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It’s getting cold again. I hate the cold. It makes my joints ache, reminds me I’m getting old. I’m only 52 dammit, I don’t have to take this kinda disrespect from the weather.
I take another swig from the Budwiser bottle I snuck in as I stumble down the dark path that leads out of Central Park. Some woman threw me a 20 that paid for some lunchmeat, bread, and the case of beer I’ve been drinking for the past 6 hours. I’ll probably get a fine if the Central Park Precinct officers see it. Pretentious fuckers need their own precinct for a park. Probably get a fine if they see me at all honestly. My hair and beard is long, greasy, and unkempt, my clothes are ratty and torn and I’m wearing too many layers. I look like shit and I know it. Being functionally homeless will do that to someone. My trashy appearance might’ve been the only thing that earned me the 20.
Whatever, doesn’t matter to me. I just need to get out of here before the park closes at 1 and they start sweeping the grounds for trespassers. Back to that ratty mattress under the freeway or worse, cousin Mike’s couch in his shitty apartment where he and Shelia can never stop bitchin’ at each other. Their blow-out screaming matches have driven me to Central Park every day for the past week.
It’s already 12:30, and as I’m making my merry way “home,” I see another person on the bench in the distance. Sitting curled up in a ball with their arms around their legs and their forehead resting on their knees. I hope it’s not a woman. Don’t wanna freak her out, or make her uncomfortable.
As I’m trying to figure out how to go around the person, or at least make myself look as non-threatening as possible, (yeah, good luck with that Richard) the person looks up at my approach. At this point I’m close enough to see his boyish features. He’s young, no more than 19, but almost definitely a child. He’s not wearing a coat.
Immediately, concern floods through me. I’ve never really been the nurturing type, but I can see his red eyes and puffy tear-stained face from 10 feet away. He looks like the kind of kid you see in those depressing PSA’s about abusive families or poverty. We make awkward eye contact, and I resolve myself to help. Or at least try.
“Hey kid.”
He sniffs wetly.
“You’re gonna get sick out here with no coat.” He shifts a little but doesn’t respond. With a sigh and a groan, I sit down on the ground next to the bench. The leaves crunch and I know it’s gonna be hell tryna get up from here, but I want to respect his space.
“Little late for a cry in the park all by yourself kid. The gates close in less than 30 minutes. Your parents are probably worried sick.” The boy tenses up at that.
“They’re dead” a small raspy voice croaks from somewhere under that tangle of limbs.
Oh boy. A heavy feeling settles in my stomach, and a horrible thought occurs to me. What if he’s like me? Nowhere to go and no one who wants him? Oh god, he’s so young.
It pains me but I have to voice it, “You got somewhere safe to go? There are people that can help you y’know.”
“Yeah,” he clears his throat, “thanks for your concern. I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” I insist.
“With all due respect, neither do you.”
“Hey,” I hold up my hands defensively, “I know I got issues. You’re the one cryin’ on a park bench alone at 12 o’clock in the mornin’ saying everythin’s fine” I take another long swallow from my beer. Fucking kids, I swear.
After a moment of silence the boy says, “I’m sorry. That was rude, and it’s none of my business. You’re only trying to help. Why do I always do this-” He cuts off, his voice choked with tears to sob into his knees.
“Oh geez, c’mon kid don’t cry.” Feelings were never my strong suit. The boy takes a few deep breaths and looks up over the park grounds.
Remembering an old trick Uncle Jesse used to pull to piss off my parents when I was upset because of them, I turn to the kid and blurt, “Wanna get high?”
His head snaps towards me, “What??”, he shouts incredulously.
“What, I hear it calms you down,” I reply with my best sleazy smirk, “I know a few guys in Manhattan, they could getcha the kiddie stuff. Think of it like a happy meal, but instead of a fast food place, you’re gettin’ it from old junkie Mcdonald. I hear the establishment has gone to shit though, so maybe it’s best not to.”
That startles a laugh out of the kid, which devolves into full-scale body-racking laughter. I snicker along with him, glad that my totally inappropriate humor seemed to help a little.
The laughter eventually dies off into giggles, and the boy sniffs a few times and wipes his face.
“I’m Peter,'' he says.
“Richard,” I reply. “So Peter. What’s really goin’ on? ‘Cuz a blind man could see you’re not fine.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Peter says moodily. Yup, definitely a teenager.
“Try me. What is it, you got girl problems?”
“I guess you could say that,” He mumbles mostly to himself before going quiet for a moment.
“Boy problems?” I prod. Hey, we live in a new day and age after all. “It helps to talk to somebody, y'know. And it’s not like I’m gonna tell anyone. Your secret’s safe with me kiddo.”
He’s quiet again, but then he says solemnly, “Everyone I love dies. And it’s my fault.” He doesn’t bury his head in his knees again, just lets the tears stream down his face.
