Public transportation. It’s not my favorite way to travel, but it’s better than walking. The reason why I don’t love it is because it’s so darn confusing. Get on this bus, no not that bus, transfer here, walk a block, get on that bus to get to the next bus. And half the time, we miss our stop and have to get on another bus to circle back around. Another reason why riding the bus sucks is because they don’t let you bring shopping carts on board. That means we have to lug all our trash bags full of our stuff onto the bus and take up way more space than just two seats. And people get annoyed by that, especially if the bus is full and people have to stand. Then when we get off, we got to go find another metal pony to carry all our stuff, which can take hours.
But there are a few things I do like about it. Buses are always full of interesting people. Salt of the earth people, Mom calls them. The real backbone of America. The hard workers. The dedicated parents. The students. The kids crossing town to meet up with their friends. “If you ever want to see what the real American dream is, hop on a city bus and ride it for a few hours. That will show you who America really is, not the America we all see on TV,” Mom says.
Emjay thinks differently. He thinks anyone who rides the city bus is poor and the reason why each bus has such huge windows is so other people in their cars can look in and see what poverty looks like.
I think they’re both right.
I’m at the window seat, and I’m surrounded by all our black trash bags. Even in here, people are looking at me with the “poor kid” look. It’s when their eyes frown and their head slightly tilts, and they are smiling like they ate something that doesn’t taste good but they don’t want you to know they dislike it because you made it for them. It’s that look.
Mom is across from me. I think she secretly loves riding city buses but won’t ever admit it. Some people go whale-watching. Some go bird-watching. But my mom, this is her hobby. She loves watching people. And in here, where she finally isn’t driving and having to keep her eyes on the road, there’s a lot of them to watch. This bus is pretty full. Some are people trying to escape the rain, I’m sure. Homeless people like us. It’s what we do when there’s nowhere to go. That’s why so many ask for change. Because if the clouds darken overhead and you hear that ever-so-silent hum in the air, you know it’s about to rain. Buses are our umbrellas.
After switching buses three times and passing the place the cop warned us about, which is called Skid Row in downtown LA, we are only about one hour away from my uncle’s apartment in Watts.
Skid Row affected Mom. She pretended like it didn’t, but she couldn’t keep her eyes off the streets. Seeing all those homeless people clumped together in one place. Cardboard castles, tarped homes, tents, some people just lying under newspaper. It was like a war went off nearby and Skid Row is where they keep all the refugees. It was so sad. I even saw some homeless dogs and cats, which reminded me that my Ani may be homeless somewhere back in Modesto. The second we get a car again, I’m going to beg Mom to take us back and search for her one more time. Maybe a hundred more times.
On the wall of an abandoned building, overlooking Skid Row, there was a large message painted across it. It read And in the eyes of the hungry, there is a growing wrath.
“You know who said that?” Mom asks me.
“Someone very hungry, and very angry,” I reply.
“An author named John Steinbeck. It’s from his book The Grapes of Wrath.”
“Give the people some grapes already, jeez,” I say.
She smiles. “Sooner or later, if they aren’t given, they will be taken,” she says.
“Did he write that too?” I ask.
“Nope. That was all me,” she says.
As we travel on, I can’t help but notice all these parts of Los Angeles look nothing like how Mom describes it. It all looks run-down and poor and makes Burbank look rich and fancy.
“Where are we?” I ask Mom.
“Paramount,” she says. “Next is Compton, then Watts.”
“Does Watts look like this?” I ask.
“We’ll see,” she says.
I hope not. These places look so depressing. And that means a lot coming from me. But I know Mom doesn’t want to stay with her brother for very long, so hopefully we will leave Watts quickly. The bus keeps moving, and we enter the city of Compton. This is the city where those rappers that Emjay likes are from. Dr. Dre, Eazy-E, and the two other guys. I wonder if they ride the bus. Maybe I’ll ask for an autograph if I recognize them.
City buses in Los Angeles are unlike any I’ve ever seen. In Burbank, most of the people spoke a language I never heard before. Mom said it was Armenian. In Paramount, most people were Mexican. But here in Compton, almost everyone is Black. I wonder why the cities are separated like that. It’s like how some people eat their food and don’t let the beans touch the corn or the mashed potatoes touch the chicken. Didn’t Mom say this place was a melting pot? A swirl of people constantly mixing together to create this colorful world? Or maybe that’s just Hollywood. Maybe that’s what makes Hollywood special.
