Instead of one unified entry this time, I'm doing several little mini-episodes, so to speak.
**Last night I was waiting outside the wine store for my girlfiend, who took my car to the mall across the street, to pick me up, I noticed a guy and a girl who looked more or less my age sitting on a bench outside. They were bundled up and were blowing on their hands; they looked cold (did I mention most of this town was pure ice yesterday?) The guy came up to me and asked if I had any change, just a penny or a nickel, because they were hungry. People my age. I dont know if they were homeless or not, but they sure looked like it. I pulled out my wallet and gave him two dollars, and he thanked me and returned to the bench. I thought about that and then walked over to the bench and handed him a five and told them to get something to eat. I doubt they were faking being poor just for coins. People like that aren't supposed to be homesless, damn it. Not even in Baltimore.
**Speaking of the city, I started writing a short story for a contest that has a lot to do with walking through downtown. I've been through a lot of Baltimore, but, with the exception of a two-minute escapade that was the result of a wrong turn, I've never been to the west side... the really bad side (parts of East Baltimore are bad, to be sure, but the west side, on the whole, is probably worse). So today I nervously drove down Fayette Street to see where it would take me. I got to the corner of Fayette and Monroe (if anyone's read David Simon's The Corner or seen the HBO miniseries, that was the corner that the title refers to. I was struck by how still it seemed; it was like the city was holding its breath, waiting for something bad to happen. Hardly anyone was there. There was really only one guy I saw, standing on the corner and shouting to someone I couldn't see off in the distance. I couldn't tell if he was calling out a drug order or not, but I don't think so. Eventually I pulled around onto Baltimore Street to head back downtown, and that gave me pause as well, because, in the midst of all the decay and neglect around me, the heart of downtown was perfectly framed by the rowhouses stretching down Baltimore Street. It was like a taunting reminder for the people who have to live in the west side of something they'll never have. I had read about all this before, and seen it on TV, and I've driven through East Baltimore a lot, but this was really the first time I ventured out to the west side. I can't explain why, but I want to go back again, to see if it feels any different now that I've been there once. I'm sure as hell not getting out of my car, though.
**I'll close with some humor after this particularly dour entry: Yesterday at work, a customer showed me new levels of dumb. A girl came in and took one of the many copies of Bruce Springsteen's new CD from it display and looked at it, then said, "Is this out yet?" Remember how I said she picked it up and was holding it? Yeah, she did that. But wait, there's more: after staring at it for a few seconds, she said, "No, I guess it's not," then put it back. I didn't have the heart to correct her; hell, I was too dumbfounded to laugh. I've worked in retail for close to nine years now, and every time I think I've hit rock bottom of customer stupidity, someone like that girl comes in and tosses me a shovel.
And just for shits and grins, here's the introduction to that story I mentioned earlier. This is about the first page and a half or so; I'm trying to reel the story in under 2,000 words, the maximum length allowed by the contest. That rounds out to a little more than six pages; I normally write short stories in the area of 18-25 pages, but I managed to write one in two days earlier this week, so maybe I can do this. Anyway, here's the story's beginning:
Pratt Street penthouse, day gray and hot without warmth, but the guy in the corner shivers and looks for the mark where the chills keep biting him. Cold in here, no doubt, but not like that. He reaches for the bottle again, but stubby fingers cant clinch it tips over, tumbling red and white pills over the edge of the counter like a waterfall on Mars. This corners dark, but not enough for me; guyll see me when he turns his head. I dont mind; thats why Im here.
Im in the suite, and Im crunching empty vials at the corner of Fairmount and Addison, and passing through the wince-inducing light in the hallways of Bon Secours, offering an eye and a hand, surfing the cresting waves of hope and despair from all the people hurting themselves to be healed. Their cries are many and they are one, both spoken and unspoken; I answer in my way, touch a woman alone on a stone step and close the fissures in her arms and neck, wave my hand over the heads of the sick and sleeping in their beds, and step out so the man on the floor with his white shirt un-tucked and his red tie dangling in a puddle of spilt booze can no longer ignore me. Bedridden patients cant smile or gasp, but I feel their thoughts and know they see me in their dreams. Woman on the street looks up at me, eyes going from narrow to wide in two seconds; I manage a half-smile and wipe the sweat from her forehead, the motion letting her know she still has a chance. Probably wont make it, and go right back to the needles, but maybe not.
Guy on the floor sniffles and looks up at me, a single tear desperately clinging to the back of his left eye. He doesnt shout, doesnt crawl, doesnt question. A blink, and he recognizes me even though weve never met before. I know you. Its not a question. I cant do it, he says. I just dont know anymore. Maybe never did.
I dont reply, kneel down instead to match his gaze with my own. His cheeks are puffy, nice leather belt no match for his bulging midsection. The chemicals inside him swim though his blood on the backs of the calories and false promises the bottles label never mentioned, several factions breaking off for a frontal assault on his brain. I keep my hands at my sides.
Help, he says. He doesnt say please, doesnt have to; help is enough. I smile sadly, twirl the outline of a halo over his head with my finger, dont bother to look inside again because I know the alien flow in the body is already slowing. That immediate mercy can be forgiven. I direct the pills up from the floor and back in the bottle like a conductor without a staff. Then the bottles in my pocket, heavier than it really is, and I tell him simply, I dont need to. He cringes, doesnt understand, but he will. I would see him later, healthy and free, if I didnt know today was my last day. As that stands, well only meet again once, the reunion everyone gets.
