About the Author Ryan R. Ennis is a schoolteacher with a background in English who currently teaches fourth and fifth grades, and is working on a master's degree in reading education. He loves to read and write, and desires to continue to work with students to help them optimize their success in these areas. Streets is his first story in Nuvein.

In the House

The sound of the alarm jars him into a state of abrupt wakefulness. He sits up so quickly that it seems as if someone has seized him by the shoulders and pulled him directly upwards. He glances at the clock and reads that it is 6:30 a.m. It is Monday and he needs to get ready now for school, though he would much rather go back to sleep. School has become dissatisfying for him lately. He is in his junior year and should be putting a great deal of effort into achieving high grades on his report card, for he has to start applying for acceptance at universities soon, but the only class that remotely motivates and interests him is Advanced English Composition. Each day it is more and more of a struggle for him to walk though the front entrance to his high school and do what is required of him. If only high school was done and over with, he wishes. If I can just find the strength to succeed and make it through this year, he hopes.

Reluctantly, he stands up. He shakes his head so that he can remove the morning fuzziness from his brain and so that his eyes can focus on his surroundings. Besides being on the streets, passing the time of day with his friends, his preferred activity is relaxing in his bedroom. There is so much comfort for him in this room: all of his earthly possessions are here. Against the wall opposite his bed is a blue chenille sofa, which once belonged to his mother. Below the window facing his bed is an old oak desk with three drawers on either side, and on top of it rests his laptop computer. One either side of the desk are two small antique dressers that have been in his family for several generations. And throughout the bedroom, piled in orderly and disorderly stacks on the floor, is his collection of used books, both paperbacks and hardcovers. He is only sixteen years old, yet he has amassed a collection of over a hundred books on a variety of topics and subjects. An impressive undertaking, his father says, for someone so young.

The best feature of his bedroom, he believes, is the poster of his favorite bandæthe Juliets. He has seen them in concert three times; each experience has been utterly electrifying. He loves the loudness and aggressiveness of their guitar sounds and lyrics. Whenever he feels upset or depressed or anxious, he plays one of their songs, and it usually quells any of these unpleasant emotions. All four members of the band are blonde and blue-eyed, and they wear plain clothing and keep their hair long and straight. Despite this, they certainly wouldn’t be considered civilized young ladies in the eyes of the world. During each of their shows, they do a lot of jumping around and other intense body movements on stage as the concert progresses, as if their songs and instruments are empowering. Additionally, they don’t tolerate any rude behavior from their audience. He has watched the Juliets become upset with members of their audience and berate these people with such cleverness. The Juliets don’t take any disrespect from anyone. He admires this band for their boldness with their voices and musical talents. He himself longs to emerge from the shadows one day.

He slowly walks towards his desk, where many photographs have been strewn across the top of it. These are photographs of himself at various ages until his present age. In two of the pictures, he is only a small boy with a bright face and an eager smile. In two others, he is a few years older but his facial expressions are more pensive. In three later onesæaround the time when his childhood became turbulent because of his parents’ divorce, his mother’s move to another state, and his father’s hasty marriage to his stepmotheræhe looks only downcast and dejected. He smiles no more. In a photograph taken of himself last year, which has his stepmother and stepsister sitting beside him on the sofa, he is clearly annoyed and uncomfortable being in their presence. When his stepmother saw that last one, she commented something about pictures not lying and glared at him in a way that reminded him of an animal that was fearful of something.

He has these photographs out because his composition teacher is requiring that the students write a seven-to-ten page autobiography. The paper is supposed to follow a chronological format. It is due next week, but he hasn’t even started it. He feels that his teacher would ultimately be disinterested in his story: the typical tale of an adolescent trying to cope and succeed despite a dysfunctional home life. This situation is nothing extraordinary. His life mirrors the lives of many students at his school. This is why he longs for the excitement provided by the streets, where he can observe and participate in all kinds of activities, and he is hopeful that these activities will bring about a change in his life.

