CHAPTER TEN
The Life of a Crippled Hobo
“Achoo!”
“Shuddap!” a ragged voice scolds.
I pull the newspaper closer to my neck, shivering at the cold.
It’s been four months since Peter abandoned our world to train with his kind. In that space of time, I am discovered by a school security guard who comes by monthly and witnesses me eating the food out of the teacher’s lounge. My physical state at the time, plus seeing the tattoo on my arm makes him think I was just a druggie living off the government. He throws me out onto the street with my stuff.
When I return to school a few days later, I get called into the principal’s office. There’s a social worker who tells me that running away from home was an offence against the trust he set upon me. He told me after I cleaned out my locker; I would go to the group home.
Before we leave, I make the excuse that I need the bathroom. He lets me go.
I wheel away from Ridler High with my plastic bag as fast as I can.
I promised myself I’d rather die than go back to a group home.
The next few weeks I manage to get into different homeless shelters around the area. Going back to George was no option, and forget about trying to find refuge with Peter’s parents. They’re still freaking out over his sudden disappearance. Peter’s face is plastered all over the news, the papers and on walls.
Our son, Peter Michael Downing, has been missing since Sunday 21st October. Please, if you have any information on his whereabouts, please inform the Hotline below:
There was even a press conference held to discuss to start looking for a body.
I end up travelling to the city anyway, looking for a group home for homeless people advertised on the news to get them back on their feet.
When I arrive, they’re booked up. They put me on a never-ending waiting list.
After a month, I end up sleeping on the subway carriages.
One good thing about being in a wheelchair. It creates a lot of sympathy. People are more generous with their donations.
I actually got a basket of muffins once.
Now, since I’ve been banned from the subway line for sleeping, I’m currently sleeping behind a Pizza Hut. They throw away the pizzas that didn’t get picked up.
Plus, the heat from the outside generator is warm.
My current hobo buddy is a nice middle-aged man named Ernie. We met while I was starving to death in an alleyway. He fed me a stale hot dog. Sadly, I think he has schizophrenia.
“Hey Johnny,” he rasps. “Keep it down! You know the aliens can hear you if you sneeze.”
I snuggle into my chair a little deeper. “Sure they can, Ernie. Sure they can.”
In the day, Ernie and I travel around, picking up litter and other trash, hoping to make a profit out of it. Of course, with the amount of stuff we do find, it mostly contributes to Ernie’s radio wave blocker to defend against the aliens.
It’s definitely winter now. Snow keeps dropping on me, the cold touch on my face.
At least I have a thick beard to keep my face warm.
My plastic bag is gone. Some teens my age stole our belongings today. They punched me across the face.
Ernie got the worst damage. They beat him up until he was black and blue. I carried him back to our fortress.
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SIDEKICK
Teen FictionWhenever someone, out there, creates a story that involves a hero, they'll always be someone in the form of a sidekick. Male, female, young, old, alien, paranormal, dog, whatever. Anything. But there's something that no one is aware of. You see, in...
