Outlaws
You'll Always Make Me Leave
Washington, Adams, Morris, Greenhard, Yulkem. Across fourteen or twenty streets, I lost count. Gerard and I stole looks from time to time. Hell, he could have been taking us to a police station for all we knew. But do guns and knives outrule confinement?
At last we reached a cement stoop to an apartment building.
"Wait," he said. Oh no... "I didn't get your names. Trenton Baker, at your service."
"Oh yeah, uhh... I'm Aaron and this is Jamie," faked Gerard. A creativity spark ignited.
"You brothers?"
"No," he said casually. We didn't look absolutely alike, but you could usually tell there's a smiliarity. Maybe it was the strretlight, maybe he was just didn't care, but he didn't act like we were lying. Still, he pressed on.
"Then what're your last names? There's no secrets here."
"Jamie Linkin and Aaron Besle." Flaring.
"'Kay then. This way."
He led us to a badly-painted door, maroon chips and peals on the floor.
Thud, thud, thud, thud, thud! Trenton banged and hammered on the door, causing splinters to fly onto his coat. "Damn women," he added rudely.
Footsteps approached us on the other side and an Indian woman answered. "Hello!" she exclaimed with a noticeable accent. Trenton handed her his coat, barely taking notice of her, but she kept her smile.
"Hi," Gerard and I said shyly.
"Introduce yourself," he barked.
"I-," the three of us started in unison.
"You can go," Gerard said, embarrased.
"I am Madina Radikrishnan."
"I'm M-Jamie Linkin, and this is Aaron Besle," I corrected myself quickly.
"You be staying with us?" she asked kindly.
"Uhh-"
"Yeah, they will," Trenton stepped in.
She offered to take our bags as she reached out her arms.
"Oh, that's alright," we said.
"Where's the kid?" he demanded.
There're other people here? What shit have we gotten ourselves into?
"Patrick's sleeping. He want to stay up so he could see you, but he end up falling asleep by 9:30. He tried so hard, though."
What's he, like five? Either a kid or someone drunk. Or a drunk kid. "You have a son?", I asked.
"He's not mine, but Mr. Baker's. His mother die of herion overdose when he is just two years old."
"Oh, I'm sorry...", Gerard appologized. He put on a glazed look, as if remembering our own supposedly dead parents.
"He's seven now, and-"
"They don't want to hear about a kid. They came here cause they wanted a place to stay," Trenton interrupted her. "Here's the deal: you guys can stay here as long as you'll work for me."
"What do you do?" I interrogated. This is all too unusual. Just an hour ago, we were just another group of homeless people on the streets. You wouldn't reognize our existance. Maybe you'd give us a warm smile, try to cheer us up. Perhaps even give us money. "Hey," you think. "I did a good deed just now." But here we are, in a broken-down apartment building negotiating a deal for a fucking place to live.
"I'm into...ehh, a little bit of everything." He gave us the knowing, sly yellow-toothed grin again. We could smell his breath like the steam rising from a bubbling witch's brew.
"Just..."
"Look, you take it or leave it. You can go back on the streets, but something tells me you're not from a homeless shelter. More like... someone's looking for you."
I sighed. Not from him having a sense of what was really going on, but because he was right. We were mice, cornered by a cat in one direction and dozens of needles scattered across the only route out.
A juncture.
At last we reached a cement stoop to an apartment building.
"Wait," he said. Oh no... "I didn't get your names. Trenton Baker, at your service."
"Oh yeah, uhh... I'm Aaron and this is Jamie," faked Gerard. A creativity spark ignited.
"You brothers?"
"No," he said casually. We didn't look absolutely alike, but you could usually tell there's a smiliarity. Maybe it was the strretlight, maybe he was just didn't care, but he didn't act like we were lying. Still, he pressed on.
"Then what're your last names? There's no secrets here."
"Jamie Linkin and Aaron Besle." Flaring.
"'Kay then. This way."
He led us to a badly-painted door, maroon chips and peals on the floor.
Thud, thud, thud, thud, thud! Trenton banged and hammered on the door, causing splinters to fly onto his coat. "Damn women," he added rudely.
Footsteps approached us on the other side and an Indian woman answered. "Hello!" she exclaimed with a noticeable accent. Trenton handed her his coat, barely taking notice of her, but she kept her smile.
"Hi," Gerard and I said shyly.
"Introduce yourself," he barked.
"I-," the three of us started in unison.
"You can go," Gerard said, embarrased.
"I am Madina Radikrishnan."
"I'm M-Jamie Linkin, and this is Aaron Besle," I corrected myself quickly.
"You be staying with us?" she asked kindly.
"Uhh-"
"Yeah, they will," Trenton stepped in.
She offered to take our bags as she reached out her arms.
"Oh, that's alright," we said.
"Where's the kid?" he demanded.
There're other people here? What shit have we gotten ourselves into?
"Patrick's sleeping. He want to stay up so he could see you, but he end up falling asleep by 9:30. He tried so hard, though."
What's he, like five? Either a kid or someone drunk. Or a drunk kid. "You have a son?", I asked.
"He's not mine, but Mr. Baker's. His mother die of herion overdose when he is just two years old."
"Oh, I'm sorry...", Gerard appologized. He put on a glazed look, as if remembering our own supposedly dead parents.
"He's seven now, and-"
"They don't want to hear about a kid. They came here cause they wanted a place to stay," Trenton interrupted her. "Here's the deal: you guys can stay here as long as you'll work for me."
"What do you do?" I interrogated. This is all too unusual. Just an hour ago, we were just another group of homeless people on the streets. You wouldn't reognize our existance. Maybe you'd give us a warm smile, try to cheer us up. Perhaps even give us money. "Hey," you think. "I did a good deed just now." But here we are, in a broken-down apartment building negotiating a deal for a fucking place to live.
"I'm into...ehh, a little bit of everything." He gave us the knowing, sly yellow-toothed grin again. We could smell his breath like the steam rising from a bubbling witch's brew.
"Just..."
"Look, you take it or leave it. You can go back on the streets, but something tells me you're not from a homeless shelter. More like... someone's looking for you."
I sighed. Not from him having a sense of what was really going on, but because he was right. We were mice, cornered by a cat in one direction and dozens of needles scattered across the only route out.
A juncture.