Eloise: a Love Story

“It's ironic that my parents named me Spencer. They thought it was a writerly, creative
name for a baby girl.”

“You’re following me.”

“Yeah, we’re conversing.”
“No, we’re not.”
“Yes, we are. The definition of conversing is two or more people engaging in a
conversation.”
“I’m not engaged.”
“Well anyway, they kicked me out last night.”

An eleven-year-old kid walks behind a forty-year-old woman pushing a cart down the
sidewalk. The kid has long brown hair stuffed into a Twins baseball cap and wears an oversized
t-shirt with pajama bottoms. He also has a backpack with the corners of his books poking out
the worn bottom. The woman has thin hair tied in a wreck of a ponytail. She fills her clothes well.

“You know the girl parts in Shakespeare’s plays would be played by boys dressed up in
girl clothes, and everyone loved it because it was pretend. But if a girl dresses in boy clothes not
for pretend people get angry. I don’t get it.”
Eloise says nothing.
“Can you push me around in your cart?”
“No, my cart is my cart. No one else touches it.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”

Eloise’s cart is full of fabrics: scarves, jeans, blankets, tapestries, flags, sheets. She has
a blue tarp for bad weather, but it has small gashes that let the elements through.
She continues walking as if no one is behind her, following.
“‘The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man’s hand is not able to
taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report what my dream was.’ That is from A
Midsummer Night’s Dream. It is a play by William Shakespeare. He was a playwright, spelled
W-R-I-G-H-T”
“No shit.”
“Mhm. Wait, I think you were being sarcastic. Usually when someone says something
that sounds nice but makes me feel bad they are being sarcastic.”
“Stop talking to me.”
“Want to know what I have in my backpack?” He waits, then tells her anyway. “I have a
dictionary, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, a trigonometry book, and some other stuff too.”
“I don’t care.”
“Where are you staying tonight?”
Eloise pushes her cart, refusing to acknowledge Spencer’s question.
 “I’m just thinking that since we are homeless and we need a shelter, we should go to the
homeless shelter. Are people nice there? Do they give you food? Have you ever been?”
“You wouldn’t last at a shelter.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Because there aren’t enough beds and I’d have to have to win a bum fight?”
“No. Because shelters are full of homeless people.”
“We’re homeless.”
“No, I live on the streets. That’s different. And that’s where addicts go. They’ll sell your
skin for a buck.”
“Oh. I don’t get it but okay.”
“‘Cause you’re a kid.”

Eloise and Spencer sit on a sidewalk with their backs up against a brick building. Eliose
holds her cart so it doesn’t roll away. Spencer’s skinny legs extend into a V-shape. Night falls.
“I’m hungry, Eloise. Eloise, what a beautiful name.”
Eloise grunts.
“What building is this?”
“It’s a coffee shop, look up.”
The sign reads “Spyhouse Coffee”
Spencer stands up; his tallest is no more than five feet. He ducks into the alley behind
the shop. It takes him a couple tries to push up the lid of the dumpster. He reaches in and grabs
a small but full trash bag, the top most of the trash. A man with a dark beard and an apron
opens the back door leading into the shop.
“No, you evil girl. Go. Go.”
Spencer hisses. And runs off with his treasure.
“Jesus save you.”

In the street out front of the restaurant Eloise is sleeping still gripping her cart. Spencer
runs towards her and sits. He admires her features.
A couple spats in the dead center of the road.
“Take your leftovers, If we’re ‘not together’ then I’m not carrying your shit.”
“Fine,” a pair of red heels shouts, “I don’t need you or your tiny dick.”
The red heels stomp towards Eloise and Spencer.
“Are those leftovers?” Spencer asks, desperate to not eat his treasure.
“Don’t talk to me.”
“Fine, I’d rather eat this actual trash anyway,” Spencer yells to the distant clacking.
Eloise begins to sleep talk. “What do you need money for? You have no bills to pay or
kids to feed.”
“Eloise are you awake?”
“I have no house. I can’t feed myself.”
Right as Spencer tears open the trash bag a goopy substance spills out onto and in his
shoes. He throws the trash and bolts towards the red heels, easy to spot the color in the dark.
She turns to the sound of his speeding shoes behind her. He pushes her and she tumbles to the
ground the way a conceited woman in heels would. Spencer takes the leftovers.
“Give me your shoes. I want your shoes.”
“No fucking way you crazy little girl.”
Spencer kicks her in the gut and grabs her ankle. She kicks in the air trying to free from
his small hands. He grabs the heel.
“Come on, lady. You can buy new shoes.”
He trips. The box of leftovers spills open. He cries out. He kneels down to the food -
mixed greens and seasoned chicken breast.
Unbalanced, the single red heel starts running away.
Spencer lets out a warrior scream and jumps onto her back.
On the ground again the red heel says, “Just take it.”

