Tomas Beats Marissa. Luke Begs God.
Running Toward Hope, Chapter 4
LT holds Bobby up as they stumble into the ER.
“Can I help you?” mumbles the guy behind the triage desk. He’s typing and cradling a phone between shoulder and cheek all at the same time.
“Um? My friend? He’s bleeding.” LT holds out his stained hands. “See?”
The man sounds bored. “Bleeding from where? How long?”
“Stand up, man. Look.” LT points out a trail of red drops leading from the auto-revolving doors of Lenox Hill’s ER entrance. Bobby lifts his head off his older friend’s shoulder for a second and looks down to where a couple of bright red pearls have just splattered onto the white floor. His eyes roll back in his head.
LT catches him just before his face smacks into the glazed tiles.
Incredibly, the man behind the desk continues to look bored. Whatever he says on the phone yields fast action, though.
Two women bustle up from out of nowhere and kneel down. One of them talks slowly and calmly while the other seems to listen to Bobby’s heart. Two men appear, rolling a cart — not rushing, but moving really fast.
The four medical professionals have Bobby stretched out on the top of it before LT even knows what’s happening. They bustle off, the older boy trailing behind. Nobody tries to stop him, so he just keeps following.
He’s been here before. Twice. The curtained ER cubicles are familiar to him. The orderlies get Bobby onto the bed and start working on him, pulling off his clothes.
“Family?” asks one of the women.
“Brother,” mumbles LT, looking at the floor.
“Perfect. I’m Gloria, a nurse. I’m going to be getting information ready for the doctor. So, what happened? What can you tell me?”
Three hours later, Bobby’s awake.
He’s got two IV drips running into his left arm, and an automatic blood pressure cuff on the other one — while his hand grasps LT’s tightly. He won’t let go.
LT thinks about being annoyed, but he’s so relieved that his friend is OK that all he can really feel is happy. He hears the curtain slide open, then a cheerful voice intrudes.
“Hey, guys! What’s happenin’? Everything OK in here?”
LT stares at him, recognition dawning after a couple seconds.
“So, I’m Dan, a patient advocate. I kind of take over sometimes when the doctors are done. I know you guys answered a million questions already, but is it OK if I ask some more?”
Bobby finally drops his buddy’s hand, speaks up. “Sure. Why not?”
“Cool. Hey, you guys hungry?”
Bobby shakes his head. “No way.”
That’s when the man focuses all his attention on LT, thrusts a sandwich at him and looks him square in the eyes. “I know you have to be, man. Here, eat. It ain’t home cooking, but it’s good.”
LT shakes his head suspiciously, but the guy keeps talking. “Wait, don’t I know you? Oh, yeah, sure. Pneumonia, and…”
His voice trails and drops before he can finish his sentence. He starts over. “Not long ago. Remember me? I helped you get your meds?”
LT nods and looks at the floor again. He suddenly remembers his stuff, panicking inside. He needs to be there now, trying to make sure Bert isn’t having it tossed in the dumpster.
He doesn’t mean for it to, but the panic must show on his face.
“Hey. Whoa, partner. Take it easy. I’m a friend. I’m on your side, OK?”
Marissa’s lying on the ratty sofa in the loft, wondering if she has to work tonight, when she hears Tomas rousing himself behind the curtain that divides the loft between living area and bedroom.
Their bedroom.
Sometimes Tomas gets lazy and wants to stay in. If he stays in, Marissa stays in. That’s how it works now.
Not like when she first met Lukie. He was just in from Kansas — fresh meat — when Marissa got to know him. Actually, she remembers, she rescued him from those Hare Krishna morons when he was hanging out in Washington Square Park.
Those guys can always spot a homeless kid.
Not unlike Tomas, she snorts to herself.
Speaking of Tomas… His voice startles her up off the couch.
“Yo, puta! You up? I’m hungry. Bring papi some food, baby girl.”
Marissa wants to be totally pissed at him, but when he calls her baby girl like that, she remembers the way he used to make her feel. The way he still does sometimes when he treats her like a real girl.
Plus …
She doesn’t know where he gets the girl juice — the hormones — but he gets it. And it’s working. She glances proudly down at the swell in her chest.
It’s finally looking right. It’s finally looking like her.
She never really needed to shave much, gracias a Dios, but the little bit of hair on her face seems to be thinning too. She’s worried about her voice. Lukie likes it, says it’s sexy. She doesn’t believe him.
She nukes leftover Chinese takeout, mixes it all together on a plate the way he likes, and walks it into the bedroom.
After his food, he throws an arm around her, squeezing her ass, and walks her back to the sofa. Like he’s all romantic and shit.
“Baby girl? How bout some coffee, huh? Make papi some coffee, chica?”
She pulls out of his embrace and heads toward the counter to reach for the can of Bustelo.
His voice stops her in her tracks. She hears menace behind sweet words.
“You know, baby, never mind. Papi’s gonna make the coffee. You never do it right. Lemme show you what real coffee is, baby girl.”
He’s at her side in two seconds, reaching for the can, ripping it from her grasp.
She runs for the door, but he’s too fast for her. He’s standing in front of it before she’s halfway there.
Tomas laughs as he upends the can of black powder. Coffee flies everywhere. Money floats in the air, bills fluttering. Twenties. Tens.
“Whatchoo think, puta? Huh? You think Tomas is deaf, that what you think? You think papi’s estupido, you stupid cunt? Oh, wait. Cunt the wrong word, huh? Cut the shit, boy.”
The beating he gives her is bad, but nothing compared to what comes next.
Luke’s sitting in church, Grampa on one side, his mom on the other. They sing a couple hymns, then wait for the guest minister to get started.
He’s some famous missionary just back from Uganda. He’s got his whole family with him. They’re all up near the pulpit, where they sang as a family. Some of the kids told stories and showed off some native stuff, like baskets and gourds.
The oldest boy is Luke’s age, about 15.There’s a potluck after church in fellowship hall. Luke hopes he can talk to the kid. Africa must be so cool. And … he admits to himself very, very privately. The kid is cute as they come.
He doesn’t like thinking that way, but sometimes he can’t help it. He knows what it means. He used to think if he ignored it, it’d go away.
But he’s been doing a lot of Googling, and now he’s pretty sure that isn’t true.
“Brothers and sisters,” begins the missionary, “Thanks so much for your support and for your warm welcome for my family and me. We’re here to share our work with you spreading the love of Jesus. God has been good to us and gracious in allowing us to win souls for him.”
Luke stops listening for a while. He’s looking at the boy on stage, daydreaming, letting his thoughts wonder in ways God would probably (definitely) not like.
The next thing he knows, it’s like the missionary read his mind. He’s preaching about “homosexuals” and God’s disapproval. He’s talking about supporting the Ugandan government. Some new law. Family values. Luke could swear the man is looking right at him.
He starts to sweat.
His feet are crossing and uncrossing.
He forces himself to look anywhere except at the boy on the stage.
“Grampa,” he whispers. “I gotta go. Let me out?”
He makes his way quietly out of the sactuary, heads to the restroom and prays for all he’s worth.
“Please, God. Please, please, please, please.
“Make it go away. Make it stop. I’m really begging you, OK? I love you. I asked Jesus to come into my heart. I really meant it. I did!
“Why won’t you make me normal? Why can’t you help me change?
“God, please! I don’t want this! I didn’t ask for it.
“God, I’m begging you.”
He doesn’t even hear the door open. He doesn’t see his Grampa until he’s done praying. The way the old man is looking at him, he wonders how much he heard.
This is chapter four 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.