By Amy Silverman
By Olivia LaVecchia
By Monica Alonzo and Stephen Lemons
By Chris Parker
By Michael Lacey
By Weston Phippen
Street kids in Tempe are almost all white, aged 14 to 26. A few grew up in the Valley, the rest are from points across America. Most drink and smoke pot, and roughly half are junkies who picked up the needle once they were on the streets, not before. They call modern society "Babylon." A lot of them carry knives or bludgeons, and a few are dangerously violent. The more innocuous majority are merely walking image problems for downtown Tempe.
Some are runaways. Some were disowned by their parents, some were abused, some were abandoned. For the most part, they did not have happy childhoods. But now they live on the streets by choice, not necessity, and defend their existence as the harbinger of a great darkness approaching.
This is the story of one week in their world.
Zach says one of the keys to surviving on the streets is always to return favors, so after he picks up a 12-pack at the Mobil station, he tracks down Pat, Marina and Nick to offer them a Heineken. "I know a cool place," he says. Five minutes away, Zach's cool place is a muddy field across from Tops Liquors, on the northwest corner of Farmer and University.
Most of the lot is exposed, but a semicircle of ground near the back is shielded from view on three sides by a small grove of trees, and the fourth by a stone wall that separates the field from the neighborhood of apartments and small houses behind it.
Zach yanks a piece of cardboard from a pile of rubbish and cops a squat. Nick and Marina do the same on a soiled blanket. Pat sits on a cracked, porcelain toilet. If he wonders what the hell it's doing there, he doesn't say.
Everyone cracks a beer. Marina gets out a small, decorative tin box and a marijuana pipe. Pat starts answering a question.
Why did he come to Tempe?
"Honestly? I came here for the high-intensity methamphetamine abuse, to meet some new friends, to have a good place to spare change, and to shoot heroin in the sunshine in the middle of January."
Seconds later, a bald, burly guy with a goatee suddenly vaults over the stone fence 50 feet away. He's got a black maglite in one hand and a silver, .50 caliber Desert Eagle hand cannon in the other. He looks pissed, and comes at the group with a purpose in his stride, snapping twigs underfoot.
"Hey, dude," Zach calls out hopefully. "Want a beer?"
In response, the guy loudly racks the slide on his gun, levels it, and starts to yell. "If you punks don't get the fuck out of here, now, I'm gonna bust a cap in your ass!"
After the requisite scattering in all directions, the members of the group reconvene on the sidewalk. They seem relatively unfazed by their eviction at gunpoint from a trashy piece of mud. Desert Eagles, urban-camping ordinances. Feeling unwelcome is a constant for them, and only a matter of degree.
"Well, I guess my cool place bombed," Zach says. "Anyone else know a cool place?"
"Oh, shit," Pat hisses. "I left my pack back there."
The bald guy's flashlight is still bobbing behind the trees.
Zach walks half the distance and shouts a plea. "Hey, man. . . . Hey, man--my friend left his backpack. Can he come get it?"
A few seconds go by before the guy's voice comes back.
"Well, I'll fuckin' shoot you if I see you here again!"
Pat's confused. "Does he mean he'll shoot me if I go back there right now, or he'll shoot me if I go back there another time from right now?"
"I think he means you can get your stuff, but next time he'll shoot you," Zach says.
"I think you're right." Pat cautiously approaches the trees. "I hope you're right," he says over his shoulder.
A minute later, Pat emerges from the trees with his pack on and trots back.
Meanwhile, Marina is frantically patting her pockets and softly whining in distress.
"Pat," she says when he returns, "Pat, I dropped the dope."
"I dropped the dope when we ran away! I'm sorry."
Pat blows her off.
"It was just some pot. Don't worry about it."
"No, I had a piece in there, too."
Now she has Pat's full attention.
"You had more heroin?"
"Yeah, I broke some off earlier. I was saving it for us."
"Like a surprise?" Pat reaches out and strokes her hair. "Oh, baby, that's so sweet."
They both look back toward the trees, considering. The flashlight is gone. Cars rush past on University.
Nick breaks his silence.
Marina looks at him, then at Pat.
"You can do it," Pat says. "Just be ninja, and keep a PMA [Positive Mental Attitude]."
"You guys," Zach implores. "Don't. It's too sketchy. Go back tomorrow."
Marina's panicked. "It might not be there tomorrow!"
Nick breaks in again. "I really don't think it's a good idea, Marina."
Pat makes the call. "Okay, here's what we'll do. We'll go find a place to kill these beers and sleep, then we'll get up at first light and have a nice shot of dope waiting for us in the morning, okay?"