Suzie’s House 118: A Pillow Made of Concrete

For those of you who were wishing we could follow Gene instead of doing the arrest, you’re in luck. We resume his narrative from where we left off a few weeks ago.

It could be dangerous? As if going home weren’t dangerous. Simply breathing had become a problem for Gene.

After hearing what went down at the trial, Gene’s dad had cracked him a good one in the ribs. Now every breath hurt. But he wasn’t going to let on he had a problem to anyone. He was a man now, or nearly so. He could be tough. He could take it.

He could take it a lot better in Ben’s house than at home, but if he wasn’t wanted there, he’d find some other place to go. The question was, where?

The lights were off at home, but the TV blasted so loud Gene could hear it before he reached the front steps.

Great. That meant Dad was home, probably drinking.

The sound of crowds cheering at some sort of sporting event were followed by his father’s swearing, and a bottle crashing into a wall. Great, he was home and in a bad mood. Gene had his hand on the door knob, but he didn’t turn it. As bad as he felt, there was no way he was going in there.

But where to go? Ben’s house was the only one where they’d let him stay on a school night. Every where else they started asking too many questions, got too personal, and half the time chucked him out anyway.

He’d got lucky when he loaned Ben his best pencil. He knew all along that Ben wasn’t comfortable with him or it or anything, but he was too good a guy to be a jerk about it.

Except for that one time when he wrote Gene’s life into a story. It felt like he’d been dissected. That was almost the end of them too. No way Gene could pretend it didn’t happen. He couldn’t even look Ben in the eye for days after.

But then came a night when he had to get away, like tonight, and there’d been no where else to go. Gene headed back for Ben’s house. Maybe him and his mom were back now. They’d let him stay. They always did.

He walked slowly and carefully, not wanting to breathe too deep. Each step made him think about how hard the sidewalk was, and how far he had to go, and how dark it had got. Maybe he should spend the night a park.

Didn’t some bum turn up dead, beat to death there not long ago? Better skip the park. But then where? Where could he go.

He passed the parking lot for an apartment building. There was a car port stretching along one side of a brick wall. A powder blue car, one of the old ones with everything all rounded, had been sitting there for over a month now, collecting dust. Gene noticed it because of the weird color.

Maybe the car was open. It was huge inside and out. If he could get into the back seat, that would be a good place to spend the night. Just tonight. No one would notice.

The doors were locked.

Gene went around to the other side, but those doors were locked too, like he knew they were going to be. He ended up sitting on the front bumper, breathing hard. It was already pretty late, and he was out of ideas.

There was a gap between the bumper and the wall big enough for a man to lie down in. Big enough for him, anyway. He thought about it, what a stupid idea, but it was the only one he could come up with. So he slid down between the wall and the bumper. No one could see him there, so they shouldn’t bather him. The pavement was cold, but the night air wasn’t too bad. He could do it. He could sleep here.

It was hard. No matter what he did, he was uncomfortable. If he rolled one way he bumped the wall, which hurt his ribs. If he rolled the other he bumped the finder of a car, which hurt even more. He was too uncomfortable to sleep, but too tired to look for a better place.

If a few tears seeped out, it was completely by accident. Didn’t mean he couldn’t take it.

School tomorrow loomed large in his mind. Maybe he wouldn’t go. Maybe he’d find some grassy spot on the trail from the main Student Union and the student housing and get some real sleep.

And maybe he’d just run away. If he could find someone who would fake an ID for him he could get a job and get his own place. No more knocking around. No more pain in the ribs. No more hunger. Yeah right. Like life could be that good for him.

Maybe he should go back to Paul. Get hooked up with some drugs, do some dealing. It would take the pain off. As long as he was dealing he could live there, make some money, wouldn’t have to go to school. He’d seen others do it.

What was the worst that could happen? End up in jail? That would be an improvement.

He settled in on his concrete pillow, his mind drifting in a haze. Tomorrow he was going to make some changes because one way or another, something was going to have to give.

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