Less Than Nothing (22 page)

San Francisco hasn’t prepared me for New York, and I’m reminded that I’m a bumpkin from Clear Lake, just north of the ass end of nowhere. Derek doesn’t seem fazed, but then he never does, by anything. I envy that assurance. I also hope he knows what he’s doing.

We stop at a deli and get coffee, and the first sign that we might have misjudged things comes when the two cups total almost nine dollars. Derek stares at the clerk, who stares back, his potbelly straining a white T-Shirt with
Bermuda
stenciled across it, and reluctantly pays. We pause outside, and a nagging trace of doubt dances in my empty stomach.

“At this rate, we’ve got enough money to last us till lunch tomorrow,” I say, which is an exaggeration, but still – it’s kind of scary to be in a strange town and have no money. “How much do you have left?”

“Maybe a hundred and fifty.”

“Same here. With coffee at five bucks a shot, I don’t even want to guess at what a sandwich will run.”

“We just have to be smart. Plus, look, there are hot dog carts everywhere.”

“Great. So we’ll be living on mystery meat?”

“It can’t be that bad. I’ve done worse.”

I grimace. “I don’t want to know.”

He smiles. “So hot dogs for dinner?”

“Yum yum.”

He points to a nearby cart. “Look at the sign. All-beef hot dogs.”

“It’s still gross.”

When we get to Times Square, there are huge neon signs everywhere, advertising Broadway shows, TV programs, fragrances, apparel, and low-budget travel to exotic locales. It’s sensory overload, with the overwhelming strobing and blinking. We pass a man with what sounds like a Nigerian accent offering pirated CDs of the same movies playing down the block. Literally every ten feet we see his twin hawking every imaginable type of souvenir, all probably made in China. It’s like Fisherman’s Wharf on steroids, and I instinctively move close to Derek as we allow ourselves to be carried along by the crowd.

Thirty minutes later the sky’s fading to purple and red, and we’re at the southern edge of Central Park, by Columbus Circle. Twin glass towers jut skyward across the street, the ebbing sun gleaming off their mirrored surfaces as blinding as anything I’ve seen. We pause and sit on the steps at the base of a statue and watch a stooped old man feeding pigeons. A massive billboard at the top of a skyscraper advertising CNN says it’s almost 7:00 and ninety-one degrees. I look at Derek.

“We made it.”

He smiles and nods. “That we did.”

“You know what they say, right? If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere…”

“The Big Apple, all right.”

I yawn. “Now what?”

“We have to get to Second Street and find my contact.”

“Can we call him?”

“That’s not how it works.”

“What, they don’t have cell phones here?”

“Bull talked to him, so they do. But I didn’t get his number.” The look on my face must say what I’m thinking, because he shrugs. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

I’m not so sure, as we make our way south. The neighborhoods degrade as we near the Bowery district, and when we’re close to Second Street, the buildings look like a war zone. Broken windows, the smell of urine and filth, and graffiti abound. Skulking junkies and derelicts loiter on every corner and every stoop, forced outdoors by the heat.

We go down into the Second Street subway station, which is slightly seedier than the worst truck stop bathroom I’ve seen. Once underground, Derek’s easygoing attitude changes, and he becomes serious.

“When we get to the platform, follow me. But whatever you do, don’t touch the third rail.”

“What are you talking about? What third rail?”

“We’re going onto the tracks.”

I stop. He slows and then turns. I eye his face for any sign that he’s joking. He’s not. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

“Don’t worry. Bull says it’s safe. You just have to be careful not to fry yourself.”

“Bull lives in a bombed-out wreck.”

Derek nods. “Where I lived until a few days ago. You can get used to anything.”

“Maybe
you
can.”

He resumes walking, leaving me to trail him to the platform. A roar echoes from the mouth of the tunnel, and a whoosh of hot air blasts us in the face, and then a subway train pulls into the station with a screech of metal on metal. We wait until the platform clears, everyone either getting on or off, and when it pulls away with a toot of its horn, Derek moves to the end of the platform. There are access stairs with a chain across them and grim warning signs, which after looking around and seeing nobody in a uniform, we ignore, and then we’re in the tunnel.

Derek points at the rails. “See that? Third rail. It’s got a gazillion volts running through it. That’s a bad day when you trip and hit it.”

“Great. Where are we going?”

“Into the tunnels.”

“I got that. I mean where, specifically?”

“There’s an abandoned area about two blocks from here down a line Bull says hasn’t been used for years. That’s where we’re headed.”

“We’re staying in a subway tunnel?” I ask disbelievingly.

“Yup. Just like Vegas.” He squints in the darkness. “At least it’s cooler down here.”

“This is crazy.”

“You mean hitching across the U.S., entering a talent contest with someone you’ve only known a week, or crashing in the subways?”

“Yes.”

“There should be an entrance on our right any time now.”

My ears are tingling. I hear rattling and a distant roar. “There’s another train coming.” My voice sounds panicky. For good reason.

“Yeah, but Bull told me there’s plenty of time to get there between trains.” He slows. “Here it is.”

We turn into another tunnel, and half a minute later the train clatters past us on the track we just left. I’m ready to turn around and run, but Derek is continuing along. My eyes have adjusted to the gloom, lit only by the occasional bulb from an adjacent passage that seeps through to this one between the columns that keep the city above from crashing down on top of us.

I hear a rustle to my left. I look over and see a pair of beady red eyes. A rat the size of an economy car is studying me, probably wondering if I taste like hot dog. Apparently it decides I might, because it scurries away in search of more appealing fare.

Derek slows as we near a darkened doorway. He knocks, once, then three times, and waits. Another train goes by, this time not quite as deafening, and then the door swings open, and a tall, reed-thin man dressed in head-to-toe black looks at us. I gasp when I see his face – it’s a web of scar tissue, what looks like burns.

