PhD Candidate Faustus

2: nothing so sweet as magic is to him

Mephistopheles

I wake up on the cold metal bench, the bars pressing uncomfortably into my back, clutching my backpack to my chest, my legs over my duffel bag. I sit up, blinking sleep out of my eyes and feeling for my phone. The cracked screen flickers in complaint as I turn it on. 5% battery, not surprising after last night. Morning commuters, with coffee cups in their hands and breakfast sandwiches half eaten, stuffed in pockets, barely glance at me. To look would be to acknowledge I exist.
That's fine. I don't mind being invisible. But I am hungry. However, I'm not about to waste any money on food.
Not today.
I get up, shouldering my backpack and tucking my phone in my pocket. I swing the heavy duffel bag over my shoulders. My feet ache at me getting on them once more. I slept maybe two hours here? My head is pounding.
I find a bottle of Jack in my pocket, doing a shot. Hair of the dog and it's all I'm going to get. At least the alcohol will abate my hunger. So would a cigarette but I smoked my last one around midnight.
I walk the two blocks to the leasing office, duffel bag bouncing contentedly on my back. I'm daring to hope for once, a dangerous thing. I collected my duffel from the gym where I lock it up. It was high time I move lockers anyway. The people at the Y are ambivalent to their share of troubled teens, but they have the nasty habit of reporting homeless ones. I'm on my eighth Y and fifth fake address at this one. I'm more than aware my luck will soon run out. But there's nothing like the $10 month membership getting me a air conditioned/heated space, showers, and wifi.
I can't sleep there, for long, but if I play my cards right I can nap on the benches, and I can get out of the cold/heat for hours if I work out a bit. Then I have a full bathroom at my disposal, and it's easy enough to snag shampoo, or a new razor, either by asking politely or just slipping an extra out of some unfortunate gym goer's bag. I try not to steal too close to home. But. Not a lot to do sometimes.
But today is different. Today I have hope. I have a chance. I have twelve hundred dollars. That's enough for a down payment on an actual apartment. An apartment. A studio but still. A real kitchen. A microwave, and a fridge, clean carpeted floor. A door I could lock. Something dangerously approximating a real life. I'd have to work two jobs to make the next month's rent, and I have to get a real job, but I can do that now that I have an address. It's something. Right now all I want is to set my bags down and know they won't be stolen, lie in the air conditioning staring out the window at the city lights, go to sleep on clean carpet, get up and drink from the kitchen faucet, and then lie back down knowing no one can come and tell me to move on, wake me up, tell me I don't belong here. I can have a home.
"I've got it," I walk into the leasing office, triumphant, "I've got the money."
"Look what the cat dragged in," the leasing agent glances up. An overweight man, hair slicked over a balding spot, as he slumps in his chair.
"The studio, twelve hundred dollars, I've got it, cash," I say, folding my arms, "Papers? You said it was mine if I got the money— well I've got the money."
"What I said was, 'kid you would have to fuck every person on the pacific coast to get that kind of money in twenty four hours—'," he begins.
"No," I hear my voice quiver, "You said it was available."
"I'm not the only agent. They let it last night. Sorry," he says, not overly apologetic.
"You knew I was coming!" I cry, my chest collapsing in on itself. No. No. I can't go back at the Y they've asked twice about my parents. I'm not about to go back to that shelter. I don't have a plan for tonight. I'd have to get on the phone now to start working jobs then maybe I'll get dinner and I'm so fucking tired. I feel tears slide down my face.
"Look, I was gonna look the other way about you being minor but I can't hold a room on that. That was the only studio we have available. I have a two bedroom for 2k, I can waive the deposit for a couple of weeks, but that's the best I can do. And if you're soliciting out of here you're out, done, the property manager won't allow that shit."
"I can't do 2k," I say, hearing my voice cracked. It nearly killed me to do the 1200, but it was hope. It was hope. And that's all gone.
"Did you try 45th street apartments they—,"
"They won't when I don't have a good ID—you said I could have it," I know I keep saying that but it was all that was getting me through. I haven't slept but two hours in the last twenty four and I'm ready to drop.
"Look, kid, I'm sorry. Maybe you should just go home, patch things up with, whoever you're running from—,"
"Fuck you," I flip him off, walking out of the room, tugging my bag tighter on my back. I run down the rest of the street, heart pounding. I'm so fucking tired. But I need to think. I need to think. I need to go on. It's that or walk in front of a bus and I refuse, I refuse to give up.
I'm just so hungry.
All I wanted was somewhere safe to sleep. That's all I asked not too much is it? I suppose it is for me. I squeeze tears out of my eyes, forcing myself to breath. Go back to the Y. Wash the fucking make up from last night off your face. Put on a towel and walk around till you see someone you don't know and ask to borrow body wash. Watch them throw you a hotel soap and tell you to keep it. Lock yourself in a toilet and sleep with your feet propped on the door for a couple of hours. Then wake up because you're so fucking hungry. And then go and find left over fast food lunches in the bin outside. That's it. That's all there is to do right now and I know it. I just don't like it.