A Rent Boy Among Three Men

Chapter One

The bus doors hiss open, and a slap of cold air washes over my face.

My eyes water and my legs shake because I’ve been sitting for, God, fourteen hours with a dude snoring on my shoulder and a baby screaming three rows back.

My backpack digs into my shoulders as I haul it up and shuffle down the steps.

My knees pop. My spine pops. Everything pops.

I step onto the pavement outside the Greyhound station and stop.

People push past me. A guy with a coffee yells into his phone in a language I don’t know.

A girl with pink hair zooms by on a skateboard.

Buses groan. Cars honk. The sky’s a low gray ceiling, and the buildings poke up into it, all glass and steel, and somewhere beyond all that there’s water.

I can see gulls circling. My hair sticks to my forehead because it’s drizzling in a thin, misty drizzle that doesn’t look like much but soaks you in five minutes.

I’ve got no umbrella. Of course I’ve got no umbrella. I’m from Utah. We do sun. We do snow. We don’t do whatever this soggy Seattle thing is.

“What now?” I mutter as a pigeon waddles past my feet.

A fair question.

I’ve got a duffel bag stuffed with jeans and tees and socks that don’t match and an old hoodie. I’ve got my phone with no service, which makes it basically an expensive brick. I’ve got three hundred and forty-two dollars in cash folded up in my wallet. That’s it. That’s my whole life.

No plan. No apartment. No job. No friends here. No clue.

Man, I’m good at this adult thing.

I start walking because standing in the middle of the sidewalk while everyone flows around me makes me feel like a rock in a river, and not in a cool way.

I pick a direction and go. Don’t know if it’s north or south or toward anything useful, but moving feels better than freezing up.

My shoes squeak on the wet concrete. My bag straps bite in, so I shift them and keep going.

Dad’s voice loops in my head on repeat, loud as if he’s walking beside me. You’re throwing away everything we’ve given you, Jaxon. If you walk out that door, you’re on your own. Don’t come crawling back.

He meant it, too. I learned that at a gas station outside of Boise when I tried to buy a sandwich and chips and my card got declined.

Then the other card got declined. Then I called the bank like an idiot, thinking it’s a mistake, and the lady told me in a sweet customer-service voice that the accounts have been closed by the primary holder. Thanks, Dad. Love you too.

So much for twenty-two years of being the good son.

Ten siblings, and I’m the one who blew it all up.

Well, blew it up by saying I don’t believe anymore and I don’t want to go on a mission and I don’t want to marry a nice girl from BYU and have six kids and sell insurance in Provo for the rest of my life.

Wild rebellion, I know. Someone call the cops.

I shove my hands in my pockets and duck my head against the drizzle.

Look, I know how this looks. Spoiled Mormon kid from a big house in Draper with a pantry full of food storage and a dad who drives a truck with a fish sticker on it runs away to the big sinful city.

Cue the sad violin. But staying felt like wearing shoes two sizes too small and being told to be grateful for them.

Church three times a week. Everyone watching.

Everyone asking when I’m getting engaged to that girl from my ward, what’s her name—Emily—who bakes funfetti cookies and talks about temple marriage like it’s a vacation package.

I liked Emily fine. I just … didn’t feel much when she kissed me.

Leaving wasn’t well thought out. I’ll admit that.

I packed in like an hour while Mom cried in the kitchen and my little sisters hid in their room.

I bought a bus ticket on my laptop before Dad could shut that down too.

Salt Lake felt too close, too easy for them to show up and drag me home.

I needed miles. I needed a place where nobody knows my last name or my bishop or how many scriptures I memorized for seminary.

Seattle seemed cool. Big. Green. Far away.

Lots of rain, which sounded romantic on Google at 2 a.m. Less romantic now that my socks are damp.

But here I am. Clean slate. Brand new Jaxon. Except brand new Jaxon has no idea how rent works.

I pull out my phone out of habit, then stare at the No Service bar and shove it back in my pocket.

It’s useless until I can pay for a prepaid plan or find Wi-Fi and mooch.

My thumb hovers over nothing. Back home I’d text my roommate Tyler and ask what’s for dinner.

Back home I’d have practice. Back home I’d have a bed.

Back home’s gone, though. I chose this. I keep telling myself that with each step. I chose this.

The street slopes down and the city opens up a bit.

