Page 40 of The Biker and the Loner
“Seriously?”
“Nah, not really. It’s more of a habit.” His smile is wan when he adds, “My mother was a crackhead. She would disappear for days at a time, which meant I’d go days without eating, or I’d camp out in the alley behind Papa Gill’s Bakery, waiting for them to toss out moldy bread.
“She would come home for a couple of days, be a good mom, cooked and made sure I got to school, and I would eat as much I could then, thinking it would tide me over for when she disappeared again.
“After she OD’d and I was put in foster care, things were no better with my foster parents. God knows how those two got away with the shit we got from them. Being fed was only marginally different. There were too many of us, and they had a gambling habit to feed.”
He takes a swig of beer. “Was twelve when I started hitting the streets, learning how to lie and hustle to feed myself, Grunt, and Kenny. Even as I grew, started working at The Metal House and making good money, joined the club, having more than I ever imagined I’d have, the feeling of starvation never went away. Doesn’t matter how much I eat, I never feel full, Ley. Ever.”
Wow. That’s…that’s one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard.
“Do you…Do you think maybe it’s because you know your mom isn’t coming back for good this time?” I ask. “Maybe it’s not food you’re starving for. Maybe it’s something else, something you never really got, and you’ve been using food to try feeding that need.”
He shrugs. “Maybe. Whatever.” His hard tone and stiffening demeanor lets me know it’s not something he wants to talk about anymore, so I let it go.
He straightens from the stool and heads for the backyard patio, patting his pockets as he goes. “Be back. Gonna grab a smoke.”
I can’t even begin to imagine living a life of starvation like he did. My heart breaks for young Scratch camping out in a dark alley waiting for moldy bread.
Through Kendra, I’m familiar with the story about his mom’s overdose. So what I also know is that he had stayed in that house for almost a week with her dead body because he didn’t want CPS to take him.
I grew up with a loving father who fed me well and healthily, and later a stepmother who was nurturing, doting, and ideal—before grief turned her into a monster. I can’t relate to his pain, and I won’t try to pretend to understand how to help him identify what his true hunger is. What I will do—when the time is right and we both trust and value each other more—is to convince him to get professional help. Because eating his way through life to fill an unnamed and unidentifiable hunger is not mentally healthy.
Not thatI’min any position to talk…
~
He’s been out there a while. I’ve given him enough time to wallow.
Stepping through the French doors to the patio, I expect to be hit with the stench of cigarettes, but all I’m hit with is cool night air.
Scratch is seated in one of the wrought iron patio chairs, staring out at nothing. I walk over and touch his shoulder, but he doesn’t move or turn his head.
“I thought you said you were having a smoke.”
“Quit cigs two years ago,” he replies. “And Kenny’s not even here to roll my joints for me. I suck at it and she’s the master. Mine just don’t burn as good as when she does it, so I don’t bother trying anymore.”
Yep, Kendra is known for her joint-rolling skills. So much so that she’d started charging the Heathens to roll their joints. Ten dollars a roll.
“Would you like me to roll it for you?”
This gets him to twist around and look up at me, brows raised in curiosity. “You know how?”
I offer a nonchalant shrug. “I’ve sat and watched Kenny do it like a hundred times. I don’t have one of her fancy kits, but scissors, a sharp knife, and a cutting board should do it. Do you have rolling paper?”
“Yep.” His tone and dancing eyes appear to be humoring me at this point, but he has no idea how efficient and adaptable I am.
“Be right back.” I head inside the house and collect all the tools I’ll need before heading back out.
After setting the items down on the patio table, I drag one of the chairs super close to it before sitting down. “Hand over the weed and rolling paper,” I order Scratch.
“Yes, ma’am.” His eyes are laughing at me as he digs the items from his pockets and places them on the table.
Picking up the scissors, I point it at him with narrowed eyes. “You doubt me.”
“Peach…”
I get to work. Doing it all right in front of him, without hiccup or hesitancy. Ten minutes later, I tap the finished joint against the heel of my palm seven times—don’t ask me why, Kendra always does that and I’m just imitating her at this point—then hold it out to Scratch.
