Commoner the Vagabond

  Chapter 14

 

  The spring of 1992 arrived and Commoner turned 25. Feeling as underachieving and blighted as Charlie Brown, he bided his time by frequenting the various food pantries and soup kitchens around town, obtaining clothes from Goodwill Centers, and spending what little money he received from the government on treats and other snacks. He bothered no one and everyone basically left him alone. Beset by the occasional nervous tic, and coupled with a penchant for talking to himself at times, he was pitied more than reviled.

  One day, while walking around Chinatown, he decided to treat himself to some Chinese food. Walking past one of the fancier bistros, he picked up their menu from a holster outside the store and perused it. One of the dishes, Singapore-style fried rice, caught his eye. For a moment, he remembered when he and his piano teacher Leslie once went out for Chinese food. He didn’t know what to order so she suggested he try the Singapore. He thought it was the most delicious thing he’d ever seen, something he never encountered again till now. So, with his ever-present duffle bag, he entered the large, well-lit eatery but was, unfortunately, immediately shooed away by the employees.

  “Why?” he asked them.

  “You’re dirty!” they shot back. “Clean up!”

  Dejected, he exited the restaurant with his head bowed. Walking down the block, he turned the corner. He saw a girl of about 18 or 19 sitting on a bench crying. Her head was buried in her hands and her legs trembled nervously. Unlike him, she was neatly and cleanly attired in blue jeans and a yellow sweater.

  “Are you okay?” he asked her.

  She stopped crying and looked up at him.

  “I can’t do anything right!” she yelled.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “All my sisters are doing things with their lives,” she revealed, “but look at me. What am I doing? I’m just a bum on the street.”

  Commoner scratched his head, fighting for healing words to offer her.

  “Everybody hates me,” she added.

  “I’m sure that’s not true,” he stressed. “I don’t and I don’t even know you.” “You wanna use me too?” she shouted.

  “No, no. That’s…that’s not me.”

  The girl looked at Commoner momentarily then smiled.

  “You’re okay,” she told him. “What’s your name?”

  “Commoner,” he answered.

  “I’m Carny,” she said offering her hand.

  Commoner, standing with his head lowered, didn’t notice her gesture so she reached for his right hand and shook it.

  “Geez, you’re shy,” she noticed.

  He smiled a little almost as if he was blushing.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked her.

  “Yes,” she answered. “You have food?”

  “There’s a restaurant around the corner that makes what I like. If I give you the money can you get it for me? You can also get whatever you want.”

  “Oh, big spender, huh?”

  “Nah,” he admitted. “Just lucky this week.” She rose to her feet.

  “So, tell me what you want.”

  Minutes later, the two were sitting at a table in Hing Hay Park in Chinatown eating their meal. Pedestrians were walking hither and yon through the area and its red pavilion. Other folks were scattered throughout the popular gathering spot, some waiting for a messenger to return, others simply hanging out waiting for an opportunity.

  “I really shouldn’t be here,” Carny averred.

  “Why?” Commoner asked.

  Carny tapped vigorously on the table, looked at her eating partner, then looked down at her plate. Shaking her legs, she stared at her new friend.

  “I have a secret,” she whispered.

  “I can keep it,” he stated.

  “Well,” she said, touching his hand, “it’s not really a secret. I’m a street girl, you know?” Commoner bobbed his head.

  “I ran away,” she added. “If my man finds me he’ll kill me.”

  “Can’t you go to the police?”

  “What are they gonna do?” she asked. “Listen to some bimbo griping about her pimp? They’ll just laugh at me and say I told you so.” “Maybe not,” Commoner countered.

  “You don’t know them like I do!” she yelled.

  “Okay!” Commoner shot back. “Why do you shout so much?”

  “Sorry, Commoner,” she apologized. “I’m just stressed.”

  Just then, a quiet silver sedan pulled up on the street just outside the park. A man in a yellow and black jogging suit exited the car and stormed over to their table.

