Back Alley Indigent

He spreads the blanket on the cold hard concrete just inside the doorway of the empty building, waiting as the dog takes her usual place then squeezing in next to her. He winces as he sits, the blanket only barely containing the bitter sting of the cold. He places his hand on her head, gently stroking the silken fur, and she lies down, her chin resting on his knee as a soft sigh of contentment escapes her. He watches the people pass by and places his battered hat on the ground. It was once blue, but time and rain has bleached it to a dirty Grey.

Gently, almost lovingly, he takes his guitar from the case, his fingers lightly strumming at the chords. The calluses on his hands mark the places where the strings have rubbed against his skin. He smiles wryly as he looks at them. Everything in life leaves its mark.

The dog scolds him with her eyes as she moves her head to make way for her rival. It’s the only time she looks that way. She has been hungry, thirsty, tired, cold and wet but never once has she reproached him for not giving her a better existence. He is her god and when he calls she must obey, what he meters out she must endure.

He is a better master than most. Whatever he has he shares with her; shelter, food and warmth. He has never hurt her or shouted at her. She rests her head on the blanket and closes her eyes, content to wait as he tries to earn them food and maybe even enough for a bed for the night.

He begins to play, his voice at first weak then becoming stronger. He is hungry and tired; it was a long walk from the place they stayed the night and there was no money for food this morning. But sing for his supper he must and he has to make a good job of it, or there will be nothing to eat again tonight.

He's lucky today. It's January, cold and wet, and people give a little more readily then. He has a theory about that. He thinks that it's guilt for the excess of Christmas. Whatever it is that causes them to dip into their pockets, he's glad of it.

Many people stop to stroke the dog. She doesn't seem to mind it but she gives no outward sign of pleasure either. Her eyes flicker open for a moment, then close again, not inviting their attention but tolerating it. Before she chose the man to be her companion she had known many people. Some seemed kind until she got too close, then chased her away with shouts and kicks. Time has shown her that she can trust him but no one else.

The man carries on playing and singing, wondering why they never speak to him. They hardly even glance in his direction, bending slightly and looking at the ground as they drop their coins into the hat.

He wonders when he became invisible, what they find so disgusting about him that they can’t bear to look at him. Yes, his clothes are old and not as clean as he’d like. He needs to shave but he has no sharp razors left. The only one he has took chunks out of his flesh the last time he tried to use it.

As his fingers pluck at the chords, drawing out a melody that makes him think of better days, he starts to remember. At first his heart and fingers stumble as he recalls the last time he played this song. He thinks of the home he once had, Emily with her smiling eyes and ready laughter, the friends he drank with in the little village pub every Friday night, his workmates, the plans he'd made … all just a dream now. Tiny snapshots of his life, like pictures in a photograph album, appear in his mind, and his mouth curves at the corners while his voice strengthens and his fingers find the chords. He is singing for them now, singing for all he had and lost, singing for a life that slipped through his fingers like a miser's gold.

The dog opens her eyes and looks up at him, the change in his voice alerting her to his change of mood. She opens her mouth and pants softly, her expression that which on a human face might be a smile as she watches him.

A few passers-by hesitate, their hurried steps slowing as something in his voice catches their attention. They dig into their pockets, throwing coins into the hat, some missing in their rush to pass him, the coins rolling onto the blanket and hiding in the folds.

He doesn't see them for now the snapshots in his mind have changed. He sees his Emily, the last time he saw her. The smile was gone, her gentle face covered in blood, her broken body lying on the road. He staggers towards her, falling to his knees besides her, remembering how her laughter turned to screams as the bus came towards them, the headlights burning into the car like demon's eyes.

The dog begins to whimper as his voice changes once more, no longer strong but breaking as he sees it all again, yet his fingers still relentlessly picking out the melody. In his mind he turns the wheel once more, trying desperately to move the car from the path of the bus but failing. He sees it hit them, his eardrums feeling as if they must burst from all the sounds. Emily screaming, the engine shrieking, the bang as the bus broadsides them, the squeal of metal as the bus pushes the car across the road.

emily, her seat-belt unfastened, soars through the window, shattering the glass into a thousand pieces. In shock, he wonders idly how she ever learned to fly like that, her arms outstretched, her body arcing gracefully towards the ground. She flew like an angel, but angels were never meant to fall.

His friends tried to help, but no one could. Emily's parents forgave him, there was nothing to forgive they said, patting him gently on his shoulder as they walked away from the graveside. He looked for Emily everywhere, finally finding her at the bottom of a whisky glass, the alcohol numbing him enough to sleep and dream of her.

