rack that was a rough cut two-by-four and several nails. None of the nails were at the same height or protruded from the two-by-four at the same distance. A couple of coats hung next to a pair of blue smocks, the same shade as hospital gowns. Jill hung her own coat on a vacant nail, took down one of the smocks, pulled it over her jeans and Gap hoodie. An interesting mix of fashion.
I wasn’t sure why she’d suggested I remove my coat. She cleared that up for me right away. “I can tell you about Jay, but it’ll cost you. We had a couple of big donations come in tonight. I could use help sorting.”
I looked at my watch. Twenty to nine. It was maybe five minutes to the bookstore so that left me fifteen minutes to spend talking to Jill. And sorting. Since she was the most promising source of information to date — virtually the only source of information — I figured the fifteen minutes might be well spent. And I’d get a chance to do a little volunteering. Good for the soul.
I hung my coat on the nail that had formerly held the smock. “Okay, where do I start and what do I do?”
She pointed to a table stacked high with cardboard boxes. I actually rolled up my sleeves, ready for work, but with no idea what my role was to be.
“Boxed goods and paper-wrapped stuff over there, canned items on those shelves. Anything perishable has to go out of here right away so set it out on that table next to the back door.”
“Right.” I sorted and Jill talked while she filled cardboard boxes with a mix of items.
“First time I met Jay was at a pancake breakfast one of the service clubs puts on every year. It was December a year ago, so eleven months I guess. About a week before Christmas. I was a volunteer server. Some corporate bigwigs and a couple of politicians were there supposedly to help, but mostly for the photo ops.
“Jay … he looked lost, didn’t even know if he was allowed to have the breakfast. I happened to see him, and told him he was welcome to join in. I noticed he didn’t seem to know many people so I got some pancakes and juice and sat down across from him. Good-looking kid; he looked like he should have been the quarterback on the football team or learning his lines for the school play.
“Anyway, it was obvious he hadn’t had a lot of good meals in a while so I just let him eat. I could tell he was really enjoying the breakfast, every few bites he’d nod as if to say ‘now that’s a great chunk of pancake right there.’ When he was finished we both got another cup of coffee and sat back down. Small talk for a while, then he told me about himself. Or at least he told me some of it. Soup and canned spaghetti on that middle shelf.”
She pointed and I nodded.
“Turns out he was pretty much as advertised. Even though he looked like he’d been on the street a while, he had something about him that told you he had come from something a lot different. Sure enough, he had played on the football team, he told me that, although I’m not sure he was the quarterback. Clean cut, went with one of the prettiest girls, got decent grades, drove a cool teenager car — one of those guys who didn’t give anybody much trouble. Like I said, a good kid.”
“I have a feeling the story is about to turn.”
Jill nodded. “Depression. All that great stuff going on, looked like he had it all but inside he hated himself, hated his life, even talked suicide. Doesn’t remember when it started, just remembers feeling like that as far back as junior high. His parents got him into counselling, some drug therapy. It was hit and miss. He’d go along for a while feeling okay, then it was like the world, all of it, was a real bad place to be. Then when he was in eleventh grade, his parents split and the universe seemed to crash down around him. They got back together after a couple of months, but it didn’t get Jay back to what he’d been. He started skipping, hanging out with different kids at school, badass kids, he broke up with the pretty girl, started staying out later and later. At first it was alcohol, then pot, and the downhill slide was on. A few months later he was living on the streets, doing whatever it takes to get money for the next buy.”
She’d stopped filling boxes while she talked about Jay but now she started again. With attitude, like she needed to be doing something. You wish all of them could get off the shit but there’s some, like Jay, you really …
“He told me he’d tried to kick it a few times but couldn’t. I believed him … about trying to get clean. I guess I wanted to believe him. And I know he went back home a couple of times. But it never lasted.”
“Did you see him after that, after the Christmas breakfast?”
“A couple of times, but never like that. He’d say hi but he seemed to want to keep moving. It was like he didn’t want to connect with anyone. Like he’d chosen that other life. Made the same choice so many of them make.”
Her voice had grown quieter. This was someone who had seen the dark side of this world but was not a street tough woman. What was happening around her, all the misery of these streets, got to her. That’s when I remembered she wasn’t a professional — she’d said she was a volunteer.
“And you don’t know where we might find him? Or who we could talk to who might know where he is?”
She shook her head. “Last I heard he was camped out in a park area over near the Stampede grounds. But that was in the fall. Too cold for that now. So I hope … I’m guessing he’s in a building, a house or something somewhere.”
I rolled my sleeves down, pulled on my coat. “If you should happen to run into him or hear anything, maybe you could let me know. It would really help and it is important.” I wrote my cell number on a piece of paper and handed it to her. She took it, glanced at it, stuffed it in the pocket of her jeans. “And thanks for the insights. It’s tough seeing what happens to these kids.” It was weak, but it was the best I could come up with.
She nodded again, looked up at me. “I hope you find him. And I hope you can help him.”
“So do I.” I turned and headed back out onto the street.
The cold had deepened and the wind was stronger, the combination of the two making the night still more unpleasant. I looked at my watch. I’d be a couple of minutes late getting back to the bookstore.
When I got there, Cobb was inside talking to the proprietor, showing him the picture. The guy was older, with a long grey ponytail and both arms a roadmap of tattoos. He was wearing a T-shirt that read “I’m Kissable.” I wondered if this guy and Jackie Chow shopped at the same Value Village. He was shaking his head. Judging from the look on Cobb’s face, this was the latest in a line of similar responses.
When we were outside the store, Cobb said, “I hope you had better luck than I did.”
“Nothing?”
“With a capital N.”
I gave him the Coles Notes version of my conversation with Jill Sawley. He nodded a couple of times, then pointed a thumb back in the direction of the bookstore.
“This guy mentioned an old warehouse not far from here. Some company was supposed to turn it into lofts. When the economy softened, the company folded and the place has been sitting vacant. Mostly squatters there now.”
“Worth a try,” I said.
“My thinking exactly.”
We headed for the car, walking fast. The cold was intensifying. I was hoping Jeep
