Neighbors 3: Tate's Troubles

*AUTHOR'S NOTE: First of all, I apologize for taking so long to submit a story! I have been inhumanely swamped with so much since the holidays and, unfortunately, I had to put my writing on the back burner. Hopefully, though, you will feel this installment was worth the wait. Also, when I write, I play the scenes out in my head, like a movie. Quite often, I imagine a particular song as background music for a scene. I'm going to throw those little gems in as notes, so if you want to picture it the way I envision it, you're welcome to do so! Thank you for reading!!!
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December 2000: Phoenix, Arizona

Roland Jackson felt his ball-sack tighten as he emptied himself into the still body beneath him. Inhaling sharply, he shot the last of his load, snorting like a pig. How suiting for a man that resembled a pig: he was at least seventy pounds overweight and his fleshy face belonged on a barn-yard animal, not a human being. His red, bulbous nose twithched as he finished coming inside his wife's son. The boy remained motionless, having passed out a while ago. Of course, Roland assumed it was because he was too much man for the slightly built boy to take.
"You're weak, Tate," he muttered drunkenly, staring at the boy through rheumy eyes. "You're weak, just like your mama. Little pussy bitch."

Roland heaved himself off Tate and rose to unsteady feet, stumbling around the room as he gathered his dirty workclothes off the floor. On the bed, Tate remained motionless, despite the commotion of his step-father struggling to re-dress himself. He didn't want Roland to know that he had faked passing out; his hope was that Roland would lose interest and leave. If he did, then that would give Tate ample time to make his get-away.

Roland finished dressing himself and ambled towards the door, taking one more look at the boy on the bed. He eyed Tate's slender frame disdainfully and muttered, "I'll be back for you, you fuckin' pansy, you little pussy bitch." And with that, he staggered out of Tate's room for the last time.

Despite Roland's abscence, though, Tate did not move. Not even when heard the familiar jingle of Roland's keys, did he dare to even open his eyes. Not even when he heard him stumble out the door like a buffalo herd stampeding through an open plain, did Tate so much as twitch. Not even after he heard the engine in Roland's beat-up Bronco turn over clumsily and heard it putter away down the street, did Tate attempt to budge a mere inch. It wasn't until he was sure that Roland was at his favorite bar sitting his fat ass on a too-small-for-him stool that Tate felt that it was safe to move.
He opened his eyes and sat up, wincing at the searing pain shooting up his backside, courtesy of Roland Jackson. As he stood, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. One eye bore a three-day old shiner and his top lip was caked with dried blood, the result of a blow he'd taken earlier that evening. Across the left side of his face was a large, bright-red mark in the faint shape of man's hand. In short, he was a mess; but, this was how Tate had lived his life. Every week, he'd go to school with a new bruise or a new injury and everyone would just stare at him, whispering to themselves. It was obvious that Tate was abused, anyone could see that; but no one said anything to him or offered him any help. They just looked at him the same way one would look at a starving dog on the street: they felt sorry for him, but not enough to take action. So because no one else was there to help him, Tate had to help himself. He was going to make sure that Roland would never find him and therefore would never be able to lay another finger on him again.

He had learned a long time ago to hold in his tears; crying only made his step-father angrier and the beatings worse. And even now, despite his physical discomfort and the all-too-familiar ache in his heart, Tate hurried about the room, dressing himself and throwing clothing into an open duffle bag on his bed, never once giving into the tears that desperately sought release. 
He had a plenty of time before Roland came back, but he wanted nothing more than to be rid of this place, this life he'd lived for way too long. He just couldn't take it anymore: the daily beatings he'd endure as a result of Roland's anger, the nightly visits in which his step-father would have his way with him, and worse, the way his mother would seem to all but disappear off the face of the planet whenever Roland came after him. Tate didn't know where he was going, only that he had to leave. Living beneath an underpass or sleeping on a park bench would be better than this - anything would be better than this!

He threw his journal and a few of his favorite books into his bag before zipping it up. Grabbing his warmest jacket, he slung the bag over his shoulder and took one last look around his room. Once he was gone, there would be no coming back.

