Chucks

She was staring at her shoes.

They were Chucks, beat up old things; hightops, black, with poetry written on the rim.

She glanced over at my shoes.

They were also Chucks, brand new; lowtops, white, with my initals written on the toes.

She looked back at her own shoes and then out ahead of us, at the road. She never said a word, not the whole time we sat there, not even when she psychoanalyzed our shoes.

"I'm sure he'll be here any minute now," I told her, pushing back my hair in a swift motion, standing up and staring down the road as if I could see his car now, just turning 'round the corner. "Sure, sure," she said, nodding, looking back down at her shoes. Those were the first words she'd said to me all day, not including "Morning". I stared at her for a moment and then looked back down the road, squinting my eyes to see, with the sun shining right at me. "Any idea where we'll be going?" I ask her, scuffing the road with my shoes and taking into account the way she takes into account the black marks now contaminating my once-perfect white Chuck Taylors. She shrugs and plays with the latch of the suitcase she's resting on. I squint at her now, and finally say, "Boy, you sure don't say a heck of a lot, do ya?" She looks up at me, slight amusement showing on her squinted eyes, "Naw, not much."

"I wonder how that'll be."

"Whaddaya mean?"

"I mean livin' with Paul and you, your being so gosh darn quiet all the time, and all." She grins, finally, at this. "It'll be swell, I'm sure. Not much disturbin' I can do to the two of ya if I'm quiet all the time, is there?" Kid's got a point, there. One time, Paul brought in this homeless kid Joan, and she'd come in danglin' her cigs and tappin' the ashes out all over everything, and she'd tell you these long, rambling stories about hardly anything at all that would leave you exhausted; by the time you reached the end. Paul's that type, see. He's always gotta be helpin' someone or other, and we travel so darn much, he can't join any of those fancy helpin'-people groups or nothin', nor do we have the kind of cash to be just givin' it out, ya know, so he just takes people in– which makes no sense, really, seein' as we never own the places he lets people stay at, and we're only there long enough to take 'em in long enough to bother the Dickins out of me; rather than actually makin' any sorta change in the person's life. At least they get a roof over their heads for a while, though, and food in their mouths. I guess that's all Paul really wants– to give 'em that.

This girl isn't like Joan, though, or most of the others we've let in– certainly nothin' like Cane, the last guy who stayed with us. Boy, was he a fruitcake. He could really drive ya nuts, that guy. I'm pretty sure he oughta be in one o' them institutions, or somethin' of the like. I was honest real scared some nights; I never left my bedroom door unlocked. One day, though, he just up and disappeared. And this girl here, Cathryn, her name is, she was the next recruit.

She's the first one ever to move with us. People usually like to stay put, though I can't imagine why, if they ain't got a house or a job or nothin' in the area. Even if they wanna move, though, they usually don't wanna come with us. We go all sorts of strange places, and even the homeless have standards, I guess.

Not this girl, though. She's been with Paul three weeks now (I had to visit my mom, see, so I only just met her today)– not too much, but we've been awful busy, and so we're moving now, even though Paul usually likes to stay in one place for a month at least– he thinks any less doesn't count as real charity, isn't really helpful to our boarder. But we really needed to get movin', this time, and when Paul regretfully told Cathryn this, she shrugged and asked if she could come with us.

I honest thought Paul was into her, when he first brought her home. She's real pretty, is the thing. We've had a few girls before– Joan, I mentioned, plus Tabby and Erica. But none of them were lookers, not at all. And none of them were interested in us, either.

But Cathryn. She's a real looker, I gotta admit. I was convinced, when Paul came home with her tailing his heels, that he'd found himself a lady. I wasn't too unhappy about that, neither: heneeded to get himself a lady, he really did. He's one of those lonely guys; see. Always takin' out this dumb old acoustic that plays like a screeching cat and singing in this mopy, monotonous voice about a girl he once knew, though he never knew a one, if I'm gonna tell ya the truth. Not a one.

So you can see why I'd want him to have gotten himself a lady. And a looker, too. I was feelin' awful proud, and a bit jealous, too, really. I mean, she's really a looker. Last girl I had was pretty enough, but she had nothin' on Cathryn, plus she was ruder than your mother, I swear, and she dumped me real hard, so I could hardly boast about her. There's nothin' wrong with goin' around with you best pal, guys get real jealous when they hear about our lifestyle, they really do. But when the guy you're travelin' with gets himself a girl, a real looker, I mean, and you're just alone with your cigarettes and all– well, you can see why that'd be a problem. Guys'd pat you on the back, still, just like they do now, but their pats would be sympathetic, instead of envious and congratulatory.

Anyway, that didn't turn out to be a problem, though. 'Cause Cathryn wasn't his new lady friend. She was just another boarder.

Boy, was I surprised when I heard that, lemme tell ya. This girl, she really doesn't look like the homeless type. I mean, not at all. Geez.

I don't mind havin' her around, I guess. She's nice, I s'pose, when you get over the idea of havin' conversation. And it doesn't harm a guy to have a real looker to glance at every once in a while; when he wonders why he didn't stay home and settle down with Betty Caulfield; the head cheerleader who once asked him to marry her. Boy, Betty was somethin', all right. It really doesn't hurt a guy at all to have a girl like Cathryn around.

"Don't think you'd be disturbin' us, anyway, even if you did talk a heck of a lot," I say to her now, glancing over at her again as she starts straightening her laces. "When you do talk, it seems like you got nice enough things to say." Cathryn laughs at this, shakin' her head, and looks back out at the road. "I don't have much to say at all," she says, meeting my eyes. I press my lips together and just stare at her for a moment. Then I look back out at the road and see headlights in the distance. "There's Paul," I say, "You ready?" She nods, and we pick up our suitcases and step closer to the road, where Cathryn lines up her Chucks with the edge of the broken gravel.

© 2011