The Guy With the Suitcase (Once Upon a Guy #1) (2 page)

Rafe walked past the busy streets of Times Square feeling breathless and unhinged. He hated begging at the horrible place, but every dime counted in his situation. It wasn’t enough, however. A count of the change in his hand told him so. It was never enough. It was only a supplement to make up for the hot cocoas he bought during the day. He always had to go north at the end of each day and make more.

Not everyone who occupied the streets of this crowded town chose to make money that way, but then again not every one of them had the appeal a skinny latino boy had on older men. Some were ugly, old fucks, reeking of alcohol, too lost in their addiction to do anything about it, only beg for more booze. Some were too proud to sleep with people for shelter and cash. Some were just hypocrites, begging in rags during the day and being driven around town in limos in the evening.

Rafe had seen them all, met them all. Besides the fake ones, there were three kinds of homeless people in New York City; the old junkies, the new junkies and the faggots. Rafe was lucky to only belong in the one category. He wasn’t going to put anything in his body to make him a dead man walking, he was hopeless enough as it was.
 
His
madre
needed him and he wasn’t going to let her down by dying aged twenty. Not if he could help it.

Oh, how he missed her. He hadn’t seen her in months, but he had heard her voice almost daily. He would call her every day at 4 p.m.. When he knew she would be at home and his
padre
still at work. He never spoke to her, just listened to her voice answering the phone.

Thinking of his
madre
and trying to escape the hectic streets, if only for a while, had brought him to a side of Central Park where a young man was washing a piece of clothing. He looked annoyed, straining his sweater over a spigot of running water and mumbling something between his teeth. His torso was exposed to the cool night. He was fit. Muscles were as thick as both Rafe’s arms together and his chest pumped full with nerves. His ribs, a swoon-worthy sight. His hair was dark, but wherever the light touched them appeared ginger.

He noticed a small, rectangle leather suitcase. Brown in color and full of stickers faded from wear. What was a homeless man doing with a vintage suitcase like that in the middle of Central Park? Had he stolen the bag? And if he had, what did the bag hold that was so important? Perhaps it contained money, the money he needed to survive. The money Rafe needed to survive. If it was stolen already, then stealing it himself wouldn’t hurt anyone. He watched the man as he opened the suitcase and pulled a black t-shirt out of it, closing it up again. While he was putting it on, he found his opportunity. His feet initiated the run before he could stop himself and think twice. In all the months that he had been homeless, he had never stolen something of value. Never until now.

While the man was still busy putting on the tee, Rafe grabbed the suitcase handle, squeeze his hand around it, and sped away from the spigot. The darkness of the park gave him cover, but he continued to run through pathways and past trees until he felt safe enough to stop. He put the suitcase down and flipped the clasps open. Before he had a chance to lift the flap and sneak a peek at what was inside, though, he felt the sting of pain in between his shoulder blades and collapsed on the ground next to the bag, gasping for breath.

The young guy and owner of the suitcase appeared in front of him with a swift kick in the stomach. “You, stupid motherfucker. I’ve had enough for one night. You got me? Take your disgusting hands away from my stuff,” he said and lifted his foot, preparing a second attack at the perpetrator. Rafe turned to face him and put his hands in between himself and the man.

“Sorry, dude. I really need the money,” he said with a single breath.

The man picked his suitcase and kicked Rafe’s knees lightly. “And I don’t? Do I look like I’m the fucking Queen of England?” he growled, swearing incoherently.

“I’m sorry, okay? I don’t know what else to say. Just...” Rafe took a deep breath, swallowing the pain in before he continued, “just stop beating me, okay?”

The man looked down at him, inspected his face and then spat on the ground next to him. “Fuck you,” he cursed and walked away, leaving Rafe utterly humiliated, lying on the ground, assessing his sores and his would-be bruises. The sounds of the city drowned as he came to the realization of what he’d just done. “
Éstupido
,” he said to himself slapping the tarmac under him. He wasn’t so much upset that he’d attempted to steal a suitcase, but that he’d got caught, and beaten for it.