Firm in his reslolution to make an escape, come what may, Tate turned on his heel and flew down the stairs. He tiptoed quietly through the living room, careful not to wake his mother, who lay haphazardly on the couch, an empty Crown Royal bottle still clutched in her hand. He hesitated a moment, looking at her sadly. Things had been so good before Roalnd had come into their lives. But, now...well, their lives had gone to pot because she'd married that monster. And even though his mother had quickly come to regret her hasty decision to marry Roland Jackson, Tate couldn't feel that sorry for her. Instead of divorcing him, she had remained married to him and chose to drown her regret in alcohol. And Tate had suffered because of it.

But in spite of his anger towards his mother, and in spite of all the hurt and betrayal he felt inside, he knew he couldn't leave without saying good-bye. He crossed the room and knelt beside her, remembering how pretty she had been before she'd started drinking. He planted a light kiss on her forehead and whispered sadly, "Bye, Mom...sorry." With those words barely off his lips, he turned and slipped out the front door into the cool, quiet desert night.

Tate had been wandering the streets of downtown Phoenix for several hours. He was cold, tired, and hungry and totally scared to death. There he was, a little boy lost in a concrete jungle with nowhere to go. 
He came to an intersection that bordered the red-light district. It was dangerous for a young boy like himself to venture on in that direction, but he had been everywhere else. He couldn't go back home, so what choice did he have but to go on? 
He pushed his way through the throngs of adult theater goers and overly made-up prostitutes that clogged the streets, all the while ignoring the cat calls of the working girls.
"Hey, cutie pie! Want me to make you a man?"
"You lookin' for a good time, sugar? Well, come to mama!"

Tate kept his head down, careful not to make eye contact with anyone until he came to the next block, which was pretty empty in comparison. Sighing heavily, he stopped and looked around. There had to be some place for him to stay, even if it was for one night. Suddenly, he heard a noise behind him and jumped about ten feet into the air. He whirled around to face the culprit but saw no one there; he was the only person on this block. Then, Tate saw what was making the noise: tacked to a wooden door by one corner was a large plastic sign that read "Flo's Place" in day-glo orange letters. It swung back and forth, scraping eerily against it's frame. To the right of the door was a dingy window with lettering in the same bright orange that was on the sign. It read, "Rooms for Rent". He didn't have any money, but maybe the proprietor would take pity on him and let him stay for at least one night. 
"It's worth a shot," he mused aloud. "If this is a wash, I'm going back to the park."

Tate stepped through heavy wooden door and into a brightly lit, but shabbily furnished lobby. Behind the front desk sat a stockily-built middle-aged man with a full black beard and receding hairline. As soon as he saw Tate, he leapt up from his perch, peering at the boy through thick-lensed glasses. Though he'd been roughed up a bit, Tate's face was still strikingly handsome.
"Can I help you?" the man asked, licking his lips.

Tate's heart fell, disappointed with the presence of a male. The sign had read "Flo's Place" and he'd hoped that a woman would be in charge. A woman would be more likely to feel sorry for him than a man would. Still, Tate knew he had to try. He allowed his eyes to moisten up a bit and did his best to look pathetic. It wasn't much of stretch, though, given his current physical and emotional state.
"Um...I, uh, I need a room...please...", he answered shakily.
"Twenty bucks a night, kid. How long you gonna stay?"
"Well, I, um...I don't have any money, but I was hoping you'd let me stay for just one night. I can sleep anywhere - on the couch out here, even - and I promise I'll be gone in the morning." He let his lower lip tremble slightly. "Please, sir? Just for one night."

The man said nothing and stared at him for a moment, making Tate very uncomfortable. The man then broke his gaze with a smile, but it was not a nice smile. He licked his dry thin lips once more as they curved upward over his yellowed teeth and Tate felt rooted to the spot, wondering if he'd made a mistake. This man was spooking the hell out of him and every fiber in his being was screaming at him to get out of there.

The man came around the desk, stopping directly in front of the scared boy, his face merely inches away from Tate's. 
"Well, looks as if we got problem here. You want a place to sleep, but you ain't got no money. You gotta pay somehow, kid."
"But, I told you I can't. I just want a place to sleep for a few hours, and then I'll go away, I promise!"
"Oh, that's ok, I don't want your money anyway, kid. But, like I said, you do gotta pay somehow and I have just the job for you." He reached out, stroking Tate's auburn hair with a callused hand, his smile broadening. "Oh, yeah, honey, I know just how you're gonna pay for a room!"