At last he had nothing left. His friends dwindled away, unable to find a way to help him. His job and home were lost, his plans forgotten. And so he had come to this, wandering the streets with the few possessions he could carry with him, the dog at his side and the guitar slung over his shoulder.

And, as the dog whimpered softly, tears ran down his cheeks and the passers-by stopped to look at him. He kept on playing, seeing no one.

Now it was their turn to become invisible.From his lips, he sang

Ode to the Homeless

And god can tell you everything,
he Always knows the score,
he can pick you up or let you down
like the Ski lifts doing daily chores
at St. Moritz
And all the things you say and do
Well he'll try and comfort you,
and speak softly words you never heard before.

In a humble part of Brooklyn,
there's a beating bar and grille,
and it carries creature comforts
for the derelicts and indigents that frequent there.
a slab of ham, some crusty bread,
will suffice for days ahead.
And a half a pint will keep them warm at night.

in an alley lays a bag-man
embracing his prized but meager fare
but his face is one of serenity,
no trace remains of his earthly despair.
And passersby, stare and shake their head,
not knowing that he's dead,
and there's no one here to mourn his passing on.

And a city soon discovers
it has lost a native son,
he's interred unnamed, and though ashamed
the multitude refuses to bear the blame,
they cry that it's unfair
because, they've always done their share
and the numbers of our homeless marches on.

And our homeless warrior,
our forgotten begotten son,
has won his final battle,
while for many it's to that front,
and the tomb of our unknown soldier
becomes our saving grace,
we provide in death, what we couldn't in life,
his final resting place.

American dreams revisited

Image by Getty Images via @daylife

The mall was empty this time of the morning. . The loving embrace of my warm comfy bed, had left me behind. It could be enough, without too much effort, to pity my plight in life.

The Newark, brick city skyline loomed closer as the Bus pulled over the clay street
Bridge, this was as good a place as any, to embark on my journey of self pity.

I always took the same bus and sat in the rear. I kept a low profile the kind that draws the least attention. I never looked for a spare seat, though by that time that would have been a rarity. My journey took me from the well kept streets of Kearny, to the city's heart, and I would wonder where all the travelers on the bus were coming from what forsaken time of the day did these souls leave their loving embraces behind?

They had become a familiar cast. The guy who held onto the shoulder strap and drank
His hot coffee every morning always boarded in Harrison. He looked as if he had never spoken in his life, just brooded and stared under those grey brows. There was the pretty young girl who dressed with style. She was always engrossed in some conversation, with someone, day after day. Then there was the guy in the wheel chair, the bus driver said he was a drunk and stole it, but everyday she’d pick him up at the same stop, and it would take 20 or so minutes to get him on the bus and locked in.

In a more measured time, I would have buried myself in a book, yet I was still held by the fancy of youth, and savored in casting my gaze between the passengers, and in watching the green of the suburbs give way to the inner-city brick prison, under that lucid, revealing light.

All, it seemed, had its place, inside and out, as well ordered as a balance sheet, handed down from above. Yet, there was something out of place, and, that misfit was me. What was I doing here? It felt like I was playing out a role, not living. I was barely 18, a young 18, and at that time of morning my friends were still getting ready for school, and here was I with a ticket to... to where? My future? It was too late to go back. Only the newness of the whole experience stopped me from falling completely into self-pity. Certainly the career high-rope I found myself on, NJIT school for postal employees, was not one to inspire my morning blues to bloom into more colorful rainbows.

But, if this is the path I’d follow it; I was one of the sheeple, just a number, Just let me join the flock, pull the wool over my eyes. I wanted so much more, I hoped for fortune, fame, what kid in America didn’t?

It was just after 8am, that the bus arrived at Broad and Route 21, enough to give me time to kill, each morning, before the walk to the main Post Office. Coming off the bus early to the Little strip mall on Route 21 was something I started a week earlier, here there was a Dunkin donuts, and I’d stop in to see the counter girl, her name was Juanita, and she was beautiful; she always gave me an extra donut with my coffee latte. I noticed an older woman, sitting on the bus stop bench, agitated, waving her hand, and beseeching passers-by.

The rush hour masses were avoiding her .. And was I not one of them? I veered a path, to avoid her frenzied questioning line of sight, and with chin planted in chest, ran her gauntlet. By now, I could hear what she was saying to all within shouting distance, "Scuse me, 'scuse me, please, 'scuse me..".

By now, I could see her, in the corner of my eye; she was a homeless old woman, tattered and life-beaten. I had seen her a few times picking through the dumpster at the McDonald’s on Broad and Market…

"Excuse me, young sir?" She had seen me, and I knew her question was aimed at me.

