She giggles in that “I’m so cute and shy” sort of way that lets cute girls get away with not having to use any words.
I introduce myself.
“I’m Sparrow.” She tilts her head and smiles.
“We should go,” Bronwyn says, keeping her eyes locked on Sparrow.
I ask Sparrow if she wants to come with us. Just as she opens her purple lips to respond, Glenda comes back inside, bringing the fresh smell of burned menthol with her.
“Dammit, girl,” she barks. “I told you to stop sitting at the desk. Get yourself back to the patient lounge.”
“Maybe next time.” Her tiny hand with its purple nails waves a cute little Sparrow wave. “Bye.”
We all mumble a goodbye, then I thank Glenda for the shoes and we leave.
“That was weird,” Bronwyn says as we make our way toward Pearl Street.
“Yeah it was,” I say. “Sorry you struck out, Dom. I tried to help.”
He laughs. “S’okay.” He holds up a crumpled piece of paper. “I got her number.”
“What difference does it make?” Bronwyn jerks her head back, and looks at Dom from the corner of her eyes. “It’s not like you’ll ever invite her over to your house or anything.”
I nudge her arm. “That’s cold, dude.” I point at the paper. “Why’s it already all crumpled up?”
“I dunno. From being in my pocket probably.”
I don’t believe him. He’s been walking with his hand in his pocket, holding tight to that little piece of paper since Sparrow gave it to him. He doesn’t have to say it, I know for right now, that scrap of paper is everything to Dom.
6. UGLY TRUTH
MOST PEOPLE ON the mall go out of their way to avoid us. We put together all the cash we have in our pockets; it doesn’t add up to enough for a night filled with LSD and cigarettes. The obvious solution is to panhandle for a few bucks more. Let the spare change of responsible strangers provide for us.
But these strangers want nothing to do with us. Each time one of us makes to approach a passerby, smiles fade. Chatter comes to an abrupt stop. Some of them act like they don’t notice us at all, but their increased pace betrays them.
We make them uncomfortable. The three of us, we’re three of the many drawbacks to hanging out on Pearl Street Mall on a Friday night. As in, “When the weather is nice, hanging out on the mall Friday and Saturday nights is a good time. The only drawbacks are the transients and the hippies. Or the druggies. The panhandlers. The hobos. The lazy, punk-ass kids.” Us.
That’s not to say we’re completely shunned.
One of the street musicians tries chatting us up. It works. His technique proves to be far better than any of the methods we’d been trying.
He ambles toward us as though he doesn’t see us, a banjo strapped to his body and a ferret on a leash tucked in the crook of his arm. On his head is an English driving cap that makes me think of the old photos I’d seen of my grandfather. His dark beard doesn’t look long or scruffy enough for someone living on the street.
When he tells us, “Oscar hasn’t eaten since yesterday,” we start putting together all the change we have between us, hoping it’ll be enough for ferret pellets or whatever the hell those things eat. It doesn’t seem to matter that we have less than twenty dollars between the three of us, that we need more money and hadn’t come all this way to buy food for some smooth-talking banjo player’s ferret.
He tells us his name is Chris. One by one, he shakes our hands, looking each one of us in the eyes as he does so.
As a thank-you, he plays a song for us. Dom rocks out and dances like a carefree idiot while the street musician cranks out a bizarre version of Iggy Pop’s “The Passenger” on his fucking banjo.
Bronwyn coos and awws at the ferret. I stand there watching all of them, thinking that this absurd scene wouldn't be any funnier even if we had found the acid before we met the banjo player.
When the song ends, I ask him why he started playing the banjo.
“It sorta called out to me. Like, it was meant to be, you know?”
“No. I don’t.” I want to understand what he means; it just doesn’t make any sense to me. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-two. Why?”
“I dunno. You look a little older. The hat, maybe. Or the beard.”
He gives me a wink. “Must be all my wisdom showing through.”
“How come you don’t work a normal, everyday sort of job?”
“Jeez, Ivy. Be a little more nosy,” Bronwyn says.
Chris laughs. “Nah, that’s cool. It's good to be curious about people.” He shrugs and plucks at his banjo. “I tried that worker bee thing. It’s just not my bag, you know? I know who I am and that ain’t it.”
Walking away, I decide that street musician is full of shit. Nothing could ever be so plain as that. No one ends up playing a banjo because it’s meant to be. Fate doesn’t send guys into the street to bum cash for ferret food and neither does an acute sense of self-awareness.
Then I recognize the feeling I have way down underneath my scoffing and head shaking. Not doubt. Not skepticism. Only cold jealousy. Nothing is my bag. Nothing ever called out to me. If it did, I’m deaf to it, or don’t know how to listen.
That’s the kind of realization that makes me too sad to speak.
7. HOLY WATER
DOMINIC REJECTS THE neo-Buddhist recruiters before they even have the chance to convince us that they’re a couple of crackpots.
“Why are you dressed so nice?” He wants to know. “If you’re Buddhist and want nothing, then why are you wearing such nice shit?”
I want to know, too, but don’t say anything. These two women nod, smile and explain how wanting does add
