Less Than Nothing Page 16

  He hugs me closer, and I can feel his breathing get shallower.

  “She had a lot of boyfriends over the years, and some of them were like Ralph. I got good at protecting myself as soon as I was big enough to fight back. My brothers helped, but they weren’t always around. My older brother joined the army when I was fifteen, just to get away. Mike. He was seventeen. I haven’t spoken to him since. My other brother, Patrick, was a year younger than me, but he wasn’t a fighter. So I wound up being the one who had to protect him.” He trails off, his voice breaking on the last words, and then continues. “Anyway, when my mom overdosed, I cleared out with Patrick, and the rest is history. But when I see someone hitting…”

  I find my voice. “I get it.”

  “That creep reminded me of every prick who ever laid a hand on Patrick or me. I guess I lost it. When I was hitting him, I was hitting all of them. Does that make any sense at all?”

  It does. Complete sense. And it explains a lot.

  “Do you ever hit people when you get angry?”

  He stiffens. “Is that what this is about? No. I only fight when I’m attacked or someone I care about is threatened. I spent my entire life being a punching bag and watching Patrick take lumps. The last thing in the world I’d do is hurt someone I lo…that I care about.”

  I feel like I have to say something. “It’s just that after Ralph…”

  “Sage, you don’t need to explain. You saw me go off on that guy, and now you’re wondering whether you’re going to New York with another Ralph. I…I’m sorry I upset you. But for the record, I’m like the anti-Ralph. The polar opposite.”

  “What happened to Patrick?” I ask in a small voice.

  “I haven’t talked to him for a year.” His tone says that’s the end of the questioning, and I suddenly feel drained. But better.

  Helen was right. Honesty and tackling things head-on is the best way. Now instead of worrying whether Derek’s going to go mental on me, I can rest easy.

  He’s damaged, all right. But no more than I am.

  And maybe two broken people can somehow fix themselves together.

  He’s cradling me, and my eyes are getting heavy. I want to kiss him, but now isn’t the time. I close my eyes, just for a second, and barely feel it when he gently lays me down on the sleeping bag and takes his arms from around me. I’m asleep before my head hits my backpack, and this time, when I dream, it’s not nightmares.

  Chapter 23

  The next morning we blow ten dollars getting to a decent location for hitching a ride, and score – an older hippie couple in a dusty crew cab truck bound for New Jersey, which they assure us is just a train ride from New York City. Shanti and Jonathon tell us about the old days, when they hitched all over the country following the Grateful Dead. We explain about the talent show, and they insist on hearing us sing.

  “You need to practice, don’t you?” Shanti asks.

  Derek graces her with one of his smiles, and I hide my smirk behind my hand. “You know what? You’re right,” he says, and at the next pit stop we get Yam from the camper shell and serenade them all the way to Hoboken. It’s only a little after 4:00 when they drop us off, and we find a PATH train headed for Manhattan. We’re both excited beyond belief – we crossed the country in four days, half the time we allowed, and have no plans other than seeing the sights and getting ready for the audition on Monday at Radio City Music Hall.

  I text Melody. She’s predictably laser-focused on did we or didn’t we. The girl’s got sex on the brain. I send back a cryptic message that could mean anything. Other than entertaining Shanti and Jonathon, Derek’s been quiet all day, and I assume he’s digesting my story, just as I’ve been doing with his. I’m still not certain how I feel, but it’s definitely leaning in his favor, and the sensation of being distanced from him is slowly fading.

  The train’s surprisingly clean and modern, but there aren’t many travelers on it. I’m wondering why – New York is supposed to be packed with people, and this isn’t what I expected.

  Derek must be wondering too, because he turns to me and whispers, “All the traffic must be going out of the city at this hour. I bet the morning trains are sardine cans.”

  A couple of kids our age get on at the next stop and glare at us, but I avoid their stares. Nothing can sour this moment, and as we pass through the tunnel that runs under the Hudson River, I feel a thrill of victory. We made it, against all odds, and now all we have to do is survive until Monday.

  I turn to Derek. “You said you had someplace we can stay while we’re here?”

  “That’s right. I did say that.” His eyes twinkle with amusement, and I note there’s discoloration on his cheek from where he got kicked. It’s a reminder of the close calls we’ve had on this trip, and if I never see Tennessee again, it’ll be too soon.

  “Well, we’re here.”

  “I was kind of holding off telling you about it, so you wouldn’t be pissed at me.”

  “What? Why?”

  “It’s not going to be the Ritz.”

  “I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “Bull knows a guy who runs the same kind of flop operation he does.”

  He sees my face fall – I still remember my shower. Then again, I still vividly recall his, too, although I can’t mention it. I haven’t thought about that for a few days, but now that it’s in my brain…

  Derek looks at me quizzically. “I didn’t expect you to smile like that,” he says. I wipe the grin off my face.

  “What, is there like a secret society of homeless people running pay-as-you-go shelters in abandoned buildings that nobody told me about?”

  “Kind of. Some of the punk bands that tour on a shoestring use them. Bull’s place is famous all over the country, so he knows everyone.”

  “Where’s this one?”

  “All I have is directions. But it’s on the lower part of the island, around Second Street.”

  That means nothing to me. “Where do you want to go first?”

  Derek grins. “I think we have to see Times Square, don’t you? Let’s get a little tourist fun in before we head for our luxury hotel.”

  I wrinkle my nose at the word ‘luxury,’ remembering the splendor of Bull’s place. “Times Square, definitely. And the World Trade Center.”

  “Kinda gone. But the Empire State Building’s still standing.”

  “I want to go up to the top. Ooh, and the Statue of Liberty, too! And Broadway!” I’m afraid I sound too eager, so I pause. “You know what I really want to see?”

  “What?”

  “Radio City Music Hall.”

  “I looked it up. It’s at Rockefeller Center. We may not get there today, but definitely tomorrow.”

  I frown. “Why not today?”

  “Because today’s going to be tonight pretty soon, and New York’s a big place. Think of it like San Francisco. It would be hard to see all the sights there in one day, even with a car. Here you can spend a week doing the tourist thing and still not get to everything.”

  “I don’t mind walking around at night.”

  “I know. But first things first. This train lets off at 33rd Street. That’s only ten blocks or so from Times Square.”

  I nod. “Okay. As long as we get to everything before we go home.” The thought stops me, and a stab of melancholy quashes my excitement. I have no home. It’s a disorienting sensation. Most people lay down roots. Not me. Or Derek.

  We arrive at the 33rd Street station and get off. It’s filthy and smells like a combination of electrical fire and sweat. We shoulder our way up to the street, where we’re assaulted by the tide of people I was expecting.

  New York is like every movie I’ve ever seen that’s set there. A throng of rushing humanity surges toward us, and as we join the flow, I hear at least six or seven foreign languages. Everyone looks busy and smart and important, and I feel like a grain of sand on a beach. I resist the impulse to grab Derek’s hand – I’m not a child – but it’s a powerful ur
ge. The sheer number of people is daunting, and I feel dizzy as we cross a street, with what looks like a million vehicles all trying to get someplace at once.

  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 stee
l 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.