Travelin' Man (8 page)

“Hey handsome, what are you still doing here?”

He feels a hand on his shoulder. The triage nurse is standing behind him, a backpack slung across his shoulder.

“I'm just leaving,” KC says sounding like a guilty kid caught stealing cookies.

“What did the doctor say?”

“I'm okay. He said I can go.”

“It's Ricky, isn't it? Your name's Ricky?”

“Yeah, Ricky.”

“What did they say about that bite? Someone did a half-ass job cleaning it. Did you get a tetanus shot?”

“Yeah.”

“You telling me the truth or do I have to go back and look at your record?”

“It's the truth.”

“You have a script for an antibiotic?”

“Yeah.”

“You call anyone to come pick you up?”

“No,” KC says, nervously. “I don't live around here.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Sacramento,” KC says, unable to think of any other answer. “My family is in Sacramento.”

“Let me walk you to your car. I just clocked out.”

“No, that's okay. I gotta get going.”

The nurse is too broad, too tall, for KC to push past him.

“Ricky, I'm gonna ask you a question.”

He knows the Six Million Dollar Man smells fear dripping from his sweat glands.

“You have a place to sleep tonight?”

“My car. I'm gonna sleep in my car.”

“So, where's your car again?

“In the parking lot,” he says, unnerved by the man's persistence. Maybe he's heard a stolen car's just been towed off the premises and he's suspicious. Maybe he's stalling, detaining KC until the cop can rush back to the hospital.

“So is mine. Let's walk out together.”

“I gotta go to the bathroom first. You go ahead. Don't wait for me,” KC insists.

“Ricky, why don't you tell me the truth? There's no car and you don't have a place to sleep tonight.”

KC's eyes well up with tears. He's embarrassed by losing control and acting like a frightened baby. It pisses him off that he cries so easily lately, like a little boy or, even worse, a girl. He reaches for his dirty handkerchief but the nurse intercepts him before he can blow his nose.

“Whoa. Whoa. We don't want you to start bleeding again. Stop worrying Ricky,” he says wrapping his arm around KC's shoulder and leading him back into the treatment area. “You're not gonna run on me, are you?” he asks. “Christine, keep an eye on our young friend here and call me if he tries to disappear,” he says to a young nurse. “I'll be back in a minute. Just sit tight.”

None of the staff—doctors, nurses, orderlies, young women carrying baskets of syringes and empty vials, all wearing the same blue scrubs—are particularly interested in the young man seated at the nurse's station, clutching a duffel in his arms. KC starts to relax, allowing himself to trust his new friend. He suspects the nurse is calling home, warning his wife or girlfriend or roommate, maybe a roommate, another guy, that he's bringing an unexpected guest home tonight.

The nurse might be Christian, following the example of the Good Samaritan, but Christians always find some way to work Jesus into the conversation and he never once mentioned God or the Lord. He could be a gay guy. He did call KC handsome, not once, but twice. Maybe he'll let KC stay a few days while he figures things out. He'll think it's a riot when KC tells him he looks like the Six Million Dollar Man and asks if he has bionic powers. Maybe there is no roommate or boyfriend and he'll invite KC to sleep in his bed.

“Ricky, this is Mrs. Sutcliffe,” the nurse says when he returns with a tired-looking middle-aged woman. “She's gonna help us find a place for you to stay.”

Her ID badge says she's a social worker though KC doesn't know exactly what a social worker does. She tries to appear friendly, but acts like she's being imposed upon and wants to move on to more urgent matters.

“How old are you Ricky?” she asks.

“Twenty.”

“Well, the bruises make you look younger. I'd believe you were an abused kid. Tonight you're seventeen. If anyone asks you for your ID, say you don't have one. They won't challenge you. Runaways don't carry a driver's license. I made the phone call, Carl. They're expecting him.”

KC's devastated by the news. His new friend has betrayed him.

“I've got it under control, Carl,” she says. “You don't need to stick around. Ricky, you're going to the juvenile shelter for the night. They'll hook you up with Social Services tomorrow. Wait until then to tell them you're not a minor. Now be honest with me. Are you clean? They're going to drug test you in the morning,” she says briskly.

“I think you're jumping to conclusions. I'll stay with him until the taxi arrives.” Carl says as she signs off on the cab voucher.

KC's sure that Carl would offer him a place to stay if only he would ask. But he doesn't, fearful of hearing the word no.

“Hey, cheer up. They'll help you get back home if that's where you want to go,” Carl says when they're alone.

“I've got my own money. I don't need their help. You don't have to wait. I'm not a baby,” KC says.

“No, you're certainly not a baby, handsome,” Carl says kindly as the cab arrives. “Promise me you're gonna take care of yourself.”

He offers a farewell handshake, and KC throws his arms around his broad back, hugging him tightly.

“You come see me if your ever get back to Eugene so I know you're doing okay. You're a good boy, Ricky. I know it. You remind me of my son.”

 

The ride to the shelter seems to take forever.

