Three Tests and a Lesson

Story of a young transient.

On the corner of Haight and Ashbury, the hollowed core of a broken guitar played soothing sounds upon a crowd of onlookers.  The artist was a fine bohemian man; reddish brown hair, a thick Viking beard, ragged jeans and a jacket strictly torn along the ridges defined his character.  He was too uncommon to blend in, yet while he played no one seemed to notice his abnormalities.  His guitar forced his acceptance; Music Man inebriated all who heard him, allowing them to forget his societal deficiencies and allowing him to enter into their lives unscathed. 

In Music Man’s world, young and old came together dancing in harmony with the strumming of his hand.  He lulled a crying baby to sleep in its mother’s arms; he settled the wings of a bird as it landed atop a telephone wire; he persuaded instinct to surpass embarrassment as a teenage girl grabbed her counterpart by the wrist and kissed him before the crowd�" in Music Man’s world, all lies were forgotten. 

He finished playing and, with a happy, toothless smile, held out a cup.  But his music had stopped; his drug had been removed from the crowds system, and his world fell to the noise of the passing cars and street vendors.  All in the crowd left but two; a little girl who sprinted out of her mothers grasp and threw in a couple of pennies, and a young boy with scruffy brown hair and a fearless look to his eyes.  He tossed a twenty into the man’s cup upon leaving; a small tip when factoring in music’s exchange rate.

He left the corner, walking slowly and observing every hidden street show.  I stalked him.  Together we passed Chinese restaurants with neon signs diverting eyes away from swine carcasses hanging in the windows, countless men painted in silver and gold demonstrating below leaf-less trees their ability to imprison themselves in time, homeless men sleeping along the side of the road �" some begging for money, others shaking from drugs.  Together we passed things most kids would shy away from, but in his curious stupor, this boy observed the hidden shows with great indifference.  He was not like most kids; very few can pass forced death without disapproval.  I followed him further.

He walked blocks without stopping; chaotically strolling up one hilled street and down another.  I had blazed the same chaotic trail when I first came here.  This boy was looking for a spot to stop. This boy was a runaway. 

When I first came to the city, confusion and anger clouded my mind.  I was worried about someone recognizing me, worried about someone attacking me as I slept.  I was worried about the bums I passed, wondering if their fate would become mine; I was vulnerable, and this boy, the very one who had dropped twenty dollars in the Music Man’s cup, was vulnerable too.  

I saw my chance to trap the boy; the street up ahead had no traffic.  It possessed only a bum sleeping in front of an alleyway, covered head to toe in enough sheets for two people.

I ran to the bum crossing the street so as to remain unnoticed; the streets were familiar to me.  I’d learned them well over the years and remaining invisible was not a difficult task.  I knew the bum didn’t have money, but this boy did, and after four years of living on the streets I’d learned never to pass up an opportunity to take advantage of those who take advantage of others.  

I unveiled myself and started kicking the bum; it was a girl so the profanities came much easier to me �" I’d practiced many times shouting them at my sister, she ran away with me and the two of us had claimed an alleyway many years ago. The bum was young and curled up in a defensive ball, tears streaking her dirty face; very easy to kick in my opinion.  The boy came running. 

“Stop that!” he screamed.  His fearlessness was now apparent.  I was much bigger than him, yet he still chose to stand between me and the girl.  Admirable if not heroic, only a true leader can speak on behalf of someone else without fear.  “Hit me instead!” he said, and I, not wanting to disappoint, obeyed.

I smacked him with a callous punch square in the chest, knocking him back.  His head hit the ground, but he was quick to get up.  Something I knew he would soon regret.  I felt the anger rising up in me, my heart quickened, my eyes focused, my mind went blank and again I keyed in on my enemy.  I stood, waiting for him to come at me.  His eyes were fearless; they were blue and piercing, coaxing me to hit him.   The girl quivered behind him pleading, begging for him to leave, but he did not move; he just stood there, waiting for me �" still standing between me and the girl.   Four years of being on the streets had made me pitiless and violent �" this boy was going to crack �" he was going to plead to God for his life.  I was going to make sure of it. 

I charged, plowing my shoulder into his chest and his chest into the brick of the building behind him.  Again I punched him, this time to the side of the head.  He hit the ground.  Straddling him, I threw a mix of elbows at his stomach and punches to his face.  He never cried, he never fought back, he just took the pain.  

As I paused to breathe I felt the soft hand of the bum girl on my back and I returned to the world.  “Enough, Max, he’s had enough.”

“You think so, sis?  I dunno, I think I could still make him crack.”

“Look at him!” She laughed.  My sister was my mind in these situations.  She, after all, was the person who originally came up with this test. 

I did as I was told.  To say the least, he was bloody.  To say the most, his left eye was completely closed, drowning in swollen skin, caked with blood; his arm was completely red, covered in soon to be bruises, and his shirt was ripped in countless places �" a mixture of the work done by the brick wall I had thrown him against, and the hidden ridges in the concrete I still had him pinned him to.

Strangely though, the stains of blood suited him.  It made him look regal, like he was the ruler of some far away land returning from battle. 

I removed myself from his body, freeing him from his deadly embrace with the ground. “You want a home kid?”

He was able to nod his head before he lost consciousness. 

My sister and I took him in. 

 

Over the years, many foster homes housed my sister and me.  After my mother helped my father through his depression, the police replaced our sturdy house with broken abodes of strangers.  We went to a therapist every week and spoke about our father, but the quacks refused to accept what we told them as truth.  Our father was an innocent man, but was not an honest man.  He sought comfort, and found it by leading another’s life. 