It is now 7:00 a.m. and he still hasn’t made any progress towards getting ready. He goes into the bathroom, where he brushes his teeth and quickly showers. Then he returns to the bedroom, grabs a pair of jeans from the closet, and opens some of the dresser drawers. Considering what to wear for a shirt, he rummages through his assortment of T-shirts. Finally, he decides on a blue T-shirt with a picture of Vincent Van Gogh on it, which he bought a few months ago when the local art institute had an exhibition of his works. Moving toward a mirror behind the bedroom door, now that he’s dressed, he combs his dark hair in such a way that it looks messy and hangs down into his eyes.

Satisfied with his appearance, he heads downstairs and walks into the kitchen, where his stepmother and stepsister are sitting at the table and eating breakfast. They both glance up at him with what seems to be barely-concealed hostility in their eyes. Although one is the mother and the other is the daughter, they both wear their hair short and curly, in an outdated style. He anticipates finding his father is the kitchen as well, but the man is not around.

Where is Dad? he asks

He went in early to work, his stepmother explains. He claimed he had some papers to grade. He wanted to get them done before the students arrived for class, she adds.

His father works as a history instructor at a community college in the next town just north of them. His father is a dedicated teacher and puts a lot into his lectures and assignments for his students. A few years ago his father received an award because of his diligence and dedication to his field.

He opens the refrigerator and searches for something to eat. A bagel and container of cream cheese catch his eye. He takes them out and prepares the bagel. He eats quickly.

You’re running rather late this morning, his stepmother says, pointing to the clock on the wall. Don’t you have to be to school in fifteen minutes, she reminds him. It’s already a little past a quarter after seven.

Yeah, I know, he says nonchalantly. I had a hard time getting up and moving today.

His stepmother eyes him with a look of disbelief. She sighs, obviously annoyed. His stepmother becomes easily irritated whenever he deviates from his expected schedule. She doesn’t appear to like it when he spends any more time in the house than necessary. She certainly would prefer to have the morning to be alone with her daughter, who is only ten and still in elementary school. She just barely tolerates her stepson.

Well, he considers, if you don’t care much for me now, you’re really not going to like me when you discover that little surprise I have in store for you in my desk drawer. For he suspects that his stepmother has been going through his things when he’s not around, hoping to unearth something that will get him in trouble. So, he has set a trap.

He pours himself a glass of water from the sink and drinks it in one swallow, causing him to belch loudly.

How about excusing yourself, his stepmother says gruffly, but he ignores her request.

So long . . . later, he says as he slings his backpack over his shoulder and rushes out the door. He soon slows down, however, as he comes to a major street called Allen, the way into the downtown section of the city where he lives, the way into downtown Ferndale. The feeling of relief washes over him. He is glad to be out of his house, to be away from his stepmother. He is free for a while.

On the Streets

Even though this makes him even later for school, he dallies. It is a beautiful October morning; the air is clear and fresh and crisp. He surveys the displays of the various shops and businesses on Nine Mile, the Main Street of Ferndale, though he’s studied them hundreds of times. Where there was once some empty buildings, he observes again, there are soon to be some new businesses moving in: a few women’s clothing stores, a lawn-and-garden shop, and what appears to be a new bookstore.

He is very pleased about the new bookstore since he loves to read. There are a few used bookstores close to downtown, but they generally don’t have anything more recent, just old books. In the past, he was only interested in secondhand books and primarily works of fiction. But now he has become interested in reading travel books. These days he is constantly devouring books about the South; about Georgia, Louisiana, Florida, North and South Carolina. He longs to live in a climate where he can be outdoors, on the streets, no matter what the season is. Having to stay inside for most of the winter and portions of the fall is like a form of imprisonment. In the winter, he paces the two-story house where he lives, anxiously waiting for the coming of spring and the freedom offered by the streets. When he graduates from college, he hopes to move away down south. This hope is a form of internal fuel, for it keeps him going.