**Last night I was waiting outside the wine store for my girlfiend, who took my car to the mall across the street, to pick me up, I noticed a guy and a girl who looked more or less my age sitting on a bench outside. They were bundled up and were blowing on their hands; they looked cold (did I mention most of this town was pure ice yesterday?) The guy came up to me and asked if I had any change, just a penny or a nickel, because they were hungry. People my age. I dont know if they were homeless or not, but they sure looked like it. I pulled out my wallet and gave him two dollars, and he thanked me and returned to the bench. I thought about that and then walked over to the bench and handed him a five and told them to get something to eat. I doubt they were faking being poor just for coins. People like that aren't supposed to be homesless, damn it. Not even in Baltimore.
**Speaking of the city, I started writing a short story for a contest that has a lot to do with walking through downtown. I've been through a lot of Baltimore, but, with the exception of a two-minute escapade that was the result of a wrong turn, I've never been to the west side... the really bad side (parts of East Baltimore are bad, to be sure, but the west side, on the whole, is probably worse). So today I nervously drove down Fayette Street to see where it would take me. I got to the corner of Fayette and Monroe (if anyone's read David Simon's The Corner or seen the HBO miniseries, that was the corner that the title refers to. I was struck by how still it seemed; it was like the city was holding its breath, waiting for something bad to happen. Hardly anyone was there. There was really only one guy I saw, standing on the corner and shouting to someone I couldn't see off in the distance. I couldn't tell if he was calling out a drug order or not, but I don't think so. Eventually I pulled around onto Baltimore Street to head back downtown, and that gave me pause as well, because, in the midst of all the decay and neglect around me, the heart of downtown was perfectly framed by the rowhouses stretching down Baltimore Street. It was like a taunting reminder for the people who have to live in the west side of something they'll never have. I had read about all this before, and seen it on TV, and I've driven through East Baltimore a lot, but this was really the first time I ventured out to the west side. I can't explain why, but I want to go back again, to see if it feels any different now that I've been there once. I'm sure as hell not getting out of my car, though.
**I'll close with some humor after this particularly dour entry: Yesterday at work, a customer showed me new levels of dumb. A girl came in and took one of the many copies of Bruce Springsteen's new CD from it display and looked at it, then said, "Is this out yet?" Remember how I said she picked it up and was holding it? Yeah, she did that. But wait, there's more: after staring at it for a few seconds, she said, "No, I guess it's not," then put it back. I didn't have the heart to correct her; hell, I was too dumbfounded to laugh. I've worked in retail for close to nine years now, and every time I think I've hit rock bottom of customer stupidity, someone like that girl comes in and tosses me a shovel.
And just for shits and grins, here's the introduction to that story I mentioned earlier. This is about the first page and a half or so; I'm trying to reel the story in under 2,000 words, the maximum length allowed by the contest. That rounds out to a little more than six pages; I normally write short stories in the area of 18-25 pages, but I managed to write one in two days earlier this week, so maybe I can do this. Anyway, here's the story's beginning:
Pratt Street penthouse, day gray and hot without warmth, but the guy in the corner shivers and looks for the mark where the chills keep biting him. Cold in here, no doubt, but not like that. He reaches for the bottle again, but stubby fingers cant clinch it tips over, tumbling red and white pills over the edge of the counter like a waterfall on Mars. This corners dark, but not enough for me; guyll see me when he turns his head. I dont mind; thats why Im here.
Im in the suite, and Im crunching empty vials at the corner of Fairmount and Addison, and passing through the wince-inducing light in the hallways of Bon Secours, offering an eye and a hand, surfing the cresting waves of hope and despair from all the people hurting themselves to be healed. Their cries are many and they are one, both spoken and unspoken; I answer in my way, touch a woman alone on a stone step and close the fissures in her arms and neck, wave my hand over the heads of the sick and sleeping in their beds, and step out so the man on the floor with his white shirt un-tucked and his red tie dangling in a puddle of spilt booze can no longer ignore me. Bedridden patients cant smile or gasp, but I feel their thoughts and know they see me in their dreams. Woman on the street looks up at me, eyes going from narrow to wide in two seconds; I manage a half-smile and wipe the sweat from her forehead, the motion letting her know she still has a chance. Probably wont make it, and go right back to the needles, but maybe not.
Guy on the floor sniffles and looks up at me, a single tear desperately clinging to the back of his left eye. He doesnt shout, doesnt crawl, doesnt question. A blink, and he recognizes me even though weve never met before. I know you. Its not a question. I cant do it, he says. I just dont know anymore. Maybe never did.
I dont reply, kneel down instead to match his gaze with my own. His cheeks are puffy, nice leather belt no match for his bulging midsection. The chemicals inside him swim though his blood on the backs of the calories and false promises the bottles label never mentioned, several factions breaking off for a frontal assault on his brain. I keep my hands at my sides.
Help, he says. He doesnt say please, doesnt have to; help is enough. I smile sadly, twirl the outline of a halo over his head with my finger, dont bother to look inside again because I know the alien flow in the body is already slowing. That immediate mercy can be forgiven. I direct the pills up from the floor and back in the bottle like a conductor without a staff. Then the bottles in my pocket, heavier than it really is, and I tell him simply, I dont need to. He cringes, doesnt understand, but he will. I would see him later, healthy and free, if I didnt know today was my last day. As that stands, well only meet again once, the reunion everyone gets.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
You've mentioned that your financial situation hasn't been all that great. The money that you gave those two young people was likely hard to part with for practical reasons. Your empathy and common decency have been obvious to me for quite a while. I can relate to what you did. Your reward, while intangible, is priceless.