Less Than Nothing Read online

  “We better do something, because we’ve been here almost two hours and we’re dead in the water,” he agrees. “I wonder if there’s anything south of us? I didn’t see anything promising north, did you?”

  “Just corn. Lots and lots of corn.”

  “Problem is, we can’t walk down the highway. So we’ll have to find something that parallels it and keep our eyes peeled.”

  “That sucks,” I say and notice that there’s no more talk about how beautiful I am now. Fortunately I’m a good walker – it’s one of the few pastimes you have as a homeless person that’s both free and good for you.

  We head toward Sikeston and stop at a gas station. The attendant tells us that our best bet is a truck stop about seven miles south – the Flying J. He says a lot of travelers stop there for lunch, and that if we’re lucky, we can make it in a couple of hours. I exchange a dark glance with Derek, who’s obviously as happy as I am with our predicament. The guy tells us there’s a country road that runs along the freeway, so we backtrack and begin our forced march, every mile as uncomfortable as any I’ve walked, with the heat and stifling humidity.

  A line of plum-colored thunderheads are gathering on the horizon by the time we make it to the Flying J, and we squander another fifteen dollars on crappy food while we debate our options. Derek makes a good case for staying at the truck stop, so after I buy a tube of 70 SPF sunblock and slather it on my face and arms, we settle in for the afternoon, tired, dusty, feet sore, stuck between nowhere and nothing, on the road to Memphis.

  Chapter 18

  We score a ride at two thirty from three church ladies in a Suburban, who seem taken with Derek and chatter with him all the way to Memphis. They’re sweet, but the combination of sunburn and fatigue have sucked my will to live, and I doze while we rumble south, leaving it to Derek to play entertainment committee. He’s naturally good at it, and by the time we arrive in the city center, they’re all best friends, advising us on where to eat, what parts of town to stay clear of, things to see at Graceland.

  They drop us off near the Mississippi River, and we make our way to the water, where hopefully there’s a breeze. Memphis is nothing like I pictured, with skyscrapers, a massive glass pyramid, and BMWs racing down wide boulevards, all alongside old-fashioned trolley cars and centuries-old buildings.

  A woman handing out religious pamphlets proclaiming that Jesus is a-comin’ any day now tells us that Graceland closes at five o’clock, so our all-day ordeal got us here too late to see it.

  “What do you want to do, Derek?” I ask. He’s staring down the street.

  “Let’s head over there. It looks like a park. Maybe we can find some shade and hang out.”

  The park’s a big square, and there are a decent number of pedestrians out, so we decide to play for a few hours and see if we can earn back some lunch money. We tune up, and I dig out my blanket, and in just under an hour we’ve made six bucks – not great, but better than nothing, and it’s not like we have anywhere to go. I calculate that we can probably make enough to pay for a fleabag motel if we play for eight hours – a depressing thought.

  Still, every time Derek smiles during one of our harmonies, my heart sings in time with my voice, and my mind turns to us. It’s all I’ve been thinking about the entire day, but I’m no closer to deciding what to do than I was when I woke up. I’m feeling sorry for myself. It shouldn’t be this hard. He should just grab me, kiss me, and get it over with.

  Unless all the talk about how beautiful I am is just that. I can’t figure Derek out – one minute he’s flattering me and sending obvious signals, and then the next it’s like I’m his little sister. I begin to feel frustration turning to anger, and remind myself that, just as I have a running commentary going on in my head, so does he – and I’ve got no idea what his is saying.

  We’re finishing up a Doobie Brothers song when an explosion of exhaust roars from the street and a redneck voice shouts at us, “Get a job, shitheads!”

  I look up. There’s a moron hanging out the window of a blue Dodge pickup with oversized tires, his face red. Friendly place, Memphis, I think as my anger surges, and I flip him off. I’ve heard it all before, and what idiots like him don’t seem to realize is that I have a job – I’m a musician, and it’s one of the toughest ways I can think of to make a living.