After just waking up, Spencer stares at Eloise who stares at thin air.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Why?”
“You have a serious look, like you’re thinking about something.”
Eloise says nothing.
“I got you a present.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Just wait.” Spencer takes the red heels out of his backpack.
“I don’t like heels.”
“Oh,” Spencer runs the pad of his finger on the toe of the shiny red heel, “I’m sorry.”

The nights start getting colder. The days start getting shorter. Eloise hasn’t been able to
shake Spencer. In East Phillips Park, they sit on crisp leaves against the chain link fence that
surrounds the basketball court. A man paces the soccer field talking to himself.
“There’s that crazy guy again. Once he said to me, ‘The FBI is watching you. Don’t
breathe they can tell when your heart beats really fast.’” Spencer laughs loudly.
“You and your big vocabulary, yet you don’t know what schizophrenia is.”
“I know what it is. It is a disorder that affects someone’s ability to think.”
“That’s not what is it.”
“Yes, it is. Let me find the definition in my dictionary to prove to you-”
“That’s not what it is,” Eloise usually never raises her voice.
“I’m sorry. What is it then?”
“These people aren’t crazy. They just aren’t healthy and doctors can’t help them. They
are sick. Do people make fun of you when you get a cold? No. Because you can’t help it.”
“Why can’t doctors help? There’s a flu shot, why isn’t there a schizophrenia shot?”
“That’s a stupid question.”
“I’m not stupid.” Spencer looks down for a moment. His face reads angry. “I’m not stupid.
I can read. I know a lot. I got really good grades in school.”
“Whatever.”
 “A vertex with angle zero, sin zero is the ratio of the opposite side to the hypotenuse,
while cos zero is the ratio of the adjacent side to the hypotenuse. No matter the size of the
triangle, the values of sin zero and cos zero are the same.”
“You don’t even know what that means.”

In the parking lot behind St Stephen Lutheran Church, they stand near each other.
“It’s getting cold, like, really cold.”
“It’s fine.”
“I don’t know. I can’t feel my fingers.”
“It’s fine.”
“Do you have a jacket or mittens I can use?”
“No. I can’t let anyone near my stuff.”
“Fine. I’ll go on a walk to try to warm up. Even though I’m lightheaded.”
Spencer walks away from Eloise. On the opposite side of the parking lot, he looks back
at her to see her just sorting through all of her extra items of clothing. Spencer turns around
towards Eloise.
“What?”
“I want a blanket.”
“Don’t you come near me.”
“I won’t take it from you. Please give me one.”
“No,” Eloise steps between Spencer and her cart.
Spencer walks the other direction. Two blocks away, he opens the door to a laundromat,
a heated laundromat. His hands become plump red from the extreme temperature change.
There are three other people; one is folding laundry, one is asleep in a chair, and the other is
feeding the quarter machine. Spencer sits down in a chair next to the sleeping man. Spencer
takes off his backpack and pulls out the heels. He walks over to the man folding his laundry.
“Hello, sir. I’m sorry, um.”
“What’s up, sweetcakes?”
“I have these shoes, but I need gloves or something warm.”
“And what? You want to trade me?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want your shoes,” he hands over a pair of thin black mittens, “Here you go,
sweetcakes.”
“Thank you,” Spencer begins to walk away.
“Where ya goin’?” He grips Spencer's wrist and pulls him. The man plants his tongue on
Spencer’s neck. “You are disgusting. I need to bathe you, dirty girl.”
Spencer kicks the man in the shin.
At an ear bursting volume the man yells, “We’re even, you slut.”
The man sleeping startles awake and shakes his head at Spencer. With a new pair of
gloves, he shamefully braves the seering cold.
Spencer returns to Eloise who is still sorting through each item of extra cloth.
“Eloise.”
“What?”
“Eloise, what does slut mean?”
 “Why don’t you look it up?”
“It isn’t in my dictionary.”
“I’m not telling you.”
“Eloise.”
“What?” Eloise snaps back.
“Eloise, I love you.”
“Stop saying my name all the time. I don’t say your name every five seconds.”

