We met Dominic as we rustled around for change. The frail and tiny boy of twenty years quietly—though not shyly—offered to pay the 35 cents for Anais’ bus fare, and then slipped off to sit by himself on the nearly empty land barge that is the Route 66 Central Avenue main line. I told him about our project and asked if he wouldn’t mind a few questions and photos, all of which he accepted without much hint of either enthusiasm or apprehension.
He ran away from his parents home just a week ago, and has since been sleeping on the streets (note: more than a thousand runaways are reported as “missing persons” each month in Albuquerque—he is perhaps on that list, perhaps not). He has no job or plans to get one, no shelter or plans to seek one, and no joy or pain seems to be at this point permitted into his mind, as if he were in a state of shock. Time has temporarily stopped, and every moment has neither future nor past, every action neither meaning nor mission. Or perhaps this is not true? What compelled the quiet and forlorn boy to offer the only change he had to a pretty young girl whom he had no intentions of even flirting with?
His answers to my questions were invariably curt and calm, telling more by their manner than by their substance. He was angry about his parents, but did not tell the story, only that he would never go back there. Pressured into acknowledging the inevitability of time grinding its rusty gears once again, he offered that he never finished high school, but got his GED, and that at some point he would probably get a job. In the meantime, he sleeps in a park, stores some extra clothes at a friend’s house, and dodges the police who variously ignore his condition or chase him like hounds.
“How do you make money? Where do you get food to eat?” His answers are too soft to hear when the bus squeals to halt at Central and Yale. It is our stop, and we say a friendly goodbye. These bus stop stories are often so fugacious.