  “Carny!” the man yelled as he approached. “Is this where you’ve been?” Carny stood up and looked at Commoner.

  “Shit,” she emitted. “I gotta go.”

  The man walked over and grabbed Carny’s right arm.

  “Hey!” she yelled pulling her arm away. “Don’t be rough!”

  “Don’t play with me, girl!” he yelled.

  He then stared at Commoner, his eyes burning like lumps of coal in his head.

  “Come on,” he told Carny.

  Commoner watched as the two walked out of the park and into the waiting vehicle. Carny. Sitting in the backseat, stared at her eating partner as the car took off. Sighing, Commoner closed both trays of food and placed them in a bag for safekeeping. An older gentleman in his 60’s walked over to his table.

  “Hey,” the man said, “I saw you talking to Carny.”

  “You know her?” Commoner asked.

  “Yeah. She’s always around here. Be careful, though. She’s bad news.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s not her so much,” the stranger noted. “It’s that bastard you saw in the jogging suit. That’s her pimp and he’s a mean son of a bitch.”

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  “I know where he lives, too,” the gentleman avowed. “You have a pen?”

  “I don’t need to know where he is,” Commoner admitted.

  “You should,” the stranger cautioned. “Those poor girls get abused at that house. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

  “So, call the police.”

  “That’s the problem. Those girls are so scared they just say they’re runaways, not whores, and that jackass is saving them from the streets, not putting them on it.”

  “And I guess the police don’t believe that.”

  “They don’t,” the stranger attested, “but what can you do? The girls don’t press charges.”

  Commoner removed a pen from his duffle bag and handed it to the man who scribbled an address on a napkin.

  “I know this area,” Commoner admitted as he glanced at the address. “It’s up near Wallingford.”

  “Right off Aurora,” the old man affirmed.

  He tapped Commoner’s upper arm.

  “I think you’ll do the right thing,” he added, then turned and walked away.

  Commoner walked around the rest of the evening thinking about Carny. To him, she had the saddest pair of eyes he’d ever seen. As much as he tried, he couldn’t stop thinking about how much pain and misery must exist in her life. As he found himself walking towards Wallingford, he promised himself he wouldn’t do anything stupid. All he planned to do, he said to himself, was see the house where she stayed and perhaps catch a glimpse of whether or not it was detrimental to her health.

  Nearly two hours later, he arrived at the corner of N. 41st St. and Aurora. Checking the address on the napkin, he walked past a few houses on 41st till he came to a white two-story stucco sitting on a hill. He checked his watch. It was close to 10pm. Looking up and down the block, he saw no one. Slowly, he ascended the long flight of stairs to the house. Thick hedges sat on both sides of the path and in front of the house. Lights were on in most of the rooms.

  Tiptoeing to the left side of the house, he peeked in a window. Just beyond the sheer curtains he saw a large screen TV was on but there was no one watching it. Quie
tly, he walked to the back of the house where a light was already on. Reaching into his pocket, he removed the napkin and read the address again. Although he wasn’t sure what he was expecting to find, this house hardly resembled a brothel like those he’d seen on TV. Tucking the paper away, he turned to leave.

  “Hey!” someone whispered loudly from the 2nd floor.

  Looking up, he saw Carny waving at him.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she warned him.

  The man from the park in the jogging suit came up from behind and grabbed her hair. She screamed.

  “Who the hell are you talking to?” he yelled.

  He looked out the window but Commoner had already darted to one side.

  “Get in here, bitch!” he shouted as he dragged her in.

  Commoner, rage building in his veins, quickly looked around the ground, found a rock, and smashed a window in the back door. Reaching through the opening, he opened the door and stepped in. As he entered the living room, Carny came screaming down the staircase.

  “Get out of here!” she told him. “Hurry!”

