Freaks and Revelations by Davida Wills Hurwin Page A

of kids coming out of All American Boy. They’re around a lot, always looking like they’ve got someplace to go. Always laughing too, having a good time. I see them up in Dolores Park, sometimes with a bunch of other kids. Tonight, I trail them as they go over to Polk Street. Now I’ll see what that guy was talking about.
    It’s clearly a “gay street,” but way different than Castro. There are kids on street corners. It’s loud, lots of traffic. A couple of boys get into a fistfight a little ways down, calling each other all kinds of “whore” and “bitch.” The other boys laugh at this too, then go their separate ways.
    One of them climbs up on a bench. He can’t be any older than me. I notice there are other boys on other benches all around the street, maybe two to a block, in front of stores and bars. I’m wondering how this all works when, all of a sudden, the boy I followed jumps down and slips into a nearby alley. The other kids disappear too, so I duck into a drugstore and pretend to be looking at combs. A cop car cruises down the street.
    How did they know?
    When I venture back out, the kid’s already back and a silvery blue Pontiac has stopped in front of him. The driver leans over to talk. The hand he puts on the passenger door is fat and fleshy and pale; I can see his face only in silhouette. The boy climbs in the car. I follow them around the corner. The car parks and the boy’s head disappears. I’m not stupid; I know what he’s doing. That’s his business; I don’t really care. I wait anyway. I’m not sure why, maybe to see how he looks when he comes out.
    *   *   *
    I can’t get the nerve to tell my bus money story again. I doubt if it would work now, anyway. I look different—not fresh like when I got here three weeks ago. But I’ve learned a few things—like, you can’t keep underwear clean so it’s best not to wear any. Like, people drop change everywhere and you can find a least a couple dollars a day, if you really look. Like, there’s a sixth sense you get about how to take care of yourself. That laundry is cheapest down at Angel’s on Mission. Easy too, you put in everything but your pants, and pay attention. People mostly don’t use all their dry time—you can usually get minutes for free, if you’re quick.
    I know it’s best to not to go the same gas station all the time to wash up; attendants get nosy. Going to the same Dumpster is good—you can keep track of what’s fresh. Oh, and the 24-hour donut shop gives out freebies to street kids if you come in after eleven o’clock. The guy who runs it is named Tony and he never calls the cops. Lots of kids hang out there. Mostly, they’re friendly.
    My nook’s still good. I find a green striped blanket somebody tossed out and an old blue and white comforter that I sleep on. I stay way to the back and sometimes tuck my backpack into the very farthest corner, so I won’t have to carry it all day. I make sure not to let anyone see me slip in. Castro isn’t quite as grand as I once thought, but it’s okay. I’m not sorry I’m here. I love the city, especially Union Square. I sit there for hours and watch people.
    I miss my dad, and Marianne. Sometimes Davy too. I know he thinks of me, misses me, wonders what I’m doing.
    I see the kid from Polk Street a lot now. He’s got a buddy who’s older, like maybe seventeen, and another one around our age. I don’t think they sleep here. The older guy kind of reminds me of Paul. I like his face; it’s wise, like he knows a lot of stuff. Tonight he’s strolling by himself. It’s around two in the morning. I’m usually not out, but I couldn’t sleep. I expect he’ll walk on past, like usual, but he stops.
    “Why you always watching me?” he asks.
    “I’m not.”
    “Yeah, you are. What’s your name?”
    I almost lie. “Jason.”
    “Just got here?”
    “No.”
    “Yeah you did.”
    I start inching back.
    “Don’t freak, Jason, I won’t hurt you. I’m