Josh
"She's gone, son." My stepfather said this the minute I came home from school. I thought he meant she'd left us like my dad had years before. He just didn't come back on day.
"What? Gone where?"
"The asthma and cigarettes finally took her." His voice cracked, and he rested his head back in his hands and began weeping.
"Dead?"
"Dead," he cried, and that was the end of the conversation. I sat at the table and cried with him.
The next few days were a blur of caskets, funeral homes, people crying that I didn't know, and relatives hugging me that I'd never seen. Mom's parents showed up long enough for the funeral and left again. Mom hadn't spent much time with them in years and I wasn't close to them. They weren't the nurturing type of grandparents who wanted me to visit on weekends and in the summer. They never sent cute kid toys for my birthdays or Christmas. They always sent a check with a card simply signed 'love grandma and grandpa.' Mom said she named me after her dad, Joshua Anthony, in an effort to create a bond, but it never happened.
After it was all over and the last mourner had paid their respects, Juan and I were home alone.
I was born to a white American mom and a Puerto Rican dad. Mom worked hard and was an excellent parent. Despite the fifty-hour work week at the local supermarket, mom always managed to make it to PTA meetings, parent-teacher conferences, and any other activity I participated in. She rarely missed a Little League game, and if she did, she'd make sure another parent was there to keep me safe until she picked me up.
Life was good with Mom and me. It helped that I was a good kid, always did my homework, got all A's and B's and was polite to teachers, neighbors—everyone. In fact, all of my teachers raved in my report cards about what a good kid I was. My teachers would say things like, "Joshua is mature beyond his years." "He's a joy to have in my classroom." "He's always so polite—wish I had a dozen more just like him." Comments like that would make Mom so proud, and I wanted to make her proud.
When I was seven, Mom met another Puerto Rican man, Juan Rodriguez. She was in love with him from the start, and it didn't hurt that in Juan she found a father figure for me that shared my heritage. Juan was a good man. He worked construction and moved us to a small house. Mom hired an attorney, took the necessary steps to obtain a divorce from an absentee husband, and married Juan.
Mom's one bad habit was smoking. She was a two-pack-a-day smoker, and Marlboro Reds her brand of choice. That's bad in and of itself, but to make matters worse, she had asthma—the kind that means you should never be without your inhaler.
When I was younger, I would destroy her cigarettes whenever I had the chance. I'd throw them away, pour water on them—anything I could do to stop her from smoking. Mom never seemed to appreciate my efforts. She'd just get mad at me for wasting so much money.
Over the years, you could look at Mom and know the cigarettes were taking a toll. Her skin became pale, she lost weight, and the wheeze in her breath got louder. I knew she wanted to quit. I also knew she couldn't.
And now she was gone.
I had no idea what Juan would do with me. I wasn't his legal child, but he was a decent enough man not to send me out in the streets so I quietly kept living there.
Juan started dating a woman about a year after mom died. She was a pretty redhead with two kids. She had a six-year-old girl and an eight-year-old boy. I was excited by the idea of having more kids around, even if they were a lot younger. I thought we'd be like a family again. I quickly figured out that if there was one big family, I was not going to be a part of it.
Juan's girlfriend, Marie, would come by and they'd all go out to a movie, or bowling, or to dinner and leave me at home. I was never once invited to go along. Juan would leave me some money and the number of the pizza place on those nights, I guess as a way to placate me for being left at home alone. This went on for a year.
On my fourteenth birthday, I heard everyone downstairs and thought surely I'd get included on a family outing on my birthday. I went running down the stairs just as they were all leaving. Juan turned around and, seeing the look on my face, said "Hey, Josh. I guess it's your birthday today, isn't it?" He only knew because I'd gotten a card from my teacher and left it on the fridge.
"Yeah, it is. Fourteen today," I replied, thinking I might still get invited.
"Well, happy birthday, kid. I left you some money on the counter to get some pizza," he said, and I started crying. A fourteen-year-old boy, old enough to be considered a man in some cultures, and I just started crying.
"Why?"
Juan sat down. The others had gone out to the car, and I could hear it running.