  I’m not a vagrant or a bum. I don’t want charity. There’s effort and skill involved, which is why people toss their money into the case. I entertain them, and if I do it competently enough, they pay me for a job well done. Just because I’m not changing tires or working in a factory doesn’t mean what I do doesn’t have value. I realize I’m getting furious, going from calm to pissed in seconds flat.

  “Just ignore them,” Derek warns and locks his eyes on mine. “You okay?”

  I nod. “Yeah. Sorry. I shouldn’t let it get to me.”

  “You’re only human. It bugs me too.” He grins. “Don’t worry. Pretty soon we’ll be on TV, and then we’ll be trying to figure out how to spend our half million while that doofus is still working at Jiffy Lube.”

  I strum a chord and fiddle with the tuning of my high E. Of course he’s right. Derek’s always right, it seems. I wish I had his calm confidence, that assurance that’s so attractive, but I don’t. I can fake it, play tough, but inside I’ve got more contradictions going on than anyone I know.

  “Let’s hope so. Don’t worry. I’ll get over it. At least we’ve got proof they make idiots in Tennessee just like they do back home.”

  “New, improved idiots. Now with twenty percent more idiot,” he intones.

  “I could practically hear him breathing through his mouth,” I agree.

  We play for another hour, and things pick up. We’ve made twenty dollars, but it’s getting dark, and flashes of dry lightning are streaking across the sky to the west. The storm we saw earlier has advanced, and we’ll need to find shelter or get soaked. The pedestrian traffic has thinned, and the few people still on the street are hurrying. The air’s heavy with moisture, and as we set our guitars into their cases, a low boom of thunder explodes nearby.

  I’m pulling on my backpack when Derek grabs my arm. “Uh-oh.” I look up and see two men beelining for us from across the park. I recognize one of them – the shouter from the truck.

  My eyes saucer. “Shit. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Too late. Stay here,” he says, and then he’s up, walking toward them as they near, his shoulders square. The shouter’s about the same size as Derek, but the driver’s a monster, probably six three. Fear shoots through me as they approach, and Derek picks up his pace.

  The rednecks slow as they get a better look at Derek in his motorcycle jacket, and the driver seems to be having second thoughts when the shouter closes the final ten feet and throws a punch. Derek ducks it, and then everything seems to happen fast. He kicks the shouter in the ribs and follows it with a punch to the face, and before the bigger guy can react, his friend’s howling, holding his nose, blood streaming between his fingers. The driver bellows and rushes Derek, and I stifle a scream as he lands a blow on the side of Derek’s head.

  Derek’s knees buckle, but he’s still standing, and he reacts in a blur of motion, raining punches on the big man. I can hear the smack of skin on skin, and then the shouter’s back up and tries to take Derek down, lunging for his waist. Derek sidesteps him and knees him in the solar plexus. He goes down hard, the wind knocked out of him, and his companion swings a wild punch at Derek’s head. He sees it coming and dodges it, and then spins and levels a brutal kick at the big man’s beer gut. When it connects, I can practically hear him deflate, and he sinks to his knees in slow motion, holding his stomach, obviously stunned.

  The shouter makes a final try for Derek’s legs and gets a foot in the face for his reward, and now both thugs are on the ground, going nowhere anytime soon.

  The whole thing didn’t take more than fifteen seconds, but felt like an eternity. When Derek returns, he’s breathing hard and h
is lip’s bleeding, but otherwise he appears okay. He glances over his shoulder at where the two men are lying on the grass. Near the street, two women are pointing at us, hands over their mouths, expressions of shock on their faces. When Derek speaks, his tone’s tight.

  “Grab your stuff and let’s move. Hurry.”

  I don’t need to be told twice. I grab my backpack as he snags his rucksack, and we jog to the corner of the park and cross the street. His ear’s swelling, and I can see the beginning of a bruise on his cheekbone. He licks away the blood on his lip and winces.

  “They won’t be down long. We need to get clear of this area, because those types will have friends, and when they come back, they’ll be hunting us in a pack.”

  “I’m all for that.” Thunder booms again, and the air now has that electric tension that immediately precedes a downpour. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. No problem.”

