Posts Tagged ‘homeless’

The Old, Old Story, Part 2

April 15, 2013

I knew I’d see him again, the same way you know you’re going to be sick at your stomach when you feel that first little question mark in your gut. Sure enough, about a week later, ImageI’m back working the mall, and I swear I can actually feel him approaching; moving in like a cold front from my mind’s northwest horizon. This particular day, he’s got on a pair of dumpster-issue oxfords, and I can hear the soles slapping the pavement as he comes up to my table. He leans on one hand and stares at me with those washed-out blue eyes. “Who do you say that I, the son of man, am?”

“I dunno—Elvis, maybe? Only without sequins.”

He gives me a lopsided grin. “You ready to tell me what happens next? I still got your money, right here.” He pinches a fold of his pocket.Image

Now I’m irritated. “Look, pal, stop wasting my time, okay? You’re occupying the same space as a paying customer.” Some of these guys, you don’t stiff-arm them up front, they start treating you like their private candy machine.

He gets this soulful, whipped-beagle look, and I swear to you it was like he felt sorry for me.

“Oh, Jerusalem, Jerusalem. I would have sheltered you beneath my wings, but you would not.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

ImageHe moves off down the way, but I can feel his eyes on my back. Not threatening… just sorry. Like I’ve missed something I’d later regret.

(To be continued…)

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So Fair and Bright (a weblog) by Thom Lemmons is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License

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The Old, Old Story, Part 1

March 21, 2013

By way of introduction: Admittedly, this story is a bit of a departure from the stated theme of this site. But it is fiction (at least, mostly), and I guess it could be set somewhere in a metropolitan area of southeast Missouri … if you can find one. So … Enjoy!  

The Old, Old Story

It was definitely the best gimmick I’d ever used; better than the time when I sat in an abandoned department store display window in front of a hand-lettered sign that said, “Suffering from Writer’s Block—Won’t You Help?” Another time, I used to hang out at Wal-Mart, trying to make up stories using all the items people had purchased. junkOne guy had a commode plunger, a case of motor oil, and a sack of birdseed. You don’t even want to think about what I did with that.

But this latest trick was great. I’d take my laptop someplace downtown with lots of foot traffic. They’d see my sign, stare at me a couple of seconds, then either walk on past or slow down for a better look. It got so I could tell pretty quick who would actually sit down and talk.

My sign said, “Get a Life. $5.00.”

I figured out pretty quick that anybody can tell some goofy fairy tale. But I’m thinking it needs to be plausible, but still better than they can do for themselves.

“First off, I don’t do futures,” I’d tell them. “I get you up to this point in time and that’s it. If you don’t like the life I give you, you don’t pay. Got it?” But I never had anybody take back the money—except one. Just that one. God help me.

I’d talk them through it while I polished up the grammar. I’d run a spell-check, copy the whole thing to a CD, and hand it to them. “Anybody with a current version of WordPerfect can print this out for you,” I’d tell them. “Hope you enjoy your new life.” They’d get this cock-eyed grin, maybe shake their heads a little, like, I can’t believe I’m doing this. But I had them, see? They knew as well as I did they wanted that disk more than they wanted the five bucks.

So one day I’m sitting at my usual place. I see him coming from a block away; a homeless guy, dressed in the latest layered look from the Salvation Army. As soon as I spot him, I get this sinking feeling. Sure enough, he makes for me like a ragged chicken coming home to roost. He takes a quick look at my sign and flops into the seat across from me. To my surprise, he fishes around in a pocket and flips a greasy, stained five onto the table.homeless

Making eye contact with him is like staring at the taillights on the last cab leaving a bad part of town. His sun- and wind-scoured face has a raw, caved-in look, like a freshly healed scab. He’s wearing a cap that had maybe been green in a previous life. The tufts of frayed hair sticking out from under it all around are some indeterminate blondish-brown, to match the four-day stubble all over his face. His eyes are a faded blue, and I notice they’re clear and focused. He stares straight at me, like I’m a TV and he’s the remote.

“I am the way, the truth, and the life,” he said. “Who are you?”

“I’m Larry, Moe, and Curly. Nice to meet you.”

“You got a form I need to fill out?” he said. “Most people I work with, they got some kinda form.”

“No, not really. You been around here long?”

“Long enough.”talk

“What’s your name?”

“Whatever you want it to be. You’re the one with the sign.”

As I’m giving him my opening spiel, he leans over and rummages around in his garbage sack, comes out with half a pair of silver kid’s scissors; the kind with the sharp ends, not rounded. He turns sideways in the chair and starts cleaning his fingernails. There is something so ineffably sad about this loser doing his manicure with a broken pair of school scissors that I have a twinge of bourgeois guilt.

“Look, can I get you something? I mean …  are you hungry or anything?”

He gives me a sly grin and shakes his head. “I have food that you know not of.”

Back to the keyboard.

You are the illegitimate son of a wealthy East Coast industrialist, the result of his weekend encounter with a high school senior who placed you for adoption and subsequently went on to graduate from college, marry a banker, have three children and get elected president of the elementary school PTA. Just after your sixteenth birthday, your loving and supportive adoptive parents acceded to your persistent demands to know the truth of your origins. laptopUsing the adoption agency’s records as a springboard for years of determined sleuthing, you finally discovered your father’s identity. You dropped out of college and traveled across the country, working a succession of menial jobs to earn bus fare and meals. When, after months of arduous travel, you finally reached your biological father’s last known residence—a convalescent home in upstate New York—you were told that he had died a week prior to your arrival. Shattered by this tragic circumstance and robbed of your raison d’etre, you began drifting west again, trying desperately to forget the many losses in your life.

The wealthy, dying father loans the whole package a very attractive and plausible sense of pathos, I’m thinking. I save it to a disk and hand it to him. “Here you go. Enjoy.”

He stares at the disk for a couple of seconds. “Can I read it?”

“Well, no. You gotta find somebody to print this out for you.”

He looks at me like, who are you kidding. The guilt cranks up again.

“Okay, okay. Come around here and I’ll put it on the screen.”

As he leans over my shoulder, I can smell the complex and disagreeable ambiance of his existence. I can hear him softly whispering the words on the screen, hear him quietly scratching his cheek.

He stares down at me, his forehead wrinkled with a question. “I don’t get it.”

“What?”

He points at the screen. “I mean—where’s the rest?”

“Uh, that’s it—that’s the whole thing, right there.”

“No, I—” He shakes his head. “What you’ve got is good, okay? But … Well … what happens next?”

“Look, I don’t do futures, remember? I only get you up to this point in time—”walkaway

He looks at me as if I have just spoken in Sanskrit.

“No way.” He snatches the five off the table and stuffs it deep into his pocket. Shouldering the garbage bag, he says, “Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof.” He starts to walk off, then stops. “Here,” he says, tossing the disk at me. Then he’s gone.

(To be continued … )
Creative Commons License
So Fair and Bright (a weblog) by Thom Lemmons is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License