Every single house I see in Compton has barred windows. And there are police cars patrolling from both directions. I wonder what that’s about.
At one of the stops, a large Black woman with purple hair gets on. She is wearing a pink tracksuit, and her long fingernails match her outfit. She sees me and smiles. Her smile makes me smile. When she notices my bruised eye, and all the trash bags around me, she doesn’t give me a look of pity like the other people do. Instead she snaps her fingers at me and says, “I know you don’t think a trash bag deserves the seat more than I do.”
She talks like she has an accent and doesn’t have one at the same time. I pick up one of the bags and place it in between my feet.
“What’s your name, cutie?” she asks.
“Opin.”
“Open?” She laughs. “What’s your last name, Sesame?”
I laugh. She’s funny.
“Who in their right mind would name their boy Open?” she asks.
“That would be me,” Mom says to her.
They share a smile. “Opin is Ojibwe. We’re Native American.”
“Oh, snap. Native American. Y’all are the original gangstas,” she says. “I’m Black. And purple.” She laughs and points to her hair.
“I’ve noticed. It’s beautiful,” Mom says.
“Thank you. And damn, girl. You should be a model. You got that look that belongs on the front cover. What y’all doing on the bus?”
“On our way to Watts. Then try to figure out our next move,” Mom says.
“Watts up! That’s my stomping ground. Born and raised,” she says.
“I’m Inde. What’s your name?” Mom asks.
“Inde. Please tell me your last name is Ana Jones?”
Mom laughs. I do too, but I liked her first joke better.
“I’m Angelique, but you can call me Angel.”
“Nice to meet you, Angel. Opin, have you ever met an angel before?”
“Nope. You’re my first angel,” I say. “Where’s your halo?”
“Sold it. It distracted from my hair.”
“Where are your wings?” I ask.
“Sold those too. I don’t need to fly. I’m fly enough already.”
“Now you gotta take the bus to get around,” I say, and smile.
“True that. But the bus ain’t so bad. Gives me a chance to meet interesting people. Like you two. And y’all are for damn sure my first Open and Inde I ever met. So what are two Native Americans doing in Watts?”
“We’re homeless,” I say.
Mom looks at me like I just stepped on her foot. “What?” I say. “We are. We had a car, but it died,” I add.
“We are in between homes. And my brother lives in Watts. We’re staying with him until I can get our feet back on the ground,” Mom says.
Angel looks at all the trash bags, then at me, then back to my mom.
“I like you. And you know what angels do when they like someone?” she asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “They offer a helping hand.”
Angel digs in her bright pink purse.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t take anything from you,” Mom says.
“Hear her out, Mom,” I say.
“Smart boy,” Angel says, and pulls out a card and hands it to my mom.
“Sometimes someone offering you change isn’t the change you’re used to getting. This is real change. This here is my cousin. He works for the California Angels,” she says.
My mom looks confused. And honestly, so am I. “How is a baseball team going to help us?” I ask.
“They can’t, but my cousin’s wife can. She works for the state. Low-income housing is her specialty. Call my cousin and tell him an angel sent you. He’ll know what to do,” Angel says.
The bus stops. Mom stands. “This is us.”
“Good luck, Inde and Open,” she says.
“Miigwech, Angel,” I tell her.
“Me gwitch right back at ya, kid,” she says.
I grab the bags and follow Mom off the bus. And just our luck, as soon as we get off the bus, there is an empty, overturned metal pony waiting for us. It’s like the city was waiting for us to arrive. Maybe the angel in the bus magically sent us this shopping cart. Watts looks pretty run-down and dirty, but at the same time, it’s looking pretty good to me right now. I stand up the metal pony and look at my mom. “What’s the word when something feels like it’s meant to be, like everything is falling into place?” I ask.
“Serendipity. Kismet. Destiny. Fate. Any of those four would work. Pick one,” she says.
“I like kismet. Let’s name this metal pony Kismet.”
We load Kismet up and begin our push toward my uncle’s place. Around here, we don’t stand out too much. There are a lot of metal pony riders around here. Most of their carts are full of crushed soda cans and plastic bottles. Everyone looks just as poor as we do. Maybe even a bit poorer.
“You going to call Angel’s cousin?” I ask.
“Probably. You think I should?” she asks.
“Probably.”
