I know I don't look like the kind of person who could survive the mean city streets for long
That's because I'm not
But I was homeless for a while anyway when I was younger
When my drinking got so bad I couldn't hold a job
Couldn't pay the rent
And was ashamed to ask for any more help
living a real life
So I walked into the shadow world
And didn't expect to ever come out
I didn't even want to
So how did I survive?
I think there's something to the old saying:
There's a special God for fools, drunks, and children
Because I was all three
And it's also true that among many street kids- street rats we were called
there is a sense of camaraderie
A free-flowing exchange of cigarettes, alcohol, and information
about warm places to sleep and where to find something to eat
and how to avoid the poe-leese.
And there were those who took it upon themselves to look after me
When I couldn't, I wouldn't, look after myself
Like Calvin- that wasn't his real name of course
just what he was called cause he looked kinda like the cartoon
Small and goofy, spike-y yellow hair, mouth set like a little line
disproportionately big blue eyes
By the construction lamp in the abandoned subway tunnel where several of us slept in the winter
he would roll me a small pile of cigarettes
because I never did get the knack for rolling my own
And unlike the rest of us who drank straight into unconsciousness
He would sometimes hand his bottle over to me
and pull a balisong- a butterfly knife- out of his pocket to practice flipping it
I was mesmerized by his tricks, the slightest turn of his wrist
sent the two handles and the blade flying in different directions
A shiny silver pin-wheel, twirling around the back of his hand
Rotating around his index finger, the middle one, his thumb
And he could pop the whole thing up into the air, catch it with his other hand
work the same magic just as well there
When he was warmed up he would take out a second knife
flip them both at the same time
Sometimes the movements mirrored each other
Sometimes they differed
Sometimes he would throw them both up at the same time
Switch them around like a juggler
It didn't occur to me at first that this was dangerous
and he had cut himself many times before he got smooth
Those deadly things really did look to me
just like industrial silver butterflies
Ooh, show me how to do that! I asked him
Girl, you can't even roll a cigarette! Shit, you can't even smoke one!
He laughed as he pointed at all the little burns on my hands
Oh fuck you dude!
was my answer to everything in those days
I didn't take much good advice
He kept giving it to me anyway
Keep your back against the wall when you sleep, he would tell me
And I conceded to that one
I would curl up with my back to the subway tunnel wall
Not quite touching it though, because it was cold
And he would curl up facing me, because it kept us warm
He folded around me but didn't quite touch me either
Except he liked to rest his chin on the top of my head
He would put his hand down between us there first
to keep what was left of my haphazardly-shorn hair from tickling him
It wasn't the most comfortable way to sleep, with his bony forearm across my face
but somehow it felt good anyway
After a while there was a handprint-shaped place in my hair that stayed mashed down
even when his hand wasn't there
I hung around Calvin so much the other kids started to call me Hobbs
he would sneak me in the back of bars
to the punk-rock shows
Wasn't my idea of music
But I liked the way the loud, heavy beat would take hold of me
The raw energy of the crowd
I liked to throw myself into the middle of the mosh pit and get knocked around
I would laugh at my bruises and my bloody noses
Because I couldn't feel them
My childhood had left me numb
I'm sure the river of alcohol I constantly consumed helped that some
I talked a lot of shit I couldn't back up when I was drunk
And fortunately most people found that entertaining
But if I provoked violence against me I didn't care
I didn't fight back, just took whatever came
and laughed wildly the whole time
Because didn't they know you can't hurt a ghost?
One night I sat down to watch Calvin practice flipping his balisong
He held one out to me and said, I'm giving you this
Keep it handy, always
You don't need to know any fancy tricks, only how to open it, like this
He showed me the simplest move
Take one handle, flick the rest of it over
so the dull side of the blade bounces off the back of your hand
Catch the other handle when it comes back
Now you have a weapon
When someone comes at you, he instructed me
Just open this as fast as you can and stick it someplace soft
Avoid bones, because they can make the blade glance off
Eww, gross!
