Rogue Wolf

Ch 1 Jax

"Mom, I'm heading out."

I waited a second to see if she was going to respond. Nothing. Just once I wished we could spend a night like other families, that she would call me back, calling me by my name. But then, I had no name, other than the one I made up when I started school. I know my mom saw the name I use on some of my schoolwork, but she never used it. All my mom ever called me was Baby, her baby boy. It was an accurate enough name, I suppose. I'd searched a few years back and finally found my actual birth certificate. I even interviewed a nurse who worked at the hospital where I was born. My mom never gave them a name for me, and took off before they came back to get one. They listed me as Baby John Doe, followed by a number. Of course, no father listed.

When I first started school, they did roll call. I was the only kid whose name wasn't called out. When the teacher asked my name, I told her Jazz. That's what my momma always said. My mom and I used to dance in the kitchen. She'd be playing this music, laughing and smiling. She'd ask me, "You like that Jazz, baby?" I honestly believed my name was Jazz. The teacher made me repeat it louder, as if she wasn't sure what I said. Some of the kids laughed at me, making fun of my supposed name, telling me it was a type of music.

I improvised without even thinking about it, in pure instinctive response to their cruel humor. "That isn't what I said! You misheard me! My name is Jax!" I had gotten so upset back then as I was escorted to the office to straighten things out.

My mom's pimp had come, laying a stack of money on the principal's desk, telling him to make it work, me being in school. The pimp made up a name for me, using his surname. I refused even then to let him think he owned me. I never used that name. I cringed at the memory, recalling how he had yelled and hit my mom for sending me to school. That was the one thing my mom had insisted on for me, getting my education, even as she had cried and sobbed her apology to that ass.

I closed the apartment door softly, tempted to slam it. I doubted she even noticed or cared I was heading out, I thought resentfully. Not really fair; my mom cared in her way, but not enough to interfere with my nightly excursions.

I was used to being on my own. The guys that came in and out of my mom's life I had learned to leave alone. I'd been hit, kicked, punched, burned with cigarette butts. The yelling I could usually blow off and ignore.

After one rather personal encounter years ago, well, more than one, I tended to stay away as often as possible. It didn't always help. I'd been manhandled a quite a few times when my mom had passed out, or was busy with someone else, and the guys weren't satisfied. One guy even told me good blowjob and threw me a twenty dollar tip. Usually the money got paid straight to the pimp. I took the money but I hated those guys.

Waiting at a bus stop, I tried to decide what to do. No one gave me a second look in the used, non-descript clothes I had gotten from the thrift store. I never wore all black, and seldom wore jeans. I preferred the free-flowing pants that allowed for movement. Browns, dull greens, greys, darker reds; nothing bright that would catch the eye, no obvious logo on the shirt that would be remembered. I seldom wore a hat, even though I kept a simple knit hat in my backpack- hats meant you were trying to hide. Catching a glimpse of my reflection, I couldn't even remember for sure what my hair used to look like. I often dyed my hair, changing colors between light browns to straight-up black; never my original blonde. The idea was to not be noticed.

Food? Maybe Chinese tonight. I could pick up more than food there, but I wasn't really hungry. Movies? Nothing looked interesting. Looking at the map of bus routes, I debated which part of town I wanted to go to. There were the games that took place at the all-night laundromat, but it was too early for them to start. I thought about doing a bit of street hustling with The Jammin' Man, whose steel drums always brought good tips. I enjoyed the Jamaican's company, even if he did like to get personal sometimes. There was even the option of nabbing a few simple things to pawn; never the high-end items that drew attention. Penny-ante was my style. Little things added up while keeping me under the radar. I gave my options a good review.