We stop for food at a place called El Pollo Loco. I have macaroni and cheese, two chicken soft tacos, and a side of mashed potatoes. Mom has a side salad, a bean-and-cheese burrito, and a Coke. After our meal we walk another mile to my uncle’s apartment complex. It looks like a prison. High steel bars surround it. A black gate with a broken door, and all the windows are barred. Are they trying to keep people in or keep people out?
We push Kismet through the broken door and roll it down the halls. There are doors on each side. Each door is lettered. We stop near the end, at door letter W.
“Wolf?” I guess what it stands for. “Warrior? Winner?”
Mom takes a deep breath. “He Wishes,” she says cleverly, and knocks on the door.
A few moments pass, then the door opens, but only slightly.
His eyes peek through. “Were you followed?”
“What? Of course not. Open the door,” she says.
It opens slightly more. Just enough for me to see his face. I can tell he used to be good-looking, a long time ago. But he has the look I’ve seen many times throughout my many stays at shelters. Alcoholic eyes. They’re glossed over. They look laminated. The puffy red nose, like it was punched too many times. The sunken cheeks. The small bits of foam on both corners of his mouth. The smell of trapped spirits escaping through the open door and rushing into the hallway. Giiwashkwebiishki. That means he is a drunk. Mom taught me that word so she can say it aloud when a drunk gets too close to me in a shelter or on the street. A clever way of not letting him or her get offended when hearing it, but still keeping me connected to my people.
“You didn’t say you were bringing a kid,” he says.
“Yes, I did. I said two kids, actually.”
“Where’s the other? In one of the bags?” he asks.
“He’s on his way here. Are you going to open the door or not?”
“I guess I am,” he says, and swings the door open.
Mom enters, and I push the cart inside.
I am not sure why, but I find myself waiting for my uncle to examine my bruised face, my crooked smile, and then hug me. I mean, I’m his nephew. We are blood. In books and movies, when relatives meet there should be a hug, followed by “My, how’ve you grown. You’re getting so big. Yada yada.” But it doesn’t come. No hug. No smile. Just a grown-up in a messy apartment pointing to the corner, signaling me where to park our metal donkey. Maybe he’s just not a hugger. And why did I even want one? I don’t even know this guy.
Messy is an understatement. The place is a wreck. Beer bottles. An overflowing ashtray, clothes and food spread out almost like he decorated it that way. The only redeeming quality is that through all the mess, there are signs of life. A real life, snapped in photographs. On all his walls are family photos.
“That’s me and your mom,” my uncle says, and points to the one I’m facing.
Mom is a teenager. My uncle is my age. They look like two little Indians ready to take on the world. If it wasn’t in color, you’d guess this photo is from a hundred years ago.
“Your mama saved my life that day,” he adds.
“How?” I ask.
“I was sent to a boarding school. Our mom was sick, so she couldn’t take care of me. I was young enough for the state to step in. And it did. They thought I need some Christianity in my life. Back then, in Minnesota, being Indian was a first offense. Anyway, your mama walked thirty-two miles to that awful place. She snuck in and brought me back home. We basically ran the whole way back. And, well, I’ve been running ever since,” he says.
“Mom never told me that story,” I say.
“Because stories are supposed to have happy endings,” she says, and spreads a blanket over the couch and puts a pillow on top of it.
I look at all the other photos. My uncle must really love his family. I see my grandma and grandpa for the first time. My uncle doesn’t even need to tell me who they are. I immediately know. She looks like my mom, and he looks a bit like Emjay. A bit like me. A bit like my uncle.
“Mom did tell me that you got shot by a cop,” I say.
“Now, there’s a happy ending,” he says, and lifts up his shirt.
I see the scar on his right shoulder. It looks like a huge dimple. “Does it hurt?”
“Only when it’s cold out. And sometimes in the mornings. Or whenever I move it,” he says.
“So, basically, all the time?” I ask.
“I tell you, I’ll never touch a box of Lucky Charms again,” he jokes.
Mom starts to clean up his mess. He notices but says nothing. A big sister, however long she’s been gone, will always be a big sister and clean up her little brother’s mess, I guess. “When’s the last time you were outside?” she asks him.
“I don’t know. I played the lotto a few nights ago. Hey, if I win, I can finally get you the bike I owe you,” he says to her, and then looks at me. “I borrowed her bike once, and some jerk stole it from me.”
