simplerich

The lines had formed outside the high limestone walls of the stadium early that morning. As the day progressed, and the sun climbed higher in the clear blue sky, the parking lot filled with cars and pick-up trucks as pre-game tailgate parties got underway. Scattered throughout the now full parking lot, next to the light poles that rose from yellow cement bases were steel drums used as waste cans. Sitting in the shadow of one of these cans, leaning against the still cool cement base of a light, between two mini vans, was a small, dirty, figure. He was dressed in a pair of faded Wrangler jeans, almost black on the thighs from constantly ‘cleaning’ his hands on them. he didn’t wear a shirt, and the smudges of dirt and grime seemed almost to have stained his deeply tanned skin. Thin arms lay limply by his sides, leaving his hands idly sweeping back and forth across the pebbles and grin on the ground.

“Jim, look over there.” a loud whisper from the boys right hissed. “That boy’s a runaway. He’s just got to be. Did you lock the car?”

“Yes,” was the bored reply, “I locked the car, and could you not point? You don’t know he’s on the run, maybe he’s here for the game.” The voices kept moving towards the gates that were now letting people in for the first game of the season. The television vans had gotten here earlier, driving right past the boy.

An engine was idling near by, it had stopped moving in front of him. Slowly, warily, the boys face rose from its study of the pavement between his legs to see a brown truck with a sizable dent in the door stopped in front of him.

The man in the truck, elbow propped on the window, reached over and turned the radio down. “Hey kid, can you show me the way to some fast food? I’m here from out of town; just dropped my boy off to see the game, and I’m starved.”

His accent was thick enough to identify him as an out of towner. A thick southern like the fat guy in the white suit in old re-runs of The Dukes of Hazard. The boy just shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.
“Awh, come on! You can tell ole Tom. All I want is something to eat, nothing fancy.” The door opened, creaking loudly from the dent near the bottom hinge. A syrupy, dishonest smile was smeared across the good ole boy’s face like mayonnaise on a sandwich, thick and dripping The boy tried to get up, scrambling back against the base of the light pole, old Nikes trying to gain purchase but failing. Fear was as plainly on the dirty face as ‘hunger’ was on ole Tom’s.

A strong meaty hand wrapped around the boy’s thin wrist and pulled him close to the man, another covered his nose and mouth so he could neither breath nor yell for help. Not that yelling for help was an option the twelve year old had.

“You’re comin’ with me, and if you don’t fight, you don’t get hurt, understand?” The boy nodded, chest heaving as he tried to breathe. Slowly, almost gently, the man moved his hand down the boys face so he could breathe through his nose.

Explosively the boy’s free elbow slammed back into his attackers groin, meeting the resistance of something soft and vulnerable. The man screamed and doubled over, loosing his grip the instant the pain first him and the sickness - waves of nausea began to wash over him.

The boy broke free and ran, dodging between parked cars while ole Tom left his breakfast between the two mini vans. It was several minutes before he was able to straighten up enough to sit, gingerly, behind the wheel of his truck and drive off angry. Angry enough that if he ever saw that angelic face again he’d run it down, smashing it into the pavement.

Two blocks from the stadium, in an abandoned church the boy lay on the cool floor, in the multicolored light of one of the stained glass window, chest heaving, panting fro breath. he could hear his heartbeat as the blood pounded through his ears. He felt his pulse in a scrape on his knee where he had fallen in his headlong flight from the man and his truck. No one knew of his hiding place here, in the church. he always came and left through the basement door around in the back. It wasn’t visible from any direction, except directly behind the church, and that was the tall blank wall of a warehouse.

If they found him it’d be back to the foster home, or more probably the orphanage, it wasn’t easy to find foster parents willing to take on a mute that tended to run as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

Several hours later, hunger prompted him to venture, cautiously, out into the parking lot to look for hot dogs and popcorn on the ground or in the waste cans. The tailgate parties before the games were always sources of excess, as were the people leaving the game. Everyone bought too much inside, or they brought it and weren’t allowed to take it in the gates. Both were fine with the hungry runaway rummaging through the game schedules and discarded Coke cups for boxes half full of popcorn. He liked the salt.