He passes a drugstore and a hair salon and a place that sells cellular phones. Then he comes to a music store and stops in front of it. A poster of the Juliets is hanging in the window. They have a new release out and will be performing near Ferndale in less than a month. He studies the photographed image of Donna Jane Juliet, who has the role of lead vocals and lead guitar player for the band; he daydreams about what it would be like to meet her in person. He has seen the Juliets live before. He has deep admiration for Donna Jane: she is bold and brazen, and doesn’t allow crowd surfing or other acts that might endanger the audience. If the crowd gets too out of control, she and the other band members will refuse to perform. At one of their shows, he witnessed Donna Jane’s wrath. On that night, he was right in front of the stage while Donna Jane played her guitar and sang directly before him. He was enjoying himself as never before. But a heavyset man behind him began to slam his body into him. The man was considerably bigger. Donna Jane noticed what was happening. She interrupted the show and told the man to stop. And when he didn’t, she swore at the man, calling him every name possible, saying that he would be removed from the floor if he continued. Before she had a chance to summon the security, the man forcefully pushed his way through the crowd and disappeared from sight. Needless to say, Donna Jane became endearing in his eyes. He, the defenseless adolescent, was saved by her and he naturally fell helplessly in love.

Wondering if he has money for a ticket to the upcoming concert, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, which contains all the money he has. He counts the money: only ten dollars. The tickets are twenty-five dollars with the addition of a service charge. His father has refused to give him any more money after the amount he handed his son in early August for new school clothes. His father has been adamant in his stance no matter how hard his son begs. But he has to be at this show. What can he do to get the necessary money for the ticket . . . ? He can sell some of his CDs. He can sell some of his books. Neither option, though, appeals to him. Maybe if he presses his father some more . . .

Suddenly he notices a man with sunglasses staring at him from the inside of his truck. Despite wearing the sunglasses, the man is familiar, recognizable. He has observed this man driving past and looking at him before when he has been on the corner with his friends, playing around on their skateboards, which neither he nor his friends can use too adeptly. The man drives on, but then turns and disappears around the corner.

He glances at his watch. The time is 7:45 a.m. Even if he hurries now, he won’t make it to school until after 8:00 a.m. He decides to loiter for a little longer. He might as well miss the first periodæAmerican history. He has the worst teacher for the class, a bald-headed man who has the personality of a dishrag. This teacher is extremely dry and boring and offers only a chauvinistic account of history. His lectures focus only on political struggles and battles, nothing about cultural and domestic and scientific progression.

Additionally, he dislikes this teacher because the man often harasses him about various things. What is your deal with that T-shirt with the Juliets on it? his history teacher said to him a few weeks ago. You wear that T-shirt at least twice a week. My son likes that band, too. There’s something unnatural about female rockers. It’s like being in room with bearded women. I just don’t get it. What’s the attraction?

Normally, those remarks would be upsetting to him. But surprisingly he just shrugged it off. Can you expect anything more from a man like that?

His father, in his opinion, is a far better historian than this man. When his father discusses history, he never neglects the influence of artistic and intellectual achievements of the times. He frequently suggests that his father write a book about some historical topic, but his father tells him he is too busy to even consider it.

Eventually, he turns away from the music store and moves on. As he walks down Nine Mile, the businesses become more and more sparse. Houses and apartment buildings prevail between the businesses. And there are hardly any cars on the road.

When he reaches Pincrest, the street where his high school is located, the man in the truck passes by him again. The man slows his vehicle, waves at him, and smiles. As if involuntarily, he waves back at the man, whose smile widens as his does. Then the man speeds away.

This time he got a very close look at the man, who appears to be an older version of himself. They both have slightly wavy hair and a tanned complexion. Additionally, they have large eyes and thick, bushy eyebrows.

Ferndale is known for having a large concentration of gay menæprobably the largest in Michigan. Was the man in the truck gay and obviously cruising him? How does he feel about this? Did the man in the truck sense for some reason that he is gay? And is this why the man keeps driving by him periodically? He’s fairly certain that he’s attracted to girls, to women. Or is he repressing something?

Just how sure of himself is he?