"Your mom was the love of my life, Josh. A part of me died the day she did. I'm trying to start over, rebuild, but the fact is you are a constant reminder of losing her. I see you and I feel a sadness that nothing can take away. I simply can't be near you. You're a good boy, always have been. You never give me any trouble, but it's unbearable to be around you. For your mother's sake, and for yours, I'll never run you out. You can live here as long as you like. You just can't be a part of my life. I really am sorry, but I have to move on without you." He had tears welling up in his eyes.
"Okay," I responded with more stoicism than I felt. "Thank you for being honest and for giving me a place to live. It's probably more than others would have done."
"I've got to go. Treat yourself to something special at the pizza place. Happy birthday."
"Thanks, Juan. Take care, man." And with that he left. And this time so did I.
I packed my stuff up that night. I had no idea where I was going, but now that I knew I wasn't wanted, I couldn't stay. I didn't want to be Juan's charity case. I was on my own.
When Mom was alive, she was adamant about saving for a rainy day. Every time I got money for my birthday or Christmas, she would make me put it in a big box that she kept locked. I broke into that box and was shocked to find five hundred dollars. I silently thanked my mom and took my life savings, along with the twenty dollars Juan had left me for pizza, and wrote him a quick note promising to stay away so he could move on. And then I left my home.
I didn't know where to go. I threw on my backpack and started pedaling as far away from Scranton, Pennsylvania, as I could get. I rode for a couple of hours before deciding to go into a convenience store and get something to eat. I overheard a guy saying that he was heading south to Hagerstown, Maryland, and was having a hard time staying awake. I figured he could use some company and managed to hitch a ride. I threw my bike in the back of his pickup and hopped in, dodging questions about my age and backstory along the way. Before I knew it we were in Hagerstown—three hours from the place I had known as home for fourteen years.
It was midnight, and as I watched the driver fade into the distance, I was feeling a little nervous. I rode my bike until I reached a town called Martinsburg in West Virginia. There was a small mom-and-pop motel, Curt's Place, with a sign out front that flashed, "Rooms $19.99. Stay five nights, get two nights free!" Sounded shady but I was exhausted. I parked my bike and went in to the front lobby.
"I need a room," I said to the man at the front desk.
"How old are you?"
"Sixteen."
"Really? You look older. We don't rent to anyone under eighteen." He dismissed me and went back to reading his well-worn People magazine. I stood looking at him for a minute, taking in the disheveled, wrinkled clothing, the paunchy stomach, and blonde-gray hair in bad need of a trim. I decided to try again.
"Fine, I'm eighteen." He frowned. "Help me out here, would ya? I've got cash."
"How long are you staying?" he asked.
"Forever? A day? I don't know."
"One hundred cash will get you a week. Maid service is once a week. If the room is too wrecked, she won't clean it."
"Done," I said, peeling off one hundred dollars exactly from my wad of cash.
"What's your name, kid?"
"Josh. Yours?"
"Curt. I own the place."
"Nice to meet you, Curt."
He gave me a room key and told me to keep the door locked and not to open it for anyone. I took his advice.
The room looked old, but it was somewhere to sleep, and for a week it was mine. I had enough money for five weeks if I begged for food. It wasn't enough. If I was going to make it, I was going to need a job, and soon.
I dropped my backpack and with my clothes still on fell into bed. I'd have to figure the rest out later.
I hung out at the motel and didn't leave the room except to buy some food at the local minimart. It was scary being on my own, and I didn't know where to go or who to trust. I was too sad to find the energy to do anything but watch TV. I missed my mom more than ever. I kept wondering how I ended up like this. I needed a plan.
I was starting to feel desperate when on my fifth day outside the minimart, a guy started talking to me.
"Hey, I've seen you here for five days in a row. What's your story?" he asked.
"Story?"
"You're obviously not in school, although you probably should be. Homeless?"
"Is it that obvious?" I asked.
"Yeah, 'fraid so. Do you have a job?"
"No, I'm not sure where to go to find one," I replied.
"How old are you?"
"Sixteen," I answered, the lie now coming easily.
"Bullshit. How old?" I hesitated. "Seriously, how old are you? You may look it, but if you were sixteen you could get a job."
"Fourteen," I confessed.