  She quickly opened the front door and pushed Commoner out. The man from the park came zooming down the stairs with an aluminum baseball bat and ran after the two. Commoner, laden down by his duffle bag, was midway down the front stairs when the man hit him on the back of the head with the bat. Carny threw herself at the assailant and, with arms flailing wildly, delivered as many scratches and blows as she could muster. Commoner, dazed from the blow, staggered out into the street. He could feel his warm blood dripping down his neck. Dropping to his knees, he could still hear Carny screaming as she fought the man. Then, looking up, he saw headlights in the distance quickly drawing closer to him. Just as he rose up his right arm to the light, he passed out.

  Waking up in Harborview two days later, he focused his weak eyes on the unfamiliar.

  “Ugh,” he moaned as he touched the wide bandage circling his head.

  “Easy,” a voice said as he struggled against the pain.

  Looking to his right, he saw Carny standing near his bed.

  Oh, man,” he uttered feebly. “My head feels like I went a few rounds with Muhammad Ali.”

  “Try to take it easy,” she cautioned him. “Do you know you’ve been asleep for two days?”

  “Where am I?” he asked.

  “Harborview.”

  “What happened?”

  “You don’t remember, huh?” she asked. “Champs, that bastard, put you in here. Whacked you with a baseball bat.”

  “Are you still at that house?”

  “Nah! I’m finally out,” she replied. “I just got sick and tired of people I know, people around me, getting hurt for nothing. Anyway, Champs got arrested. He’s in jail now. He’ll be in for years so you’re safe. And thanks to you, all the other girls got rescued and went back home. You’re a hero.”

  She leaned over and kissed his cheek. Out of habit, he swatted at the imaginary flies buzzing by his ears. Carny smiled.

  “You’re an odd one,” she surmised, “but don’t worry about the landlord. That can wait.”

  “What landlord?” Commoner asked.

  “Silly,” Carny answered. “You broke the glass in his back door.”

  “I did?” he asked. “I don’t remember.”

  “There was a cop looking for you earlier,” she advised him. “He said he knows you from around the way and wanted to see how you were doing. His name’s Jackie.”

  “Yeah,” Commoner admitted. “I know him. He’s saved my hide before.”

  “I’ve gotta go now,” Carny explained. “Would you believe I have a job interview? It’s at a flower and card shop. Part time, but better than nothing.”

  “I hope it turns out well.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  “I’ll see ya later,” she promised, winking at him.

  “Bye,” he waved as she walked to the door.

  When she left, he turned to look out the window. The familiar grey sky and mass of thick black clouds appeared more ominous than he’d ever seen. Lucky to be inside, he laid back in bed and closed his eyes.

  After nearly two weeks in the hospital, he was finally released. Several complications such as a hand tremor and blurry vision had erupted which necessitated immediate attention. A social worker tried referring him to the homeless shelters but he refused claiming they were detrimental to his health. As an alternative, she spoke to him about SRO’s – single room occupancy apartments. Scattered throughout the metro area, most of the buildings had studios, one and two bedroom units. Some even had units big enough for a large family. Thinking carefully about it, he decided to try one out. The social worker, while making her rounds on the phone, discovered that most of them were at 100% occupancy already, and those that did have room had two bedroom and larger units which were out of his pay scale. The social worker almost lost hope until she learned of an opening at the Juniper Court Apartments in South Lake Union. Warning Commoner to act fast, he decided to take the studio.

  Moving in the next day, he found the 20-year-old building to have a warmly painted and pleasing bright orange façade. Those lucky enough to have a front facing view enjoyed a spectacular view of Lake Union and the boats that sailed regularly on its quiet waters. As it turned out, he was one of the fortunate few. For hours, he’d sit mesmerized from his fourth-floor window and gaze across the lake. Occasionally, he’d go strolling around the area which consisted mainly of marine stores and the occasional restaurant.

  Over the following weeks, he walked from store to store looking for work. None, unfortunately, were hiring. He was also not considered as he lacked experience in marine sales. A few weeks later, after signing on with a maintenance temp agency, he started working at various offices around town. Employed solely at night, he and members of his crew swept, vacuumed, mopped, disposed trash, washed windows, polished bathrooms and generally made the suites as new as possible. As most of his co-workers primarily spoke Vietnamese, he had very little to say to them. Wearing headphones most of the night, he found something else with which to pass the time anyway.