At School

When he finally arrives at school, he has fortunately missed the first period completely, saving himself from an outdated social studies lesson and the drone of Mr. Woodruff. He goes right to his second-hour class, which is Algebra II. They are learning how to calculate some difficult story problems. He needs to focus, to take good notes, but his mind wanders . . . He thinks about the streets, about the man, about how he can get some money together in order to see the Juliets. During third period, which is a sociology class, the teacher shows slides concerning urban decay and urban renewal. He just sits back and enjoys the presentation. Fourth period, too, does not require much brain energy. It is an art class and the art teacher has her class sketch a simple model of a still life she has set up. After that, he has lunch. Most of his friends eat during the last lunch period, so he skips study hall and hangs out with them in the lunch room. He makes plans to meet up with his friends later on. One of them will brings a few skateboards, another a portable CD player. He is expected to bring the latest CD by the Juliets along with, possibly, some other CDs his friends will like. He dreads sixth period . . . chemistry class . . . He has to force himself to concentrate on the teacher’s lecture and then do the short reading and answering of questions at the end of the chapter.

Finally, it’s seventh periodæAdvanced Compositionæhis favorite class! The teacher, a youngish man with light features, reads some selections from autobiographies that students have written during past school years. In addition, some students in the class share what they have written so far. The teacher makes some comments about their writing, their voice in the narrative. Before class is dismissed, the teacher asks for the students to turn in their homework assignments. They were required to compose a reflection paper on the writing style of one of their favorite essayists in the textbook. Unfortunately he has forgotten all about the assignment. The teacher talked about it a few days ago, but he completely pushed it out of his mind. He hasn’t even so much as jotted down the opening sentence. One by one, the students place their work on the teacher’s desk as they exit the room. The teacher frowns at him when he has nothing to set down. The teacher motions for him to remain standing where he is until all the other students have left.

What’s the matter? the teacher says, staring at him with a penetrating gaze. This isn’t like you.

I’ll turn it in tomorrow, he promises. Just let me have another day.

His teacher contorts his mouth into an expression of exasperation. I don’t know, the teacher says. You’ve been really trying me lately, pushing me to the limit. I can’t keep giving you these second chances. I have too much respect for you to keep doing this. In college, the professors probably won’t be as lenient with you as I’ve been.

Please, he begs. It’s only a two-page paper, right? I give you my word that I will get it done tonight. A two-page paper is nothing for me. I’ve just had a lot on my mind lately and forgot about it. But I will go home right now and start on it. And finish it tonight. Please be lax with me one more time, he pleads and then smiles at the man.

His teacher returns his smile and says, All right, all right . . . You’re lucky that I highly regard your developing writing skillsæand that I realize you will be applying for college next semester. Otherwise, your grade would go in the book as a big . . . fat . . . red . . . zero.

They both laugh.

Back in the House

He enters the house, finding his stepsister is the only one home. She is engrossed in some television program, probably one that her mother has forbidden her to watch, but since her mother hasn’t returned from work yet, the girl is at liberty to do as she wishes.

He says hello to her rather enthusiastically.

She only says, Oh, hi . . . and just barely looks his way. I heard you walk up to the house, she adds and then immediately fixes her eyes back on the TV set. She shows about as much interest in him as her mother does.

He heads upstairs, his mind intent and focused on writing that essay for his English teacher. He opens his backpack. He takes out a spiral notebook, a pen, and his textbook. He leafs through the pages of Living and Writing: A Reader for Writers. A selection from Maya Angelou’s I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings leaps out at him, as if this piece is page out of a children’s pop-up book. He admires Maya Angelou. Like him, she has undergone a lot of turbulence in her formative years. But she has been courageous and triumphant in spite of her earlier hardships! And he, hopefully, will accomplish the same.

The formulation of his essay permeating the air in his bedroom, he lies down on his stomach, some pillows under his arms, and begins to write. “Life Lines” is an emotional essay by Maya Angelou. It deals with Angelou’s childhood and her encounter with a woman named Mrs. Bertha Flowers, who had a tremendous impact on her life. As Angelou narrates her essay about herself and Mrs. Flowers, the author uses a great deal of descriptive language. Through this descriptive language, the writer of “Life Lines” is able to express the feelings she experienced during her younger years to her reader.

Before he can continue on with the second paragraph, he hears his name being called from downstairs. It is his stepmother’s voice, and she is telling him to get down there, for she wants to talk to him about something. He’s almost certain what it’s about: she probably fell into the trap he set for her.

He finds his stepmother in the kitchen. She looks very angry, very upset. Her eyes pierce him with a knife-like intensity; her one hand is clenched. However, he has no fear of her and approaches her without feeling intimidated.

