1

It’s hard waking up when you’re hurt.

Birds rattled over the whirl of passing cars, and the air stank of tilled corn and car exhaust. Cold grass tickled his bare feet, and while socks and clean underwear would make the moment tolerable, acquiring them meant popping open the Rabbit’s hatch.

Andrew swallowed hard and willed his stomach to settle. Eyes trained on the trees, he opened the driver’s side door and let his memory find the steering wheel. Just a hand away was the hatchback clutch.

A phantom breath touched his ear, forcing him to his knees. Yes. The man in the driver’s seat was still dead. Head throbbing in time with his heart, a belch filled his mouth with last night’s violence.

He felt around blindly under the seat. Through the unpleasant haze, he came upon what he was looking for. He refused to look at it. Holding it in his hand made it real enough.

Eyes set again on the tree line, he walked backward to the open hatch. His gym bag beckoned, the letters A. CELICH etched on the strap tag. Slinging it over his shoulder, he snatched up his violin case and shut the hatch.

Fatigue drummed at his shoulders like an excited friend.

The funny thing about sleep was that he no longer got enough of it. Sleep found him no matter where he was as a boy, but those days went out like the tide with late-night test crams, recital afternoons, and bagging groceries at the local market to insure this fucking car.

Ten months ago, his matka bought him the Volkswagen Rabbit—what would she say if he abandoned it, pink slip intact?

Emboldened by his burning throat, he returned to the open driver’s side door and, after several moments of internal screaming, wrenched at the dead man’s coat. Rummaging through the pockets, he found a pack of gum.

“You don’t need it anymore, ty kokot.”

Andrew was bad at lying, so going home wasn’t an option.

It took several moments to get out of the trees, where the parkway offered a steady run of cars. He trudged alongside the asphalt, startled by the occasional car horn. No one stopped to offer him a ride, a clear sign of the wisdom he lacked.

Stupidity haunted him, but he made peace with it.

Sure, the roadside stranger was no stranger—he’d known him from some parties back home. Those muscles, that crew cut, the thick accent—how could such a benign smile house such dark intentions?

The urge to vomit crept up once more until the sight of a rest stop quelled it. His bladder pleaded for relief, but too many men lined the urinals inside the tiled space.  None spared him a second glance as he hurried past for an empty toilet stall.

It hurt just to piss, but he managed it and flushed without succumbing to tears.

Outside, a pair of Greyhound buses sat aligned.

Andrew lingered behind a group, boarding unnoticed and taking a window seat in the back. He carefully stowed his violin in the overhead rack and pinched the gym bag between his feet.

Before long, the bus lurched to life, but as he dozed off, two little girls behind him began singing. ‘Finally, it’s happened to me…’ That song, a familiar tune from the boardwalk, had become a part of his daily rhythm. But like the lingering taste of something foul, it overstayed its welcome.

He shoved another piece of juicy fruit between his lips and hoped his toothbrush was in his bag.

Trees on the horizon gave way to a phalanx of rectangular steel.

He’d grown up in the shadows of towering casinos, but they didn’t compare to these titans in Manhattan. The skyline’s grandness excited and terrified him. He couldn’t look away until a white-tiled wall took hold. In the tunnel, darkness soon gave way to a blaring panorama of brick, traffic, and pedestrians.

Times Square appeared less dazzling than its televised New Year’s Eve party suggested.

Eighth Avenue was a zoo of franchise eateries, pawn dealers, and peep shows, all desperate and unkempt in the bright sun. Women flaunted their wares, lips flush with color, hair teased higher than their skirts. Hookers back home didn’t venture out until evening, and unlike here, there were no male whores strolling the pavement.

No doubt, it all looked glamorous at night.

Suddenly, the bus descended into a concrete world.

The Port Authority Terminal’s signage glowed over a placard reading Greyhound Drop-Off Only. The bus rocked as it slowed, jostling those already standing. Andrew remained in his seat as the singing girls bustled toward the exit.

“End of the line, kid,” said the aging bus driver. Stout with a toothy grin, the driver tugged at his hairy ear before checking the other seats.

Gym bag over his shoulder, Andrew pulled his violin down from the overhead. Happily, he traded the bus’s air conditioning for the cloying humidity of the subterranean garage.

Soon, however, he became sickened by the mildew smell and walked briskly through the tiled maze. An escalator brought him to a sprawling lobby surrounded by sun-soaked glass where pungent coffee, footfalls, and chatter hung in the air.

Andrew pushed through the exit doors and into the sweltering heat of midday. Engines rumbled amidst the aroma of spent gasoline as bodies passed in both directions; no one cared about a new arrival in the anthill.

