The Drifter

Chapter 1: Hardships

"If you had asked me a couple years ago what I thought a homeless man's life was like, I'd had said it was probably boring, traveling and scrounging for scraps every single day with almost no contact, real contact or entertainment in the world. But now I can officially, personally say it is anything but." "Interesting. And how would you describe your experience on the streets of California?" my therapist asks. I pause. "Every day is like its own challenge. Like a video game or something that gets harder every level. A game I had to play over three hundred times," I say. I fumble with my hands, trying to find anything to add, but I'm blank. I watch as my therapist quickly jots down everything I say on her little clipboard.

Finally, I find a few words. "Every day was its own fight for survival. I needed warmth, to find food and water, scrounge and work for money, over and over and over again. There were even a few days I was tempted to steal, but I never let myself stoop that low." I try to explain, and my therapist looks up. "I see. And can you tell me how you got your scars? The town and the paper seem to think of you as some kind of hero," my therapist says calmly. A hero? What could I have possibly done to deserve such a title? I ran away from home.

I grab another wipe from the table and dab my black eye. My face is sore, my lip swelling, my cheek filled with a long scar that flows like a river. "I guess so," I say slowly. My therapist sets down the clipboard and leans forward, jamming her elbows into her knees. "Do you mind if I record this conversation?" she asks. I slowly nod, and she pulls a small recorder from behind her table before setting it down and pressing the familiar red circle record button.

"I am here with sixteen-year-old Joel Thatcher at the CACP, California Child Psychology Clinic. Joel, are you aware you are being recorded?" My therapist announces the words as she straightens her back. I nod. "It needs to hear you, sweetheart." "Yes, I'm aware." "Okay." She leans forward again. "How does a fifteen-year-old survive on the streets for almost a year?" she asks. I correct her. "I'm sixteen." "Yes, but you were fifteen when you ran away, were you not?" she asks. I nod, and my therapist sighs softly. "Okay, let's start from the beginning," she says. I instantly know where this is going.

"Why did you run away from your uncle's house in the first place?" I sigh and pause, searching for a full answer. "I felt unappreciated. Not important. You know, like when no one treats you like your opinion matters. I just couldn't take it anymore. And he hit me all the time." "Why did you never report anything?" she asks. I pause. "This is private, right?" I ask. She nods. "I kind of felt guilty, in a way. Like I deserved it. It's hard to explain," I try to explain. "Okay... and your guardian tells me you are authoring a book on your experience. Is this true?" she asks. I nod. "Yes, it's true." "What do you plan on calling it?" she asks. I pause once again without an answer. "I don't know yet."

"Is everything in the book true word for word?" she asks. "Yes ma'am," I say, bumping my knees together. My therapist's turn to pause. Finally, she seems to find something to say after a short glance at her notes. "Mister Thatcher, do you mind sharing your story with us... with me?" She slides the recorder closer subtly. I turn my head and look out the window, watching the droplets of rain slowly run down like they're in a race. "It was... June, I believe. The day before I ran away..." I start.

 

Summer

As I sat on the bus watching the trees pass by while my friend Gus ran my ear off, the bus pulled to a stop by the all-too-familiar railroad tracks that separated the school and my house perfectly down the middle. Exactly two miles from here to the school on one side, exactly two miles from here to my house on the other. That pretty much covered the whole town that I lived in. As the bus picked up another poor victim of my school in the morning routine, Gus went silent for a moment, then tapped my shoulder. "Are you okay? You're awfully quiet today," Gus said, now shaking my arm. "I'm fine," I assured him. "Just thinking."