approached the apartment door, I heard loud voices, then the very clear sound of my bass, hooked up to an electric amp, being strummed.
Opening the door, I was greeted by the sight of Tortilla, now shaved, bathed, and in Trevor’s old clothes, fucking around with my instrument.
Wait. Were those my jeans he was wearing? Damn it.
Curbing my impulse to shout at him, I walked into the kitchen, pulled out the food, and listened as Trevor talked to him.
“Unplug the amp, dude, or the neighbors will be on us.”
“Cool.” Tortilla unplugged, then strummed. I watched his fingers. He wasn’t great, but he knew how to play.
Trevor gave me an apologetic look. “Hope you don’t mind. He said he plays and wanted to goof around.”
I thought about the clerk back at the convenience store . “It’s okay.”
“You guys in a band?” Tortilla asked, head down, watching his own fingers on the strings. The tinny sound of the silenced electric bass filled the room. Normally that was me making the sound.
Darla walked into the room and planted a big kiss on my cheek. “Merry Christmas, honey,” she whispered, then looked down and squealed, “Donuts! Ooo, maple covered.” She grabbed the second box I’d bought on the clerk’s recommendation and opened it.
Tortilla practically dropped the bass in his rush to get a donut .
Four donuts later, Darla was pouring them both a big glass of milk and Trevor was frying bacon.
I stayed silent, just taking this all in. My Christmas mornings at my childhood home were so different. Christmas morning was all about waking up, having a fabulous, luxurious, slow breakfast, making our way through fresh fruit, waffles, organic, free-range, antibiotic-free hormone-free sausages handcrafted from some Amish farm in Pennsylvania where Mom bought all her meat, and opening up my newest electronic request. I remember one year, in high school, pitching a fit because they gave me a white iPhone instead of a black one.
Two days after Christmas we had gone to the mall to the Apple Store to trade it in for the right one.
December 27.
My stomach cringed with the memory.
Here I was, watching Darla and a homeless dude T revor had invited over eating convenience store donuts out of a box while a chicken ate the crumbs off the floor of our tiny city hovel.
And I was happy.
Tortilla found his grimy backpack and fished around in it, finally pulling out a small metal object. I went on high alert. Was that a knife? Were we about to be robbed? What the hell had we been thinking, inviting some street guy in here? Happiness washed off me, replaced by fear, and I edged toward Darla, who just sat at the table, completely unaware of what was about to unfold, drinking coffee and smiling to herself.
T hen Tortilla put the metal object up to his mouth.
And played the opening notes of a Mumford & Sons song.
“You play harmonica!” Darla said, her smile widening.
I am an ass.
Tortilla took the piece away from his lips and gave an aw, shucks grin. “I busk sometimes. People throw down a little money. It keeps me and Popsicle in food.”
And booze , I thought. The guy looked like he was already drunk. Bet our beer was long gone.
H e resumed playing, and I had to give it to him. He was good. Amateur good. Nothing that would ever get him a record deal, but for a street guy who slept in back alleys and was probably mentally ill, he did all right.
My skin still tingled with a heightened sense of danger, but it morphed into that feeling that comes from being on alert because of newness, not peril. Today was a day filled with firsts, from waking up on Christmas morning somewhere other than my childhood home to eating a cheap convenience store breakfast to, well—
Tortilla and Popsicle.
Trevor started scrambling eggs in a second frying pan while the bacon finished its sizzling, the scent maddening. My stomach growled and Darla held up the open box of donuts. There were three left out of the dozen.
“Want
Opening the door, I was greeted by the sight of Tortilla, now shaved, bathed, and in Trevor’s old clothes, fucking around with my instrument.
Wait. Were those my jeans he was wearing? Damn it.
Curbing my impulse to shout at him, I walked into the kitchen, pulled out the food, and listened as Trevor talked to him.
“Unplug the amp, dude, or the neighbors will be on us.”
“Cool.” Tortilla unplugged, then strummed. I watched his fingers. He wasn’t great, but he knew how to play.
Trevor gave me an apologetic look. “Hope you don’t mind. He said he plays and wanted to goof around.”
I thought about the clerk back at the convenience store . “It’s okay.”
“You guys in a band?” Tortilla asked, head down, watching his own fingers on the strings. The tinny sound of the silenced electric bass filled the room. Normally that was me making the sound.
Darla walked into the room and planted a big kiss on my cheek. “Merry Christmas, honey,” she whispered, then looked down and squealed, “Donuts! Ooo, maple covered.” She grabbed the second box I’d bought on the clerk’s recommendation and opened it.
Tortilla practically dropped the bass in his rush to get a donut .
Four donuts later, Darla was pouring them both a big glass of milk and Trevor was frying bacon.
I stayed silent, just taking this all in. My Christmas mornings at my childhood home were so different. Christmas morning was all about waking up, having a fabulous, luxurious, slow breakfast, making our way through fresh fruit, waffles, organic, free-range, antibiotic-free hormone-free sausages handcrafted from some Amish farm in Pennsylvania where Mom bought all her meat, and opening up my newest electronic request. I remember one year, in high school, pitching a fit because they gave me a white iPhone instead of a black one.
Two days after Christmas we had gone to the mall to the Apple Store to trade it in for the right one.
December 27.
My stomach cringed with the memory.
Here I was, watching Darla and a homeless dude T revor had invited over eating convenience store donuts out of a box while a chicken ate the crumbs off the floor of our tiny city hovel.
And I was happy.
Tortilla found his grimy backpack and fished around in it, finally pulling out a small metal object. I went on high alert. Was that a knife? Were we about to be robbed? What the hell had we been thinking, inviting some street guy in here? Happiness washed off me, replaced by fear, and I edged toward Darla, who just sat at the table, completely unaware of what was about to unfold, drinking coffee and smiling to herself.
T hen Tortilla put the metal object up to his mouth.
And played the opening notes of a Mumford & Sons song.
“You play harmonica!” Darla said, her smile widening.
I am an ass.
Tortilla took the piece away from his lips and gave an aw, shucks grin. “I busk sometimes. People throw down a little money. It keeps me and Popsicle in food.”
And booze , I thought. The guy looked like he was already drunk. Bet our beer was long gone.
H e resumed playing, and I had to give it to him. He was good. Amateur good. Nothing that would ever get him a record deal, but for a street guy who slept in back alleys and was probably mentally ill, he did all right.
My skin still tingled with a heightened sense of danger, but it morphed into that feeling that comes from being on alert because of newness, not peril. Today was a day filled with firsts, from waking up on Christmas morning somewhere other than my childhood home to eating a cheap convenience store breakfast to, well—
Tortilla and Popsicle.
Trevor started scrambling eggs in a second frying pan while the bacon finished its sizzling, the scent maddening. My stomach growled and Darla held up the open box of donuts. There were three left out of the dozen.
“Want
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