Freaks and Revelations by Davida Wills Hurwin

night, Paco Rabanne and tingles galore. I can stay up till I get sleepy, then crawl into my little nook. Things are already turning out fine.
    Something wakes me in the night. Loud talking, and flashing red and blue lights. Did she find me? Am I busted? I hug one wall and peek into the street. A cop and a taxi driver are arguing; the taxi driver has an accent like Madame Nevonksi’s. A homeless guy sits on the curb nearby, cussing at something that’s not really there, moaning, holding his head. The taxi driver insists to the cop that he didn’t see the guy, didn’t mean knock him over the hood of his taxi. He’s mad because now it has a dent.
    The faces of the people watching glow like my dad’s velvet paintings, which makes them seem not quite real. They talk about the man who sits babbling, laughing at him, even though blood oozes from his nose and one side of his face got mangled on the pavement. The cop makes the people leave, and helps the homeless guy, still cussing, into the back of the patrol car.
    It’s hard to get back to sleep. I don’t feel quite as safe. I have to make myself think good things only—the way The Castro looks in early morning, the guys who gave me money. The laughter of couples. The freedom of being where it’s okay to be myself. My beautiful eyes.
    {3}
    “You told me the same story three days ago, little man.” The guy looked nice when I asked him, but not now. Now he’s pissed. He snatches my arm and pulls me close, leans down so he’s right in my face. “You want to hustle, do it on Polk. This is my street. I’ll call the cops.”
    I yank away and run like hell. I hide in my nook for hours. I’m shaking; I can’t seem to stop. How stupid could I be? I told the same exact story in the same exact place every day this week. What if he does call the cops? I know about the electrical wires they hook you up to. My mom said.
    How am I going to eat? I don’t dare ask anybody on Castro but I don’t feel safe anywhere else. I feel like I stand out now—my clothes are filthy, my underwear stinks, both pairs, my hair’s getting matted. I keep my eye out for food on tables, but my luck’s disappeared. I go the next two days without eating. Food is all I think about. I get dizzy when I stand up too fast; my stomach feels like it has knives inside. Then I stop being hungry. This, I know, is a bad sign. Should I go home? I can’t. Ask for help? I can’t do that either.
    For the first time, I notice how people dump perfectly good food into trash cans—unfinished sandwiches, half-empty cans of soda. I could snatch something pretty easily, except what if someone sees me and calls the cops? I slip into the alley behind All American Boy. No one’s around so I check out the Dumpster. Busboys drop bags of stuff here all the time. I open the lid. The smell makes me gag, but at least I’m hidden. I climb up on a crate and peer down. A white plastic bag sits on top.
    Holding my breath, I tear it open. Half a turkey sandwich appears in a goulash of other food; it’s wrapped up in paper and there’s only one bite taken. I bring it out with thumb and forefinger. The best I can, I brush off whatever’s sticking to it and pick away the part that’s bit into. I open my mouth, then close it. How can I eat someone else’s garbage? Then my stomach cramps and I double over with pain.
    It takes me several minutes to talk myself into the first bite, but only thirty seconds to polish the whole thing off and go back in for more. I remember the scruffy black dog I saw when I first got here. I’d growl now too. That was the best sandwich I’ve ever eaten.
    *   *   *
    For almost a whole week now, not one word has come out of my mouth. It’s like at school, except I never go home and nobody fixes my dinner.
    “Good morning, Jason, how are you today?” I say out loud, to see if I still know how. “Just fine, thank you very much,” I answer, making myself smile.
    That evening, I follow a group