Less Than Nothing (4 page)

“And if I say yes, you’ll leave if it doesn’t work? No bullshit?”

He held his hand over his heart. “Promise. You’ll never hear my voice again.”

The thought gives me conflicting emotions, but I’m not going to let on. Right now I’m not sure what I’m feeling. I need time to sort it out. So that’s what I tell him.

“I want the day to think about it.” I realize as I say the last word that I really want to say yes now, but I don’t want to come off as easy.

“The whole day?”

“Yup.”

“Will you at least promise to give it a try tomorrow morning?”

“No. But I’ll think about it.”

He looks unhappy, but surprises me by nodding. “Okay. I’ll try to find another spot for now, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I keep my expression impassive, but I feel let down that he didn’t give it at least one more try. I would have said yes. Or at least, I might have.

He hefts his bag, slides the strap handles over one shoulder, and lifts his guitar with the other. I’m not as fast, and he waits for me, and then we walk to the door together. He opens it and steps onto the sidewalk, nearly clobbering an Asian woman pushing a cart. He apologizes and earns an angry glare for his trouble.

We stand facing each other for an uncomfortable moment, and then I shrug again.

“All right. Later.”

“Tomorrow, Sage. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He sounds like he knows the answer will be yes. We both do, but I give nothing away, especially not the tingle of pleasure hearing him say my name creates in my core.

“We’ll see, Derek. We’ll see.”

I finish my day at 4:45 with sixteen dollars, which blows goats, but is enough to buy dinner and do some laundry. I pack up my stuff and head off to Melody’s. Her mom doesn’t get home until almost six, so we’ll have an hour to talk, which after a whole day spent thinking through Derek’s offer, I really need.

I met Melody the first week I came to the city, after spending nearly the last of my meager savings on bus fare from Santa Rosa. I’d made friends with another street musician named Perry, who worked what was now my spot, and he took a shine to me, which I admit I exploited. He was a big weed smoker, high from morning until night, and had decided to head to Los Angeles and try his luck, having run into some trouble locally he didn’t want to talk about. He offered me his block in exchange for twenty bucks, which I agreed to, even though it cleaned me out.

“You’ll make it back by tomorrow, sweet thang,” he said as he took my last two ten-dollar bills. Perry sounded like one of those seventies blacksploitation movie characters, Shaft or whatever, only he was always bobbing in time to music only he heard. He was a great singer but, like many of the folks in the Haight, liked his drugs and booze a little too much and had obviously never gotten it together.

Perry was thirty-four and looked like he was pushing fifty.

I still remember that night. We talked until the sun was coming up, at which point he offered his final thoughts as he left for the bus station.

“Be at your spot every day, no matter what, before the stores open, and don’t take no shit from no one. That’s yours now, baby girl, and you fight for what you got, you hear?”

Now, as I trudged the last few blocks to Melody’s, I felt like a big fat loser. The first real challenge to my supremacy, and I’d folded like a house of cards. Okay, maybe not that bad, but in my mind I should have stared Mr. Derek Smooth-as-shit down and run him off, hands on my hips like Wonder Woman as I scorched him with my glower of fury.

Melody and I had met the first day I started playing in my new spot. She’d been on her way home from school in the early afternoon, a latchkey kid, and had stopped to listen to a song, which had turned into ten. She’d given me five bucks, which I was like, ‘score,’ and we spent an hour talking. We’re both seventeen, and polar opposites. I’ve always been slender and pale, my natural hair color a medium brown, and she’s tall and curvy, with cinnamon skin from her mother’s Colombian side.

Stopping by to listen to me squawk became a habit with Melody for several weeks, but now with school out, she hangs around the house during the day. Her mom works in an office downtown and takes a bus to and from work, and Melody sneaks me into their postage-stamp two-bedroom apartment on the edge of the Haight whenever possible so I can ‘freshen up,’ as she puts it.

Melody’s my best friend in the world now that my old life is flushed. Just as well. I hated school, was bored out of my gourd with it – I already knew everything they were trying to teach me because I’d been reading ever since I was old enough to walk, and hadn’t made any friends to speak of. More like a few loners that grouped together with a common cause: misery loving company, and completely failing to be good citizens in academic society.

I pull my cheapo burner cell out of my back pocket and text her to let her know I’m coming by, and within a minute get her response:
Swicked. I’m sooo bored. Got chocolate?

I text back:
I can pick up PBC, but it might break the bank.

And she:
Sweet. I’ve got $.

I stop at the corner market and buy two Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups while the owner watches me like I’m trying to scoop his store into my guitar case. It’s annoying, but I’m used to it. When you’re homeless, you get ‘the look’ all the time. The look that says, “What’s wrong with you? Why don’t you fit in? Why did you choose this for yourself, you loser?”

I know too well that sometimes the only choice is between bad ones. I try not to let it get me down, but sometimes I just want to scream at people, to shake them up, make them see their all-the-food-and-drink-and-entertainment-you-want-24/7-in-climate–controlled-comfort life is an illusion. The truth is many of them are only a few steps from having nothing. Some of us just got pushed off those steps.

I approach Melody’s building and stab at the intercom, shaking off the pity party I’ve been throwing for myself. No point to it. So I had a meh day. It wasn’t completely sucky. Which is what I want to talk to her about.

The lock buzzes like an angry wasp. I climb the stairs to her second-floor flat, and she’s standing at the door, wearing running shorts and a Penn State sweatshirt she filched from one of her past boyfriends.

“Yo, sistah, welcome to the Pleasure Dome. You got candy?” she asks, her smile wide and inviting.

I toss her one of the two packages, and she eyes me. Melody has the ability to see into my soul. Or at least it seems that way sometimes.

“Rough day at the office?” she asks.