The prospect of knowing the general course of life is far too great a temptation for most people to refuse; stealing foresight from Prometheus is an art society claims to master. 

My father lied to himself.  He thought he knew the outcome of having a family with two kids, he thought grand children and retirement were in his future.  He lied to himself; he did not love my mother, but society told him he had to stay with her.  He only found peace when alcohol’s medicine managed to remedy his lies.  Every other moment of his life, he was forced to see his dishonest self, he was forced to accept his lies and relive them every day.  He killed my mother to alleviate his depression.  

The therapists classified our father as a murderer; they told us he was a “bad man.”  My sister and I knew better though; the quacks simply related too much to our father.  They lived lies themselves; they were frauds like my father, following lives they pretend to know the outcome of; the prospect of disenchanting their illusion frightened them.  And like all people, once they became frightened, they separated themselves from that which scared them; they ran away from the truths in their lives by classifying my father as crazed lunatic �" a psychotic killer, something they thought they would never become.  Every one of the quacks were drinkers; every one of them. 

My sister and I ran away when we were twelve; an alley in San Francisco is our home now.  

 

The boy awoke the next day to an ultimatum; he would either rob a liquor store with me in a week, or have to live on his own.  The decision was quick; he said yes. 

 

I only steal from liquor stores, I find the money easy, and the act morally just; not to mention the thrill I get pointing a gun at the clerk and politely asking him to empty his register into my free hand.  I only take twenties and above �" everything else I let him keep.  Watching his face tear up in pain with my every word and his eyes plead for sympathy, I pity him and hit him across the forehead with the blunt end of my gun before I leave.  I’ve found it puts him out of his misery. 

 

The kid ran ahead of me; my sister had stayed in the alley.  I held the gun, he grabbed the bottles.  We left the clerk officially free from sadness, and raced away down the street.  Once free, we sat behind a dumpster, across from a hot dog stand run by a Muslim man, and counted our earnings.  I had a hundred dollars total, he had seven bottles of fine alcohol.  I put the money in my rear pocket, offering him none, but instead I cracked a bottle open and held it out to the kid, offering him the first sip.  He waived it off.

“Tastes like crap,” he said.

“How would you know, you ever had any?”

“My uncle told me.”

“Who’s to say he didn’t just want to keep em all for himself?”

“F**k, man, I just stole that crap for you.  Drink it yourself.” 

I laughed slightly, chucking the bottle down the alley to watch it explode.  Glass and alcohol quenched the earths thirst.  “Tastes like crap” I said, handing him a bottle which, in turn, exploded down the alley. 

Greed is an easy thing to come by when holding a handful of money.  And as I stared at one hundred dollars I measured the value of two twenties �" the street vendor looked as though he hadn’t made a sale all day, but I was certain he kept at least forty dollars for change. 

I put the money back into my rear pocket, and turned to the boy, “What do you say we hit up old Mr. Abdul over there?” 

“The f**k’s wrong with you man? Look at him.” 

Across the street stood a man around the age of fifty, shaggy clothes, dark eyes, expressionless �" I assumed his name was not Abdul, but it would very easily have suited him.  His hair was almost white, his beard thick and his cheeks pained with ridges of age, and cracked with ages of pain.  I stood, and began to walk over to him.

“That’s fucked up, man.”

“What makes him different from the clerk?” I asked, “living out here you’ve got to take what you find, and only give to those who deserve it.  Tell me now, what side are you on, kid?  You want me to take from you or give to you? Are you with me or not?” 

 “Look at him, man.  He hasn’t done s**t to you.”  The kid stepped in front of me, “Don’t touch him.”

 I laughed a bit at his comment.  His shirt was still bloody from the last time I hit him, yet he was still willing to defend the stranger. 

The Muslim man was looking back and forth from the kid to me.  He heard the kid’s useless protests, saw the kid position himself to stop my path �" he saw my hand reach behind my back and his eyes sunk into his body.  Silent tears began falling down his face.  It was a plea �" he was begging me to put him out of his misery.  My hand brushed my gun; it was still there, tucked safely away in my belt loop, just barely not visible.

At this, the kid lunged for me.  He attacked me as though it was him I was going to hurt.  At twelve, I would say he was big for his age, but at sixteen, I was huge for mine.  It took only one punch for me to knock him down.  I hit him square in the chest.

He lay flat first, then went to all fours, looking up at me with absolute anger.  I knew he would be unable to stop me now.  His most recent injuries coupled with his old ones were far too much for him to stop me.  My hand followed its previous path, reaching behind my back.  The Muslim man now shook with fear. 

In times of crisis, I’ve found we disregard the most.  Our supposed mastery of Prometheus’s gift gives us the confidence to assume things when they should not be assumed.  In times of great fear or times of little time it makes much more sense to ignore the small details and focus only on those which pertain to the immediate situation; our ignorance grants us the confidence to assume what is and what is not important.  People relate past experiences to the present, forgetting that the present does not relate to the past; forgetting that no matter what lie they live in, they cannot predict their future; that no matter how well they set themselves up for retirement, their future can never be foretold.  My father never predicted he would kill my mother, the kid never guessed I knew the bum, the people never thought they’d accept a homeless guitarist.  History always fails to repeat itself.

The Muslim man was a helpless, silent tears already streaming down his face.  He reached for his wallet to get his forty dollars change; he couldn’t see my hand pass the gun and enter my rear pocket.   

“I’d like two hot dogs, Sir.”  I handed him two of the twenties I’d taken from the clerk, and turned and left his smiling face; helping my friend up from the ground along the way.  The kid had passed the test a while ago, the hotdog was his reward.