I’M IN CHICAGO, STANDING in line at the convenience store on the corner of Clark and Addison, across from Wrigley, on lunch from another day of sitting in front of a panel of youth counselors. It’s springtime, and this is all part of my evaluation process. If all goes according to the judge’s plan, I’ll pass the eval, stay in school and maintain my grades, head off to camp in the fall, and maybe go to college, where no one will have heard of two fuckup kids named Charlie Baltimore and Moses Hill.
The news frenzy has died down, especially in Chicago, but every now and again there’s a blip about us on the news.
And of course, it happens today while I’m trying to buy a coffee and a banana. For a few seconds, my face is on the screen and the lady standing in line right behind me makes a tsk noise and I reflexively look back at her.
And I think:
You idiot, don’t look back at her!
And: Now she’s going to recognize you, asshole.
The lady—an anonymous, middle-aged woman with short hair and a big coat—sees the screen, then looks at me and says, “See, more kids need to be like you. Nice shoes, a tie, not like the—pardon my language—shit we see on TV.”
She doesn’t recognize me; she just sees a nicely dressed young person trying to buy a reasonably healthy snack.
I say, “Guess my parents just raised me right,” and give her the most disgustingly sweet smile in the world.
I think: You goddamn machine. I think: Charlie wouldn’t have pretended. Must be nice knowing you can blend in. I think: That’s not how people with beating hearts respond.
After I pay and step outside, I give my lunch to the homeless person on the corner. I feel like I’m about to throw up, I hate myself so much.