Win or lose and everything in between

Names

"Well."
The place I'd reached was, as expected, underwhelming. The rush of adrenaline that pumped through my veins as I crept through the bushes had now vanished. Melted away completely as I look at an old motel 6 that stands beside a Gas And Go. And to think that place had 4 stars on the map. I felt sick to my stomach as I crossed the road to the hotel. Blisters rubbed against the side of my toes and my throat burned when I swallowed. I wonder what they were doing right now. Looking for me? They've probably stopped by now. It's been awhile. I've probably been pronounced dead. Ohio was a clusterfuck of streets bleeding of crack and hospitals that bordered on new-age technology. All that money to cure an incurable disease yet thousands of sick people still live on the streets. But what do I know. My Mother always said I was too harsh. I didn't talk much, but when I did I'd bite. I think every time I talk I expect to be belittled. It's been that way for as long as I can remember. I hurt myself to prevent being hurt by others.

I rented a room at the hotel 6. Okay I actually didn't, but I slept outside in the alley. Sleeping outside gets easier over time. You learn to shut off everything else and just fall asleep without the security of a room. The concrete was moist and cold leaving my skin feeling sticky. I wadded up my flannel and used it as a pillow leaving my arms and legs pressed flush against the street. My eyes were itchy, my skin greasy and slick with sweat. Cracks line my lips as I slip my tongue across them, greasing them up as much as I can. Florescent lights shine behind my closed eyelids and my heavy head finally slips into darkness.

The suns not up yet, but I am. The morning dew has already soaked the ground, and an early morning drug deal is coming into play. I see the shadowy figures of what seems like two young guys trading goods. One guy, who appears to be the dealer, stalks off carefully folding an envelope and slipping it into a pocket on the inside of his coat. The other guy, the buyer, walks off in the opposite direction. The dealer comes closer and I push myself up against the wall as far as possible. As he continues the close the distance I see the outline of tattoos, rings, chains, and about every other accessory one can have. I quiet my breathing. He continues to stroll in my direction and I remain still. He reaches the area right in front of me and stops. I really don't want to have a run in with a drug dealer right now. He slowly turns his head in my direction and looks me up and down.
"Hm."
I remain stoic, looking at him.
"You saw that?"
I pause for a second.
"Mhm."
"You're not gonna say anything are you?"
"No."
He slowly nods his head, "good."
He starts to walk away; he turns back.
"Why are you out here."
"No reason."
"Right."
"Yeah"
"Are you homeless?"
"No."
He looks at me, non plussed.
"Okay."
He reaches his hand out to me, I stare at him.
"What? Too good for a motel stay."
I eye him.
"Yes."
"Alright."

I was not in fact to good for a motel stay. Actually, I was rather needing one. The shower barely drizzled out water but it felt incredible. I hadn't asked questions really, I just walked into the room and went straight to the bathroom. The dealer sat on the singular bed, simply watching tv. I turn the water off, dry my hair, and put on my underwear which I had hand washed and dried with the blow dryer attached to the wall. I wasn't quiet ready to put on my clothes, relishing in my cleanliness. I wrap my body in the hotel towel and open the door. He still sits there, but now he's counting money. He looks and me and readjusts to be sitting on the edge of the bed. I stalk over to the desk in front of him and take a seat.
"What's your name?" He asks.
"What's your name?" I ask back.
"I asked first."
"Okay."
"Okay."
"Dane." I reply.
"Saint."
"Bullshit."
"Nope."
"Yes."
"You're named after a dog." He remarks.
"Shut up."
I notice his sleeve of tattoos. Tons of heavily shaded pictures ordains his arms but most noticeably the portrait of the Virgin Mary on his bicep.
"You sell drugs?"
"You live on the streets?"
"Yes." I respond.
"Yes." He answers.
"Why?"
"Money doesn't grow on trees. Why do you live on the streets."
"I left home."
He doesn't ask why this time, he just nods.
He continues counting money.
"How old are you?" I ask the mobster looking guy in front of me.
"19"
"17"
He looks at me.
"Do you need a coworker?" I ask.
"No."
"Do you want a coworker."
He looks at me. I look at him. He lays the money down and rolls up his sleeves even further.