  About nine months into his job, a Mexican co-worker friend named Juan who he spoke to occasionally, invited him to a party. It was to be for his brother and a cousin who were coming back from Iraq. Commoner declined, stating the party was a private family matter. Juan explained that where he came from, to turn down an invitation is seen as an insult. Burdened by the guilt, Commoner accepted the offer.

  On Sunday March 7th 1993, Commoner and Juan drove down to South Beacon Hill near Boeing Field. The general area, currently under development, was sparsely populated with empty lots, apartment buildings, and single family homes. They parked on the street behind a line of cars about fifty feet down from a yellow house. The nondescript home had a wooded area to its right and a driveway and locked shed to its left. The unpaved driveway was filled with three cars and one pickup truck. Stretched across the front porch was a banner which read ‘Welcome Back!’

  The party was already underway when Commoner and Juan entered the house. The ages of the revelers spanned from young babies to people in their 70’s. Loud, bass heavy mariachi was playing from floor to ceiling speakers in the living room. Beer from refrigerated kegs was flowing everywhere. All kinds of food, from salsa to mole poblano to carnitas, were being dished out by the servicemen's mothers.

  Commoner noticed that the honored servicemen were not in attendance. In fact, there weren’t any men at the festivities at all. Juan took his co-worker aside and asked him if he could keep a secret. Commoner answered yes. Seconds later, the two exited the house through the rear door in the kitchen. To the right, at the edge of the driveway, was another wooded area. Several seats from automobiles, converted to standard benches, were scattered throughout the periphery of the yard. About 50 feet to the back was a small cottage with boarded up windows.

  “My second home,” Juan informed him.

  They walked past a fire pit smack in the middle
of the yard that had red, white and blue boxes of firewood and starter logs sitting around it. Seconds later, they walked around to the back of the cottage and knocked on the door. A young man moved a small curtain covering a hole in the door, peeked out, and when he saw Juan, unlocked the door.

  “This place looks bigger from inside,” Commoner whispered to his friend he surveyed the place. Nearly 20 men, some of them in army fatigues, were standing around a pen in the middle of the room. Some were shouting, some whistling, and some holding wads of cash up in the air. Over in a far corner he saw four roosters sitting in cage in their own divided-off space. Looking over a few men’s shoulders, he saw what all the commotion was about. Two roosters, razor blades strapped to their feet, were engaged in a death match. Circling each other with their combs and wattles removed, the two robust multi-colored cockerels pecked and kicked each other violently. With every strong kick, the spectators would shout in Spanish. Commoner stared as feathers flew everywhere, then after a few minutes, he pulled Juan to one side.

  “I can’t look at this,” he told him.

  “It’s not what you think it is,” Juan retorted. “There’s actually a religion to our people.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” Commoner explained. “Anyway, I have to use the bathroom. All that beer’s working through me now.” He turned to leave.

  “Are you coming back?” Juan asked.

  “Yeah,” Commoner answered. “This’ll just take a second.”

  Exiting the ultra-heated cottage, Commoner took a deep breath and walked towards the main house. He saw a closed red, white and blue cardboard box sitting on the ground near the entrance. Thinking the box was destined for the fire pit, he decided to do his hosts a favor and place it where it belonged. Picking the box up, he carried it to the lit pit and placed it on a stump near the edge. Just then, a man carrying a similar box entered from the driveway. Looking at the entrance to the back, he saw his other box was gone. Looking up, he saw Commoner standing by the pit.

  “Hey!” the man yelled. “What are you doing?”

  Commoner looked over, startled. Accidentally, his leg knocked the box into the pit.

  “¡Chingada Madre!” the man shouted. “Run!”

