When My Heart Joins the Thousand(67)
He’s guiding me across the ice. He steadies me when I slip and holds me close as snow drifts down around us.
We’re in his bed, our bodies pressed together, so warm and close that we could melt into each other like two puddles of candle wax.
We’re lying side by side in the grass, holding hands as cold rain pounds down on us and lightning flashes, and through the roaring frenzy of the storm I hear the most unexpected sound—his laughter, high and young and beautiful.
Slowly I straighten. I stare at the screen of my phone, and I send a text: Good-bye. I delete his name from my contact list, leaving my phone totally empty. Then I toss it into the Dumpster behind my apartment.
And just like that, he is out of my world. There’s no number he can call, no address where he can find me. I’m on my own.
I drive across town and park in a deserted lot where I won’t be bothered. I curl up in the backseat, head pillowed on my duffel bag, and sink into a foggy half sleep. I have a strange, chaotic dream about a Buddhist fable I once read.
There’s a monkey, an otter, a jackal, and a rabbit. They all decide to do an act of charity, believing that great virtue will bring a great reward. So they find an old beggar man sitting next to a fire. He’s starving. The monkey gathers fruits, and the otter gathers fish, and the jackal steals a pot of milk, but the rabbit can only gather grass.
They all bring their offerings to the old man and lay them next to the fire. But the old man can’t eat the grass, of course, and the rabbit feels a great sense of shame and worthlessness for the inadequacy of his gift. So he throws himself onto the fire, offering his flesh.
In the fable, the old man turns out to be a saint with mystical powers who brings the rabbit back to life and offers him a great reward for his selflessness. But in the dream, this doesn’t happen. The rabbit just burns and burns.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Christmas lights glimmer around the windows of stores as I walk past. Wet, dirty slush piles up along the edges of the street. More slush sprays out from the wheels of cars zooming past. A cold breeze stirs the limp ribbons of wreaths hung from streetlights and store windows.
I walk into a hot dog restaurant and push a few crumpled singles across the counter. “One chili cheese dog with everything.”
The cashier hands me a sopping, paper-wrapped hot dog, along with a quarter and a penny, which is now—literally—my last bit of money.
I sit in one of the hard plastic booths, soaking up the heat and brightness of the restaurant, and bite into the chili dog. It tastes incredible. When you’re homeless, it’s amazing how you learn to appreciate the simple pleasures: warmth, a full meal, a clean bathroom.
I’ve been living and sleeping in my car for over a week, now. I’ve worn the same shirt for three days in a row, and my hair is matted and filthy. I look like any other street person—which is exactly what I am. In a way, it’s a relief.
Oh, it’s horrible, of course. I wake up every morning with the knife of hunger in my belly and I go to sleep cold and still hungry. I’m always itchy because I hardly ever have a chance to wash. And I am aware that, statistically, I’m now at a much greater risk for being raped or murdered. Yet beneath the skin-crawling misery of it all, I feel more relaxed and free than I have in a long, long time. This is it—the bottom. There’s nowhere left to fall. I can finally stop trying so damn hard. And if I start muttering to myself or rocking back and forth, no one notices or cares, because street people are expected to be crazy.
I eat the chili dog messily, not bothering to wipe up the meaty juice that dribbles down my chin and onto my shirt. After I finish, I lick my fingers clean and wipe them on the paper place mat. The other customers are frowning at me. A woman shakes her head and mutters something to the man next to her. At another time, their stares might have bothered me, but I find that I no longer care. Distantly I wonder what Stanley would think if he saw me now. I push the thought away.
After a while, a manager walks up to me and quietly asks me to leave. I walk out without saying anything to him.
There’s an old man sitting by the sidewalk, jingling a Styrofoam cup full of change and dollar bills. A pair of sunglasses perch on his long nose, and there’s a small, scruffy brown dog curled up next to him. The man is singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” in a deep, resonant voice.
The dog yawns, showing a tiny pink tongue, and licks a small wound on his paw.
I listen for a few minutes, then toss my last twenty-six cents into the cup. The man stops singing and arches an eyebrow. “That really all you can spare?”
I glance at the dog, who looks like some sort of terrier mix. He wags his stubby tail, wriggles, and licks his wound again. “His paw is injured. You should buy some ointment for it.”
The man chuckles. “Pretty bossy for someone who only gave me two coins.”
There’s nothing I can do. So I walk on.
The man’s voice rises behind me, rich and sonorous, in a rendition of “O Come, All Ye Faithful.”
My head itches, and I scratch it, wondering if I have lice. Does that even happen to people in the winter?
My car is parked in the lot outside a Dunkin’ Donuts. I’ve been driving from place to place so I won’t get ticketed or arrested for loitering. Every once in a while I’ll fill out another job application, but I don’t know why I bother. I don’t have a phone, so there’s no way anyone could contact me, even if they wanted to. I’ve taken to being completely honest; I take a perverse pleasure in writing answers that I know will get my application chucked in the trash. When they ask me why I want the job, I write, Homeless. Need food. When they ask me why I left my last position of employment, I write, Boss tried to kill my friend. When they ask me my greatest flaw, I write, I destroy everything I care about.