The Warehouse Kids

     When I was ten, Ralph convinced me to run away with him. I was spending another summer with my father and agreed to leave after the expected abuse began. When my father left for work one morning, I opened the back door to Ralph and three other boys I didn't recognize. As Ralph kissed the latest blush upon my cheek, the boys squeezed by with camping bags and headed towards the kitchen. When I asked one of the boys what they were doing, he held up a frying pan asking, "He ain't gonna miss this, righ'? He's got three of 'em!"

 

     The boys filled their bags and we left for the streets of Stockton. The boys led the way in excited chatter of meals to come. One boy exclaimed, "Imma cook us a whhoollee Thanksgivin' meal! Potatas 'n rolls 'n all!" Everyone but me laughed at him and he hung hi head low, sending a can down the allet in chimes of tin and gravel. Ralph and I walked hand in hand while the boys laughed and threw rocks at us, yelling obscenities while bouncing down the alley.

 

     "Welcome to our humble home!" Ralph spread his arms, presenting the warehouse before us. The boys ran up and scaled a drainage pipe with the ease of pros and slipped into the building through a broken window. Shouts and barks could be heard as the boys yelled out, "We got goods!" their voices echoing inside the building. Ralph took me around the side of the worn down warehouse. I gripped Ralph's hand harder as I stared wide-eyes at the red paint that clung desperately to the brick. We slipped through a loose door, the chain rattleing lightly like a bell to the enterance of a beauty shop. I squinted in the musky darkness and held on to Ralp's leading arm as I waited for my eyes to adjust. Excited, hushed whispers bounced around the room as it unfolded before me. I took in the dozen of kids that swarmed the pile of new items. There were three girls, all with dirty blonde hair sticking out at odd angles, and the rest were boys ranging in age. A small boy, younger than me, lifted out a frying pan and held it above his head, fighting to keep his balance. "We got a frying pan!" The boy from earlier gleamed with pride.

 

     I spent the better part of six weeks with the Warehouse Kids, or as they called themselves, the WHK's (pronounced like "wicks") getting to know the ropes. The first two weeks I tried proving my worth by stealing from local mini-marts and malls but it wasn't until I managed to steal a camp stove and outrun the police that I was patted on the back and given first helpings at dinner. I was told daily about the Rules of being a WHK;
1. Steal only when hungry
2. Always run away from Police
3. Never tell the police what WHK stands for
4. Deny, deny, deny
5. If one WHK is caught by police, do not try and save them.
6. Never tell anyone where the WHK's lived, ever.

 

     On the eve of my 7th week all the WHK's explored the town as a gang of misfits, WHK scribbled on the sleeves of all our clothes with dried out Sharpies. We ran down the sidewalks terrorizing couples that sat enjoying their evening cofffee. We screamed insults to any kid who fell behind and tackled any person who found 1/2 a sandwich, arguing over who was hungrier as we'd fall to the ground in a flurry of dust and fists. A pair of boys and I spent most our walk throwing small rocks at each other, dodging them by hiding behind trashcans or old people who walked slowly.

 

     We came upon a bright building, gleaming like a nightlight in a darkend room. We walked in awe to the glass and pressed our faces close until our noses folded in. Couples ate laughing, their food falling to the ground without thought. I looked around and saw the band of kids, all with hunger in their eyes along with another, more complicated emotion. I turned back to the restaurant and saw families inside, smiling and cooing to eachother. I suddenly missed my mother.

 

     I tapped Ralph on the shoulder and discussed a plan. He nodded, smiling wide. Ralph and two older boys walked into the restaurant and spoke to the hostess in a thick, Puerto Rican accent. The hostess leaned in to listen to Ralph more carefully as I snuck by and found my way to the kitchen. I slipped through a ravolving door and snuck along the counters to the rolls. I stood, grabbing a basket and ran down the counters throwing whatever I could into the basket. A chef looked up and screamed while pointing a spoon at me as sauce flew through the air.

I ran.

 

     I made it out the front doors and saw the kids waving for me to hurry up from across the street. Their smiles of mischief faded quickly into fear as most of them turned and ran. When two hands grabbed my arm I fell, Ralph screaming my name. I looked up to see Ralph being held back by another boy, "The rules man, the rules!" The boy tugged at Ralph's arm, "She's a goner man, let 'er go!" Ralph gave one last effot to shake loose the older boy before turning and running, looking back over his shoulder until he disappeared completely. The hands secured my arms behind my back and told me to relax. I screamed, cried, kicked and snapped my teeth before weeks of meager meals caught up to me. The police led me to the back of the car. Once inside the cops held a picture up to my face, "It's her alright." They asked for my name but I gave them my cheek.

 

     As we pulled up to a set of apartments, my father's shadow lined the doorway. The police helped me out of the car and I made one last attempt to flee. I made it one block before the officer caught me, hauling me back in cuffs. I was handed over to my father; his face smiling in mock relief while his hand squeeze the back of my neck. As the police drove off my father hissed, "You're in deep s**t girl, deeper than you've ever been." Before the door closed, I saw Ralph and the three boys I'd first met hiding in the bushes, camping bags in hand.