The Absolute Value of Mike (5 page)

“Thanks.” I picked up my bag and walked off like I knew where I was going. All the lefts and rights were jumbled in my head and I had no idea how I was going to get there. When I got to the corner, I started to turn left.

“Hey, kid!” he shouted. “I said right turn, then two blocks and turn left! Got it?”

“Yup. Thanks. Uh . . . how many blocks again before I turn right?”

He shook his head and grabbed his shopping cart. “I'll show you—wait a minute.” He called across the street to the park. “Hey, Tresa!”

One of the moms looked over and waved.

“What time does Allegheny Power close?”

The woman looked at her watch and called back, “About five minutes ago!”

I let out a groan. “Oh, great! Now I'll never get the electricity turned on.”

“Turned on where?” he asked.

“At my great-aunt and -uncle's house.”

He examined me for a moment. “Mike?”

I stared back. “How did you know?”

He rubbed his forehead, distracted. “It's a small town.” He jerked his head in the direction of the park. “Come on over to my office. Let me see if I can help get their power back.”

I didn't see how he could help me with anything, much less getting power. Still, there was nothing else to do and I figured it was safe, what with other people in the park. I followed him as he pushed his cart across the street. The contents jiggled and clanked like a muffled load of recycling. He headed toward a park bench with a newspaper on it.

“Is that your office?” I asked.

“That? Are you kidding? Of course not.”

He walked his rattling cart behind a freshly painted green bench, took off his jacket, and draped it over the front end of the cart. “This is my office. Have a seat.” He reached over to his cart and pulled out a cell phone. “Tresa! What's Allegheny's number?”

My mouth dropped open. I'd never seen a homeless guy with a cell phone.

He looked at me and shrugged. “What? Tresa's dad used to work there, so she knows the number by heart.” He dialed and eventually got a human and, with some very choice words, demanded “crisis assistance” because of an emergency situation at 517 North Poplar with elderly people and a child they were having to care for—me, I guess—and yes, he'd accept twenty-four hours if that was all they were willing to give. He closed his phone and put it back in the cart.

“You'll need to get payment to them by the end of the day tomorrow, but at least you've got power until then.”

“Thanks. I'll take it from here.” Not that I knew how, but at least I had a grace period.

“No sweat.” He pulled at his shirt collar. “You thirsty?”

I nodded, looking around for a water fountain.

He reached behind him and pulled a bottled water out of a cooler in his cart and handed it to me.

“Wow! It's even cold!”

“Yes,” he said. “Ice has a way of doing that.” He looked at my bag. “Do you have anything perishable in there? If so, you can put it in the cooler.”

“That'd be great.” At least until I figured out what I was going to do next.

He took the bag from me and put it in his cooler. “You hungry?”

“Starving,” I said, wondering what else he had in that cooler.

Reaching into his cart, he pulled out a brown paper bag. “Take one.”

I wasn't sure I even wanted to look in the bag, never mind eat anything that was in there. “I—I don't want to take your food. I mean, what if you want it later?”

But he practically shoved the bag into my hands. “People give me more than I can eat. You're welcome to whatever you want.”

My stomach was growling at the mention of food, so I opened the bag, relieved to see prepackaged bars inside, all pretty boring looking except for a bright Twinkie package that stood out from the rest. I hadn't had one of those since . . . probably preschool or kindergarten. I remember my mom packing me a special snack and it had a Twinkie in it. I took it, almost reverently, and handed him back the bag.

“What!” He grabbed the Twinkie from me, his eyes wide, fixed first on the Twinkie, then on me.

“Okay, okay! I'll pick something else.”

He didn't answer but ran with the Twinkie like it was on fire, reaching an overflowing trash can on the corner and stuffing it far inside, as if smothering it. His eyes blinked rapidly as he walked back.

“I thought you said I could have anything.”

He shook his head. “I don't know how that piece of trash got in there.”

“I would've eaten it!” My mouth was still watering for it.

“I know. That's why I tossed it. I'm saving your life.”

“What, it's a killer Twinkie?”

His piercing eyes narrowed. “Partially hydrogenated fats. You eat them, you'll die an early death. I never let them pass my lips.”

How could a homeless guy be so picky? “So what do you eat?”

“I like a nice piece of fresh trout with just a touch of lemon butter, some organic broccoli, and maybe a little brown rice, but I could probably make do without the rice.”

I stared at him. He was as crazy as Poppy and Moo. Now he was grimacing at his hands.

“Can you get me my hand sanitizer?” he asked.

“Uh . . . sure. Where is it?”

“In my cart. Where else would it be?”

I saw a large bottle of hand sanitizer, but I didn't grab it right away because I was curious about what else was in his cart. Mostly it was boxes and coolers, but there were also stacks of brochures covered with plastic bags so I couldn't read what any of them said. I didn't see any clothes or a sleeping bag or stuff that you'd think a homeless person would need to live on. Where did he sleep? Or take a shower? Or go to the bathroom? I always wondered that about homeless people.

“Any time you're ready,” he said, holding his palms out flat in front of me.

I was still holding the brown paper bag that used to have the Twinkie, but with my other hand I squirted some goop into his palms, which he proceeded to rub together furiously.

“Okay,” he said, taking the ex-Twinkie bag from me and rummaging in it for a moment. “Here.” He handed me some sort of dark brown bar. “It's low glycemic, high protein, nice amount of fiber.”

He was staring at me, so I had to open it and take a bite.

“How is it?”

“Kind of . . . cement-ish,” I answered, my mouth working hard on chewing.

His mouth twitched almost into a smile. “Keep it moving, then, so it doesn't harden.”

“Thanks . . . what's your name?”

“Just call me Past.” He put the bag back in his cart.

“Past?”

“It's a nickname. So why are you here, Mike?”