“You could say that. I think I’m putting in new lows,” I say as I brush past her and put Yam and my backpack down in the hall.

“You eat anything today? You’re too skinny, girl,” Melody says, the topic a constant in our banter.

“I had coffee. I wasn’t hungry,” I lie. I’m already salivating at the thought of the candy in the paper bag Mr. Korean Hospitality gave me when I’d surprised him by paying.

Melody’s eyes narrow as she studies my face. “What’s up, Sage?” she asks, the playfulness out of her voice.

“I’ll tell you all about it after I take a shower, okay?”

“Fine. But first the ritual scarfing of the treats.”

I nod. I sit at her tiny dining room table with its chipped Formica top and its flea market chairs, and she goes to the fridge and pours two glasses of milk. When she returns, her expression is sunny again. Melody’s incapable of taking anything seriously, which is one of the things I love about her. It’s a good balance to my intensity, which can get dark sometimes.

We solemnly open our wrappers and munch on the candy. It tastes like a small slice of heaven to me, and I realize how starved I am. My stomach’s been in knots since the confrontation with Derek. The anxiety got me through the afternoon, but the calories are like an energy transfusion, and I have to remind myself to chew.

I’m done in seconds and gulp my milk like it contains the antidote. Melody watches me like a mother hen. Even though we’re only a month apart, and I’ve got a ton more life experience from the street, she has this parenting thing that’s both annoying and reassuring. I’ve met her mom, who didn’t like me – who wants their kid hanging with one of
those
people? – and she had that same thing, only really overbearing.

I stand up. “I’ll be back in ten. How long till Mom’s due?”

Melody glances at her watch. “You got forty-five minutes.”

“Cool. I need to tell you what happened today.”

“I’ll be right here.”

The needles of hot water never felt better, and I let myself luxuriate under the stream for longer than I should before I rinse the shampoo out of my hair and step dripping from the shower. Melody’s thoughtfully put a thick towel on the rack for me, and I dry myself, inspecting my reflection in the full-length mirror as I blot moisture from my legs. I don’t think I’m that skinny – I’ve always had a slim figure, what one wannabe boyfriend called a swimmer’s body. I glance at the tattoo on my shoulder I got as a sophomore in high school, a stylized sun with a yin/yang symbol incorporated into it, and then wipe water from the two lines of script I had inked on the side of my ribcage by a guy who worked in a tat shop. He was totally hitting on me my third week on the street, and did it for next to nothing. It’s still there, and I haven’t seen him since.

I’ve sung the words from my favorite song a thousand times since going out on my own, but they still resonate more than any others I’ve heard – Janis knew what she was talking about when she sang about freedom being another word for nothing to lose.

Truest words on the planet. And fitting, given my predicament.

I sniff my top before putting it on and cringe. Definitely time to hit the Laundromat. I pull my last clean shirt from my backpack, a ridiculously old-school black T-shirt with the words Sock It To Me emblazoned on the front, and slip it on. Clean panties follow, and then a pair of sweat pants Melody loaned me a month ago. “Take them,” she’d urged. “I haven’t been able to fit into them since I was twelve.”

When I make it back out to the living room, Melody’s parked in front of the tube, watching a reality show where contestants compete for a fashion design deal. I sit down next to her, my ebony hair still gleaming from the shower, and she mutes the sound, eyes still glued to the screen as she offers me an open bag of Ruffles. I take a handful, and we chomp on them in silence, and then she turns to me.

“So? What’s up?”

“I had a shit day. I just couldn’t do it anymore today, so I took off early.”

“Some days are like that. It’ll be better tomorrow. How bad was it?”

“Twenty and change.”

“Ouch.”

“I know.”

She eyes me. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. Some dude showed up and tried to snake my spot on the street.”

“No way! How? What did you do?”

“He set up down the block. Also a guitar player. He’s total trouble.”

Melody cocks her head. “You gave him the boot, right?”

“Kind of.”

“What does that mean?”

I tell her about the coffee and the offer. Something in my tone tips her off, and her eyes widen. “How old is he?”

“I don’t know. About my age, I think.”

“Derek, huh? What’s he look like?”

I debate how to describe him. ‘Total babe’ doesn’t really cut it. I do my best. When I’m done, she’s grinning.

“Wait, so I’m sitting around watching reruns, and you’ve got some man candy buying you drinks?”

“It was coffee.”

“That’s where it starts. Next thing you’re pregnant.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Seriously. What’s his story?”

“Well, he’s from Seattle.”

“And?”

“And he’s on the street, too. Seems like he has been for a while.”

“What’s a while?”

“I don’t know. Years?”

“Huh. What else?”

“He’s got Elvis tattooed on his arm. Retro.”

She regards me for a long beat. “Is he totally hot? Are you leaving that part out?”

I shrug, but I can feel myself blushing. “He’s okay.”

“You little slut. I can’t believe you. I’m here locked in my ivory tower, and you’re playing spank me at the stud farm.”

“It’s not like that. He’s kinda cute, I suppose, but he’s also competition.”

Melody won’t be denied now that she’s got the bit between her teeth. “You suppose? Scale of one to ten, how cute?”

I’m starting to get flustered. I should have known she’d home in on Derek. I have no reason to feel suddenly protective of him, but I do. “I don’t know. Probably an eight. Or a nine.”

“Oh. My. God. Listen to you. Were you twerking him by the point he bought you a latte?”

I stand up, feeling claustrophobic. “Mel, come on. This is me we’re talking about.”

“Dude, I’d be so all over that in a heartbeat.” She would, too. Mel likes boys. She’s like the anti-Sage. Not that I don’t like the male of the species; I just haven’t met any I felt that way about. Mel, on the other hand, feels that way about three times a week. Sometimes more.