He decided to stop feeling sorry for himself and continue his journey. He got up, dusted the pride off him, and marched out of the park and up to Harlem, following Manhattan Avenue up to Morningside Park. A little over 110th was his usual spot.

He reached the under-lit street where a couple of black boys were bending their miniature bodies to accentuate their best features and get one of the good businessmen to spend their Hamiltons and Jacksons on their asses. Rafe never had to do anything of the sorts. He just had to lean back on one of the cars and talk to the drivers. What most of them rentboys didn’t understand yet, was that these guys were everyday people, perhaps lonely, perhaps shy, or not confident enough in their skin who still wanted to feel the carnal pleasures of sex. They weren’t billionaires who wanted a boy-toy.
 
Rafe had quickly picked that up. He was a smart guy, perhaps not science-worthy or an excellent mathematician, but he had street smarts, a much-needed skill if you were homeless.

In addition to his smarts, Rafe was a naturally charming kid. He was skinny, yes, but also relatively short, so his lack of weight didn’t look unnatural. He had a good round butt that was visible through any clothing he wore, and he tried to change outfits at least once a week, buying from thrift stores and discarding his old clothes. He didn’t have any body muscle anywhere else but his butt, but his skin was smooth like milk chocolate and his hair trimmed military short. His eyebrows were black and thick and he loved that feature on his face. It added a touch of masculinity to his rather effeminate appearance.
 

But his hands? His hands did all the work whenever a guy was considering picking him up. They had never failed him. He had never been ditched for someone else. His hands were all over the guy before he had even decided. He would rub the driver’s window until the guy put his elbow out at which point he would drive his hand up and down their shoulder, gently, softly, fingers dancing ethereally and no matter if they wore a t-shirt or a suit, none could resist the feelings the delicate action awoke in them.

Rafe left his “competition” to their business and he relaxed against a van parked at the street. He rubbed his scalp and taking a deep breath felt the soreness on his back from where the guy had hit him. He hoped it wouldn’t get in the way of his job. He was about to find out, as a car stopped in front of him. Rafe had deducted that as soon as he relaxed work would find him. He had also decided to add a tiny bit of sensuality to his movements and bam! He was in business. It worked every time.

When the car window rolled down, Rafe got to work. It was getting too cold to be sleeping in Central Park and getting beaten by handsome homeless guys.

The chill of early morning tugged Pierce’s limp body, waking him up before the sun’s rays did. He rubbed his eyes with dead cold fingers. It felt invigorating on his sleepy face. Much preferable to washing it with ice water. He rested his palm on his eyes and let it refresh them in what little way it could. It almost felt welcoming.

Cold was stupid like that. It could send you to shivers, making you think you were gonna die of it, but once you got used to it, it was almost comfortable. Almost being the keyword.

His body was stiff. He decided to stretch his muscles and revitalize his bones by doing a little jog around the park before commute started in the busy streets of New York. He walked down 7
^th
and squatted down at Times Square subway station. He took a small cardboard out of his suitcase and held it next to him as he waited for people’s generosity to strike.

Sure enough, in a matter of few minutes, suits and arrogance hit the streets as everyone had to be somewhere, anywhere but the streets, which, however, never seemed to empty, not even after dark. But of course, that was something to be expected in the city that never sleeps. He earned nothing from the office people who didn’t have enough time to waste on a lower being like Pierce.

But soon, the tourists ascended, filling the square with all the cultural clichés that one could possibly find in one place. And naturally, the mascots that everyone loved to hate sure appeared, looking to cash in on another day’s work.

Pierce was jealous. He was jealous of everyone that had a job, a place to be. An occupation that gave you a purpose, or a sense of it, anyway. Sure, being a waiter for all his life wasn’t his idea of a good life, he had worked on campus, when he was still in college, and had grown accustomed to the hopelessness that ensued a job of that calibre, but he would exchange that hopelessness for the one lingering inside of him every day he spent waking up without purpose.