What’s this? she asks as she hands him a half-sheet of notebook paper. Why would you write such a thing? she queries him. On the paper it says: If you find this note, you have obviously been searching through my drawers, and this proves to me what an evil loser you are. How dare you! she continues. This is my house, and I can do what I want. Who do you think you are?

Well, it’s my house, too, he says with a great deal of emotion. This has been my house long before you ever lived here. Yet you make me feel as though I don’t belong. Why is that? What is it about me that you don’t trust? Are you so insecure in your relationship with my father that you hope to find something that will lessen me in his eyes?

This last question literally causes his stepmother’s face to turn redænot because of embarrassment, but because of her obvious hatred of him. I definitely don’t trust you, she says. I’ve been waiting for you to turn on me, and now you’ve done it.

Heat rises up through his chest and settles in his own face. What have I ever done to make you distrustful of me? he asks All I do is come home and hang out in my roomæ

And hang out on the streets, she reminds him. You’re always downtown with that crowd of yours and you’re probably into all kinds of thingsædrugs, alcohol, sex. I fear you will be a bad influence on my daughter. I certainly don’t want her to go the route you’re headed.

He moves closer to her, his head pounding with tension, his vision fuzzy and clouded by his own anger. His stepmother’s image blurs before him. You have no right to say those things to me, he says. How dare you! You have no evidence to base your judgment on. You’re mean-spirited towards me for a personal reason and it’s too bad. I’m a good person. We’ve been living together for over two years, and you never take the time to get to know me. Most days you barely even speak to me.

Well, there must be something wrong with youæabout you, his stepmother claims. After all, even your own mother has distanced herself from you . . . hardly has anything to do with you. This past summer she didn’t even have you fly down to stay with her for a while. Why would she be so aloof from her own son?

Because she’s as selfish as you are, he answers and backs away.

Wait until your father gets home, she says.

He continues to back away until he reaches the foot of the staircase and then he retraces his steps back to his bedroom. He glances at the clock. It’s 5:05 p.m. He remembers that he told his friends he would meet them downtown this afternoon. Even though he has to finish that essay for his English teacher, he realizes he needs to get out of the house for a while. He is so hurt and upset that he would like to throw things around his room. Fortunately, his stepmother didn’t follow him upstairs. Or he just might’ve . . .

Suddenly remembering his promise to bring along the latest release by the Juliets, he quickly searches through his collection of CDs, which are stacked in several columns beneath the small table on which his stereo sits. At last he sees it and grabs it.

And then he races down the stairs and bolts out the front door.

Back on the Streets

Look at my totally cool T-shirt, Rosa is saying, pointing a finger at herself. She is wearing a light-blue T-shirt that has HEAVEN 17 written across the front of it, a British music group from the 1980s. Rosa is tall and slender and has chemically-processed blonde hair. She explains, I found it at a resale clothing in Royal Oak. And I got it for only five dollars, she adds

They all tell her that it’s a sweet-looking T-shirt.

He is standing at the corner of Allen Street and Nine Mile Road, loitering around the small empty parking lot with his friends. Even though downtown Ferndale attracts a lot of patrons to its stores, no one ever seems to uses this parking lotæso skateboarders and homeless people mill around or sit around the built-up concrete boarder that surrounds a towering tree and some flowers. In addition to Rosa, his other friends Charlie and June are outside with him. Charlie and June have just started “going out.” He has to admit they make a good couple. They both have brown hair and wear it somewhat short and messy, letting their bangs droop into their eyes, just like how he has his hair styled. And they both are fond of wearing plain T-shirts and jeans with tears in them, and of listening to punk rock bands from New York and California. Furthermore, they are very affectionate towards one another, always holding hands or putting their arms around one another, and they frequently kiss. Yes, they certainly make a nice couple. He wishes he could be in a relationship. He would like to “go out” with Rosa because she’s so pretty and fun to be around, but whenever he has the courage to bring up the subject to her, she never appears too interested.

They eventually sink down on the concrete barrier.

Did I tell you what a psycho that Mr. Taylor is, my psychology teacher? Rosa says.

Yeah? What about him? he, Charlie, and June say simultaneously.