  Commoner looked confused. He couldn’t figure out what the man meant. Suddenly, firecrackers started popping loudly from the pit. Racing towards the driveway, more firecrackers exploded. Seconds later the entire backyard was alight with loud flashing explosions as if a circus was in town.

  The man with the box started yelling at Commoner as he was walking to the street. Juan and the other spectators came running pell-mell out of the cottage, yelling loudly and trying their best to avoid the constant explosions. Some dove headfirst into the adjacent bushes. A few rushed to their cars, started their engines, and sped off. A police officer driving past on the nearby main drag slowed down, put on his lights, and drove towards the house. Parking in front of the house, he called for backup and a fire response unit as other spectators went running up the street. Then, leaving his car, he tried to corral a few, but because they were as quick and nimble as jackrabbits, the fight spectators successfully eluded capture.

  Commoner stuck around and spoke to the officer, telling them all he had seen. Scant minutes later, a fire truck, superintendent and two squad cars with two officers pulled up. Officers Vert and Kelso exited their vehicles and walked over to the front while the officers from the other car scoped out the back area. The fireworks had stopped, but the strong smell of sulfur and the towering column of smoke from the rear of the house persisted. Vert went over to the first officer who was interviewing Commoner.

  “It’s okay,” Vert told the other officer. “I know him.”

  “I’ll go check inside,” the officer remarked as he knocked on the front door.

  One of the servicemen’s mothers opened the door and let him in. Vert turned to Commoner.

  “What is it with you?” he asked him. “Trouble seems to follow you everywhere.”

  “It’s not my fault,” Commoner explained, slapping the bugs at his ears.

  “What are you doing down here anyway?”

  “I was invited to a party.”

  “Where do you live now?”

  “South Lake Union.”

  “Okay,” Vert told him. “Don’t go too far, huh? We’re not done here.”

  Commoner nodded then watched as Vert went to the back of the house. Minutes later, the second set of officers appeared from the back with three of the onlookers in handcuffs and placed them in the back of their squad car. Then, as the fire department wrapped up their extinguishing effort, Vert and his partner brought out Juan and another man in handcuffs followed by the fire superintendent who had his hands full with the caged roosters. Juan glared at Commoner with burning eyes before he was put in the back of the police car. Vert walked over to Commoner.

  “What do you know about this cock fighting ring?” Vert asked.

  “This is my first time down here. I’ve never been in this neighborhood before?”

  “But you know these people, right?”

  “Just that one there,” he indicated, motioning to the back seat of Vert’s car.

  “Who set off those fireworks?”

  “I guess I did,” Commoner admitted. “It was an accident.”

  “You did good,” Vert complimented, “you really should notify the police about these things. You know what?”

  He fished out a business card from his pocket and handed it to Commoner.

  “Next time you come across something suspicious,” Vert advised him, “call me. If it’s real serious, call 911.”

  “Okay.”

  The combination of the tower of smoke, the emergency response vehicles, and an exposed cock fighting ring didn’t go unnoticed by the local media. Within an hour, a TV station news van arrived to do their broadcast. All the emergency vehicles, as well as Commoner, had already left leaving the TV crew to try to speak to the family in the house. All, however, declined to be interviewed. A passerby walked over and claimed he was a witness to the events. He admitted he saw nothing in the back, but did get a good look at the man the police were interviewing. The witness described the man as being of average height with very pale skin. One thing the witness noticed, he claimed, was the intermittent motions the man made with his hands, as if he was waving away the air by his ears. Cameraman Milton Spruce’s interest was piqued. “I know that guy,” he explained. “We’ve interviewed him before. He sure gets around.” “The guy’s like a hero,” the witness observed.

  “More like a homeless vagabond,” Spruce insisted, “but he seems harmless, though.”

  When Commoner returned to his cleaning job the next day, he was expecting some kind of backlash for causing Juan to be arrested. Since it turned out that no one there knew about his extracurricular activities, Commoner was spared a maelstrom of insults or evil eyes. He continued to work with the company at various sites throughout the city, from small banks to the Columbia Tower.