UNWANTED
ALM No.93, September 2026
SHORT STORIES
It was nighttime in summer, 1966. Steven, age 13, counted stars while on his back in a sleeping bag. He was out in a field under a huge sky as black as a lake. Every few minutes he lost count and had to start over again. He started left to right, then brightest to dullest. Nothing worked.
But soon it would be sunrise. He knew he had to hike back home a full three miles before his parents discovered he had runaway. This was his test run. For a thirteen-year-old, it made sense.
For the first time since choosing this site to camp Steven could see shapes around him, especially on the horizon. There were strange things moving there. Yet even in the waning dark, he still had to focus. Especially on the little hills at the far end of the three-hundred-foot field. He swore the hills were moving. He did not understand it. This was a rural undeveloped area of Staten Island, New York. There was no construction nearby, no earth movers. Not like at home where dozers were already taking down his beloved forest.
Steven had never camped on his own. It was not really safe. He felt vulnerable. Everything around him was encased by night. The roads were distant. It had been quiet all night, but now he heard twigs snap, and he heard weeds thrash.
Then he saw the hills move again.
He was up on his tippy toes. What the heck? he muttered.
First a large hill seemed to drift left, then two small ones. Then another large one followed. Slowly and noisily the hills moved. Even at this distance he heard it. Steven raised his head slightly above a rise to get a better look, then he pushed himself up on top of the rise. He hoped not to be spotted by anyone. He had only a penknife to protect himself.
The hills on the horizon seemed to glide. Moving hills of dirt. He could only see the tops of them.
The hills appeared one by one from behind the brush and trees until they were all out in the open. He could still only see the very round tops of them, until, moments later, the hills eased directly beneath moonlight, and he saw the sheen on the sides of the mounds, and he heard grass and twigs break and crunch until he realized to his astonishment that he was seeing a herd of elephants.
Elephants on a suburban island. A borough of New York City.
And as the elephants trudged slowly toward the distant rising sun, the sky began to backlight them. First small like a match. Then as if a tiny lamp on a dimmer switch that brightened each moment. Steven stood straight and tall, and in a field at least five-hundred feet away he saw something larger and more alarming moving straight up in the sky. Propelling in a massive way. He focused at that very moment as an enormous tent lifted upward like a barn-raising and he saw for the first time, that a circus crew was pitching a tent the size of a Costco.
Steven had never been to a circus. He excitedly shoved all his things in a backpack. Then he rolled the rusty metal bars and the dirty tent that had once been his older brother’s, into a canvas bag that was as rough as sandpaper. The bag was an old boat cover he had cut and sewn together himself. He slung it over his shoulder next to his rolled sleeping bag wrapped tight with a piece of dad’s rope. He looked weighted down. But it really wasn’t that heavy. His wristwatch, a wind-up Timex, handed down from his brother, read 5:10 a.m.
Steven trudged toward the small specs of circus performers on the horizon. The big top was now huge, the canvas roof not tight yet, so it bloomed like a fluffed sheet and swayed and undulated as workers tried to get control with long ropes and stakes. Even from this distance Steven heard it flap hard as the men stretched the highest peaks.
Off to the left, on the other side of a road from the huge tent he now saw a breakfast and lunch place called, Al Deppy’s. Like one of those long buildings that kept getting added onto in a rambling, non-matching way. A place with amateur hand-painted signs of hot dogs, burgers, fries and plates of eggs and bacon that looked cartoonish.
He would start his day there. He was hungry. He had not eaten in two days. Dad was out of work and mom was training to be a nurse because money was tight. Dad came home tired from painting houses to make ends meet. He always had paint on his face and hair when he could get the work, and he would wash his hands in a sump sink in the basement using black soap he called, Lava.
It doesn’t look like lava, Steven once told him as he watched him scrub his hands with a wire brush. It’s not red.
It’s a brand name, Dad said as if annoyed, then continued to roll and rub his hands until his skin was raw.
Al Deppy’s was unusually quiet. It was so early the flat grills were bare. But he smelled coffee just like home.
There were wood tables with wood chairs. Chrome napkin holders and glass and silver topped sugar holders. The long counter was stained and chipped.
He put the bulky things from his back on the tile floor, then sat at a chrome and red vinyl swivel stool at the counter and spun around to face the windows. He saw the elephants unattended across a road in a field. They were fat and big and plodding. No one stood near them.