Well, a few weeks ago when I first dyed my hair, he asked me if I was testing out the theory about blondes having more fun, and then he winked at me, Rosa explains.

You’ve already told us that awhile ago, Charlie reminds her. What does that have to do with being a psycho?
Well, maybe psycho is not the right word, Rosa agrees. How about freak? He said todayætoday being one of the few occasions I ever wear a oneæthat the colors in my dress were driving his eyes wild. His words so upset me that I had to change my clothes as soon as I got home.

At least you know that someone likes you, Rosa, Charlie says.

Not funny, Rosa says, frowning. He’s not really my type. I would like someone younger, like around my own age, not going towards fifty years old.

And doesn’t he have a daughter who’s the same age we are? June interjects. I would’ve thrown his comment back at him. I would’ve asked him if he thought this was something appropriate for a teacher to say to his own daughter. June is always so logical, clear-headed.

But Mr. Taylor isn’t as freaky as my journalism teacher, Mr. Powell, Charlie says. He’s obviously gay. He wears purple and pink shirts, and his lips look painted and rosy. He probably puts on some kind of lipgloss in the morning. Charlie laughs.

Ferndale has a lot of gay residents, so it wouldn’t be surprising if Mr. Powell is one of them, he says. Mr. Powell lives here, after all. But at the same time one can’t judge the man on exterior facts alone, he points out.

Yeah, Ferndale certainly has a lot of them, June agrees. My mother would like to put our house up for sale next summer and move us out further north, perhaps to Rochester or Shelby Township. My mother claims she’s tired of the local papers having nothing but sensationalized gay and lesbian issues in them. There has to be more going on in life than this, my mother says.

Speaking of gay guys, Charlie says, there goes one of them.

He, Rosa, Charlie, and June all look as that man in the truck, whom he saw earlier in the morning, passes by. The driver turns around the corner and disappears.

What’s his story? June asks. In addition to being reasonable, June is also inquisitive.

Billy and Mark, who hang out and skateboard a few blocks further down on Nine Mile, Charlie says, often see this dude go by. He drives around the block several times and smiles or winks at them each time he passes by. Talk about another a freak, Charlie adds, shaking his head.

Look at the time, Rosa says, pointing to the Hello Kitty watch on her wrist. It’s almost eight o’clock. I haven’t had dinner yet, nor have I started my homework. I have to write this dreaded editorial for American History and read some short stories for literature class. What fun!

Yeah, I’ve got some homework of my own, Charlie and June both say.

They all say good-bye to each other, that they’ll see each other tomorrow morning and then later at lunch. Charlie and June hurry off in the direction north of Nine Mile, in the direction where they live. He is left alone with Rosa, who doesn’t take off but just stands there. Once Charlie and June are out of sight, they just stare at one another awkwardly for a few moments.

Have you ever been to the Magic Bag for anything? he asks Rosa. The Magic Bag is a theater and concert venue on Woodward, an avenue that intersects with Nine Mile.

No, never, Rosa says.

The Magic Bag is showing this really cool movie next week . . . on Wednesday, he says.

Rosa’s facial features are as blank as a freshly washed blackboard. I don’t know, she says. I’ll have to check my schedule.

Rosa is always alluding him, is always noncommittal. Maybe if he had better features, wore more trendy clothes, had an animated personality . . . if only he bothered to shave and isn’t so scruffy . . . it may be different.

Let’s talk about this tomorrow, Rosa offers. I have to go. Reading and writing are awaiting me.

They shake hands, as if their relationship is of a formal nature. Rosa heads west on Nine Mile for a few blocks, crosses the road, and then travels down on a residential street until she is no longer in view.

He is alone now. He also needs to return home. Like his friends, he has homework to complete. But he hesitates. He has lost his earlier motivation for writing that paper: it has dissipated like the remembrance of patchy dreams. He moves onto the sidewalk, the corner, and stands there for a while, waiting for something to happen.

Many of the stores have closed, he notices as he gazes to the east. And there is hardly anyone outside. Further down the street are two coffee shops that are as brightly lit as Las Vegas, but other than that, the street life is becoming quiet and still. It is practically dark. Still, he feels something might happenæsomething will almost certainly happen.

