hidden by Tomas Mournian Read Free Book Online

to tell her what happened, why I’m here and what I want.
    “
Two
minutes,” she says, impatient as a waitress at lunch hour. Then what? I wonder. You need to take the eggs off the stove? Run a mini-mile marathon? Her left eyebrow cocks, Mr. Spock style. “Your pimp said—”
    “Pimp?” I am confused. The left eyebrow drops and she cocks the right. If she takes requests, I want to see her do it real fast. Work it, Ms. Irritata, work your fancy eyebrow dance! “He? Who?”
    I stop. Fuck her, there’s no way I can explain
everything
in two minutes. Besides, where would I start: Haifa’s Hasidim helmet hair? The supermodel dykes? Bloodthirsty dobermans? Gunshots? Illegal immigrants? Downtown Vegas, rent-a-cops and slot machines? Or—oh, yeah!—Mr. Blue Eyes. Deadly, you’ve heard about him? He carries a knife, and rapes and kills boys in the men’s room.
    “Can I stay here?”
    “I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what happened.” She narrows her beady banker eyes.
Now
I get it. I’d better barf up some trauma
now
or get the fuck out. She expects me to wrap my story with a little bow and hand it over. Here, for you, Ms. Irritata, for your collection. Merry Christmas! But I don’t celebrate Christmas, Jesus is the same as Buddha, and the twelve disciples were all drunks.
    I do, however, remember the telephone number. I tap the digits in my palm, silently repeating the sequence. To her, I prolly look like a crazy kid who thinks he’s the male Helen Keller. I don’t care what she thinks about me: I know what I think about her, starting with the upper lip: “Lady, hasn’t anybody ever told you that you should get your mustache waxed?”
    “Listen, um—” Busted! She doesn’t know my name. She has so many
other
items on her mind. Dry cleaning. Organic groceries. What’s on cable TV tonight. Where’s the vibrator (to go with the cheesy lesbian porn). Clearly, I am the least of her worries. “What’s your name again?”
    The safe sex poster hangs crooked on the wall, directly over Ms. Irritata’s dreads. I noticed they’re flecked with lint. Cool! I choose the smiling boy on the left.
    “Edward,” I say. We’re friends. Why stand on ceremony? I ask, “Can I stay here?”
    “Edward,
by law,
after seventy-two hours, we are required
by law
to notify your parents.”
    The hair prickles on my neck. She should
know
this stuff. She should be
prepared
for kids like me. Be ready to
roll out the red carpet.
Know there are those of us who
don’t
want their parents notified for—a lifetime would not be long enough—of their whereabouts.
    “Unless you disclose your circumstances, we can’t help you.” She smiles. Or, grimaces. I can’t read the face. She has gas?
    “Oh.” We? Really.
We.
I give her my spaced-out / those crazy kids smile. Truth, I’m not willing to disclose anything, circumstances or circumcision, to this self-coronated queen. Her principality being The White People’s Wannabe Banjo Republic of Hemp and Linty Press-On Dreads.
    “You can tell me what happened,” she says.
    Yeah, I think, holding my spacey smile. I’ve heard that before. “Trust me. It’s okay. Tell me your secret. I won’t tell. I
promise.
” I shake my head. “Go fuck yourself, Rasta poseur.”
    “Take these.” She plants her hands on the desk, gives it a hard shove and rolls her chair back. She reaches into the desk and removes a stack of rectangle-shaped packets. She places them down on the desk. Her gesture’s care reminds me of a flight attendant’s long fingers closing an overhead luggage compartment. I hear a voice. Dude! Rouse thyself! Ye not on thy ladies plane!
    I look at her. Her mouth moves. For a moment, I think—She’s talking?—but all I hear is a
wah-wah-wah. A Charlie Brown Christmas
special teacher voice. I tune in and hear, “
Wah-wah-wah
you can get food with these vouchers, but honestly, Jeremy, I think your best bet’s calling your parents. Go home. The streets aren’t for