Reminiscing a life once comfortable was such a pastime sitting there on the pavement, waiting for people’s charity, that he didn’t notice when a kid started staring at him, tugging his mom’s hand to draw their attention to him.

“Mommy, can we help this boy? He’s got no home,” he said.

The mother turned, and in her city daze was at first dumbfounded as to why her son found Pierce so interesting, but then her eyes trailed to the sign next to him. “My family kicked me out for being gay. Now I have no home. Please help me get back on my feet.” Her eyes hardened as she reached the end of the last sentence and then looked at her son, a boy probably of eleven years, dressed in pink converse and large clothes on his petite frame.

“Sure we can, sweetie.” She reached for her bag just as the apparent father caught up with his family. He asked them what they were doing.

There it was. Pierce was certain, now the father was there, they would all walk away, intimidated by the patriarch’s refusal to help a homeless fag. He’d seen that look a few times. A macho, big guy, with dark features and even grimmer expression shooing people away from the sinner. This dad fitted the profile.

Having all that in his mind, Pierce didn’t say anything to them, waiting for the outcome, which was why he was shocked when the father leaned in and said in the kindest voice he had ever heard come out of a man his size. “You okay, fella? Can I get you something to eat?”

Pierce couldn’t believe he was awake. He had nothing to say. All words had abandoned his brain. He only managed to nod and watch as the guy walked to the nearest food stand. He came back and handed him a couple of paper boats full of food. Pierce took them in his hands, replying with a quiet thanks. And just as he thought they were done with him, the woman knelt down and passed him a few bills, squeezing his hand tight.

“Here. Get yourself a hostel for the night. I wish I could do more,” she whispered to him, eyes trailing towards where her son stood behind her.

“You can,” he told her and her eyes widened at his response. “You love your son?” She nodded. “Make sure he knows it,” he complete, throwing a glance at the boy.

The mother’s eyes reddened before she gave his hand another gentle squeeze and got up resuming their journey.

He stayed in Times Square for a few more hours, saving the second boat of food for when his hunger hit him again. He loathed the taste of meat on his palate, but being homeless, he couldn’t accommodate his veganism when he didn’t know when his next meal would be, or whom it would come from. He would do that the first few days of being homeless when people offered to buy him some food and they would eye him wearily when he appeared picky or resistant to accepting a burger.

Another thing about living on the streets was that hunger was a constant enemy he had to battle. Surely, the first few weeks were hard to get used to, when his body was constantly complaining about not being fed every three hours like he used to do when he was in college. Slowly, his stomach got accustomed to a meal a day and learned to appreciate it for what it was. That didn’t, however, mean that the brain ever stopped craving and reminding him what he was missing out on. As if it wasn’t enough that the food odors coming from all sorts of restaurants could make his mouth salivate, his mind would make him lose awareness of his surroundings in order to introduce another imaginary dish into his fantasy.

Some more people stopped to give him some change. He had found out that if people saw him with food while he was begging, they were more likely to stop and give him their quarters. Not if he was eating, though. That seemed to have a worse result than if he was shooting heroin up his arm. He guessed people liked to see a beggar buy food with his money, but seeing one eat, they thought he didn’t need any more and might spend whatever they spared on drugs.

That was another yet thing about being homeless. People constantly assumed he did drugs. It didn’t matter if his eyes were white and clear, or if he wore t-shirts with unpunctured skin, the homeless-drug-use correlation affected everyone. Which was why he would curse every time he saw one of his “homies” do illegal substances in front of the public. They were ruining everyone’s chances of getting some money. Sure, the majority did drugs, or ended up doing them to survive the mental demons that crept up in them when living on the streets, but there were some, like Pierce, who didn’t have any affiliation to any drug of any form. Before he’d been left to die on the streets, he’d been studying nutrition and fitness. He’d actually kill himself before he touched those horrible, mind-numbing things.