He turns his head back to where Rosa walked away. He just stares in that direction. Within a minute or so, he observes the truck coming towards him. It is the same one from this morning and from this evening. It stops at the light, and he squints his eyes and tries to make out what the driver looks like. It’s definitely the same truck and the same man inside.

The traffic light soon becomes green, and he can almost predict what will happen next. The driver turns, passes him, pulls into a parking lot a short distance away, and then opens the passenger door. It is an invitation, or maybe a dare. And he willing acceptsæaccepts the offer or challenge.

He slings his backpack over his shoulder and quickly approaches the car. The closer he gets, the more the man comes into full detail. According to most, the man would be considered attractive. The man has large eyes, an oval face, and a swarthy complexion. His thinning dark hair is short, straight, and parted on one side. He is wearing a short-sleeved button-up shirt, and he clearly has the appearance of a typical married man. At least that’s what he senses.

Hi there! the man says enthusiastically. How’s it going? What are you up to?

Without any hesitation, he climbs into the truck and closes the door. Even though he doesn’t respond, the man pulls out of the parking lot and drives off. They travel south for a few blocks, almost in the direction of where he lives, but then the man veers onto a residential side street. The man drives only a block down and then parks the truck in the driveway that sits alongside of a two-story house.

He recognizes the house. He has walked past it beforeæprobably on his way to the post office or to one of the fast food restaurants on Woodward Avenue. It saves time going down one of these side streets to get to places on Woodward rather than going through downtown to reach these destinations. When he’s in a hurry, even though he likes the noise and commotion of people on Nine Mile, he frequently detours through one of these side streets. He recalls seeing this house on several occasions when he has bypassed through the neighborhood. It has become very dark, but he can still see the dwelling. He remembers the first story is brown brick and that the siding on the second story has been painted the same color of clay pots. This color is called something fancy, but he forgets what the name of it is.

The man begins to eye him nervously, seriously, reluctantly. In the past the man would readily beam a smile at him. Now, however, the man smiles at him cautiously and awkwardly.

So . . . what are we doing here? he asks. He, surprisingly, does not feel overly nervous by the man’s actions, though his heart is fluttering rather rapidly. They’re about to enter this man’s house, a stranger’s house, yet for some reason he recognizes he’s in control.

The man takes a deep breath, then quietly lets it out. Please don’t feel uneasy, the man says. I’m a nice guy. I mean no harm, so you have nothing to worry about. I’m not an ax-murderer or anything. The man laughs with sounds of reservation.

I’m okay butæhe starts to say.

It’s just I’m always seeing you and your friends out on Nine Mile and Allen, on the corner there, the man continues. I see you guys listening to your music and playing around on your skateboards, and . . . and it reminds me of myself, when I was your age, or maybe a little younger. You ever been to Ann Arbor? the man asks, but doesn’t wait for him to answer. It’s a cool city like Ferndale because it has a downtown. Before I could drive, my dad would drop me off in Ann Arboræit’s close to where I grew upæon Saturdays. He would give me some money, so I could get some lunch and dinner while I was down there, and I would hang out there for the day. Walking around the streets of Ann Arbor were wonderful times. The downtown was a release, a temporary escape from the unpleasantness going on at home. There were groups of kidsæskateboarders and punkersæwho hung out around an archway at the end of the Diag, which is a walkway that runs at a diagonal and cuts through a part of the University of Michigan campus. When I had exhausted all of the music stores and finished eating at some restaurant for lunch, I would go hang out with them. They were always listening to the coolest music . . . like punk rock stuff from New York and Los Angeles . . . and one of them would have a guitar . . . and one of them . . . He momentarily falls silent and takes another deep breath.

That sounds greatæawesome! he says. I love music. I just seem to live for it.

When I was your age, the man says, it was all about the music, the bands, the need to find my own community . . . I miss those times.

Still obviously edgy and tense, the man darts his eyes in various direction before he allows himself to look at the teenage boy. Would you care to come inside? the man says in a low voice. I have some wonderful records we could listen to. You know what records are, don’t you? Again, the man doesn’t wait for him to reply as he rambles on. They’re what we had before tapes and CDs. I have some really sweet stuff on vinyl, on records. You ever hear of groups like Black Flag, Circle Jerks, the Dead Kennedys, or the Germs? Would you like to come inside and hear some of their stuff? You’ll like them, trust me. These bands have fast beats and heavy guitars.

