I'm in a cage.
It's about six-by-eight feet. The walls are a russet brown. The steel bench bolted to the concrete is covered in a blanket hand-knitted by someone with no sense of comfort. I use it, of course. How else am I going to keep myself warm through the lonely winter nights?
This is the Downtown Police Station, and my home away from home. I spend more time here than I do anywhere else. I suppose I should start referring to myself as an addict. Maybe I like sleeping here, listening to the sirens outside in the lot or the grumbles of drunks and hookers in other cells. Or maybe it's safer here than it is on a park bench or someone's open garage.
My name is Jessica Knight. I'm five-foot-four, my hair is annoyingly black and I'm some part Armenian (I think). I don't live at home. I don't have a home. I'm no one. But I'm free – most of the time – and that's all I need to live for.
I'm guessing you have a frown on your face. You're wondering why a teenage girl like me doesn't live in a small-town house with a white, picket fence,annoying siblings and parents committed to their careers. I'll be honest; leaving home was the best thing that ever happened to me. I have no rules and no parents who scowl at me when I sneak home three minutes after curfew or try to tell me who I can and cannot date. At least, I don't live with them anymore. That's the way things are.
As for a home... I live in lots of places. More often than not, I'm with my friend Alice.She's twenty-five and shares a flat with her hipster boyfriend Shane. They're always happy to let me crash.
Then there's the life-plan aspect.
Okay, I'm not completely life-less. I'm not a vegetable, if that's how you want to look at it. Everyone has a purpose. I just don't really know what my purpose is. I go about my business – earning cash through street crew–run deals – because I have no other way of making money. No one wants to hire a homeless, uneducated teenage criminal.Except ... well, criminals themselves.
I don't like going against the law. I don't feel much of a thrill when I deal drugs or steal for cash. The only reason I do what I do is because it's all I've known since I left home at fifteen. And jail is better than owing people favors. I don't feel guilty for crashing in prison.
I don't know what in hell will happen to me tomorrow. And frankly, I don't care. I'm a teenage criminal with the longest juvy record in history, but I'm free as a bird. A jailbird. Oh, the irony.
I gaze at the decayed bars of my regular holding cell and begin to wonder about birds. The ones who live in cages just like mine. They don't think about where they're going to stay or where they'll get their next meal. They sing because they're happy, because they don't know otherwise.That's the one thing we don't have in common.
Sergeant Symons hobbles through the security door and into the corridor. I can hear him whistling a low, wordless tune. His footsteps grow louder and more rhythmic as he marches toward my cell. I let my arms hang out of the bars and press my face up against them. I've grown so comfortable here. I can probably tell you how many bricks there are on the back wall of my cell.
The clack,clack, clack of his perfectly polished shoes break their even tempo as he approaches the gate and glances down at me. His expression is of boredom. That's because he expects me to ignore him when he gives the 'I don't want to see you in here again, got it?' speech, so he doesn't say anything. Instead, he chews his gum, adjusts the holster under his overflowing gut and unlocks the door.
Another difference between me and the birds is three glorious words:
"You've got bail,"Sarge grumbles and I spit out a laugh. It's a running joke at the station, one Sarge became tired of long ago. It still makes me chuckle. "You know the drill, Knight. Get out of here."
I nod. I love the fact that he hates me so much. I sometimes sing loudly to myself when he's on duty because I'm a horrible singer and he can't stand it. It amuses me.
"Thanks Sarge." I stick my hands in the pockets of my tired black jeans and wave as I stroll away.
"I'll see you soon," he says.
Outside, Alice is waiting with the engine running. I skip down the station steps and wrap my coat tighter around me. The air is chilly and I'm thankful I have a place to stay tonight. Sleeping outside in this shit-hole of a city when the winter air is this cold definitely sucks beyond the telling of it. Trust me, I know.
"Hey Ali, thanks for bailing me out again." I give her a quick hug and she swings the car off the curb and into the right lane. She doesn't say a word,her thin lips pursed and her green eyes fixed on the road. She turns the dial on the radio and we listen in silence.
I don't feel the need to explain myself, because this time it wasn't my fault. Okay,maybe half of it was, but I wasn't the idiot who attracted the police. I'm more careful than that.
But I don't feel like re-living it just yet. Not now when I'm finally warm and comfortable. I'll have to explain in the morning to both Alice and Shane, so I might as well wait until then.
I recognize the song and lean back on the headrest. The tune is slow and mellow, the way I like it. Just because I'm a punk criminal, doesn't mean I rock out to the ear splitting heavy metal that's so stereotypically related to emos and outcasts. I'm not like the rest of them.
As the song is hitting its climax, it ends abruptly. My eyes fly open and I stare with my mouth hanging agape at Alice, who is wearing a hard look. Her lips are pursed even more than they were and her wide eyes are cold.Something has her pissed.
"I'm not gonna do it anymore Jess," she says simply.
"Do what?"
"Bail you out. Do you know how much it's costing me? And what for, what do you gain from it?"
I slump back in the seat. We've had this conversation on numerous occasions. I know how it ends. "Yeah, okay, I didn't get paid this time, and I wasn't supposed to get caught again, but there's more to it than just the money. It's-"
"What, the thrill?"She keeps her eyes focused on the road, but I can almost see her glaring at me. "You can't keep doing this just because you're bored."
"It's not because I'm bored."
She sighs. "You don't get it, do you?"
"Get what?"
"This has to stop,"she says firmly. "You have to consider the consequences and grow up."
Wow, slap in the face.Consider the consequences? Doesn't she know that I consider the'consequences' every single time I agree to these gigs? I may have done my fair share of time, but only for small things that have never caused anyone harm. I swore the day I signed up for this that I'd never hurt anyone. Hits and assassinations are for blood-lust junkies and those wanting the big bucks. Petty crimes are for the cautious ones, and people like me who have nothing else to do with their lives or who became trapped in the world of bikers at an early age. It's what I'm good at. I know the consequences because I live them. Every day.
"Alice, I'm forever grateful to you for letting me crash with you. If it weren't for you, honestly, I don't know what kind of trouble I'd be in. You save my life on a daily basis."
At that, Alice bites her lip and pulls into her driveway.
"I don't expect you to bail me out anymore," I continue. "I get that you have to take care of yourself. And you've done more than enough for me. But I'm not going to change. Not for you, not for the authorities ... not for anyone. I know it sucks shit, but this is who I am."
I pull on the handle of the door and step out of her car. The night is bitter and Alice's house is so inviting. The living room light is on and I can see the shadow of Shane through the cotton, orange curtains. It all looks so warm, so much like home to me now. It would break my heart to leave and not come back.
But I don't want to be a burden on Alice. I snatch my pack from the floor of the car and head back down the driveway.
"Jess," Alice moans and I turn slowly. "I didn't cook burritos for nothing, did I?"
Smiling, I tread backup the steep driveway. Alice wraps her skinny arm around my shoulder.
"I'll try not to get caught next time," I say with my head leaning in the crook of her neck. Her beautiful, blond hair smells like lemons and antique furniture.
"It's okay," she says. "I'm here for you. It's a struggle, but I'm not about to let you go homeless, okay? Well ... more homeless than you already are. What do they call that? Part-time homeless? Half-blood homeless?Seeing-other-homes homeless?"
She continues on a tangent I am all too happy to listen too, smiling as we walk up to the house.