Page 97 of The Sign for Home

After muttering aFuck youI made my way to the top of one of the grand staircases that bookend the Main Concourse. Scanning the throng, I quickly spotted a group of MTA cops leaning against the edge of the ticket counter, all with their heads down looking at their phones. I ran back down the steps and calmly handed them the same story about trying to locate my DeafBlind brother. Three of the four shrugged their shoulders. But the fourth, a cute-as-hell shorter, brown-skinned guy, put his phone away and addressed me politely.

“Is he in any kind of danger? You know you don’t have to wait twenty-four hours to file a missing persons report. That’s a myth.”

“No danger,” I said. “But thanks for letting me know.”

“By the way,” the cop added. “If we run into him we can just get a sign language interpreter right on our phones. Cool, right?”

“Yeah, that’s great,” I said. “Only problem is, that wouldn’t work with his vision loss. If you see him, just tap on his arm and he’ll give you a marker and notebook. Then, if you can, write as big as you can that Cyril—that’s me—is looking for him. Also tell him that I want to take him to see Shri, okay?”

I had to repeat myself a few times before the short cop registered how to spell Shri and understood how someone that was blind could read writing but not see an interpreter on a screen. After that was cleared up, I searched the perimeter of the Main Concourse again, being more methodical this time, thinking that Arlo would attempt to use the wall as a guide. No luck. Then I went down to the platform where the 1:50 train from Poughkeepsie had arrived. I asked two maintenance men emptying the big round garbage cans if they had seen Arlo. They conferred in some kind of French patois.

“Okay,” the one who spoke English said. “My friend here says he did see a guy like that. About an hour or so ago. He had messed his pants and was washing himself in the men’s restroom downstairs.”

“That can’t be him. Washing himself?” I clarified. “The man I’m talking about is neat looking, like a college student?”

I was hoping the man had made a mistake, and he conferred again with his coworker.

“Yep,” the man told me. “He says the guy looked like you said. Young. White guy. Had the dog. Was on drugs or something. Says he made crazy sounds like Frankenstein’s monster and had on a blue button-down shirt. Men’s toilet near Shake Shack.”

I thanked the men and bolted back up the stairs and back across the Main Concourse, pushing against bodies, sweat blinding me, asking three different people which way to the “men’s restroom.” The whole time I was thinking:Why the hell was Arlo naked and washing himself? Why was he screaming? This is my fault! All of this!My head ached from fear. My armpits, like waterfalls, drenched my shirt. As I was about to head down the stairs to the men’s restroom, I heard a shout from behind me.

“Hey! Buddy! Hey!”

It was the cute MTA cop running toward me.

“We found your little brother!” he said. “He’s hanging over in the passageway with some homeless kids. He looks freaked out. Didn’t offer me no notebook. You better get over there.”

The cop pointed to a passageway at the other end of the Main Concourse. Panicking, I aggressively pushed bodies out of my way, wanting to get to Arlo.

“Yo, Red!” one hulking specimen said, refusing to be moved. “What’s your fucking hurry? You just nearly knocked me over!”

“Don’t fucking call me Red, buffalo boy!” I shouted back at the towering man, shoving him so hard he stumbled back into the crowd. The insane look on my face probably made him too afraid to challenge me. New Yorkers are tough, but not as tough as an ASL interpreter who is trying to find his DeafBlind consumer.

Within twenty feet of the passageway, I saw the heads of the three other cops looking down at the floor along the wall. There was Arlo, looking a mess, sitting next to several homeless-looking goth kids with dirty clothes and piercings in every flap of skin. Snap was patiently allowing a pit bull puppy to chew on her ear. The puppy’s owner was a young woman with wilted pink hair and a homemade tattoo across her cheeks that saidbitch please. Arlo looked utterly despondent, with a sweaty, filthy face and wearing sopping-wet pants. He only needed some tattoos, a wild haircut, and piercings to completely fit in with his compatriots on the floor.

“Arlo! Snap!” I screamed.

Snap leaped up and began wagging her tail and nudging Arlo with her nose. It was the happiest she had ever been to see me. Arlo began to reach around anxiously. The girl with pink hair looked up at me suspiciously.

“Is Prince Charming here your kid?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Billy found him in the bathroom. He was a mess. He got some bad stuff, I think.”

“Thanks for helping him out,” I said.

“Can we have five bucks for dinner?” she asked.

I handed Pink Hair Girl a twenty and tapped Arlo on the shoulder, fingerspelled my name. He sat up anxiously.

“Let’s go! I’m taking you to see Shri!”

47THE RESCUERS

Arlo barely thanked me for finding him, sinceif hearing people hadn’t stolen his stuff in the first place he wouldn’t have needed my help.

“Hearing people always mess up everything!” Arlo signed bitterly. “Fed up!”

---