Steven ordered toast and a hot chocolate. It was all he could afford. He was glancing across the restaurant at the pinball machines in another room when he heard a slow creak next to him, then a burst of air as if pushed hard out of a cushion by someone sitting down. He turned back and was startled by a huge man looking far down at him.
Holy-moly, Steven muttered.
Even sitting on the stool, the man’s head almost hit the pendant chrome lights.
Hi, I’m Roy, he said.
How tall are you, mister? Steven asked.
Roy, long, lean, brown hair, nicely dressed with a bow tie, said, Seven-foot eight.
Wow, Steven said.
I’m four-foot four, a squeaky voice chirped from the other side of the giant man. A woman leaned forward so Steven could see her. She had curly blonde hair. My name is Gloria, she said. People say I’m a midget, but I prefer Little Person.
Nice to meet you.
Steven sized them up. Gloria was so small she had hands like a baby and baby short arms and legs. She had a pretty smile. The tall man’s head was bigger than anyone Steven had ever seen. He had huge lips with large droopy gray eyes. Steven thought his hands were the size of mom’s oven mitts.
Where’re you from, kid? Roy asked.
Great Kills, How about you?
I came down the beanstalk, he said.
Gloria laughed. He’s a joker, she said. Don’t listen to him.
Are you from the beanstalk, too? Steven asked her.
No, I came from my mommy.
Then she laughed. It was high-pitched but pleasant. The pair ordered food, then answered questions. We work for the circus, Roy explained. Our first show is tonight.
I saw the elephants, Steven said. That was cool.
They’re beautiful, Roy said. Two of them are having babies. We’d like to set them free.
Where would they go?
I don’t know. I don’t think a zoo is a good idea.
What is?
You sure ask a lot of questions.
Gloria leaned forward again and smiled at Steven. Her legs dangled in the air from the stool. Why are you here with a tent in a bag? she asked. You opening your own circus?
Steven shrugged.
C’mon, you can tell me.
I ran away from home.
Why?
You sure ask a lot of questions, Steven said.
Roy laughed. Kid has got a sense of humor, he said. C’mon boy, tell us why, or I’ll eat you.
Steven didn’t know if he was kidding.
Don’t worry, my husband won’t eat you, Gloria said. He prefers chicken.
Maybe he tastes like chicken, Roy joked. So, tell us your story, kid.
You two are married? Steven asked.
More questions? Roy smirked. Are you trying to avoid answering me? C’mon, why are you here carrying camping gear?
Steven sighed. My Dad’s out of work. He’s painting houses to make… to make…
To make ends meet?
Yes. There’s not enough to eat at home, he said. I just thought it would be easier if I left. If I ran away from home. I don’t want to be a… a burden.
No child is a burden, Gloria said, brown eyes filled with concern.
Dad says I’m a burden.
I’m sure he didn’t say that to you.
He said it to my Mom. I overheard them talking.
He didn’t mean it.
He said I’m one more mouth to feed.
Roy glanced at Gloria.
During the depression, families gave away children they couldn’t support, Steven said. I saw that in a movie.
No one is going to give you away, Roy assured him, though he was not certain.
Gloria said, Go home, young man. You’re not a burden.
Then why do I feel like one? Why do I feel like no one loves me?
Al, the man who owned the restaurant put Steven’s toast and hot chocolate in front of him. He was a tough looking guy. Tall and solid. A toothpick in his mouth. He had tattoos on his forearms back when tattoos meant you were a biker or a retired Navy guy.
He turned to the circus performers. What’ll it be?
Without writing it down he walked to the kitchen to put in the order.
Are you coming to the show tonight? Gloria asked Steven.
Nah, my dad isn’t going to pay for it and I don’t have the money.
Roy fished around in his pockets. He withdrew four tickets. Here, he said. Bring your family to the show tonight. And make certain you say hello. I may even bring you down to meet the elephants. Especially Molly and Anne, the new moms.
Where will their children live? Steven asked.
Children? What children?
The baby elephants.
At the circus.
Not if I have my way, Gloria said.
Steven nodded. He wondered if they would have enough food. He wondered if they would get their older brother’s tent and their older brother’s pants that they would have to cuff up three times like he did, then hide tight rubber bands inside the cuffs around his ankles so the pants wouldn’t look so baggy. Or if they would have to use a belt all the way to the last hole so their pants wouldn’t fall down. He wondered if their shirts would all be faded and maybe even patched and their sneakers would have no tread because they’d all been used before, all handed down to them. And he wondered if an older brother would attend an expensive high school in the city and plan to go away to an expensive college while other kids laughed at them because of the way they were dressed. Today Steven even wore the sneakers with the fake word, Converse, written on them with a Sharpie. His Mom printed it so Steven wouldn’t know these were a cheap made-in-China brand bought at a yard sale.