“Where are we?” KC asks the driver when they stop at a traffic light.

“Blair Boulevard. You don't want me to let you out in this neighborhood, believe me.”

There's a bar on the corner with a rainbow flag draped above the entrance. The neon beer signs—Bud Lite, Coors—all prominently feature the universal symbol of pride, proof of the breweries' commitment to the beer-drinking gay community. The place is called Lucky's. Easy enough to remember. He could tell the driver to drop him here, but tonight an uncomfortable mattress and smelly blankets feels like a better option than standing around, waiting for some horny guy to offer him a place to sleep.

 

Either breakfast at the shelter is better than KC expected or he's so starved that he's grateful for a plate of powdered scrambled eggs and a piece of dry toast. The intake counselor says he's concerned about the bite on KC's cheek. He thinks it looks like it's getting infected, KC lies and says he had a tetanus shot at the hospital. He refuses to answer any more questions and insists that the duffel and money they'd confiscated for safekeeping last night be returned to him. The counselor warns him he can't return tonight if he refuses to pee in a cup. It's eight o'clock in the morning when he walks out the front door. He hopes the gloom is only lingering fog and not the promise of a wet, drizzly day. It seems like forever since he awoke in a Seattle hotel room yesterday morning. He feels like his head is clear for the first time since the Odyssey. There's something he owes the Freemans for all they have done for him. They deserve a response to the last text he'd received from the Coach before losing his phone.

He can't stay silent and allow Coach Freeman, a devout Christian man, to break the Ninth Commandment by bearing false witness for him. He'd opened his Bible this morning as he shoveled eggs off a paper plate and the words from John 8:32 almost leaped off the page,
And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.
He takes it as a sign that God wants him to confess.

He wanders the streets, in search of a pay phone to call Sacramento. There's no dial tone on the only one he's able to find, a rusty and dented box on the wall of a service station.

“That thing don't work. Line's been dead for more than a year. I don't know why the fucking phone company don't come and take it away. Those fuckers would charge me a goddamn fine if I ripped it out myself,” the attendant says. “I think there's a pay phone at Walgreen's. Why don't you try there?”

The walk gives him a few moments to think. Words always fail him whenever he has something important to say. He mumbles, unable to finish his sentences, never able to express his meaning. The Augustinian priests who taught him in high school tried to build his confidence, assuring him he was smart and capable, despite his pitiful grades. But he's only comfortable on the ball field where no one ever expects him to speak. He dials the Freeman's number on the phone at the Walgreen's and an automated voice asks him to either swipe a credit card or deposit three dollars and seventy five cents in coins. He hangs up and asks the lady at the cash register to change a five-dollar bill. She can't open the register; he needs to make a purchase. He wanders up and down the aisles as if he's in a daze, not wanting to waste money on something he doesn't need. He chooses a protein bar and a bottle of Muscle Milk. Walking back to the register, he passes the stationary rack. Inspired, he invests in a tablet and a cheap ballpoint pen. He'll write down what he wants to say in a letter to the Coach.

The sun is burning off the damp morning haze. There's a small park on the corner dedicated to the Indian woman who traveled with Lewis and Clark. Her statute is caked with bird shit, the shrubbery is brown and dry, and the garbage cans overflow with trash. But there's a comfortable bench and the sun feels good on KC's bruised but healing face. Soon enough he'll recognize himself in the mirror, a familiar face with a different nose. He's drinks the Muscle Milk and saves the protein bar for later. He opens the tablet and begins to write.

The first draft is sloppy, with words and entire sentences slashed through with ink. He fills the pages of the tablet with scattered thoughts that are briefly considered and quickly discarded. It takes all morning and late into the afternoon until he's satisfied with what he has to say. But there was no point writing it down if the Coach can't read KC's chicken scratch. So he painstakingly makes a more legible copy, printing the words in big, block letters.

It's everything he wants to say. He needs to find a post office, buy an envelope and a stamp, and drop the letter in the mail. He signs it
KC Conroy
, then changes his mind and scratches his signature out, adding one last line.

He asks an old woman feeding the pigeons if there's a post office nearby. She turns, startled, throwing a fistful of dry bread crumbs in his face, and threatens to cut off his cock off if he tries to touch her. There's a junkie pacing in front of the statue, waiting for his dealer, and a noisy gaggle of old drunks are arguing over a bottle in a paper bag. It will be evening soon and the thought of wandering these grimy streets after nightfall is unnerving. He's wasted a whole day on his letter and hasn't got a plan or even an idea about his next move. He stumbles upon a post office as they are about to lock up for the night. The clerk takes pity on him and opens the door. He purchases an envelope and a stamp and carefully writes the name of the Freeman's street address.

“You're pushing your luck kid.” The clerk sighs when KC asks if she can look up the zip code. “Now, on your way,” she says as she finishes addressing the envelope and tosses it in the bin.

“When will it get there?”

“Monday morning. Tuesday at the latest.”

He thanks her for helping and steps outside to hail a passing cab.