"Excuse me, yea you young fella?" There was a human, plaintive tone in her request, that however I longed to ignore, I knew I could not. Why had she chosen me, from the crowd, to direct her question so personally? I turned to her, and looked her in the eye. For a moment, all she did was stare, as if taken aback. I gingerly walked toward her, I felt compelled to answer.

"Yes, ma’am?”


"Ahh, good for you, , I didn't think you'd stop. Do you know what time it is?"

A reasonable enough request, except she was sitting directly under the bank temperature and time clock, that lit the time and the temperature every few seconds.. It could easily be seen from where she was. I was probably the only one, of the passers-by, who wasn't wearing a watch. I never needed one.

"There's a big clock right over there, by the Bank of New York….see? You can
see it from here.”

"Yeah, I had noticed it, thanks, . I've been up all night, you know, and my old bones aren't what they used to be…but that clock on the bank has been broke for over 2 years now…it never moves just say’s 12:01.

I waited for the clock to blink, and sure enough, I knew it was about 8 o”clock, so
She was right, the clock was wrong.

"Okay, no worries, I can get the time for you. Just stay there, and I'll be right back."

"Yea, sure, I’ll be holding my breath waiting for you.” She said with a cynicism that said she knew I was lying.

She needn't fear, I said I would, and that should have been good enough for her, but I was young, Freddie the freshman, the American dream still blinding my eyes.

I returned to where she was, and she hadn't missed a beat, from her earlier mantra to all passing by, as if I had never stopped “excuse me anyone here got the time?”

"I have the time. It's quarter past eight."

"Oh my, I thought you’d left, didn’t think you’d be back though." She eyed
me curiously.

"Why would I do that for?"

"You know, it’s rush hour, no one has time to stop and give a person the time of day. Everyone’s Always in a hurry. I've been sitting here for ages, and you're the first one to stop. I don't know what's happening with the world, it's changed so much. So, what are you doin around town?"

"I'm... just off to work," It wasn't a phrase I was use to, and got caught in my throat.

"Ah.. work, huh? Good luck to you.”

"Things aren't so bad, it's a lovely day. I'm happy to...."

she interrupted me...

"When you get to my age you realize all days are the same. You know what today is? It's the day I was born.”

"Oh-hh… happy birthday!"

"That’s a joke, right? Hey thanks anyway.” She said, shuffling again on the bench.

" Well …..Anyway, enjoy your birthday. There must be something you can do today. You got the time, remember? It's quarter past eight, or just after now, you have the
whole day to celebrate.”

"Haha.. yeah sure, I have the whole day. Well thank you for stopping by….

As I turned, to ascend the last set of steps, she gave me a final farewell.... "Thanks again, young man, you are a true American. “

There was something in the way she said those words, that made me feel blessed.

“Happy birthday, I didn’t catch your name.”

“My name is Regina that I will never forget. “

Well, happy birthday Regina,” and I reached into my pocket to hand her some
Money.

“what’s that? She asked, “put that away, I don’t need that.”

I was humbled, and didn’t know how to react. I stepped toward her, and said, “
Please, take this, it’s my present to me on your birthday.”

She cackled, revealing missing teeth, while she took the offering.

Was it really so hard, for anyone else to stop for this harmless soul? I was glad I did, and I wasted little time in congratulating myself, on being a fine humanitarian... and an American.. Upon reaching the top of the stairs I felt an urge to turn around, and view the joy I had left in my wake.

And, there she was... sitting just the same as before, agitated, waving his hand, asking of all who walked by, "'Scuse me, you got the time?... do you got the time?" As if I had never been there at all. This was a defining moment in my life.

There but by the grace of god go I. I thanked whatever god might be, for allowing me
To see this old woman’s plight. I never once complained about the life I had been dealt.

I went to the brick city soup kitchen on Market Street, about a week later. An old woman was ladling soup into small plastic cups to indigents, homeless and never’do wells. She eyed me suspiciously; After all I was just a young kid.

“I’d like to know if I could volunteer my services here?”

“Sure kid, we always need help around here, go see Josh in the back, and see what you
can do to help him.”

I walked into the back of the kitchen, large caldrons of soup boiling away, an old Jamaican man by the name of Josh, Wearing a dreadlock cap with Bob Marley on the
front and a jamaican flag on the back, looked up, “cool runnings man, you must’ve been sent by Jah," his spliff hanging loosly from his lips.

I grabbed an apron, and said “put me to work, I’m ready for anything.”

He laughed loudly, “hahahaha” gafawing at me, “That makes me feel downright
Aiery, well then…..I’m gonna rastaclaw your bumbaclaw…..”

“I only want to help?” I quizzed…not understanding him.

“Ah yes, of course, I bet you want to save the world…..young American dreamer.”

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