Harpo

He gave up on his half-hearted mission to convert me but found me open-minded enough to hear about his God, his Universal Truths, and other peoples Gods and Truths.

“I hate the Catholicism here,” he was beginning a tangent from the bunk, “I guess it gives the kids discipline, but it’s so fucking loveless. They recite the same prayers everyday, sit in a ridiculously adorned church without shoes on their goddamn feet, praying to God that when they’re kicked out of the orphanage at 14 that they won’t starve or get killed or prostituted.

“Meanwhile, this is a space to feel genuine love. But the nuns won’t even let me hug the kids! Why? Because they’ll get ‘too accustomed to it’ and won’t be able to handle leaving. I think that’s bullshit.

“Not to mention I can’t tell a goddamn soul here that I’m gay. The Italian guy, the dog-killer, is starting to suspect something. I mean am I that obvious? What is it? Is it my bleach blond hair? My rhinestone belt? My over-annunciated S’s?”

Despite all our differences, I loved that kid’s irony. And I couldn’t wait to hear it everywhere again.

“I’m leaving in two days,” I said suddenly.

“No! You shouldn’t go back to Quito? Just stay here!”

“No, I mean I’m heading back to Jersey.”

“You lucky lucky slut.”

I smiled peacefully at the bottom of Ty’s mattress. I predicted that within two months Ty would fall straight through the rusty springs of the bed frame and come tumbling down with his mosquito net.

“Ohmigod how was it?”

“Um, fucked up.”

“Yeah I read your online travelogue thing. I can’t believe you hung out with a crackhead! Did you smoke crack?”

“I took a hit.”

“Ohmigod!”

I sipped my Natural Light, the cheapest beer and it cost over a buck.

I always hated drinking beers in New Jersey living rooms, watching the boys play video games and pretending I was still close to girls I had grown apart from. But this time I was thankful for the stagnant stimulation level.

I sank deep into the couch and avoided any more questions.