“Please wait here for me.”

“I’m waiting. I’m waiting.”
Spencer walks through the automatic sliding doors. He waves to the librarian who smiles
back. Spencer goes to the computers and types in “schizophrenia.” The first article is titled
“Schizophrenia - Symptoms and Causes.” He scrolls down to the bottom of the website and
reads one sentence from the middle of a paragraph.
In a new tab he types “slut.” His chest tightens when he reads “a promiscuous woman
who has many sexual encounters and partners.” He clicks on Images and scrolls through
hundreds of photos of women and girls in little to no clothing spreading their legs and handling
their breasts. His stomach hurts. He closes the pages. He processes this new information in the
way most pre-pubescent minds do; on a subconscious level he connects those women with his
own image. He starts to disconnect from his body by objectifying himself. It is the quickest way
to ignore his new title.

“Done?”
“Yeah, let’s go.”
“So?”
“What?”
“Did you figure out where you want to go?”
Spencer gasps. “I forgot to look it up.”
“Then what the hell were you doing?”
“Childhood sexual abuse is a strong predictor in later onset symptoms of schzophrenia.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“There’s nothing wrong with me. Will you come with me?”
“I’m not leaving.”
“You are going to freeze if you stay here.”
“I’ve lived in Minneapolis my whole life. Half of it on the streets. I’m fine here.”
“You mean you don’t want to go down south where the sun is always warm and there are
beaches and no snow?”
“No.”
“Well, I want to.”
“Then go.”
“I don’t want to go without you.”
“We are strangers.”
“How could you say that, Eloise? I know you better than anyone.”
She huffs.
 “I know how many items you have in your cart. I know you have graying fair hair. I know
you get angry when you feel protective. I know you never laugh out loud. I know you talk in your
sleep.”
“I don’t talk in my sleep.”
“Yes you do. You say ‘I have no house’ and stuff like that.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not. I’ll stay up tonight and wake you up when you start talking to see what you're
dreaming about and if I guess right you have to believe me.”
“What you said earlier made sense.”
“So you want to come with me to somewhere warmer?”
“No, about schizophrenia.”
“Oh. Yeah, I read that online.”
“My brother…”
“What about him?”
“No, nevermind. Stop prying.”

They settle for the night behind the library. Between the bare bushes at the ground of the
brick exterior and the green electrical box, Spencer and Eloise are hidden from the scolding
wind.

“Eloise, wake up.”

“Wha?”
“I want to guess what you were dreaming about.”
“I had a dream about a horse.”
“Oh,” Spencer thinks for a moment. “Do you mean the large mammal with hooves and a
mane used for riding, or do you mean a structure on which something is mounted on?”
“Just a horse.”
“Were you riding it?”
“No, its big horse penis was out and it was fucking a fake horse. I got scared so I hid
under a table, but it turned out the table was the fake horse.”
“And then what happened?”
“I don’t remember. People usually forget dreams, I forgot.”
“Aught?”
“What?”
“I opened to a random page and I don’t know what aught means.”
Eloise grunts. Spencer pulls out his dictionary.
“‘Aught: Anything, All, Everything.’ Well, that’s vague.”
“It doesn’t mean literally anything. It’s like instead of asking someone ‘do you know
anything about this?’ you ask ‘know you aught of this?’”
“That’s the first time you taught me something.”
“That’s not true. I taught you ABC’s when you were three and I was six.”
“Eloise. It’s me, Spencer.”
“Shut up. I’m sleeping.”
Eloise rolls away from him. Eloise stays quiet the rest of the night.
 Snow starts to fall. A very thin blanket of dust begins to coat the world around them.
“Eloise, it’s snowing.”
Spencer stands up and unfolds the tarp to cover the cart and them. Spencer shivers. He
scoots closer to Eloise. Their bodies lay flat to the earth barely touching from down the length of
Spencer’s shoulder to ankle. Their body heat travels back and forth like a jump rope in motion.

“I’m going to kill you.”

