Page 1 of Home With You

1

Raine

"Score!" I say, snatching the sandwich from the green metal can. It's still in the wrapper and hasn't been touched. I reach in the can again and pull out a half-eaten bag of chips.

Something whizzes past me, bumping my arm before landing in the trash. It's a bottle of soda with no more than a sip missing. I turn to see who threw it but whoever it was blended back in the crowd. It's a weekday and the downtown Denver streets are bustling with people, all talking on their phones.

"Too late," a guy says.

When I turn back, I see Levi drinking the soda. The soda that was supposed to be mine.

"You following me now?" I reach around for my backpack and stuff the sandwich and chips inside before Levi tries to steal them too.

"Yeah, right." He laughs. "Like I don't got better things to do?"

Planting my hands on my hips, I glare at him. "If you have better things to do, then what are you doing on my corner?"

"You don't own the damn corner. It's open to whoever wants it and I'm thinking it's about time you share the wealth."

"A sandwich and some chips isn't wealth. It's survival, and it's not just for me. You know I share with Gladys."

"Which I still don't get. Why share with some old lady who could die any day now?"

My gut clenches just hearing him say that. Gladys is all I have and she's not leaving me anytime soon. I won't let her.

"She's not gonna die," I say. "She's only 70 and there's nothing wrong with her."

"The old bat can't even remember her own name. And as for her age? Seventy on the streets is more like 90, maybe 100."

I don't want to agree with him but it's true. The streets age you. And not just older people, like Gladys, but young people too. Levi's only 25 but looks more like 35. As for me? It's hard to tell but I'm sure, appearance-wise, I've aged beyond my 23 years in the six months I've been here.

Every day on the streets is a struggle. Finding food. Protecting your shelter. Being badgered by the cops. Harassed by other homeless people trying to steal your stuff. I haven't had to endure a winter here yet but that'll be my next struggle. It's September and the nighttime temps are starting to drop, giving me a taste of what it's going to be like in the months ahead.

"You're not really going to stay here, are you?" I ask Levi. "On my street?"

He guzzles half the soda down, and I watch as it moves down his long thin throat. He's not even enjoying it, drinking it that fast. When I'm lucky enough to get a soda, I savor each sip. Gladys does the same with coffee, her drink of choice. Liquid gold, she calls it, because it's so much better than our usual source of hydration, which is water from a bathroom sink or the drinking fountain in the park.

Last week I saw a drunk guy pee in that drinking fountain and haven't taken a sip from it since. It was some rich asshole out with his friends who dared him to pee on the faucet. Of course it didn't cross any of their minds that the faucet was one of the few sources of water for people like me.

Levi pokes his cane inside the metal trash can, leaning over slightly to see inside.

"There's half a Snickers bar at the bottom," he says. "All yours if you want it."

"Really?" I lean down to the can and look but all I see are discarded cups, newspapers, and other trash. "I don't see it."

"It's at the bottom." He moves some of the trash aside with his cane. "You gotta dig for it."

I dip my hand in the can, feeling something slimy. Probably a banana peel, or that's what I tell myself because a banana peel is less disgusting than the other possible options, like the used condom I accidentally touched while searching through a can last summer. Living out here, I've encountered a lot of disgusting stuff but I've gotten used to it now. When you're trying to survive, touching disgusting things is the least of your worries.

"I still don't see it," I say, extending my hand as far as it'll go in the can.

Suddenly, Levi’s cane whips up, whacking me in the chin so hard I'm forced back up to standing.

"What the hell?" I say, rubbing my chin with the hand that isn't coated with sticky, slimy trash.

He smirks. "That's for you telling me what to do. You don't own nothing around here. If anything, I own this street more than you do. I've been here longer."

"That's why you hit me? So you can have the street?" I turn and storm off, my chin burning where his cane hit. He doesn't even need a cane. He just uses it to make people feel sorry for him when he's begging for money. And sometimes he uses it as a weapon, like he did just now.

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