“I got the bike back. You know that. And that jerk lost a tooth for taking it. I have proof,” Mom says, and shows me her knuckles. A small scar sits on the middle finger. “You lost the bike two weeks later down by Gichigami,” she says.
“Oh, yeah. My bad. I should check if I won,” he says, and grabs the lottery ticket off the coffee table.
As he hops on the phone to check the winning numbers, Mom approaches me and hands me a fork. She makes sure my uncle doesn’t see it. “He’s a creep? He seems all right to me,” I say.
“Better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it,” she says, and begins to pull our stuff out of the shopping cart and place it all into neat piles along the wall.
“Damn it,” he shouts, and hangs up the phone.
“You didn’t win?” I ask.
“I don’t get it. I was sure I was gonna win this time. Maybe next week,” he says.
“I need to use your phone,” Mom says, and pulls out the angel’s cousin’s business card.
She wastes no time. She must really want to get out of this apartment as soon as possible. There must be a whole history between these two that I don’t know. But family is weird like that. There’s a history between Emjay and me, and we’re both not even old enough to have a history yet. Maybe all families have histories. Even the ones with homes and cars and TVs and basketball hoops hanging over their garage. Maybe even white families have histories. And maybe no one can really understand those family histories except the people involved. On the outside, Emjay and I should be friends. We should be close. We’ve known each other our entire lives. We look similar. We both love music, and we both know what it’s like to struggle and hustle. That should bond us. But we’re not friends. We’re not close. And I can totally see us drifting even further apart as we both get older. When we’re both men.
Men. I look at my uncle and see a man. But I also see a little boy. A boy who wishes he was closer with his family. A lonely boy. And the only way he can feel close to his family is to tack photos of them on his walls. Maybe he even talks to the photos? Maybe he tells them good morning and good night each day?
Mom picks up the phone and dials the number. My uncle turns off the baseball game on TV, which I didn’t even notice was on, and he says to me, “Wanna see something?”
“What is it?” I ask.
“It’s a secret. You can’t tell your mom.”
I slide my hand into my pocket and grip the fork. I’ll be ready to stick it in his thigh if I need to. “Sure,” I say.
Mom’s busy on the phone, her back to us, and my uncle leads me to his porch. He opens the sliding glass door and steps out. I follow him.
The porch is small and has nothing but two plants in it. “That’s Dolly Parton and Johnny Cash,” he says.
“Your big secret is to show me that you have two plants named after musicians?” I ask.
He laughs. “No,” he says, and places both plants on the top of the porch’s wall to bask in the sun. “This is my secret,” he says, and points to a wooden telephone pole across the street.
At first, I don’t see what he’s trying to show me, but then I look closer. Near the top, an arrow is stuck into the pole. Two feathers hang down from the end of it. One red and one black. “You did that?” I ask.
“Sure did.”
“Why?” I ask.
“In case they get me and take everything I got, even Dolly and Johnny here, there will always be that arrow. That will be the evidence I was here. The proof I existed,” he says.
His words stun me. Does this arrow, the only proof to the outside world that he lived, make me feel sorry for him? A little. Do I also find it pretty cool he shot a telephone pole? I do.
“I ain’t much of much. Never have been. But I do know this … While you’re here, in this world, your only real enemy is time. But it’s also your best friend. So, while you have it, enjoy it. Because it will run out. But before it does … You got to take your shot. And in life, we only get one shot.”
I look at the arrow again. That was my uncle taking his shot. That was his rage against time. That was his battle to prove he is alive. Even when a state tried to take him away as a kid and even when a cop tried to kill him as a man. He survived.
“You got a car?” my mom asks from behind us. She’s holding a pitcher of water.
“The one good thing I got out of getting shot was the settlement. It got me my Bronco,” he says.
“I need to borrow it,” Mom says as she begins to water Dolly and Johnny. “You know, you’re supposed to put them in the sun when it comes up, not when it’s about to come down.”
“I let them sleep in sometimes,” my uncle says, and pulls his keys out of his pocket and tosses them to Mom.
She catches them. We had a red Pinto, which is a type of horse, and my uncle drives a Bronco, which is another type of horse. I guess America can never take our culture out of us, no matter how hard they try, because even now, after all the battles and colonization and forced assimilation and genocide, we are still alive, and we are still riding horses. Maybe when I grow up and get a job and have money, I’ll ride a Mustang.