The Guy With the Suitcase (Once Upon a Guy #1) (10 page)

“That’s so cool, man. I’m vegan. Or was. Before. You know,” Pierce told him, thinking back to the same noon, and him talking to Rafe about it. Funny thing, coincidences.

“Awesome. Then you’ll definitely enjoy the food here. Almost everything on the list is available as a vegan option,” Vance raised his chest a bit.

Pierce shook his head. “I don’t think I can afford these prices”.

Vance chortled. “Staff eats free, you idiot. Boy, you really are inexperienced,” Vance exclaimed.

You don’t even know half of it
, Pierce thought. “That’s amazing”.

“God! Get away from me, you sicko,” the driver said, putting his car in slow motion and stopping at the next rentboy.

Rafe couldn’t blame him. Ever since yesterday, when he fell on the ground, he had got so sick it was killing him. He imagined he caught something off the dirty sidewalk that made him ill because he was feverish, his back constantly running cold sweat. His face, having checked at a rearview mirror of a parked car, was pale, and black circles had formed under his eyes.

He needed a place to stay. He couldn’t stay out on the streets. He would surely die and he didn’t know if anyone would care enough to remove his body from wherever it was found. The subway would probably make him worse, infested with more bacteria than a quarantined ICU. His only option was sleeping with a guy, but who would pick a sickly boy to sleep with without thinking he was going to pass on whatever he had? He couldn’t spend any more money on a hostel. If he did, the meds he so desperately needed, and the lack of which had brought him to his current state, would be even further away from his grasp than they were originally. He needed to make money quick. He needed to get better even quicker. And it was such crap that one relied upon the other to happen.

That guy had been the fourth person to reject him, and with every no, his knees gave way a bit more to the gravity pulling them down. He decided to reach out to some of the other boys on the street. He walked car by car, supporting himself on their surface and reached the nearest boy. He was not much older than Rafe, but he was wearing a cap, a black chiffon top, and ripped jeans. He was also chewing gum.

“Excuse me, dude,” Rafe called out to him, and seeing him, the guy stepped backward, putting his arms in between them.

“Hey, dude, don’t come any closer. I don’t want whatever it is you’ve got,” he screeched, his face a disgusted mask of porcelain. The guy was wearing foundation.

Rafe nodded. “Okay, sorry. Just wanted to ask you if you know any hospitals that help homeless people,” he said, his voice wavering to obscurity at points.

“Nah, I’m not homeless. I wouldn’t know,” he replied, chewing his gum with much more confidence now that he felt unthreatened by Rafe.

Rafe walked away, back into the main street, trying to desperately come up with a solution to his problem. He sat down on a step of a building landing and looked around, forcing his brain to work to his advantage and not against him. He’d been around, talked to people about shelters and all the crap, why couldn’t he remember any of it? The only place that was coming to his mind was the bed he had left behind in Queens. The sweet comfort of his bedroom, surrounded by all his things. And the warmth of his
madre
’s hands rubbing the Vaporub on his chest and making her
caldo de pollo
, both to get him better in no time. And it always worked. Because the amount of love she’d put into it would be enough to replace all the drugs in the world. But that haven was no longer accessible. Not to him. Even though the room stayed vacant and his mom’s heart full of affection for her only child.

He opened his eyes only to be hit by blurs. The sky was darker and the streets less busy. He’d passed out, not sure for how long, but he was certain he had. He felt disoriented. For a second, he’d even forgotten where he was.

Harlem. A little over a half hour from his house in Queens, if he took a cab. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to face his
padre
or the consequences his
madre
would suffer for wanting to take him in, but he also needed her. He needed her desperately. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to break his mother’s heart by leaving her alone in this world.

The need to see his mother, to survive, to get better, won over stubborness and fear. He hailed a cab and gave the driver his destination, before passing out on the backseat again.

A blinding light woke him and an angry voice penetrated his ears. “Hey, wake up. We’re here.” Rafe rubbed his eyes and inspected his surroundings. Only two doors down was the blue door with number 46. The door to his house. Only two doors down was the sanctity of motherhood and the safety of his bedroom.

He looked at the driver who was checking him out with an aggressive frown. He certainly thought Rafe was a druggie having overdosed. He was sure of it. He tried to compose himself as much as his illness and the ache in his bones allowed him and went through the notes in his rucksack. Hopefully, he’d make the money back in no time. As soon as his
mamá
’s
caldo de pollo
and love healed him.

He threw the notes at the driver and exited the vehicle.

He stumbled to the door of his house and buzzed the communicator that read ‘Arena-Santos’. He waited, leaning his whole body on the wooden frame of the door and dumbing down all his other senses to focus on his hearing. He was trying to predict the chances they would answer, the chances they were both off at work, or the chances that both were inside, and how they would react to being visited by their sick son.

“Hello,” came a cracked voice from the communicator and he recognized his
mamá
, his protectress, and it gave him chills. It felt like he had called her on the phone like he did every day of the week, only this time she was finally going to get a reply.

And Rafe was prepared to give it, but he paused. He chickened out. He opened his mouth, but no words were forming. His head pulsed and his temples pushed inwards reminding him that he didn’t have much choice in the matter. If he wanted to live, he had to talk.

“
Mamá
,” he croaked, “it’s me.”

She didn’t reply. A click was heard and then the communicator’s white noise deafened his ear, giving him no other sounds to divulge, until the entrance door opened and his
madre
, in a dressing gown, a mix of panic and fear in her face, appeared. She moaned when she took him in her arms and put his head on her chest.

“
Que pasó
, Rafael? What’s wrong?” she asked him with her distinct, flavored accent.

