Roy's Squirrel

The cold rainwater soaked through the newspaper and cardboard he had called bed for the night, waking him from a turbulent night of sleep. He arched his back and rubbed his sore hands, trying to get some semblance of warmth into them. The normal morning bustle of traffic passed in front of him, and just like normal, not an eye glanced his way. He shrugged his tattered coat off his shoulders and smacked it against the red brick of the building he slept against, leaving dark splat marks on the wall. With one final wring of the jacket, he shrugged it back on. Gathering up his mud-stained backpack, Roy was off, yet another gray day in New York.

As he walked, his mind wandered past the brightly shining advertisements and billboards, past the tourists taking pictures, and past the countless black umbrellas. He thought of Frank.

Frank, still sleeping on the cement where Roy was, stirring in his sleep and stretching one lanky arm like a cat in sunlight. Frank’s stubbly beard and his complaining about never being able to grow a full one like Roy. Frank’s passion for stray cats.

When Roy had first met Frank, Frank was just a kid, fresh from being kicked out of his parent’s house. They were both kids, really, unprepared for the reality of the streets. Roy had taken Frank under his wing and taught him the ropes of the streets: how to manage normal “housed” folk, other homeless people, stray animals, and how to get food.

Now, years after Frank was gone, Roy had decided he needed to move on and the first step was visiting his old home in Louisiana and seeing if Ava was still around. Roy pictured the look on his daughter’s face, now she would be sixteen, when she saw him again. A smile crossed his dried and cracked lips as he thought about her.

A taxi sped quickly by, burning rubber and splashing through puddles, showering Roy with gray water. Another passed right on the bumper of the first, dumping more filth on him. He paused and looked down at himself: drenched, cold, and a sorry excuse for ‘clothed.’

On the asphalt, a squirrel lay twitching in pain near the (drain thing on the road), rain pounding on its fragile body. Roy narrowed his eyes in surprise at the peculiar sight. Its ashy fur was plastered to the pale skin underneath. The poor thing took rasping and jerky breaths, struggling for clean air that it would not find in Brooklyn.

Roy knelt near the creature and scooped it up in his hands, cradling its broken body against his chest. One dark eye looked up at him, blinking quickly as if crying. Roy used his finger to gently pet the creature’s head. Still stooped on the edge of the sidewalk, Roy was bumped into by inconsiderate pedestrians and spilled onto his knees. He nestled the squirrel in closer to his body, protecting it from any harm.

He gently placed the injured squirrel in his jacket pocket and the squirrel wiggled a bit to stay warm.

As Roy reached the highway, traffic at a complaining standstill, he stuck his thumb out, walking backward, taking up his old approach to catching rides to getting places.

A dark truck pulled over next to him and a woman in the passenger seat cranked her window down.

The man driving, shrouded in darkness, shouted out across the drizzle and cacophony of horns, “Where ya headed?” he asked, leaning across the woman’s lap to see Roy.

“South,” Roy said, shading his eyes to see the man’s face.

His face was ruddy and sunburnt, shaded in hair yellow as summer corn. The woman next to him had dark hair, pulled into a modest bun and a face freckled like the night sky. Her eyes looked downward at the floor.

The driver cocked his finger at the backseat, “Hop in. We’re headed for Tennessee and can take you that far.”

Roy nodded in agreement and slung his dirty bag onto the floor on top of plastic bags and one dark green hunting-style duffel, zipper not quite closed, exposing hastily folded clothes.

“You all tourists up here?” Roy asked, as the truck stuttered to a start, keeping up with traffic.

The man nodded, meeting Roy’s gaze with startling blue, almost white, eyes in the rearview mirror, “Yeah. Visiting the wife’s folks for the weekend up in Hartford.”

The woman wouldn’t look back, but nodded, with her head down.

“Where you from? What brings you to hitchhiking?” the man said as traffic began to move a bit quicker.

“Oh,” Roy said, glancing out the window. “I’m originally from Baton Rouge but I ended up in Brooklyn for work for a while, then I was let go because of the market crash in ‘87. Ended up homeless and now I’m traveling home to see if my daughter is still in town.”

The man nodded slowly, trying to understand. “So… you’ve been homeless since ‘87? How have you survived this long?” The woman looked up from her lap staring back in the mirror towards Roy. Traffic began moving faster, cars around them speeding up.

Roy shrugged nonchalantly, “I don’t know. A friend and I stuck together for years, watching each other’s backs.”

“What happened to your friend?” The chorus of honking faded into the background.

Roy paused for a moment, gazing at the pine trees and billboards flashing by on the 78. “He died of AIDS in ‘91.”

The man held Roy’s gaze in the mirror, knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Well damn, son. I am so sorry about that.”

His gaze flashed to his wife’s for only a second, but Roy caught the silent exchange.

“What are your names?” he asked the couple.

“I’m Robert.”

“Susan.” The woman spoke for the first time, a melodic singing of a bird.

“I’m Roy. Pleasure to meet you folks. Thanks again for giving me a ride.”

The man nodded congenially.

As they exchanged words about the weather and hometowns and growing up, the scenery passed by, blurring Roy’s sight. Traveling into West Virginia, Roy drifted off to sleep, dreaming of Ava and Frank and the squirrel and taxis.

He awoke slowly to the sound of the couple talking. Roy kept his eyes closed, maintaining his breathing as he had been taught if confronted by an attacker while sleeping.

“Listen,” Robert said, grating on Roy’s ears. “We already have two in the truck. We can’t let anything get away.”

“Rob, I can’t do this anymore. You know I never wanted to take part of this sick… twisted…” she snorted in disgust. “I can’t do this one. He’s homeless for Christ’s sake!”

Robert shushed her aggressively. “He’s still sleeping, you idiot. We just need to make it to Lexington and then we can drop him off. Chuck’ll take him, just like the rest. Then you won’t have to think about it or deal with it anymore.”

“But Rob, I jus-”

“Susan! We can’t do anything about it now. We’ll be home soon.”

Roy considered that to be the most appropriate time to “wake up,” and he began to slowly stir. The squirrel chattered from his pocket, and Robert swerved the car.

“What in the hell is that?” he shouted, glaring back at Roy while trying to keep the car on the road, reaching for the pocket on the door at the same time.

Roy grabbed the squirrel and held him up, “It’s a squirrel I found on the road and rescued. I think he got hit. He’s my traveling buddy.”

Robert braked hard and pulled over to the side of the road. He unlocked the doors and stormed to Roy’s door, holding out his hand, size of an oven mitt.

Roy looked at him, puzzled.

“Hand him over,” Robert ordered, motioning with his hand.

Roy pulled the squirrel closer and the squirrel nuzzled in, sensing danger.

“Robert…” Susan warned, stepping out of the car to watch.

“Susan. Shut up and get in the car.”

Robert reached into Roy’s hands and yanked the squirrel, screeching in terror, out of his hands.

Roy reached out to get the squirrel back, but it was too late. Robert grabbed hold of the squirrel’s neck and yanked the head off of the body, the squirrel giving one final shriek. Blood covered Robert’s hands and he tossed the body to the road, striding back to the truck.

Roy stood stunned over the squirrel’s destroyed body.

“You coming?” Robert shouted, revving the truck.

Roy crossed himself in respect to the squirrel and rushed back to the truck.