A gentle wind cooled the sweat on his forehead, tempering his emotional fever. Three blocks later, window signs appeared offering rooms by the hour. As he headed east on Eighth, the touristy flavor waned, giving way to a gritty environment where a homeless man dry heaved next to a couple of girls in their private school uniforms.

Across the block, oily-haired teens loitered around the corner drugstore; he was too old to be a street rat. Unexpectedly, someone grazed Andrew’s bag.

He forced his back against a brick wall and quickly caught his breath. It took several moments before he willed his body to relax. Eyes searched his surroundings; whoever collided with him came and went without notice.

When his courage to move returned, Andrew explored each passing face and found none resembling his matka. The sun warmed his blond head, and a nearby phone booth promised relief.

He sheltered under its tiny awning and held his breath against the ripe urine. Missing was the metal rope tethering its handset. Small cards formed patchy wallpaper over the booth’s beveled surround, advertising housework, laundry cleaning, and various odd jobs.

Andrew peeled off one for a hotel on Astor Place.

Through the repressive heat of Downtown, he jaywalked across Fifth and eagerly descended the subway stairs. Here, darkness brought some much-needed relief. A path map behind cracked plexiglass showed that the number Seven went to Grand Central, where the Six would take him to Astor.

Both trains proved comfortably deserted, the Six delivering him to Astor Place’s spartan platform. Topside brought more steamy heat and a different crop of numbered streets. Astor Place awaited beyond the lined pedestrian crossing and offered up Saint Marks, a tall hotel jammed within a line of narrow buildings.

A gaudy neon sign reading Vaudeville Trash adorned the shop beside it, while a song from that Seattle band with the swimming naked baby on its cover filtered out the open door. His heart jumped—he couldn’t swear not to have a gun.

Two girls in tank tops and short shorts stared him down. Neither spoke before parting to let him pass. Inside, a rotund clerk tinkered with a broken electric fan behind a panel of scratched plastic. His flabby breasts bulged out the side of his A-shirt while thick thighs stressed his khaki cut-offs and spilled over the edges of the chair.

“I’m looking for a room,” said Andrew.

“Fifteen bucks a night, twenty on the weekends, unless you stay longer.” He wiped the sweat from his bulging chin with a blue bandanna. “Are you staying longer?”

“Yes, more than a week.”

“You got ID?” The rag moved to his forehead, and his eyes finally found Andrew. “Sorry, you ain’t gotta show me no ID. See, I get kids in here, runaways and all. Weekly rates are different,”

“How much by the week?”

The clerk took the fan off his voucher book.

“Sixty bucks,”

“I need a room with an air conditioner,”

“Me too,” he laughed.

Andrew stared at him. “I’m serious,”

“That’s going to cost more,” the clerk said. “The only room with a unit right now doesn’t have a bathroom, so you’ll have to walk down the hall for that.”

Andrew fought his smile upon hearing ‘bat-room.’

“Since you have no bathroom, that would’ve brought the price down to forty bucks a week, but since you want an air conditioner,” the clerk stared at the ceiling as he spoke, as simple figures took a toll on his mind. “It’s going to be seventy bucks.”

Seventy dollars. Two weeks equals one forty. Three weeks, two ten. A month two eighty.

“Oh. and no checks,” the clerk added.

“I have cash,” said Andrew.

“Oh, and I need a security deposit,” he said further. “Second week’s rent in advance.”

Andrew waited for another ‘oh’ while reaching into his gym bag.

“In case you trash the place. I’m not saying you would, but it happens,” the clerk explained. “You get the deposit back when you leave.”

Andrew kept his wallet out of sight while pulling out three hundred-dollar bills and a ten. He slipped the bills through the semi-circle opening in the partition.

“Apply the entire amount to my rent. And can I have a receipt, please?”

The clerk counted the bills, filled out a receipt on his triplicate pad, signed it, and passed it through. Andrew signed his real name, took the pale blue copy, and put it in his money bag.

“Hey, Cindy,” the clerk hollered at the opened front door while handing Andrew a key attached to a rhombus green tag. “Take him to room Twenty-Five.”

The taller girl from out front appeared older in the lobby’s harsh light, and her smile felt forced when she told him, in an Edith Bunker accent, that his room was on the second floor.

Over black and white checkered tile, recently cleaned with a spoiled mop by the smell, he followed her up the winding wrought iron staircase.

Down the balcony hall was room twenty-five. She stepped back to let him turn the key in the lock and pointed her cigarette down the hall.

“Bathroom is at the end, there.”

“Are there any towels?” he asked.

“There should be one in here and a washrag.” She stepped into the room and looked around. “A little bar of soap, too.” After opening some drawers and giving them a short inspection, she exited. “It’s all yours. Enjoy,”

“Thanks,” said Andrew, closing the door behind her.