“Jesus kid. That’s rough.” I take another deep drink before throwing the empty bottle into the bushes behind us. It lands with a clatter, and we sit in silence a moment more.
“I’ve lost people I care about,” I say eventually, “It sucks ass, especially at your age, but I promise you, it’s not your fault. I wasted several years of my life blaming myself for my sister’s suicide, for things that weren’t anybody’s fault. You're young. You’ll heal.”
“That’s the thing,” Peter’s voice cracks but he keeps going, “this time it definitely is my fault.”
“Is it about that girl?” I’m grasping at straws here, but this is better than the crying. Peter nods slowly, and the pain etched into every line of his body makes him look so much older than he has any right to be. I don’t have to prod him for this story.
“Her name was Gwen. She was falling. And I tried to catch her. But she was going too fast. Her neck snapped. I loved her, and I killed her.” And just like that, he’s back to sobbing into his knees.
What the fuck am I supposed to say to that? Man, I shoulda brought more beer.
I wait for a moment until he’s let it out. Stifling’s bad for the heart.
“That’s some really heavy shit kid. No one should have to carry that weight, especially not some kid who’s just trying his best.”
The silence is thick, and I feel awkward and out of place. I don’t know this kid, and he doesn’t know me. Maybe it was arrogant to think I had anything of value to say to this random stranger. But at least he came to a bark bench and not a freeway. At least he went somewhere to mourn, and not somewhere to die. Then Peter speaks and the break in silence startles me for a moment.
“And,” He pauses for a moment, “and there’s also Spider-Man.”
“What about him?” I’m weary now, wondering how anything could be worse than what happened with him and this Gwen girl.
“What if he’s just like everyone says he is? A menace to society? What if he’s really just a stupid failure who’s too weak to save anyone?” And there’s something about his voice or his posture that makes it evident to me that these questions are so much harder for him to voice than everything else he’s spoken about.
I pause for a moment. My answer obviously means something to him because for the first time since I sat down he turns to look at me.
“Y’know, I don’t think that’s true. I had a run-in with the guy once. These stupid punks didn’t appreciate that I was sleeping on the sidewalk and decided that day was a great day to rough up a random hobo. Spider-man swooped down in a blur of red and blue and those punks got their asses handed to ‘em.” Peter’s staring at me wide-eyed now, and I feel a little embarrassed, which is completely ridiculous.
“What did you think about him?”
I rub the back of my neck before responding, “I thought he was very brave. And selfless. No one goes that far out of their way to defend street rats, but this guy did. So I don’t believe whatever bullshit spiel the Daily Bugle has to say about Spider-Man being a ‘menace to society’,” I mocked with air-quotes, “he looks out for people. People who have been run over and stepped on by the world. People who the Avengers can’t seem to give a damn about. And that’s really honorable.”
He’s silent for a very long time after that. I check my worn plastic watch.
“Shit it’s 1:15. There’s gonna be officers roaming around. We should get out of here.”
Peter sniffles, “Yeah. Sounds good.” He uncurls from the ball he’s been in for 45 minutes with an easy grace that I envy. Ah, to be young again.
“Do you have a family?” I ask as I grab the bench railing to start hauling myself off the cold ground.
“Yeah, I have an Aunt. Here let me help you.” Peter grabs my wrist and tugs me off the ground in one effortless motion, and from full height he looks really small.
“Wow, you're a really strong kid!”
“Yeah,” Peter looks down and kicks rocks that aren’t actually there.
“Hey, I mean it,” I still have a hold on his wrist and I use it to tug him and he turns his gaze to me. “You’ll make it through this. You should get home to your Aunt.”
“Yeah. Thanks Richard. What you said. . . it meant a lot to me.”
“Don’t worry about it. Go straight home, and stay safe.”
I walked him to the front gate where we managed to get around any cops without being seen. He waved to me as he walked away, and I really hoped he would tell his Aunt about what happened with the Gwen girl.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The next day I woke up with a raging hangover that was not made any better by Mike and Sheila shouting again.
I hauled myself out of bed. Enough is enough. I’m gonna get a paper and look through the help wanted ads. Anything is better than those 2 assholes.
It was a short walk down the block to get a newspaper. The headline was shocking and horribly familiar.
“17 year old Gwen Stacey dies in a tragic accident during a violent brawl between Spider-Man Menace and The Green Goblin.”
No fucking way.
I read further and the story bears an uncanny resemblance to the story Peter told me last night. Things that didn’t add up suddenly make sense as an unbelievably insane thought occurs to me.
Then from somewhere above and behind me I hear a very familiar voice shout, “Heads up Richard!”
In a blur of red and blue, Peter swoops across the New York skyline.
No fucking way.