9. Salvatore #2
He's the man who deported my only family. Being born in the city immediately meant I belonged to New York City more than I belonged to my own Italian parents. I escaped foster care and have never looked back. In a city as big as this one, running away is easy. Attention is always being diverted.
I enjoy being invisible, living life on my own terms, even though my own brain defies me most of the time, whispering sweet nothings in my ear, telling me to sacrifice my freedom for comfort.
I hold onto the railings, willing my stiff legs forward.
A cold wind slaps me across the face, shivers forming under my clothes, which I have been wearing now for a week and a half.
Public toilets are a fucking money-making scheme.
I tried walking into a fast-food restaurant yesterday to use the bathroom and change out of these beaten clothes, but security stopped me within minutes, kicking me out, telling me to take my business elsewhere, so I took a shit in a public park, pissing off the cops instead.
A horrible ache seizes up my muscles, making walking impossible.
By the time I cross the Brooklyn Bridge, arriving in Brooklyn, I’m parched, my throat drier than the Sahara Desert, desperate for water—hot, preferably.
Of course, beggars cannot be choosers, but the boarded up homeless shelter won’t even let me be a beggar.
PERMANENTLY CLOSED reads the sign on the door.
Fucking typical.
I throw myself up against the door, sliding down until my ass hits cold, hard pavement. Exhaustion fills my body, my eyelids wanting to close, but I shut them and still feel wide awake. Shivers coat my skin, my body like an icicle that will never melt.
“Fucked up, isn’t it?” calls a male voice.
I glance up through the darkness, peering between thick shadows, seeing nothing.
Every other homeless dude I meet is either fucked in the head or a mood killer.
Choosing between the two, deciding who you would rather hang out with, is like being stuck between a rock and a hard place, which is why I choose isolation every time.
I enjoy my own company. Silence is better than listening to a fucked drug addict making zombie noises in your ear every two seconds.
It’s either that or listening to depression.
I choose to make my own way through this city, since there is not much of a community.
Loose stones scrape under someone’s shoe, piquing my attention.
I glance up, seeing a body appear through the shadows, joining me on the doorstep of the homeless shelter.
I glance at him as he sits down, much older than me, mid-fifties at a guess.
His face is bland, miserable eyes staring vacantly out in front of him.
The harsh lines indented into his face suggest he has endured many winters out on the streets.
Everything about him is relatable, the clothes on his back ragged like mine, his cheeks hollow, but something shiny on his wrist captures my attention.
“A Rolex?” I sniff a laugh. “Who gave you a million bucks?”
“Oh, son, believe me, I have much more than that stored away in a safe.”
I glance at him sideways, frowning. “What business do you have outside of a homeless shelter?”
The man scoffs, shaking his head. “I came to see what a terrific job this government is doing for its people.” He watches me carefully, dropping his voice. “They keep letting us down, don’t they, kid? Some entitled bastard in the New York City council decided to close down this place.”
“Why would they do it?”
Amusement fills the man’s face. “Eyesore.”
“For who? The New York City council? They would never dream of paying this place a visit.”
“Ask yourself this—what impression do homeless shelters give to tourists when they walk down our streets?”
I shrug. “The city cares about its people?”
“Or that this place is ruined,” says the man, watching me closely. “More homeless shelters are in the process of being knocked down, turned into coffee shops, boutiques, like the city doesn't have enough of those already.” The man nets his hands, swinging them between his legs.
I glance at the watch, the gold plaited strap winking when it catches the distant streetlights.
“Your breath reeks,” he says.
“Dehydration and no toothpaste will do that for you.”
“Where’s your toothpaste?”
“Still in the store,” I scoff. “A guard booted me out.”
“And your water?”
I shrug my shoulders. “The Hudson might be my only hope.”
“Don’t make yourself ill by drinking dilute sewage,” says the man, turning to me. “Our own city is failing us, son. The people at the top of the food chain are phasing us out, and they’re not even doing it slowly.”
I glance at the Rolex again, wondering if this conversation will lead me to getting in another fight as another grown man sees me as meat.
I shuffle away, folding my arms over my chest, trying to hide how fucking cold I feel. I think my chattering teeth have already given me away as the man stares at me sidelong, a peculiar look written across his face.
“How old are you, boy?”
“Seventeen.”
“And the streets are more appealing to you than social services?”
“Anything is better than being treated like a number.”
The lines between the man’s brows deepen as he continues watching me. “This city might not have your best interests at heart, but I do.”
Says a man wearing one of the most expensive watches you can buy on the market.
“My name is Renato Vieri,” he says. “What if you can have shelter, a bed to sleep in every night, food, unlimited water, without being government property?”
“That’s impossible.”
“Is it?” says the man, flashing me his watch, the gold strap winking in the light again. “Nothing is impossible, boy. Living on the streets in the middle of winter means you’ve already been through the worst. Life is hard, but pain produces the strongest soldiers.”
“The military has never interested me.”
“Good. It has never interested me either. Following strict regimes and following orders only interests people who have never been through what we have.” He hesitates. “Do you have parents, boy?”
“In Italy, but airplane tickets are expensive, and I sacrificed my phone bills a long time ago for food.”
The man nods, understanding. “You do what you have to in order to survive.” Renato dips his hand into his pocket, pulling something out, passing it to me.
I inspect the image—a photograph of a train station.
“Where is this?”
“Look closer,” encourages the man. “Look at what is standing on the tracks.”
I raise the photograph into the light, squinting. “A crow.”
“Standing on the railway with no fear. He can take flight whenever he wants to. If a human were to do that, the train would run them over for being too slow.”
“Okay,” I respond, mentally putting this homeless dude in the crazy category.
“In ancient mythology,” continues the man, “crows symbolize rebirth. They are intelligent, problem-solving creatures, and despite being scavengers, they should not be underestimated. They land in places that have already ended,” he says, gesturing to the homeless shelter behind us.
“They feed off decay and turn it into something new, showing up during times of change, ruling the sky with their menacing caw. These birds show up in spaces where most people are afraid to go. Change is already in motion, son. We have the power to knock the ladder where the rich people are all sitting. Existing at the bottom of society is our power, son. You cannot knock something when it is already on the ground. But these people in power, these politicians, these celebrity billionaires with too much wealth and not enough brain cells? They have a long way to fall when we shake the ladder.”