Rafe struggled to make his words audible when he said: “I’m sick,
mamá
. I’m--,” he coughed and continued, “help me. Please.”

“
Dios mio, mi chulo
, come inside,” she wailed and helped him up a flight of stairs to the second floor.
 

She pushed number 4 open and Rafe was attacked by a multitude of emotions and memories residing his humble house.

She immediately put him on the couch and rushed in the kitchen, where Rafe could hear cupboards banging open and shut already. His mother was at work. A healer prepared to save a life. A
bruja
concocting potions to cure her precious son. Rafe couldn’t stand the warmth that encompassed him. It made him feel as much alive as at peace, that his eyes felt heavy until it was a struggle to even try and keep them open.

Cayenne and cumin mixed with the smell of cooked chicken invaded his nostrils, waking him from his deep slumber. When he opened his eyes he felt his throat coarse and his brain fuzzy. He felt as if he’d been sleeping by a fireplace for hours, but there was no heat anywhere close to him, and the hours turned out to be minutes. His mother was sat where his legs were laid, holding a red bowl, the steam of which was giving ambiance to the room as it waved in front of her.

“
Mamacita
,” he pronounced with difficulty, a scratch in his throat preventing a clearer diction.

She shushed him, massaging his feet with the gentle fingers of one hand. “Here, drink this, baby,” she passed him the red bowl and he sat up on the couch and sipped the hot soup.

He felt its therapeutic elements going to work at once. His fever didn’t bother him as much after a gulp, and his throat cleared after a few more. He could feel the color returning to his face as the fever backtracked, giving him some rest, finally.

“Just like I remember it,
mamacita
,” he commented with a satisfactory smile on his face.

“What’s going on, Rafael? Why are you so sick?” she asked him, her voice wavering off-key.

“I think I caught something yesterday when I fell on the street. And since I’m not on my meds, it is much worse than for a normal, healthy person,” he told her, stressing everything that wasn’t right with him. Her eyes looked away and on the floor at his explanation.
 

When he realized she wasn’t going to give him anything, he asked. “Where is
papá
?”

“Work. He’s doing night shifts this week,” she replied.

Rafe murmured to himself. “So we got another five to six hours to stay.”

His mother snapped her eyes back to her son, looking annoyed. “You will stay for as long as you want. I’m not going to let him kick his sick son out on the streets,” she said.

Rafe’s face was covered in a deep smile. His gaze, however, was not set on his
mamá
anymore, but the blanket she had covered him with. He was going to make it after all. He was a lucky, — and poor, surely — bastard. While he was getting in a daze between sleep and consciousness again, she put a thermometer in his mouth and he held it there with his teeth. Then seconds later, she was rubbing Vaporub on his chest. Just before he passed out he saw his mother take the thermometer and checking it with a satisfying smile on her face.
 

Yep, he was going to be just fine.

***

He awoke to the abrupt, heaving voice of his
padre
shouting in his ear and before he could react, in any sort of way, his forearm was crushed by his
padre
’s
fist as he pulled him from under the blanket and forced him on his feet, bringing a definite end to his rest.

In an instant, he was washed with the clear image of his
padre.
Past memories washed his brain anew. His salt-and-pepper facial hair as aggressive as the wrinkles at the end of his eyes. His mustache, a heavy coat on his top lip. And of course, nothing beat the memory of his
papá
’s
assaulting voice that echoed through walls, stone or paper-thin.

“But Andreas, he’s sick,” his
mamacita
begged his
padre
, pulling at his sleeve.

He jerked his head towards her and his eyes did the talking before any of the words. “
Cállate
, Eva. I will not have
un anómalo
in my house, infesting it with his disease. Especially one who is unappreciative of all I’ve offered him, changing his crapped-up pants, paying to put a roof over his head and some clothes on his back and bread on the table, and who’s wasted all my money on being
un artista
.
Un homosexual. Una basura.
Let him get what’s coming to him,” he said, spitting out the words as he uttered them.

“
Basura, padre? Basura?
So all this time you’ve been paying for my crap, have I meant nothing to you? Am I just trash now? Is your dying son
una basura
?”

His
padre
didn’t reply. Instead, he hurled forward, his arm raising up above him and bringing it down with force on the side of Rafe’s head. Rafe’s knees wavered, but he stood his ground as the person who had given life to him assaulted him with words as much as actions. Rafe’s eyes instinctively turned to his
madre
. She was standing still, a few feet behind his
padre
, looking passively at the scene, hand covering her mouth as if she couldn’t take in the view.

“You—you said you wouldn’t let him do this to me again. Not this time,” Rafe stuttered, the force of his
padre
’s strikes making his voice falter and his hands attempting to create a shield between the two.

His
madre
looked him straight in the eye when she gave her reply. “Maybe if you listened to your
papá,
Rafael, things would get better for you.”

Rafe wailed when his dad slapped him in the ear so hard, all he could hear was a whistling noise.

“Andreas!” his
mamá
snapped at her husband.

He exhaled and planted a slap in her left cheek, then turned back to Rafe and grabbed him from his shirt, lifting it up and pushing him towards the door.

“Come back here when you’ve become
un
hombre
again. I won’t have your sickness in this house,
maricón
.” He opened the door and continued forcing him out of the way, down the stairs, his
mamá
following close behind.

“
Tu no eres mi padre, pendejo
,” Rafe cursed when they finally reached the main door and the young man was reunited with the winter weather.

“And you are not my son,” he replied.

Rafe’s eyes reddened. He hadn’t meant what he said when he did — he had only been trying to pull some humanity out of him, some of the paternity that he was hiding deep, deep down inside. He didn’t anticipate his
padre
disowning him, but it made sense when it happened. Everything fell into place.