There’s a hot dog cart on the corner and my stomach growls so loudly I swear the vendor hears it.

I check my wallet mentally and keep walking.

Three hundred and forty-two dollars doesn’t buy hot dogs when you don’t know where you’re sleeping tonight.

I have three protein bars in my bag. That’s dinner. Living large.

A bus roars past and sprays water up from a puddle and I jump back, but too slow, and now my jeans are speckled dark up to the knee. Perfect. Great first impression.

I cut over to stand under an awning for a sec to get my bearings and watch people.

Everyone here looks like they know where they’re going.

Puffy jackets, beanies, headphones in, coffee in hand.

Nobody looks at me, which is both a relief and kind of lonely.

In Utah, someone would’ve asked if I need help by now.

Or asked what ward I’m in. Here I’m invisible.

I’ve never been invisible before. I’m the tall kid with the loud laugh who brings the good chips to the party. At least I was.

Now I’m just some dude with bedhead and a wrinkled T-shirt trying to look like he’s not freaking out.

Breathe, man. One thing at a time.

Job first. Then a place to crash. Then food that isn’t a smashed granola bar.

I can do that. I’m not dumb. I got decent grades.

I can lift heavy stuff, I can talk to people, I can learn fast. Coach always said I’ve got hustle.

Okay, that was for baseball, but hustle’s hustle, doesn’t it transfer?

I’ll wash dishes. I’ll stock shelves. I’ll hand out flyers in a chicken suit.

I don’t care. I’ve done summers mowing lawns for old ladies in the neighborhood since I was sixteen and saved every dollar because Dad said a mission costs money and I thought, fine, I’ll pay my own way.

Joke’s on me. That mission fund’s now my runaway fund.

The drizzle picks up and taps on the awning over my head.

I watch a guy across the street laugh with his friend, both of them holding paper cups, both of them easy and warm.

I get this pang in my chest suddenly. I miss Tyler.

I miss my little brother Saylor sneaking into my room to play Xbox.

I miss Mom’s pancakes. I don’t miss the rules and the guilt and the feeling that I’m lying every time I sit in a pew.

Maybe that’s a good thing about knowing nothing.

Back home, everything I knew how to do was church stuff.

How to bless the sacrament. How to knock doors.

How to smile and say I’m doing great, brother.

Out here none of that counts. Out here I can figure out what I’m actually good at. What I actually want.

My legs are buzzing from sitting so long and my shoulders ache, so I push off the wall and join the flow again. I follow the crowd downhill toward where the buildings get taller and the lights glow through the gray. My bag bounces against my back.

But nobody’s telling me where to go. Nobody’s telling me who to be. For the first time in my life, every step’s mine.

It’s terrifying. It’s also kind of awesome.

The hill drops toward the water and I follow it because water means I can’t get lost. That’s my strategy on how to find my way around. Find the Sound and keep it on my left and walk until something makes sense.

It’s July and it’s like seventy degrees, which messes with my head.

Back in Draper July means my shirt sticks to my back by nine in the morning and the air smells like hot asphalt and somebody’s sprinklers.

Here the air’s cool on my skin and damp in my nose, salt and fried food and diesel.

The sky stays pale gray and the sun keeps threatening to come out but never commits.

I’ve got a T-shirt and a thin hoodie tied around my waist, and my arms break out in goosebumps whenever the wind picks up off the water.

I love it, though. The waterfront’s busy and makes me feel less alone.

Gulls scream over the piers. A ferry pulls away from the dock, the windows lit and engine chugging, and people lean on the rail with coffee cups.

A Ferris wheel turns slowly against the clouds.

Street performers with guitars. A dude selling crab out of a steamer cart yelling prices.

I stand there for a while watching because I’ve never seen the ocean this close.

Utah Lake doesn’t count. This smells wilder, and the water’s a green-gray chop that slaps against the pilings.

I weave up and down the hills after that, no map, no service, just vibes and sore feet.

Pike Place is packed, flowers everywhere, fish guys throwing salmon while tourists scream.

I linger around the edges because everything costs money I don’t have.

My stomach starts getting uncomfortably tight around two, so I peel off onto a side street where the crowds thin out and find a diner with a hand-painted sign and a window full of pie.

Inside it’s warm and smells like bacon grease and coffee that’s been sitting too long. The vinyl booths squeak. The waitress calls me hon and pours me water without asking.