On Los Lunas Way

"Good morning, young man. How can I help you?" Marcia’s quiet greeting barely reached Kane’s ears through his open office door. Kane laid down his pen and waited for a predictable response.

"Uh, my friends said you guys would give me some food and maybe a shower too?" This particular time the words came in one run together burst. The voice was lower than Kane expected, but the usual nervous skepticism was there.

"We sure can." Marcia’s voice was louder now, but her words and inflection were as soothing as when she first spoke. "It’s not our regular meal time, but we always keep a pot of soup on the stove, and sandwich makings in the fridge," she continued. "Come with me. We’ll go to the kitchen and see what we can find. So what’s your name?" Marcia’s voice trailed off as she and the boy trouped through the living room toward the dining area and kitchen.

Kane glanced down at the cleaning supplies order he was preparing. He pushed the papers away and leaned back in his chair. Every kid who comes in that door is essentially the same, he thought, and yet every single one is in some way or other decidedly different. The street grime and filthy clothes are all the same. Underneath, the hearts pulse with the same rhythms, and the same beaten spirits cry out for love and help. The stories always seem the same at first, but each concludes with its own nasty twist. I wonder what it is this time?

Kane restrained an impulse to go immediately to the kitchen and greet the boy. No, he thought, give Marcia time to soften the kid up. Fill him with vegetable stew and turkey sandwich before the man, the establishment, the authority figure, descends upon him. Kane had often seen flickers of doubt flash across young faces when he first approached. It was always hard for him to imagine how he could appear intimidating to anyone, especially to teenage street-wise kids. Only twenty-eight years old himself, Kane stood six feet tall and weighed the same 160 pounds he had when he was a teenager. He dressed casually for work at Pacific Lights, in Levi’s and open collared knit shirts. Kane was dark skinned and handsome, lithe, toned, and a fine athlete, but had never been street tough in the fight-for-your-life, fist-in-your-face sense, that for most of his Pacific Lights kids was second nature.

Street brawl, fist-in-your-face, fist-in-your-gut! Wasn’t that where all this started? Memories flooded back for the thousandth time. The time he battled alongside Mark Kreider as their gay bashing college classmate, Grant Cassady, and his hulking wrestler friend, attacked them. He, Kane, got the worst of it, and was bruised and aching for days afterwards. But the bruises and aches were powerful bruises and aches. He defended his friend against hateful violence and he was proud of the scars.

Then there were intimate times with Mark. Plus tennis and swimming parties at his parents’ Los Angeles home, and the beach and surfing with Mark and his friends, Randy and Terry. And, yes, the fateful warm spring night when Mark wanted to walk home alone through Hawthorn Park from the Worthington College campus. Why, why, hadn’t he insisted Mark accept his usual ride on the back of the Honda? Julie said she could wait in the student center and talk with her friends a while longer. It was only a ten-minute trip on the bike. And that walk cost Mark his life. Beaten to a bloody, lifeless pulp by Cassady, the wrestler Singleton, and two brutish friends. Lying in wait. All because Mark was a young gay man. Born queer, through no fault of his own. "Damn!" Kane snapped out of his reverie, slammed his fist down and gave his head a quick shake. Again frustrated and regretful, he pushed his glossy black hair back from his forehead, rose from his desk and headed for the kitchen.

The boy sat in front of an empty soup bowl, chomping on a large sandwich. Marcia, seated across the table from him, looked up as Kane entered, and spoke. "Hi, Kane. I’d like you to meet Sam Hudson. He’s stopped by for a quick lunch and shower."

"Hi, Sam," said Kane, reaching toward the boy for a handshake and seating himself at the table in one smooth movement.

Sam Hudson glanced at Kane and reached for the extended hand, only to discover his fingers dripping with mustard and catsup. Jerking his arm back, he set the sandwich down and furiously wiped at his hands with a flimsy paper napkin Marcia had provided.

"Hi, sorry about the mustard, but hey, thanks for the food," he mumbled, and finally reached for Kane’s extended hand, his grip firm, but sticky.

"Not going to stay with us a few days?" Kane asked as he studied the boy. Sam was a small guy with sharp features and only a light coating of street grime. His white tee shirt and black jeans were dirty, but not as ragged as Kane often observed on new arrivals at Pacific Lights. A battered backpack and wrinkled New York Jets jacket lay on the floor behind the boy’s chair. Sam’s movements were quick and direct, his blue eyes clear, furtively taking in every detail of the kitchen and his hosts.

Sam spoke again through large bites of bread, cold turkey and lettuce. "No, I got a little behind is all. Just a shower."

"We could lend you a swimsuit and towel and you could hang out at the pool long enough to run your clothes through the laundry machines," Kane interrupted. "And maybe meet some of the other guys and girls while you’re waiting."

"No, no. My friends wouldn’t want me to. No, I can’t." Sam finished the sandwich and glanced from Marcia to Kane and back at an empty plate.

Marcia rose from the table, floral print dress swishing on her ample frame, and reached for a bowl of fresh fruit that she placed in front of Sam. "Ok, Sam, finish off with a couple of these, and Kane will show you to the showers and laundry. You certainly have time for laundry! And you’ll need cookies with that fruit." Marcia produced a cookie jar and set it on the table beside the bowl.

"I know my stuff’s a mess." Sam again spoke through bites of food, this time apple, banana, and oatmeal cookie. "I guess as long as I’m here. You’re sure it’s okay? My stuff’s really filthy. It’s been four weeks now since..."

"That’s what washing machines are for, guy," said Kane. "Come on, grab a hand full of cookies and let’s go."

"I’ll get back to the front desk," said Marcia, clearing away the last of Sam’s dishes and rinsing them in the sink. "Sam, we still have two boys’ beds open for tonight if you’ll let Kane talk you into staying with us." Marcia gave the two a sly smile and left the room.