Spencer opens his eyes.
Eloise rips the tarp down and frantically folds it up. “My things. My tarp. My space. My
cart.”
“I’m sorry. It started snowing.”
“No. No. No. No. No. No. No. I don’t care. Not good enough.” She pushes her cart away
from Spencer.
“Eloise don’t go. I’m sorry. Eloise. I love you. Eloise. I won’t do it again. Please.”
She turns the corner. Spencer runs after her.
“You have to listen to me, Eloise. It was snowing on us and you put the tarp out. You
must have been sleepwalking.”
“Liar. Liar. ‘You sleep talk, Eloise. You sleepwalk, Eloise.’”
“Wait,” Spencer runs in front of Eloise and places his hands on her cart to stop her.
Her eyes widen and fury emits from within her throat while her lips remain closed.
Spencer quickly and regretfully removes his hands then backs away. Eloise shuffles away
leaving foot and wheel prints in the layer of snow covering the sidewalk. Spencer continues to
hold his hands up surrendering to her rath.

“Can you please let me on?”

“You have to pay.”
“I don’t have money.”
“Go away.”

“Can you take me just ten minutes down the street no charge?”
“Just ten minutes?”
“Yes.”
“Then you can walk.”

“Excuse me ma’am? Will you pay my bus fare?”

“No,” says a black pencil skirt.

“Excuse me sir? Will you pay my bus fare?”

The man seems a brute.
“What’s your name, girlie?”
“Spencer.”
“Let’s go, Spencer.”
“Thank you.”
They board the bus. The man sits and Spencer continues down the aisle.
 “Sit with me.”
“I’d rather my space.”
“So I pay your way and you won’t even keep me company?”
Ashamed of his inditacted selfish behavior he sits with the man. He pats Spencer’s thigh,
a twig to his trunk.
“You homeless, Spencer?”
“No, I choose to live on the street. It’s different.”
He pats Spencer’s thigh again.
“I like having a pretty, young girl’s company.”
“I’m not-”
“No, you’re very pretty.”
“I was going to say I’m not a girl.”
“Then what’s this?” He pinches Spencer’s nipple.
Pain radiates through his developing breasts. Spencer crosses his arms and looks out
the window.
“I was born a girl, but I’m a boy.”
“Oh, you’re one of those tranny freaks.”
Out the window, Eloise’s cart is being pushed by the crazy man. Spencer runs up the
aisle to the driver.
“Stop the bus. Please, stop the bus. I need to get off.”
“Sit down. I will pull over, but I will not tolerate your bullshit screaming.”
The bus pulls over. The doors open. Spencer runs towards the crazy man. The man’s
eyes land on Spencer. They both slow down. Spencer gets closer.
“He took the cart from her just as planned,” Spencer speaks into his shirt collar as he
passes.
In a huff, the crazy man lets go of the cart and runs away.

Spencer leans his weight on the cart as he weaves through the city. He shivers.
“Eloise,” he calls out.
The wheels get packed with snow and won’t roll. He pushes on. He shivers.
“Eloise.”

His hands fumble. He shivers.

“Ehoise,” his speech slurs.

He rounds a corner. He shivers. There is Eloise, rocking from one foot to the other. Her
hands are shaking at strangers.
“You seen my cart?” Eloise blurts at people in the span of one second.
Spencer drops his backpack on the ground. He takes off his shirt and puts it in her cart.
He drops his pants around his ankles. Spencer falls to the ground, doing so he happens to push
her cart with enough force for it to slide into Eloise’s sight. She reaches for it. She digs through
it, oblivious of Spencer face down on the snowy sidewalk. She holds his shirt in her hands. She
stares at the shirt contemplating its presence.
 Not every item was accounted for, but most of them were. She double checks. She
pushes the cart towards Spencer, not even looking up from her fabric. The cart smashes into
the top of his head.
“Spencer?”
She flips his limp body, chest exposed. She sees, absorbs the sight of his hungry ribs
barely moving to his slow and shallow breathing. She pushes the pads of her finger onto his
clammy blue neck searching for a pulse.
She picks him up by the armpits. She leans his limp body over the rim of her cart, his face in the
cloth. She pulls his pajamas back up. Awkwardly, she lifts his legs and pushes him forward. She
adjusts his limbs for him to be curled into a fetal position. She pulls blankets from under his
weight and places them on top of him. She does this again and again until he is in the very
center of the cart -- just as the core of the earth. She gently pushes down on the mound of cloth
to secure its place. At the opposite end of the handle, she grips the metal and pulls the cart. It
trails behind her, following.