My untitled, kind of boring memoir

This is the memoir so far, pretty rough, as I’ve written it about the few hours I spent with a guy on the street several years ago. I am WAY open to suggestions, since as I mentioned I think it’s pretty boring, and it really shouldn’t be. The experience wasn’t boring. But I don’t remember a lot. I know for certain I want a more interesting introduction.

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As an urban teenager, I walked all over the city of Seattle, leaving the shards of my worn-down shoes where they fell. At about fifteen years old I wore my white Keds everywhere, until the time I encased them in black duct tape and they became black Keds. At this age I also always walked like I was in a hurry. It’s a habit I developed from five minute passing periods in middle and high school. No one could make it to class in five minutes if they weren’t speed walking. It just stuck, so I walked everywhere fast and hard, like someone important and tough, though I didn’t really feel either of those things. In my dirty broken Keds I pounded right up to Linley.

Although I lived on an allowance of about thirty dollars a month, plus whatever few dollars my band made from local shows, I gave out change to everyone I could, especially on University Way, otherwise known as The Ave. I lived in Seattle all my life and didn’t even notice that The Ave wasn’t really an avenue until my mid-teens, but I guess “The Way” sounds more like a religious cult than a street, so I can see the rationale. Anyway, I was walking on my most frequented couple of blocks of The Ave when I noticed a plastic cup held out by an attractive young guy with chlorine colored eyes and sawed-off two inch PVC pipe in his stretched ear lobes. The cup read “Jesus loves you, God knows why,” and this must’ve been the first time I ever saw the phrase, because it brought a huge smile to my face. I stopped in front of him and knelt down, digging through my bag to get some change. I asked him how he was, to make small talk as I awkwardly searched for wherever my wallet might have been hiding. He answered that he was alright, seeming surprised that someone (especially a girl out by herself) was talking to him. A homeless man isn’t an unusual sight on The Ave, but they tend to all know each other, and this guy didn’t seem to be from around here. He had probably been sitting out all day in the sun without hearing more than, “Not today, sorry,” or “Here you go,” or saying more than “Thanks,” to a couple of unselfish passers-by. He might’ve even slept in the doorway directly behind him, the entrance to a store that wasn’t there anymore.

I finally fished out something like seventy-five cents and plunked it into his cup. The guy had his guitar out and was strumming a few chords. I asked him if he knew any Nirvana and he said he didn’t think so. I crossed the threshold between the sidewalk of passers-by and the storefront of vagrants and sat down next to the guy, offering a handshake.

“I’m Lucy,” I said with a smile.

He looked at me for a moment, not at all unfriendly but still sort of confused, then smiled back and took my hand.

“Linley,” he said, quickly returning his hand to the guitar.

“I could teach you some Nirvana,” I offered. He passed the guitar my way and I started to play “Pennyroyal Tea.”

“See, the verse is pretty much just A-minor, G, over and over, and then the chorus…” I strummed, announcing each note as I played it. I taught him this and “All Apologies,” pausing if someone bent to offer some change for his God Knows Why cup. I think my presence was encouraging people. Maybe they thought I was his girlfriend.

After forty-five minutes or so, he said he needed a restroom. This can be an ordeal for homeless people. Shops everywhere require customers to ask for a bathroom key, to stop homeless people from having any dignity about their bodily functions. Then the owners complain that the sidewalks smell like piss. I still had a cup from a bubble tea I got earlier, so I passed it over to him so he could use that shop’s restroom. Meanwhile, though, he had a blanket spread out, a giant blue backpack, a guitar and case, a change cup and a few signs. There was no sense packing all that up to use the restroom, and I guess I’d been hanging out with him long enough to establish that I wasn’t trying to con him out of something or run off with his guitar. He left me in charge of his spot for a few minutes, putting the cup in front of me and handing me a sign to hold in my lap.

OUT OF WORK PORN STAR, NEED CHANGE FOR BEER.

When Linley held this sign, it was ironic and kind of cute, good for a chuckle and a few cents. People have to get creative to have an edge over the “Anything helps, God bless” signs. But I was a fifteen year old girl, and I was definitely feeling strange about holding this sign. At the same time as I have never felt more alone—people defiantly craning their necks to gaze across the street, furrowing their eyebrows at me in disapproval, staring intensely ahead as if to look at me would send me into a fury of begging for spare change—I have also never felt more alive, sitting on a blanket with a plastic cup and a cardboard sign, knowing what it’s like to be on the fringes of society, befriending hot homeless guys on the sidewalk. It’s an experience I knew I would not appreciate for longer than these few hours I had to glance at it. There is nothing glamorous or exciting about homelessness, except in some cases when it’s a lifestyle choice, as I felt might’ve been Linley’s case. But I’m not built for it. I was just glad for the company and the adventure of the afternoon.

He came back out and sat down with me again, relieving me of the awkward sign. We talked about friends and family, my school plans, his money plans. He said he was going downtown the next day to find out about going out on a fishing boat near Alaska, to get off the street for awhile. After another hour or so Linley had enough change to get food, so he packed up everything, hoisted the giant blue backpack onto his back, and we started walking down The Ave for some cheap Asian food. I must have been one of the only people in the world who felt elevated walking down the street with a homeless guy. I felt like we had some special bond after two hours of guitar playing and staring at the shoes of the people walking by. Every time someone shot us a glance and maybe thought we were together, I savored being next to this guy with the swimming pool eyes and dirty face, messy blond hair, giant backpack and guitar leaving no doubts that he didn’t have a bed to stretch out in at night. Maybe only fifteen year olds feel this way about guys like him.

After we finished eating I had a meeting to get to for a concert organization. I wasn’t conscious of my expression but I must have looked sad as we started going to the door, because he stopped and hugged me like he was trying to comfort me.

“You’ll see me again,” his voice vibrated as it passed from his ribcage to mine. I never said I didn’t think I would. It was a lie I wish he didn’t tell, because I believed it.

“Okay Linley,” my voice resonated back between us. “It was good hanging out.”

I went back to The Ave so many times after that. I craned my neck around corners. I looked for those eyes and that enormous blue backpack, the PVC tubes in his ears. I began to think he wasn’t spending more than a day here. I didn’t think he went downtown the next day and I didn’t think he went on a fishing boat. I didn’t think I would see him again and I didn’t know where he went, but I wanted to know why he felt he had to hug me, to say we would see each other again. I never told him I would miss him, or that I’d be looking for him, or that I didn’t want to go to my meeting. Maybe he was going to miss me, but he knew that homeless guys in their twenties shouldn’t hang out with fifteen year old girls. But I missed him all the more for what he said, and how the words passed between our ribcages like a secret.