About six years since I posted my last fanfiction on that site. It means a lot for me, to post again. To have another story to add to one I wrote when I was, so, so young. Also, it is comforting to see that regardless of some rather considerable changes, there are still some similarities that remain between the first fanfiction I ever wrote and this one. As soon as this one is finished, I think I will try to pick up where my 16 year old self dropped off.
All in all, here is a new story. Hope you enjoy.
The camera would be making a close shot of a body part - so close you could barely make out what it was. Dynamic shots - changing every 3 seconds or so. Ankle with a thick wool sock, a close up of the black of a tattoo, a loose strand of a brown curl against the pale skin of a neck. Then the music would pick up. It would be a classic punk song. One that most individuals would be able to sing the chorus. For now imagine the one you like or know. If it was my choice, I think I'd play some Subhumans or maybe a classic of Bikini Kill. The camera would start backing up until you could make up the outline of my green canvas backpack and its 101 stains, patches and holes. It would zoom in on the dirty pavement and the cars racing past me. Then it would focus back on my skateboard with its duct tape holding it together.
Of course that movie would be one of redemption. On my quest and an undying determination to be well. To be good. To fit the 9 to 5 box, to get in that uniform and to say those "good morning" and "how are you". The typical good girl gone bad gone good. I'd meet a beautiful boy along the way that would show me, through unrelenting love, the error of my ways. I'd be the quirky white girl of his dreams. At one point in the movie, I would cry about how my father abandoned me (I'd have a Radiohead song playing in the background). I'd go back to school. I would make you feel more comfortable. Fuck it.
This is not a movie, and my quest is one of survival. My story isn't one of fingers crossed. Hoping that life will send things my way just because life owes us good things, a good life. Anyways. I guess it would be a good intro to a movie, but what would I know? I don't actually have the means to keep myself updated on movies. I could tell you all about myself, but then you'd lose interest. They all do in the end, really. You'd start trying to guess the ending of this movie. The cliché summary of my life. You'd want me to tell you all about my suffering. You'd want to pity me to care about where I'm going. I'm not going to give it to you that easy because you deserve more than that. I guess maybe I do too, deserve to not be a result of bad choices. But you know what? I'll tell you where I'm going.
I'm going to Rico's Pizza Place because it's 11:00 am and they open at 12:00 pm. The owner lets me go in their bathrooms in the morning to clean myself. I know I'm lucky, how often do you see a homeless punx able to get in a restaurant downtown without getting kicked right out? Actually it's a funny story if you have a thing for irony. It was a Monday morning. I had managed to get enough change for a slice of pizza over the course of the weekend. Rico's is known for their cheap discounts on Mondays. The owner is a good guy, you know, the type of boss who uses his free time to help his employees. There he was, taking orders from the clients. It was when he took the order from the woman in front of me I noticed something was wrong. He used his left arm to scribble down her orders and talked to the woman in monosyllables. He didn't smile at her when she finished giving him her order. By the time he was ready to serve me, I knew someone had to call an ambulance and quickly.
"Look I know it's hard to believe, but I'm sober and I know what I'm doing - I want you to do three things for me. If you can I'll just leave and you won't ever see me again. Can you lift both of your arms in front of you?" I ask him. I can feel the stares of the waiting customers burning holes in my already wrecked clothes.
He looks at me and I can see fear and confusion painted in bold colors on his face. He only manages to get his left arm up. I ask him to smile, but he only manages to lift only one side of his lips.
"Can you say: the big black cat went up the stairs?"
What comes out of his mouth is a sentence that even combined does not make a word.
"I want you to sit down and stay calm. We're going to take care of you." I look back at one of the waitresses that is looking at me, appalled, "I want you to call 911 and get an ambulance here. Possible TIA or stroke."
I can only imagine her confusion. She's the type of girl who wears a pink coat and never ever looks at the street kid playing pop songs on a beat up ukulele for money. Everyone is looking at me like I'm the one causing the symptoms in this man. As if any second I'm going to pull out a knife and ask for all the money. Whatever. They are the ones walking around like ticking time bombs - not knowing the basic and simple signs of a stroke. I wait with him until the ambulance arrives and talk to him about the squirrel I befriended in the park. The last thing I want if for him to worry even more. He is a good man. It's silly, but it's precious when you live surrounded by apathy. You can tell a lot about a person when they don't think anyone's looking. But I always am. I give a report to the EMT. The EMT recognizes me. He usually works the night shift and I've been in this position before. Usually, I'm taking care of another punk or homeless that has overdosed. He puts an oxygen mask on him and gets him in the ambulance. I'm about to leave when a hand grips my wrist. The owner looks at me - I think his eyes are thanking me. I almost smile at him.