  We hurry down the street to the next block and turn the corner. Traffic’s thinned to nothing as rush hour fades, and the business district’s almost empty. We’re almost to the end of the block when Derek cocks his head. “Hear that?”

  I don’t know what he’s talking about. “No. What?”

  “That Dodge has some kind of glass-pack muffler. Distinctive sound.”

  I study his profile. “No way.”

  He nods. “They recovered faster than I thought. I must be losing my touch.” He regards his knuckles, which are bleeding. “Next time I’ll use a brick.”

  “Where to?” I ask.

  “Shit,” he says and pulls me into a doorway. “They just turned down this street.”

  He’s holding me close, my head on his chest. I’ve now got the physical intimacy I’ve been hoping for all day, but it couldn’t be in worse circumstances. I can hear the truck now, close. If they’re doing a street-by-street search, we literally have no chance unless a miracle happens.

  And I don’t believe in miracles.

  Chapter 19

  We hug the wall, and Derek whispers in my ear, so close I can feel his breath on my cheek.

  “Crouch down. Maybe we’ll get lucky and they won’t see us.”

  I do as he says, and now we’re side by side, his arm around me, his eyes alert and shining with a hard light I’ve never seen before. His muscles are tense, and I can tell he’s gearing up for another attack – only this time on an empty street, and likely with tire irons or a baseball bat.

  I’m sure we’re dead, and then an explosion like a bomb going off echoes off the buildings. Raindrops the size of golf balls pour from the heavens in sheets of heavy rain that blow down the street in a gray curtain. We’re dry in the recess of the doorway, but the air’s opaque from the downpour. A bright flash of lightning trees through the clouds overhead, followed closely by a blast of thunder so loud it shakes the foundations.

  The Dodge rolls past us, its wipers working furiously, and we can barely make it out. I decide to reevaluate my beliefs about the miraculous as its taillights disappear into the haze. It’s quiet now except for the steady tattoo of rain on the street and occasional thunder. I’m thankful that we’re safe for now, in the shelter of the doorway of an anonymous office building closed for the night.

  “Big noise, huh?” Derek says, and I nod and start breathing again. I’ve been unconsciously holding my breath since Derek pulled me in, and I’m getting dizzy. We watch the rain washing down in heavy bursts like the pulsing of a heart, and I shiver even though it’s hot out. He feels the shudder run through me and holds me tighter, and suddenly it’s hotter where I’m sitting.

  “Yeah. You think they’ll give up?” I ask, turning my face toward him. The perspiration on his chin is only inches away. If I was Melody, I’d lick it. The thought comes and goes in an instant, but once I’ve had it, I can never un-have it, and I wonder how he’d react if I did. He’s so close. All I’d have to do is lean in, just a tiny bit…

  “Probably. They got some nice bumps. If it was me, I’d be heading to get some ice. My guess is they’re gone. But that’s not our only problem.”

  “What?” I ask, my impulse stopped mid-slurp.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if they call the cops.”

  Damn. I hadn’t thought of that. I’ve been too busy trying to figure out how to maneuver Derek into a romantic moment while we’re running for our lives. I immediately feel guilty and selfish. What’s wrong with me?

  He peers out into the deluge and then tenses.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “A taxi. His light’s on. We should get as far away as we can while there’s still time. Anyone hunting for us will be looking for a couple of street people near the park.”

  Thank God one of us is thinking. Derek stands and darts from the doorway and flags down the cab.

  The driver pops the trunk. I shake off the rain and get in the car as Derek loads our junk, and then he slides in next to me. The driver looks at us expectantly after flipping the meter on.

  “What’s the best area to pick up a ride out of town?” Derek asks.

  “What do you mean, pick up a ride?” the driver asks, suspicion obvious.

  “Hitching,” Derek explains.

  “Which way?”

  “East.”

  The driver’s face hardens, and his eyes dart to the rearview mirror. “You got money for my fare?”

  “Of course.”

  “Lemme see it.”

  Derek sighs and digs out a twenty-dollar bill. The driver nods. “For five more bucks, I’ll take you to the country club. There’s a big shopping center there. Lots of cars. On Isaac Hayes.”

