LT’s Love, Bobby’s Blood
Running Toward Hope, Chapter 3
LT covers his face with his hands to ward off the blows.
He twists and rolls onto his stomach, but they just keep coming. Now the back of his head’s the target. He’s desperate to jump up and run. When he tries, his feet tangle up and fight him.
“Stop it! Fuck! Just leave me alone!”
“LT, sweetie! It’s just me, baby. Come on, wake up, please. It’s important.”
He can’t put a name to the husky voice, but just before sleep abandons him all the way, he starts to feel a little comfort. A little less guilty. A little more loved.
He blinks and finds Marissa’s green eyes just inches from his own. They’re hiding inside puffed up black bags, but they’re definitely his friend’s. He can’t remember where he is until he rolls over and dusty spears of sun sting his own eyes after lancing across the loft.
Now it comes back to him. He’s wrapped in a tattered blanket on a smelly couch Marissa found in the street a few weeks ago. By the look of the light stabbing in through the rusty grill, it’s still morning. He remembers a red glow already starting up by the time Tomas had finished grunting and grinding away on top of him.
Marissa’s in that faded red robe she loves so much. The one he used to tell her looks glamorous. Glamour is the wrong word right now. Tangled black hair, red eyes, and the suggestion of chin stubble don’t flatter her.
He half sits up, perching on an elbow.
Reluctantly.
The pain pounding away inside his head is only slightly less sharp than the one Tomas left him with. He wonders if he bled much. Probably not. Just feels like it.
“Whadja wake me up for?” he groans. “I’m so tired I feel dead, just like when I got sick.”
“LT, Lukie — I’m so sorry, baby, but I didn’t know what to do. Your phone no working, huh?”
He nods. His charger’s at the Y with his stuff. His phone’s been dead since forever. He pats the floor to find his grimy jeans, digs out the phone and hands it to her silently.
“Bobby’s texting me,” explains Marissa as she bustles around. “He called three times. Woke me up looking for you.” She hands him a mug of steaming Puerto Rican coffee and plugs his phone in up on top of a pile of lumber that approximates a kitchen counter.
“What’s he …” starts LT before a coughing fit stops him for a while. “What’s he want? Little bastard hooked up good last night. Rich dude. I seen him before but never went with him. I know he pays good, so I was kinda jealous. I need to get paid once or twice so I can get back in …”
“LT! Listen. Bobby’s hurt. He’s bleeding. He needs help.”
It takes a second for LT to process. The news doesn’t penetrate. So, the kid had a rough night. It happens, he’ll be OK.
Then he thinks again. It’s way too early for Bobby to be calling people. He’s gotta be seriously messed … “Quick. Can I talk to him? Lemme use your phone!”
It’s already ringing when Marissa hands it to him.
“Bobby? Bobby, you there? You OK? What up man? Where you at?”
The voice in Luke’s ear, unguarded and putting on no tough-guy shows, is obviously the voice of a scared teenager. If LT ever believed his stories about being 18, he stops now.
“LT, you gotta help. Please? I’m in the alley behind the D’Agostino’s by the bar. He dumped me here, man. I’m shivering bad! I can’t get warm. And … look, it’s embarrassing, OK?”
LT sighs. Maybe it’s not so bad. Maybe the kid just needs a pep talk. Maybe he can hop the subway down here for a coffee to get warm. No, fuck that. Tomas see’s him, he’ll be all over that round little ass.
Anyway. “What’s embarrassing, buddy? You can tell me. I got your back, man.”
“My jeans are all soaked. Like blood. And I think I’m still bleeding. It won’t stop.”
Fuck!
“Hang on, Bobby. I’m coming. Don’t move, OK? Don’t go nowhere.”
“Marissa, I gotta go. Now.”
He rapid-fire explains the situation while handing her phone back. “You got any money? Got any food?”
“Why you think Tomas he keeps beating my ass?” she deadpans, reaching into the lumber pile and pulling out a can of Cafe Bustelo. “He’s too stupid to look under the coffee.” She reaches in with pink painted nails and roots around. She shakes off a twenty and hands it over. Frowns. Hands him another one.
LT pulls her in for a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek.
“I’ll give it back if we don’t need it. Promise! Bobby’s probably loaded. This is just in case.”
Marissa clucks, thrusts a pop tart in his hand, and walks him to the door.
LT hops the turnstile to catch the A train. He doesn’t get a seat in the rush-hour press. Just as well. He has to change trains soon, anyway.
Bobby’s all the way on the east side.
Alone.
Fuck.
LT remembers getting sick a just a few weeks back, shaking with fever. No idea what was wrong with him. Coughing. Puking once in a while. No way to work.
No mom to bring him soup and tell him he’d be all right.
No nothing.
He doesn’t spend his money on drugs, not really. Just a little weed now and then. Not like some of his friends. So, he had some money saved up. It lasted a while, more than a week.
Then he dragged his sorry, coughing ass over to Marissa’s. She put him to bed and made him coffee. That was nice. Until Tomas got up, took one look at him, backhanded Marissa, dragged LT off the couch and duck-walked him to the door. “The fuck outta my house, bitch. Take your germs someplace else.”
LT’s not gonna let that happen to Bobby. He makes up his mind. Whatever the problem is, he’s gonna have a friend with him. Period.
It takes almost 40 minutes to get to the alley.
Forty minutes worrying. He kicks himself for not calling 911. What if something’s bad wrong? What if he’s taking too long? So what if the cops would come too? Better than Bobby dying.
Finally, he rounds the corner and spots somebody huddling behind the supermarket dumpster.
He runs and shouts. “Bobby! Bobby, I’m here!”
The boy wobbles to his feet and LT embraces him, wraps his arms around him, whispers into his ear. “I got you man. You’re OK. It’s all OK.”
Bobby collapses into him for a while then lets out a little half sigh, half sob. “Thanks so much. For coming. Fuck, it hurts, dude. Thank God I had her number, man. Hey, I gotta sit down again, OK? I’m dizzy.”
LT helps the kid down to the ground, thinks about what to do next, then looks down at his hands and gasps.
They’re bright red.
This is chapter three of a serialized short story dealing with homelessness among LGBTQ youth. Over forty percent of homeless youth in the United States identify as LGBTQ. That’s extraordinary given that queer youth don’t make up more than 3 to 7 percent of the general youth population.
While the details of this story are fictional, I’m writing from my heart and from my experiences. I’ve known these kids. I’ve been there in many ways. The issues are very real and very serious. I’m fictionalizing the stories of real people.
I’m telling their stories because they need somebody to speak for them.
