Chapter Two: Runaway
After the line is gone, some volunteers supervise the cleaning of the kitchen and serving areas while others focus on breakfast preparation. A few of us walk around the dining room, interacting with guests and greeting old friends.
It's sad to me how many people come here. From all different walks of life, too. Like the Hammond family. The parents both have jobs, but still come here at the end of the month. I make an effort to normalize this as much as I can for their three kids so they don't look at these memories with shame or embarrassment when they're older.
"How's school, Kiera?" I ask the oldest child.
Kiera, a bubbly, happy child of eight, smiles at me. "Great! We just started a project on dinosaurs. I'm so excited!"
I grin. "Good! I love dinosaurs. I'm happy for you."
Beside her, the mother gives me a grateful smile as she eats.
I pass friends of all kinds. Older people on fixed incomes that haven't kept up with the rising housing costs. Young people just starting out without a penny to their names. Homeless people who are beyond grateful for the warm meal and cozy place to eat it.
When everyone starts to clear out, knowing that the dining hall will close soon, Lenny waves me over. I brace myself before I walk over to him.
"Was that your boyfriend or something?" he asks, giving me a quizzical look.
"No. Just a concerned citizen alarmed by your disrespect," I answer, raising an eyebrow.
Lenny frowns. "I get weird vibes from him."
"Well, if you work on being less vulgar, I'm sure you'll be friends," I lie. "I think he gave you a good reminder about how to talk to people, at least."
Lenny ignores this, but I know he heard me. I drift away silently, hoping he takes my words to heart.
He won't. He never does. They never do.
When the guests have retired to the rooms upstairs for bed, I check that everything is set to go in the kitchen before I decide it's safe to go home. Tia took the lunch/dinner preparation shift and has thus gone home, but I exchange smiles and greetings with some other staff members in the staff quarters as I bundle up again.
I check my phone as I walk out into the street. The bus won't be here for twenty minutes.
I decide to walk home. I can be in my studio before the bus even arrives. The exercise will be good for me. I'll stay in the streetlights to appease the inner, warning voice of my father.
I'm immediately glad I made this choice. About two blocks away from the Mission, I start to hear music. It sounds like someone is busking.
This is one of the fantastic things about living in a big city. At any given point in the day, I can listen to beautiful live music.
I draw near to the music. Whoever is playing is certainly drawing a crowd. The music is boosted by an amplifier, but it isn't loud enough to disturb residents getting ready for bed.
"How long... you leaving? Well, dad, just don't expect me back this evening..."
Ed Sheeran. "Runaway". This is one of my favorite songs of all time.
I find a spot at the singer's left side. He stands, guitar in hands, an amplifier in front of him and ancient, beat-up mics branching from an equally ramshackle mic stand to record his guitar and vocals. The whole setup is highly collapsible: the sort that can be assembled and dissembled in minutes and can't weigh more than fifty pounds total. A street musician's kit.
I recognize this man. I spot the faded diamonds, stars, and triangles on the side of his face. It's the man who yelled at Lenny.
"I've never seen my dad cry, cold as stone in the kitchen light..."
He sounds incredible. He pays the clear, soulful pitch of the original great respect by not attempting Sheeran's higher notes, likely because I've seen many artists fail to do so, but by instead bringing the whole song down in pitch so he can pay the highs and lows the attention they deserve. His guitar playing is indistinguishable from that of the professionally recorded song.
More than that, his beauty is complimented by the music he makes. The movements he makes to play his instrument and lean into the microphone show off the lean strength of his body. There's a passion on his face that glows out into the whole street.
His guitar case is open for tips. I see coins and bills already in it, but I reach into my purse to pull out my wallet. I only have a twenty, but I don't care. I toss that down in the case. He deserves it for flooring me like this. This performance is worth hundreds of dollars, in my opinion.
The best part about his performance is also the worst part. He's singing from the heart. It's like he's talking to us, out here on a cold Portland night. Telling us about an obstinate father and the difficult decision to leave him despite having nowhere else to go. It feels strangely intimate.
When I throw in the twenty, his eyes flicker up to me. He smiles at me through his singing as he ends the song. Cheers and applause ring through the group. More coins and cash are tossed into the guitar case.
"What next?" he asks. He's asking me.
I grin. ""I'm a Mess"?"
Though this isn't my favorite Sheeran song, I want to hear him sing it. It has a great vocal range to it and carries the same heartfelt honesty as "Runaway". I listen to his cover, completely enraptured. Once again, it feels like he's talking to us. Apologizing to a lover who he feels he doesn't deserve before assuring her he'll do better. Assuring her she can trust him.
He plays it, then a medley of other masterpieces from great acoustic players. Somehow, he manages to pull off a couple of Yungblud songs, despite the artist's repertoire having more of a punk/rock vibe. His creativity shines through his translation of the tracks from a multi-instrument affair to an acoustic cover.
I love Yungblud, too. When I recognize the lyrics to "Parents", I want to cry. It's one of my favorite songs of all time, and he plays it perfectly.
Others in the crowd recognize this song, too, and sing along to the chorus. Though I am not a singer, I can't stop myself from joining them.
I don't know these people. Any of them. But we stand huddled on a street corner, singing a song about how we can't live our lives according to the opinions of our parents, we are one. A single unit. A single body, a single mind, a unified heart beating to the sound of the music.
When this song ends, the man takes a bow. I join the applause with as much energy as I can muster up. The man waits for the deluge of cash to finish pouring into his case before he drags it to himself to scoop it back out. The crowd congratulates him and thanks him for his performance before dissipating.
I hang around. "That was fantastic," I tell him.
He smiles up at me, high on the praise. "Thank you."
"What's your name?" I ask, scooping up a spare quarter that didn't make it into the guitar case. I toss it into the worn red velvet of the case.
"Evan," he says as he begins packing up his equipment. "Yours?"
"Audrey," I reply. "You should know... the Mission's curfew is at nine."
He checks his watch. "Plenty of time. You aren't walking home, are you?"
"I am," I reply.
"Let me walk you?" he asks, looking up at me from his crouched position beside the case. "It's... you shouldn't be walking home alone."
I look at him, trying to figure out how best to decline, disappointed that he's being so painfully predictable. I'd thought he wasn't like the others, but I guess I stand corrected.
After a moment, he looks back down at the now-empty case. "Forget it."
"Evan-" I start apologetically.
"No, it's fine. I've heard "Polygraph Eyes"," he tells me, but his voice is hard.
This floors me. "Polygraph Eyes" by Yungblud denounces the prevalence of sexual assault, notably with the particularly succinct hook: leave it alone, mate. She doesn't want to go home with you.
I don't know what to make of his reference to the song, or his suddenly haughty attitude. He seems almost... frustrated.
"I just can't have anyone at the Mission accusing me of playing favorites," I lie lamely.
Evan looks up at me again, irritation on his face, the high from playing long-gone. "Come on, dude. Don't lie to me. You don't work there. They can't fire you." He shakes his head. "But it's okay. You don't know me. If I were you, I wouldn't want me to know where you live. It's fine."
Before I can say anything, he shoulders his equipment and heads back toward the Mission. I watch him go for a moment before I come back to my senses and start walking again.
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