  “Come again?” Derek asks.

  “Isaac Hayes highway. Runs east. It’s about fifteen miles from here.”

  Derek nods. “Let’s go.”

  The driver turns the meter off. “Normally it would run over thirty, but with this weather I’m feeling generous.”

  Right. More like his chances of picking up a fare in the storm are close to zero, and since we’ve just announced we don’t know the area, he’s going to turn an eighteen-dollar ride into twenty-five. I start to say something, but Derek grabs my hand and squeezes. His message is clear: Don’t open your big fat mouth.

  I resist my impulse and squeeze back. His hands are so much bigger than mine. And yet as nimble as a surgeon’s when he’s playing guitar. My impression is that his fingers are talented in more ways than one, and I’m thinking about just going for it and kissing him when I catch a look at myself in the driver’s mirror. I look like a wet rat, my hair soaked from the rain.

  I give Derek a sidelong glance. His lip’s split, but the blood’s drying. I’m betting that only one person in the car is obsessed with kissing right now, and it’s not Derek or the driver. I sigh and lean back in the seat, enjoying the feel of his skin pressed against mine, my heart thumping in time with the wipers as the downpour beats on the roof of the car.

  “I’m sorry, Derek,” I whisper. He turns to me.

  “About what?”

  “I shouldn’t have flipped them off. I know better.”

  “They deserved it. They were looking for trouble.”

  “Maybe, but I gave them what they wanted, and you had to fight because of me.”

  He shakes his head. “I had to fight because a couple of violent assholes decided to pick on people they thought were helpless.”

  “How’s your lip?”

  “This is nothing. I used to get way worse from my brother.”

  “Is that where you learned to fight?”

  He laughs. “You could say that. But I don’t go looking for trouble, and I don’t enjoy fighting. Some people get a kick out of it.” His face changes for a split second and then returns to normal. “Not me.”

  I see a flash of something I can’t describe in his eyes. Fleeting, but there. Pain? Bad memories? I want to ask how he broke his nose, but I don’t. It doesn’t feel like the right time. I reach up and touch his face, and he squints.

  “It’s swelling
,” I say.

  “I guarantee they look worse than I do.”

  “I believe it.” I hesitate. “Did you get into fights in Seattle?”

  “A couple. But I learned pretty quickly that it’s smarter to avoid most fights than to get into them. Nobody’s there to do stitches or ice your face when it’s pouring rain and you’re broke. And you never know if the other guy’s going to pull a knife.” He looks lost for a moment and then gives me his smirk. “You know how it is.”

  I try to imagine what it would be like to have someone come at me with a knife, but I can’t. I’ve never been in a fight, so I have no frame of reference. The truth is that the closest I’ve ever come to being in one was just now, with Derek in the park. I’m a complete wuss under my street-girl toughness, but I’ll never let on. I spent way too much time building that hard exterior, like some kind of conflict-avoidant beetle with anxiety issues.

  “Did anyone ever do that? Come at you with a knife?” I ask.

  “Once.” He stares off through the window at the storm.

  I frown. “What happened?”

  He sighs and shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “It was some crack head in Vegas. It didn’t last long. He didn’t have a chance – he was trying to rip me off, but his reflexes were slow.” He pauses. “I put him in the hospital. I’m not proud of it. I kind of lost it and kept going after he was already down.”

  I don’t want to think about Derek being violent, and now I’m sorry I asked. My mind automatically diverts to Ralph – Ralph hitting me, lashing out over real or imagined misbehavior. And my mom, always siding with him, too drunk to care most of the time, every day with me around a reminder of the husband who left her. I close my eyes, trying to banish the visions of their fights, Ralph screaming at her, she screaming back, always drunk, nothing ever resolving, and inevitably Ralph taking his anger out on the daughter who hated his guts.

  I must have made some sound unconsciously, because Derek squeezes my hand again and pushes my wet hair out of my face. I lean my head back, willing him to do more, to caress me or kiss me, but nothing happens. I open my eyes, and he’s a thousand miles away, gazing through the window at the downpour, lost in his thoughts.