Go home, kid, Roy said. Your parents love you. They’re worried.
Maybe, Steven said under his breath. Maybe.
After eating in silence as Roy and Gloria ate, too, he watched him lift her off the stool, say goodbye, then walk together holding hands all the way back to the big tent across the wide field under the sun that now glowed bright in the blue sky. Al Deppy and ten or so customers watched Roy and Gloria, too, until a huge group of Circus hands flooded in. The elephants were herded now into a pen by men with electric shock poles, though the poles remained at their sides.
Steven hiked back home. When he arrived, Dad had just gotten back from painting a garage for fifty bucks and Mom was almost ready to leave for nursing class.
He opened the side screen door and entered.
Where have you been? Mom asked loudly. I’ve been worried sick.
I took a hike.
You weren’t home last night. We almost called the police.
Why didn’t you?
You’ve done this before. Dad drove around the neighborhood looking for you.
Dad shook his head, then walked away. He was angry and Steven felt it. It was like coiled springs.
Sorry, Steven said.
That’s not good enough. Where were you?
Down by Al Deppy’s. I met a giant. I have tickets to the circus.
What?
A circus performer gave me four tickets for tonight.
Ringling Brothers? We’re not taking the ferry and train to Madison Square Garden.
No, this is King Brothers.
Never heard of them.
They’re out in a field by Al Deppy’s. Can we go?
We’ll see.
It’s at seven o’clock.
I said, we’ll see. Now go to your room. Take a bath. I’ll be home in three hours. Do not leave the house. You are restricted, do you understand?
His older brother Bill was in his own room packing clothes. He would leave soon for his first year of college. They were five years apart in age. They had never been close. When Steven was in elementary school, Bill was in high school. He did not want to hang out with ‘the little kid.’
Hey, Steven said when they met eyes.
Bill just shook his head and turned back to packing as if Steven’s behavior – his disappearance – was exasperating. He never looked back up. He continued to fold clothes and shove little things in the crevices.
Where’re you going? Steven asked.
Away to college, dufus. We only discuss it every night at dinner. Where have you been?
I just didn’t realize it was so soon.
It’s August. I have to go to orientation. Now stop bothering me.
Steven went to his room. He closed the door to sleep.
After dinner that night, after his Dad asked Bill a lot of questions about the new school, Steven noticed the time.
The circus is in an hour, he said. Can we go?
I’ve got stuff to do, Bill said. I’m not going.
I have a painting job at 6 a.m., Dad said. I’m going to bed early.
I have a 7 a.m. class, Mom said. I can’t.
And you, young man, are grounded, Dad said. You’re not going anywhere.
But it’s four free tickets.
You should have thought of that before you disappeared and worried your Mom sick.
Fifteen minutes later with his bedroom door closed, Steven packed a backpack, pushed open the window, and climbed out. It was still bright and sunny. Nighttime came late, even in early fall. He hurried across the little village of Great Kills, cut through one of the last remaining patches of forest in the area, then walked alongside a rural road for several miles until he reached the field where he had camped.
Almost immediately he saw the big white tent. Sunset was just an hour away. He glanced around for the elephants. But he did not see them.
Steven stopped to sell three of the four tickets for $1.50 each. The face value was $3.00. At the entrance to the tent, the ticket taker tore his ticket in half.
He was excited. He was inside a circus and he had $4.50, plus $22 saved from shoveling snow around the village last year, and $18 this summer from cutting grass for neighbors. His allowance was only .50 cents, which had been suspended for a year as his family struggled. Still, he had saved $8.50 in allowance from last year. Fifty-three dollars total. A fortune.
Steven was getting caught up in the excitement, the smell and sound of the lions, tigers, monkeys and elephants. He heard motorcycles revving and saw performers peeking from behind a curtain. He hoped to see the elephants and the expectant moms. He knew he needed to find Roy and Gloria. He hoped they were normal people who would offer him a home and they would be sympathetic to him. He knew he just had to ask them if he could leave with them and the circus. He wanted to run away and leave home forever. He wanted a job and a place to stay and he wanted to travel and see the world. He yearned to be free to make his own decision and he saw the circus as the only way to get that.
