"But there was nothing to fix," said Kim.
He wasn't stupid and I'm sure he had problems. Still, I hoped he grew up without thinking he was broken somehow. No kid should have to go through what we did.
A supernatural chill blew over me. Mike's light green eyes stared with concern.
Fine. I'll calm down.
"The thing is, wedidn'tknow," Mike chimed in. "People called us monsters, and they didn't know about our shifter abilities. We were still learning who and what we were."
"In trying to fix myself," I said, "I ended up changing a poor girl forever. But that was after I was ordered to ruin a stranger's life."
"Whose life?" asked Kim.
"Mine," said Mike with a clenched jaw.
***
Chapter Four
May 1969
Mike
The spring air was thick with the sounds and smells of a new city and hopefully an adventure as I hopped off the truck's tailgate and thanked the driver. Brick buildings rose tall and grey, adorned with metal ladders and rusted balconies. Some store signs read English, while others were in unknown languages.
My nose wrinkled at the distinct scent of sewer water and various other foods like those in Los Angeles. It was familiar, yet different, like a recipe made by someone else.
I pulled a weathered copy of Jack Kerouac'sOn the Roadfrom my backpack and held it tight for inspiration. Jack went out andlivedlife like I was going to do. I didn't have a specific destination in mind, and I suppose that's okay. Traveling across America by hitchhiking is still exploring, but it feels like I'm supposed to be somewhere.
But where?
Wanderlust called me toward New York, but that was just common sense. Hard to go west from California without a boat.
I wished I had taken that guy's offer in Arizona. Acid to open my mind would've pointed me in the right direction and answered my questions. I closed my eyes and held my hands out like an Indian yogi.If you want a destination, make one.I opened my eyes, unsure if the thought was mine or from an unknown astral guide. Still, the message was clear.
There were places for people like me. Going to a gay bar in LA wasn't an option. The thought of being arrested and sent home to my motheranduncle was too risky. I crossed the country on my own, so what could stop me?
Well, cops, but I'll run if they do a bust.
Jack'sOn the Roadtalked about Beatnik communities but didn't mention otherplaces. A guide or symbol would be so handy.
With no more universal guidance, I headed to the city's roughest part. There couldn't be an upscale gay bar, so it had to be in the poorer area. Several smelly blocks later, I stood where garbage wasn't collected, colorful graffiti had painted concrete and brick walls, and the windows stayed dirty and broken. No cars drove, and I scanned my surroundings, desperate for a connection or clue.
One boarded-up building with covered windows had a muscled, mustached guy dressed in a red and black plaid shirt and jeans step out. He hung at the door like a runner before a sprint, then looked from side to side. Soon, he rushed off with his head down.
My hand went out, hoping for an ESP tingle, but nothing came.Guess gay radar's a lie. It's got to be one.
I approached the door and knocked. My cheeks burned when I realized I should have just walked in.
It opened with a creak, and a tall, scowling man with a shaved head and a tight t-shirt looked out, then down. "Yeah?" he saidwith a New York accent. Behind him, soft dance music played from the darkened interior. My guess was The Beatles.
"Help you, kid?" he said.
"I want a drink?"
He had a booming laugh. "You sure? Is that a question?" After staring at me for several uncomfortable seconds, he spoke. "Eighteen?"
"Yes, sir."