"Yeah, it's going to be tough. The law won't let you work during daytime hours when you should be in school. At best, you could get something menial for a few hours at night. Not enough to get by."
I scowled at him. "Well, thank you for that depressing piece of information." Under my breath I added 'asshole.'
"Look, I just lost my runner. I'm actually looking for someone to help me."
"Your runner? What's a runner?"
"Runs packages to clients for me. Pays one-twenty-five per week, no taxes taken out."
"What would I be running and where? I don't have a car."
"You've got a bike," he said pointing to my bike. "It's local stuff. You can do it by bike."
"What's in the packages?" I asked, figuring it couldn't be legal.
"Weed. Nothing harder. I mainly supply some yuppies who still like to get high but aren't into the heavy drugs."
"But it's illegal."
"No shit, dude. But you're fourteen. What's the worst that can happen? Juvie? It would be better than what you have now."
"Are you a cop?" I asked.
"No. I've been watching you the last few days. I hang out here and shall we say, do some business. You come in every day, buy a little bit to eat, and hang around. You aren't in school and you're obviously on your own. I've never seen you before so I figured you just got into town. I'm looking for someone. You need some money. We can either make it work or you can walk away."
"I don't know the area."
"I'll draw you maps. You'll only be going to about twenty places. So you in or out?"
"I'm in as long as I don't have to do the drugs." I offered.
"Smart kid. I highly recommend you don't do them."
He told me to meet him back there tomorrow, same time, and he'd have my first packages to deliver and would pay me for half the week. I returned, on time, expecting to see a cop when I got there, but I didn't. Just him. I asked his name and he said I could call him Breeze. He told me not to tell him or anyone else my real name either. I told him to call me Wind. He laughed. He handed me a TracFone—one of those prepaid cell phones—and said I was only to use it for emergency situations when I needed to reach him. He gave me the emergency number. I took the addresses and maps, took the packages, and wrote down his specific instructions on where to leave everything. He gave me seventy-five dollars.
I was afraid to knock on the first door, firmly expecting to see a dirty, drugged out, mean-looking person. But instead I was greeted by a nice man who looked to be about thirty. He was dressed in khaki pants with a golf shirt, had short brown hair, and looked like he could work in a bank. He thanked me, gave me a five-dollar tip, and I was on my way. That was pretty much how every stop went. These people weren't scary at all. I was finished the deliveries within three hours.
I decided if I was going to live in a motel room, I might as well make it feel more like home. So I went to Wal-Mart and bought a bed-in-a-bag, a nice big towel, a washcloth, some toiletry items, and a cooler. I loaded my goods into a shopping cart and pushed them two miles to Curt' Place.
I did four more deliveries that week and got the rest of my money, which paid for another week at the motel. I filled up my little cooler with ice from the lobby ice machine, bought some milk, orange juice, and sports drinks at the minimart, and—deciding I needed a way to cook food—went back to Wal-Mart and bought the cheapest microwave they had. For what it was worth, I was home.
The first year on my own was a blur, and each week was pretty much the same. One-twenty-five a week, and I'd make about eight to ten deliveries on average. I talked to no one, made no friends, and stayed out of sight as much as possible. I was a missing person that nobody missed. The only person I talked to was Curt, and we would sometimes play cards for hours. On the night of my fifteenth birthday, we played cards until two in the morning.
"I like you, kid. You can stay here as long as you want, and I'll keep it to one-hundred-a-week for you. You don't cause me any trouble, and you always pay on time. I wish all my customers were as easy as you."
"Thanks, man. Hard to believe it's been a year since I've been here. I just turned fifteen today."
"Kid, you know you told me you were sixteen a year ago."
"Crap," I said.
"Lucky for you, you look older than you are. You're too young to be living like this. I admire you, though. You're making it on your own when most kids would be dead by now. I never see you drunk or drugged or even smoking. Hang in there. You'll get a break someday."
"Thanks, man. I'm heading to bed." I got up and walked to the door.
"Kid?" he yelled, never using my name.
"Yeah?"
"Happy birthday."
"Thanks, man." I went to my room, locked my door and went to bed. One year down, how many more to go like this?