"They will take care of you," I state.
So here it is. You'd think it would have made the newspapers: Homeless Saves Owner of Pizza Place. But thankfully, it didn't. A few weeks later I passed in front of Rico's Pizza Place and there was a big neon poster. On it read: looking for the woman with army pants that called the ambulance for me on Monday (the 7th), if you see this please come in. So I did, he thanked me. Since he had gotten admitted fast, and had no history of medical problems, he was eligible for thrombolytics. This medication dissolved the clot in his brain to nothing. He didn't understand how I knew what I did. He asked me what he could do for me in return. Hence, our arrangement. Luck you see. If I had asked for money it would already be gone. What's 50 or 100 bucks in this life? Every day before 12:00 pm, he keeps the back door unlocked and I can go clean myself in the bathroom. Sometimes he has a coffee for me. Sometimes I nod in his general direction. Precious things indeed.
And for the skateboard, trust me it's not to look cool or to get girls. I guess it's not that type of story either. Everything I wear and own is because of how useful it is. I can put my skate with my beat up yoga mat between my back and my backpack, so I never get it stolen. Sometimes I use my skate as a pillow. It would be impossible for me to own a bike although some do have some. I rather be able to carry all that I own in my backpack.
So back to my day. After cleaning myself at Rico's, I go to the metro station sit in the hallway that allows me to play guitar for money. I got this guitar from the garbage of a music shop that went bankrupt. I even found good strings. It's smaller, obviously made for a child. It was a weird shade of pink, but I painted it black using a leftover from a can of paint I found on a construction site. When I was young I convinced my mother to pay me some guitar classes. She only let me go to a few, but I've always had an ear for music. In that hallway between two stations, I play a little of everything I know. I hope for enough money to buy what I need. I take off my leather jacket that a friend of mine, LaFontaine, gave to me. It's hot in here and I'm much more comfortable in this tank top I made out of an old band shirt. You'd be surprised how many t-shirts you can find abandoned after a concert. Also, I guess it's somewhat less intimidating that then the leather jacket, full of patches and studs and whatnot. After this, I go dumpster diving - trying to salvage some food to bring back home. Whatever that is for the night. If I find nothing, then I still have half a bag of peanuts I found yesterday. As good a meal as any.
I met LaFontaine on the street about a year ago. I guess I met them at the right time. It had been three months of aimless wandering and barely surviving. Yet I was paralyzed at a crossroad. I discovered a rundown building on the edges of the city near a patch of woods. Back then, I was only starting to learn the ropes. The sky had been black and the streets had been silent for a long while when they came "home". It is at that unfortunate moment I realized this was where LaFontaine and their friends squatted. When you have no choice but to sleep in public areas, you become used to being woken at various hours. But it is when I heard the voices and the heavy boots falling on a creaking rotten floor that I came to understand how vulnerable I was. How vulnerable a girl can be. I can't paint to you, a picture myself as a hard, sarcastic and witty character that night. It was pure luck, that it was this group that found me. That I was able to keep them from beating me up or worse. It was a simple exchange of services. They had gotten jumped by some drunk jocks from a local university on their way back. Some of them pretty beat up. I had kept some medical supplies. In my backpack was enough thread to stitch up those who needed it. I knew what I had to do. When I do I get this look in my eyes. They knew better than to try to stop me.
LaF had been on the streets since sixteen. Along the years, they had gathered this group of punks. Became family, I guess. Anything can become family when you have nothing. We instantly had this mutual understanding. They remind me of the characters from cartoons I used to watch as a child. They have this ability to make so much out of so little. God knows why and how. They gave me their leather jacket in exchange for stitching everyone up. They allowed me to stay the night. I did. Also did the one after that. Next thing you know I'm part of the pack of weirdos living in "Silas University", as they ironically call it. I don't ask why they're on the streets so they don't ask me either. To be homeless and survive you have to be resourceful. So I am.