I wrinkled my nose
At the idea of sticking a knife in anyone
I just liked the look of this shiny thing moving over my hand
It's them or you, Calvin told me very seriously, very urgently
I made no reply
He looked at me a moment, narrowed his eyes
You'd rather it be you, wouldn't you? he accused
I still said nothing, but we both knew that was true
He always told me to stay away from skinheads
They don't like the punk-rock kids
And they'll stomp a girl like me same as another man
No decency
Still I could never keep my big mouth shut
Told one of those fuckers what I thought
I don't even remember what I said
I only remember the way my vision slipped into slow-motion
focused on a fist pulling back, aimed at my face
I just stood there glued in place
Waiting for my lights to spark and go dark
Maybe this would be the time I wouldn't wake up
And I smiled at the thought
But dammit, Calvin would let me have no such luck
I didn't even know he was nearby that night
Until he grabbed me by the back of my jacket and yanked me out of that fight
At the same time he pulled me around behind him with his left
he dodged that skinhead's first swing and sunk a punch into his gut with his right
I always imagined that action looked pretty awesome
His arms flying out from his center
Like both handles of a balisong from a downward-facing blade
In a move called the Suicide Drop
I didn't get to see it though, of course
As then I was facing the back of the room
By the time I turned around
The inevitable blood-thirsty crowd
had swarmed the rest of the scene like ants on a crumb
I couldn't claw my way back in the middle
I couldn't do anything while Calvin got the shit kicked out of him
Except wish, for once, that I wasn't so numb
He emerged with a black eye, two cracked ribs, blood-edged teeth, and a concussion
I wouldn't have felt anything if that were me
But let me tell you I sure felt something
As I poured vodka in his wounds
and did my best to stop the bleeding with a dirty old t-shirt
In an attempt to deflect feelings of culpability
I said defiantly, “I never asked you to step in for me.”
He looked at me with fierce sadness in the one eye that wasn't swollen shut.
and said with the frustration that comes with ill-omened love:
Girl, maybe you don't give a shit what happens to you
But I do
Calvin couldn't stop caring even though he was certain I was inches from a bad end
And even if that's what I wanted, it was going to hurt him
I wish I could go back and tell him
that somehow I was going to live
long after he did
Calvin was shot beautiful spring day
He would laugh if I could tell him he died a cliché
Bringing a knife to a gun fight
I guess I'm glad I wasn't there to see it
But it's so strange when people disappear from my life that way
I don't know where the bodies of street rats go
How do I say good-bye when there's no funeral?
I buried the knife he had given me: his song, his butterfly
In the dirt near the place where we used to sleep in the abandoned subway tunnel
I poured some vodka on this make-shift altar
I needed some other liquid, because I couldn't cry
About him for more than ten years after he had died
The special God of fools, drunks, and children picked me, for fathomless reasons,
to survive, until I was only one of those three things anymore
You see, eventually, I even gave up drinking
And became on old fool
I saw a balisong at a friend's house one day and picked it up
I thought of Calvin and his real name-less love
I remembered the sound a knife like that was supposed to make when I opened it
Click, swivel, click
I remembered how the motion was supposed to look
I had seen it a thousand times
But on that day I picked that damn thing up like a complete novice
By the wrong handle
And flipped the sharp edge of the blade across the back of my hand
Ouch!
I dropped the knife
Because by that time in my life
I could feel pain again
I could feel everything
Even memories
Of events I had once walked through with a heart so cold
And now I recall with bittersweet sorrow
And the penance of emotion attached to what I now know:
That a person can't just hurt themselves without hurting someone else
Tears streamed down my face like the blood snaking towards my wrist
My true tribute to Calvin is this:
To live
With my heart open
And to feel for others on the brink of their own doom
No matter how painful it is, say to them as he once said to me:
Maybe you don't give a shit about yourself
But I do.
Anna J Michener
April 1st, 2011
