guess at what’s hidden in Derek’s past, but Helen’s made it clear I need to find out. I know she’s right.

But that doesn’t make it any easier, and I’m scared of what I’ll hear. Because as much as I need to know, I’m also afraid that when I do, it’ll be the end of Derek and me…before there was even a beginning.

Sometimes life sucks.

This is one of those times.

Helen hooks us up with a friend of hers headed from Chattanooga to Washington, D.C. – a stocky man in his fifties named Max, who sports the most elaborate handlebar mustache I’ve ever seen, and dresses like he’s an old western gunfighter. I’m beginning to appreciate that those who spend their lives behind the wheel are an unusual bunch, many of them wearing their eccentricities like badges of honor.

We don’t get to the Washington area until 2:00 a.m. After warning us about how dangerous the city is, Max drops us in Alexandria, Virginia, just south of D.C., which is empty at this hour. We make our way to the downtown area by George Washington University on the deserted streets, the only traffic an occasional police car that slows down to check us out before continuing on its way. A lit sign glows at us on a nearby corner, and we’re happy to find a 7-Eleven store, where we stock up on staples like Reese’s and full-tilt Coke.

The clerk’s a college student with a morose attitude. When we ask about the area, he says that most of the homeless in the area hang out around a nearby park.

“The police don’t take a shine to street people,” he says, watching Derek count out the money with an eagle eye. “They’ll hassle you if you give them a chance. They’re total assholes about it.”

Like it’s our fault – like we chose to live like this, exposed to the elements and constant danger. That’s typical of the attitude I’m used to, although San Francisco’s easier going than many places. Most cities treat us like cockroaches, vermin to be eradicated if possible. It’s like nobody wants a reminder of what happens when society fails and the safety net doesn’t work. I can understand, but it still sticks in my craw. I’m a human being, with hopes and likes and dreams just like everyone else, and circumstances drove me to living on the street, as they do most people. If I could get a job and live a normal life, whatever that means, I’d be happy to, but with the economy in the toilet and five hundred applicants even for minimum wage jobs, it’s not an option for a runaway with no diploma.

We make it to the park and see dark lumps on the grass – homeless people sleeping, their few belongings by their side. This is a bad situation, but we don’t have any options, so we stake out a spot by an oak tree, and Derek unrolls the sleeping bag while I look around nervously.

When he’s done, he whispers to me, “I’ll take the first shift. Couple hours? Then you’re on.”

I’ve been doing nothing but thinking all the way from Tennessee, even while sleeping in Max’s cab part of the way. My timing sucks, but I feel like every minute we’re moving past the point of no return. I sit next to Derek, take one of his brutalized hands in mine, and look him dead in his eyes. I’ve been thinking about how to approach this all day.

“Derek, I want to ask you some questions, and I need you to be honest with me, all right?” I begin, but it sounds like some school counselor, fake and disinterested.

He cocks his head. “Uh-oh.”

His hand’s warm in mine, and I realize that maybe the contact wasn’t a great idea. I’m now distracted as well as nervous. “I don’t know enough about you. I want to know more.”

He smiles and I melt. Which isn’t what this is all about. Or at least it’s not supposed to be. I try to focus and remember Helen’s words.

“Sure. What do you want to know?” He’s relaxed and not at all defensive. Score one for me.

“You said you’ve been on the street since you were fifteen.”

“That’s right.”

“What happened?”

He grimaces. “I had a bad home life. So I bailed.”

I nod. “Me too. But what happened, exactly?”

He gazes off at the field of homeless people slumbering in the grass and closes his eyes. “Sage, I’m kinda tired. It’s been a long day. I don’t really want to talk about this now.”