Sure, he says. Why not? One of Charlie’s favorite bands is Black Flag. Charlie often brings along a Black Flag CD for him and their other friends to play while they stand around on the corner. He’s not familiar with these other bands, though.

He begins to stroke his chin. Are the man’s intentions for picking him up and driving him here as innocent as they sound? he wonders. Is this man as lonely as he seems? Or does he have another purpose in mind . . . ?

In the Man’s House

They are inside now, in the living room.

He slowly walks around, taking everything in. It’s decorated in a style that exists in many households across America. There is a blue sofa, an oak entertainment center complete with TV set and stereo system, two armchairs in a lighter shade of blue, some art work of family scenes on the walls, a few tables of varying lengths and heights . . . It’s very similar to the living room in his own house, in Charlie’s house, in Billy’s house . . .

He wanders over to an end table beside the sofa and begins to inspect some framed pictures sitting on top of it. They are photographs of a pretty woman, who has blonde hair and large blue eyes like Rosa, but who looks obviously older and is probably either in her late twenties or early thirties. He runs his fingers along the edge of one of the frames, imagining he lives in a house like this with Rosa and that they are married. His heart beats with a strange sense of excitement, even though he is only daydreaming.

Please leave those alone, the man says, approaching him with some records in his hand. Let’s go over by the stereo. The man motions to where the entertainment center is at the other end of the room.

Who’s the woman? he says. Is she your wife or girlfriend ? It seems to be the logical explanation.

The man ignores his questions and says, What would you like to hear first? How about the Dead Kennedys? Their album Bedtime for Democracy really rocks. The man puts his hand on the boy’s forearm. He can feel the roughness and hairiness of the man’s thick forearm, and this causes him to jump from displeasure. The man attempts to guide him away from the pictures.

But he’s immovable. How long have you been married? he asks. Is your wife out of town? Because the man is avoiding answering the question, it is obvious to him that the man is married.

Look, the man says, what does this have to do with anything? What’s the deal with all of these questions? Would you rather I take you back? I thought we were going to listen to some music and . . . maybe . . .

He steps away. He no longer wants to be here. Initially, being with the man intrigued him, somewhat excited him. He felt that the man might have some answers for him. But at the moment he is no longer comfortable in the house. It was a mistake to come here with him. He realizes he wants to be around Rosa, not this.

Hey, kid, the man says, let me drive you back. You’re making me nervous, very nervous. I don’t think this was such a good idea.

He stands there for a moment, unable to say anything, overwhelmed by the situation.

The man goes to the doorway that leads to the small foyer. The front door is just behind him. The man’s hands are empty now except for some keys. Let’s go, the man says. Let me take you back.

Silently, he follows the man out to the truck and gets in.

On the Streets Again

He crosses the street to where the music store is and ambles toward the poster displayed in the window. With intense fascination and longing, he stares at Donna Jane Juliet. His preoccupation with her is unwavering. She is strong, compassionate, caring, probably loving . . . traits he is discovering that he has. Someday he will get backstage and meet her. Rosa, too, likes the Juliets. She will have to be with him when that happens. Will it ever happen?

Even though most of the businesses are closed on Nine Mile, even though he is practically the only one on the street, at least on this block, possibilities of many things illuminate his mind and fill the air. There are all kinds of adventures to be had, so much to experience. He takes the twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket and rubs it between his fingers. Here, the man said, handing him money. Have some fun with the money; buy yourself a CD or something. I won’t bother you again, so forget you ever saw me, the man pleaded with sheepish eyes. Yes, he realizes again as he recalls the man’s words from just a little while ago, right as he was being dropped off downtown, there are more adventures awaiting him on the streets. But unfortunately he has to walk home now. He must temporarily leave this area of comfort, of happiness, of opportunity. He still has to write that stupid essay for his English class. He still has to face his father (but more than likely his father has gone off to bed). Otherwise, he can easily see himself staying out here all night.