He played with his straw. “What’s the right way to run away?”
Prepared for print by Zivia Reischer
It was just a short walk to the bus station, but I was still freezing when I walked up to the front doors. I pulled the worn baseball cap lower over my face and turned the collar of my jacket up. Instinctively, I hiked my backpack higher up my shoulder even though it barely had any weight in it at all.
I walked in and assessed the ticket lines. The one I needed was the longest — about six people. I took my place in line. The guy in front of me was a kid, not a day older than 15, strapped into a backpack. He kept glancing over his shoulder to the entrance.
I knew that look.
“Where you heading?” I asked him.
He glanced at me, caught off guard. “Sorry?” he stammered.
“Where are you traveling to?” I asked again.
“Oh, um—” He looked up at the board, like he was picking a city. “Chicago,” he said.
“Were you not sure?” I asked.
He shifted uncomfortably and tried to smile.
Oh boy. One more question should confirm it.
“You off for the holiday?”
He paused a moment.
“Yeah, going to my friends,” he said, trying to deepen his voice.
It was February. There were no holidays.
“Well, safe travels,” I said. I nodded to the counter. “Your turn.”
He turned to the clerk. “Where to?” she asked.
“Chicago.”
She looked at him for a moment. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen,” he said, too quickly. I was surprised that she sold him the ticket.
I located him a few minutes later in the coffee shop. He was counting out bills and coins while checking the prices on a sign over the counter.
“Hey,” I said. “It’s on me.” I handed him a ten. “I’ll be at that table over there. I’ll take a coffee, get yourself whatever.”
“What?” he said, flustered. He looked down at the bill in his hand. “Um, okay, regular coffee?”
“Regular black coffee,” I said.
Two minutes later he met me at the table with a coffee for me and a soda for him.
“So” I said, “you gonna go through with it?”
“With what?” he asked.
I gave him a give-me-a-break look. “You know, I used to have a pet iguana,” I told the kid. “I was 13, my mom’s friend was giving it away.” I sat back and took a sip of horrible coffee. “It would always try to escape. And every time it did, I always found it in the same place — at the window of my bedroom. It never left my room, just would sit there on the windowsill looking at the sun.”
“He probably just wanted to be free. You should’ve let him go,” the boy said, looking at his soda.
“She,” I corrected. “It was a she and that’s exactly what she wanted. But what she didn’t understand was that she wasn’t in the jungle. She was in Brooklyn. And it was 40 degrees outside and she wouldn’t have made it down the block without freezing to death.”
“Why are you telling me this?” he asked.
“You know why,” I said. “You’re Iggy.”
“Huh?”
“Iggy,” I repeated. “My iguana.”
“That’s a dumb name,” he said.
“I wasn’t very creative,” I admitted. “You still haven’t answered me, though. Are you going through with it?”
He looked at me through slitted eyes. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”
I held his gaze. “Are you going to go through with running away.”
He turned away. “I know what I’m doing,” he said.
“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” I said sarcastically. “I mean, you were killing it with the ticket lady.”
He blushed. “What do you care?” he snapped.
“I care because, contrary to what you might think, that’s what Jews do for each other.”
He choked on his soda. “How did you know?”
“You can always tell a Yid,” I said, smiling.
“I didn’t know…” He trailed off.
“I hide it better,” I told him. “More practice.”
He looked down, then back at me. I watched him. He was sweating, clutching his soda like his life depended on it. He was alone and afraid. He needed a reason to turn around. To go home.
“Look,” I said, knowing I had to keep the focus on the advantages of staying, not the disadvantages of running away, “there’s a right way to run away and a wrong way. You can physically run away, but that won’t solve anything. A real man, a real independent man, stays and takes care of his stuff. He doesn’t run.”
I pushed away the coffee. “I don’t know what you’re running from,” I said. “All I know is that there is always a better option.”
“I’m not going back to those people,” he said with finality.
“You don’t have to.” He needed choices, a range of options that would keep him safe but not require him to go back home. “Like I said, there’s always a better option that doesn’t involve running.”
“Fine, so I’m doing it the wrong way.” He played with his straw. “What’s the right way to run away?”
I looked back at him. “I lied,” I admitted. “I have known quite a few runaways, but there really is no right way. Do you have anyone you can stay with locally?”
“Yeah, but then they win!” he flared. “I want them to know I can take care of myself.” Tears suddenly welled up, and he looked much younger. Now I was talking to the little boy he was running to protect.
“I would start there. Or anywhere closer to what you know, really. The point is to be free, to make your own choice. Not to just run.”
We talked for a bit longer, then he took out his phone and called his rebbi. I walked him outside and ordered him an Uber.
“Whatever happened to Iggy?” he asked.
“I started keeping my door closed so she could roam around in my room. She didn’t have to be in the cage all day, but she was still safe.”
He smiled at me as he got into the car. I waited until the brake lights disappeared into the night. Then I pulled out my phone.
There was already a text from his rebbi: He’s on his way to me.
He’s a good kid, I typed back. Hatzlachah.
The Chicago-bound bus rolled down the street. I watched it go by. As I turned toward my car, I slung my knapsack on my shoulder. It felt even lighter than it had been before.