“What?” the man hisses through his ruined mouth.

“I’m a friend of Bull’s. From San Francisco. I’m looking for Lucifer.”

I don’t say anything. If someone wants to name himself after the devil, fine by me.

The man nods and pulls the door wider. “This way.”

We enter the passage, and he shuts the door and bolts it behind us. I can barely see my hand in front of me, but he obviously knows the way by heart. We make a turn and then another, and then there’s light. He approaches another door and swings it open and motions for us to go in.

No way would I do this without Derek. It’s like all my worst rape nightmares rolled into one. I barely have time to finish the thought when a bald man, at least three hundred pounds, tattoos covering every visible inch of his face and head, steps from the shadows. Derek doesn’t seem surprised.

“Lucifer?” he asks.

“Who wants to know?”

“A friend of Bull’s from San Francisco.”

The man smiles, revealing several steel teeth, the rest in various stages of decay. “Bull, huh? How is that shifty bastard?”

“Same as ever. Still running the theater.”

“Some things never change. What do you need?”

“A place for a week.”

“Hundred.”

Derek shakes his head. “Bull said twenty-five.”

“Seventy-five for the pair.”

We negotiate down to sixty, and Lucifer leads us down a passage to a large room with cots in it. I’m surprised to see it’s got electricity – a teenage girl with a shaved head is watching an old television set connected to a VCR. He waves a tattooed hand at the walls. “Welcome to Club Med. The two down at the end are open. Keep your shit close by and take it with you when you use the can. Other than that, same rules as Bull’s place. You screw with me, or with anyone here, I smash you like a bug and throw you into the tunnel. You have any trouble with someone, tell me and I’ll fix it. Other than that, enjoy your stay. A complimentary breakfast buffet comes with every cot.” He laughs, a wet sound that jiggles his rolls of fat like a bad Santa imitation.

“Where are the bathrooms?” Derek asks.

“You’re right next to ’em. That door. Newcomers get stuck by the john. Next time I’ll remember you, and you’ll move up the line.”

Derek and I inspect the bathroom. It’s a more awful version of Bull’s, right down to the jury-rigged shower plumbing. It smells like decay and sewage, and my heart sinks at the thought that I’m going to be living in this pit for at least four nights.

We go to bed hungry, neither of us willing to brave the tunnel again to try our luck with a hot dog. The subways run every few minutes, and the walls and floor shake from their passing, the roar slightly muted but still as loud as artillery fire. As I lie staring at the centuries-old brick ceiling, I have an overwhelming urge to cry. My only fear is that if I start, I might never stop. Any urge I had to kiss Derek good night flees with the thought of rats and third rails.

Sleep’s a long time coming.

The days leading up to the contest are a blur of wandering the city, playing when and where we can, and the nightmare of living at Lucifer’s. The cops seem good-natured about our setting my blanket down on busy corners and doing our thing, but they usually run us off after an hour, even as they stand around listening for free, chomping on snack food.

We’re averaging fifty bucks a day, so we’re not getting ahead, but we’re also not slipping. It’s a kind of limbo leading up to the audition, but we make the best of it. Derek’s better at waiting than I am – he’s as calm as Buddha while I’m more impatient. Yet another example of how opposites attract, even if nothing’s happened between us other than the occasional hug. The tunnels aren’t really conducive to romance, and neither of us seems ready to make the first move, so we’re going about our days, filling them with playing and trekking all over the city, staying out as late at night as we dare before returning to our pit.

You’d think that summer in New York would be about as romantic as anything, but you’d be wrong if you were staying in a hellhole wondering where your next meal’s coming from, your stomach a tight ball from anxiety over an audition, and rats and other vermin for your companions. I’m no princess, and I’m not expecting a Cinderella life, but even by my low standards, the tunnels are a new bottom.

On Sunday we’re hanging out near Columbus Circle, sheltered from the constant oppressive heat. The city is humming with activity, its pale denizens decked out in shorts and tank tops for their all-too-short summer. Derek’s gone to a nearby café, and I’m watching the world go by. A little dog, stumpy legs and an ear-to-ear smile, comes trotting up, chased by a woman who’s dropped its leash. I stand and grab the leash for her. The dog loves me on sight and licks my face with a wet slurp when I kneel down to pet it.

“Thanks so much,” its owner says, huffing from her pursuit. The dog’s happy as a toddler with a new teddy bear to have me scratching behind its ears.

“No problem. What’s his name?”

“Her. Bethany.”

“How old?”

“Three.”

I stare at Bethany, who’s wagging the stump where her tail would have been. Her eyes say today’s the best day ever. I smile.

“What kind of dog is she?”

“A corgi.”

I’ve never heard of corgis, but you can add that to the vast ocean of stuff I don’t know. After a final pat on Bethany’s head I stand, and her owner thanks me again. I turn toward the blanket and see a kid halfway down the block, running, Derek’s guitar under his arm.

I freak and start after him and then remember Yam and our bags. I stop, frozen in place, torn between chasing down the kid and protecting what we have left. It’s like this horrible point of equilibrium where I’m totally screwed no matter what I do, and by the time I figure out I can’t chase the thief toting two heavy bags and Yam, he’s disappeared into the park.

I return to the blanket, stunned, and sit heavily, shocked by how abruptly my life’s gone from not-completely-terrible to ruined. Our audition’s tomorrow, and a big part of our act is the two guitars, especially on the number we’ve decided to perform.

This is a disaster. Worse. Whatever’s disaster times ten, this is it.

When Derek returns, I’m staring off in space, tears coursing down my cheeks.

He stands in front of me, his face a play of conflicting emotions, worry the most obvious. “Sage! What’s wrong? What happened?”