“I told you. I was looking for the power company.”

He tilted his head and stared at me. He had big brown eyes that looked kind, knowing, even sympathetic. His voice was soft. “No, I mean, what's your story?”

“My story?”

“Everybody's got one.” He gave a little smile, not to me in particular, more like he was remembering something that was kind of happy but kind of sad, too. That rock-star image of him came to mind again, but it was of a serious rock star like Bono, who went around saving starving children and doing good stuff like that. “So, Mike, what's your story?”

I don't know why—maybe I was tired, maybe the heat was making me delirious, maybe it felt good to have someone to talk to—but I spilled my guts. About crazy Moo. Poppy, the wax figure. Felix, the dead cat clock. Tyrone, the dead car. Trying to get the electricity turned back on so we could get working on a special project, but the garage, excuse me,
workshop
was dead. And about how critical this project was but how I wasn't even sure it was going to happen. Which really sucked because that pretty much ruined my high school career and maybe the rest of my life. It was the kind of story that would've been embarrassing to tell anyone except a homeless person.

Past nodded and was quiet for a while. “You know why Poppy's like that, right?” Past started blinking fast. “Doug—his son—died.”

“I know, and no offense, but it's not like Doug was a kid. He was already an old man.”

“True, but I suspect Poppy is remembering Doug as a boy and feeling guilty about a lot of things. Poppy was one of those old-fashioned dads who didn't interact much with his son. Do you know the type?”

“Yeah,” I said. I knew the type, all right. “Still, Poppy needs to snap out of it.”

Past stared at me, still blinking, his voice grim. “It's not that easy.”

“I'm not saying it's easy, but look at Moo. She's not sitting around like a vegetable while someone else does everything for her.” The more I thought about Poppy, the more he reminded me of Dad. I wished there were some way to contact him. I had to get some money for Moo. Wait! “Past! Can I borrow your cell phone? I need to get in touch with my dad.”

“Sure.” He reached into his cart and pulled it out.

I tried calling Dad's cell, unsure if it worked over in Romania, but I got his voice mail and left a message to send money fast. In case he didn't check messages, which he often didn't—I usually had to leave several before he answered—I also sent a text. There was so much to say, I didn't know where to begin, so I just went with the bare essentials.

I handed the phone back to Past. “Thanks.”

“No problem. I'll call Moo when I hear from your dad.”

“Moo's phone isn't working.”

“What about her cell?”

I gave him a give-me-a-break look.

“Not working, either? Well, check back with me here, then. I'm usually in my office. I spend the nights here, too.” He said it so matter-of-factly, like he was one of those big law firm attorneys who work around the clock. Except his office was a park bench.

He stood up. “We should get you back to Moo. She may be starting to worry.”

I got up, too, and watched as he picked his jacket up off the cart and put it on. I was stunned that he would want to wear a jacket when it was still so hot. But I was even more stunned to see what was now visible on the front of the cart where his jacket had been draped. It was a photo. Of a boy. Who looked just like me.

—a factor that two or more numbers share

 

 

C
ute kid, huh?” Past said as I continued to stare at the photo.

I nodded. Piercing eyes. Like mine. Pale brown hair, what there was of it that you could see, because he had an almost-buzz cut. His mouth was open just a little, like he was trying to smile, enough to show a missing front tooth. And he was wearing my shirt.

“That's my T-shirt,” I finally managed to say.

“I sincerely doubt that,” Past said.

“It is! It's my Buzz Lightyear shirt!”

“Uh-huh,” Past said, not sounding convinced.

I couldn't take my eyes off the photo. “And he looks just like me.”

“He looks nothing like you.”

“He's wearing my shirt! And—and he's got a tooth missing in front! Just like I had!”

“He's six, Mike. Every six-year-old has front teeth missing.”

“True. But still, that's my shirt! Or it used to be. I had one just like that.”

“Given that Buzz Lightyear is a Disney character, I would wager that there was more than one made in the world.”

“Yeah, but—”

“And this boy lives in Romania, so—”

“Romania? That's where my dad is! And that's where my shirt went! I think.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, Sasha's—my friend's—church collects old clothes and sends them to eastern Europe. The kids' clothes go to orphanages. That's my shirt! I mean, think about it, how many Buzz Lightyear T-shirts could there be in eastern Europe?”

“Oh, I don't know . . . hundreds?”

“No! That one's probably mine.”

I heard a gasp from Past. I looked at him. His eyes were wide. Finally, he was seeing the significance. Then he let out a yell. “Look out!”

He grabbed me and pulled me behind the cart.

Tyrone came barreling up on the sidewalk near the bench and jerked to a halt.

I felt Past release his grip. “It's okay.” He exhaled. “She stopped.”

“There you are, Mike!” Moo called, getting out of Tyrone. “I've been looking all over for you.”

“Moo! How did you get gas?”

Moo clutched Junior and grinned. “I siphoned some out of Poppy's car. Don't tell him! But I had good news, so I just had to come find you.” She pulled two envelopes out of Junior's outside pocket. “Look! My next-door neighbor admitted that she was—uh—
borrowing
my Oprah magazine that was put in her mailbox by mistake. I can't blame her. Who doesn't want to read
O
? But then she found our Social Security checks inside the magazine and came running over. So now we can pay the bills! The bank and the electric company are closed, but if we hurry, we might get to the phone company in time and we can talk to them about getting service back.” She turned to Past, who was handing me my Shop 'n Save bag from his cooler. “Would you like to come with us, dear?”

Past took a step backward. “No. Thanks. Listen, are you sure you should be driving? You look a little . . . tired.”

Moo glared at him. “Of course I look tired. That's perfectly normal when you're old as the hills. Goodness, most people my age are dead!” She grabbed my arm. “Come on, now, Mike, hop in!”