Steven had known he needed to run away from home months ago. But the thought of packing what little he owned or could carry felt overwhelmingly final and he’d dragged his feet. From the day he was old enough to become aware of his surroundings and what people were doing, he felt as if he was a visitor in his own home. Dad had moved the television into his room when he was nine. When Steven was not there it was the T.V. room. The family was still sitting on chairs by his bed when he wanted to be alone and the television flashed light even when he went to bed. He felt as if he’d lost the one and only space of his own. The only space a boy his age could count on. Then his parents told him he needed to dump things. Three shoeboxes of baseball cards had to go. Your closet is a mess, his mom said.
You can keep your best fifty, she told him. Put a rubber band around them.
Sometimes at night he ended up sobbing as he tried to decide which ones to keep and which ones to pitch. No arguments for saving his 1960s baseball cards worked.
One day they might be valuable, he said.
They’re cardboard pictures, Dad said, forcefully grabbing a shoebox full from his hands and dumping it in the trash. They’ll never be worth more than a penny a piece. Same thing with your comic books.
Steven cried as he looked down at pictures of Willie Mays, Mickey Mantle, Hank Aaron, Johnny Bench, Harmon Killebrew, Ernie Banks and Frank Robinson in the trash.
Not the comic books, Steven pleaded. I have the first Spiderman and Fantastic Four.
It’s a mess, Dad said. Dump them.
These things mean nothing to him, Steven was thinking, so to him they are worthless. But to me, it’s all I have.
Yet brother Bill’s closet was full with his things, he knew. He was not being asked to dump a thing. He could safely leave them behind when he went away to college.
Steven felt tangential to the family. Unimportant. A burden. He was a little boy in grade school and couldn’t help out during bad times. He felt unloved by his father and couldn’t fathom that he would ever change. His successes in sports or anything else didn’t seem to matter. He did not want to hold a grudge, but he had strong feelings of anger about feeling unwanted. Eliminating his favorite childhood possessions to satisfy his parents made him feel like he didn’t exist. He got to save little of what he had. He’d boxed up his childhood in a tight little space and put a rubber band around it.
Now he stood in the stands, a backpack bulging on his back as the Ringmaster began with, Ladies and gentlemen…
Spotlights rolled over the three-ring circus. Tall curtains parted, the parade began, and the Ringmaster began to sing in a booming voice.
Steven searched the parade for Roy and Gloria. He planned to walk down to them to ask if he could stay. Then he would meet the expectant elephants. Maybe I could help care for the elephants, he said to himself. Take care of their babies. Make certain they are happy. Or we can set them free. Find them a place to live.
But first he needed a home for himself. He didn’t know if Gloria or Roy would want him. He did not know if they would be willing to let him live with them and travel with the circus. He had no way of knowing if they were weird or perverts or violent. He just knew he had to get away. He was willing to give them his fifty-three dollars. But not the baseball cards. Those he would keep close to his vest to take with him where ever he went.
As he made his way down through the crowd to a seat in the first row behind the crowded railing overlooking the parade he adjusted the backpack on his shoulders and he felt the little square of rubber-banded baseball cards bulging inside up against his back. He felt as if it was all he had. Each card worth a penny. He knew that he had even less than he had before. But maybe because of the feelings of freedom and the sense of relief he actually felt as if he had more than he had before. For the first time he would decide his own future. Not be told what it would be. Even as the parade passed him, he felt joy and apprehension at the same time. Both were the strongest emotions he had ever felt.
Then he watched the elephants on parade slowly pass him and he spotted Roy and Gloria behind them waving to the crowd. He waved to them as they looked up to his seating area. But all the other children were waving, too. It was sea of wildly swinging arms and pennants. He felt for the money in his pocket to make certain he could pay them to take him if he needed too.
It was dark in the seating area. He was surrounded by adults and screaming children. The man on his left eyed him, noticing he was all alone. Once again, Steven checked the money in his pocket.
He quickly stood up and called out to Roy and Gloria. He wildly waved his arms. But the parade breezed on by.
They saw me, didn’t they? he said to himself. They remember me, don’t they? They had to remember me. They just had, too. I have nowhere else to go.
John C. Weil’s fiction and poetry credits include NOVA, Chiron Review, Mystery Tribune, Adelaide, Suspense Magazine, Canary, Tuck, Halfway Down the Stairs. He been a finalist in the Screencraft Short Story Competition and a finalist in the Los Angeles Film Festival Script Competition.
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