j.k. armstrong

It was a beautiful spring night, cool and clear, when everything was stolen from Simon. Everything but his name. He wandered around the Pearl District alone, hands in his pockets, a black eye beginning to swell where he’d been hit during the robbery. Aimless.

Not that he’d had an aim when he bought the ticket to Portland from St. Cloud, Minnesota, except to get away, escape, find somewhere safe to catch his breath. Head west. Wasn’t that the impulse of all great Americans? Moths attracted to the glorious flame of the frontier. His English teacher had said that once, but Simon couldn’t remember the context for it, only that he’d disagreed at the time. Here he was now, though, proving his old English teacher right. Or maybe proving himself wrong.

One-hundred hours ago he’d bought a one-way ticket. Eighty-four hours ago he’d boarded the bus with one backpack and one duffel bag. Eighteen hours ago he’d left Sacramento, the last transfer before Portland. Four hours ago he’d arrived, sore and exhausted from sitting for too long.

He ate a meal at the station and then asked for directions to a motel.

Two hours ago he’d been jumped on a sidewalk a few blocks from Portland Union Station, getting thrown to the ground, two punches to the face, and losing his backpack and duffel bag.

Twenty minutes ago he’d walked past a group of boys around his own age, throwing rocks into the Willamette. Now, standing on Steel Bridge and staring at the dark water below, three of those boys were walking across the bridge toward him. Two of them were smoking, the cherries looking like glowing red eyes approaching in the dark.

Maybe he should have felt afraid, or at least nervous, but he was so thoroughly physically and emotionally depleted that he could barely muster simple interest. He probably wouldn’t have noticed them at all if one of them hadn’t come up beside him to ask if he had any spare change.

He knew he only had sixty-seven cents in the pocket of his jeans, but what was he going to do with sixty-seven cents? So he gave the coins to the boy who’d asked, the boy with messy black hair, sun-kissed skin, and big brown eyes that evoked the impression of a baby animal: wide, curious, eager, safe.

“What the hell am I going to do with sixty-seven cents?” the boy asked, staring at the coins in the palm of his hand.

Hearing his own thoughts echoed back to him, Simon couldn’t hide a smile. “I really don’t have anything else on me,” he said, trying to sound honest, though clearly amused. “I swear, that’s my whole life’s savings.”

The taller boy, wiry, with curly brown hair he’d bleached on top and eyes like a bird of prey, asked, “Did you get mugged?”

“Oh… Yeah,” he answered reluctantly, losing his smile, as if ashamed.

“How’d you know?” the smallest boy asked, the one who wasn’t smoking. He had sandy blonde hair cut much too short and seemed to have just rolled out of bed.

“He’s got a black eye and I heard Jeff saying he jumped a guy coming out of Union,” the tall one said.

“He didn’t say he jumped a fucking kid, he made it sound like it was some big score,” the black-haired one said, as if Simon wasn’t standing right there.

“Jeff’s a liar and an asshole. He’d probably mug Yvgeny if we weren’t with him.”

The expression on the youngest one’s face told Simon that he was Yvgeny.

“It’s your first night in Portland?” the black-haired boy with the coins in his hand asked, suddenly addressing him. “We should celebrate. I’m Elias, this is Dylan and Yvgeny.”

“I’m Simon,” he answered automatically. “Nice to meet you.” He didn’t know why he immediately trusted the three boys implicitly, like a duckling imprinting on the first kind face it sees.

“Alright, Simon,” Elias said. “Give me your hand.”

Simon held out his hand.

Elias returned the coins and closed Simon’s fist around them, then bent forward and gently kissed Simon’s fingers. “You were willing to give me all you were worth, down to your very last penny, without ever having met me before. I won’t forget that, Simon,” Elias said, looking straight into Simon’s pale green eyes, very serious, honest, sincere.

Then he smiled wide, let go of Simon’s hand, and clapped him on the shoulder. “Now let’s go, I know a guy who’ll give us beer.”

It was a night of many firsts, and the first night of many. In two hours, he’d be drunk in a stranger’s basement. In five hours he’d be vomiting into a bush. In eleven hours, he’d wake up under a bench near the university, missing a shoe and all recollection of the last six hours. He’d sit up and see Elias asleep on the bench, and he’d feel relieved, and he’d wonder why he should feel relieved. In sixty-seven hours, he’d realize he was falling in love.