I wake up with the shakes, my throat dry as sandpaper, my tongue pasty tasting. Kicking out of my sleeping bag all kinds of jittery, I reach for my plastic jug with one hand, uncap it and tip it over my other hand. Water spills down my chest. My blue pants feel like weights on my legs.<\/p>\n
A few suits on Clay Street walk past my alley. Well, not mine. The police remind me of that at least once a week when they tell me to move. Last month, they said I could stay but I couldn\u2019t keep my tent. They put on plastic gloves, broke it down and threw it in the back of a pick up. I got to keep my blanket and sleeping bag. That\u2019s enough, I guess. I put the blanket inside the sleeping bag and some cardboard beneath the bag so I don\u2019t get chilled from the pavement. It gives me a little cushion but not much. I\u2019m pretty stiff when I wake up.<\/p>\n
I roll my neck, hear the muscles make cracking sounds. Squeezing my arms against my sides I feel a chill run through me. The suits don\u2019t spare me a glance. I hear cell phones go off, voices raised but not clear enough for me to understand what they\u2019re saying. I make out only a few words. Some of the suits pause to look up as if they worry it might rain but only a thinning layer of fog lingers above all of us. We share the weather. We have that much in common. I watch pigeons flutter to get out of the way of guys from other camps pushing shopping carts loaded with blankets maneuvering around the suits. They, too, don\u2019t look my way. I know some of them but I won\u2019t share my site with them. They\u2019ll want what I have. I don\u2019t know what they\u2019ll take when I nod out.<\/p>\n
Twisting the cap back on my jug, I stash it, my sleeping bag, blanket and a baggy with a spoon and a can opener beneath a dumpster across from the back door of an Italian restaurant. One of the cooks comes out with an aluminum wrapped sandwich and offers it to me. His schedule changes every week. I never know when he\u2019ll be on but when he is he always gives me food. I unwrap the aluminum. A meatball sandwich. Probably left over from yesterday. A little hard on the stomach this early in the morning especially the way I\u2019m feeling.. I can\u2019t imagine eating it. The thought turns my stomach. I need a bottle. I wrap it back up.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I feel bloated, woozy, and still thirsty. My heart races. My body telling me it needs wine but I have no money. I sit down, put my head between my knees. The shakes jolt through me and I grip my knees. Maybe I drank more than two bottles. I don\u2019t think so. I close my eyes. A wind blows. I feel the dampness of my shirt against my skin.<\/p>\n
Footsteps. The sound of someone walking toward me. I don\u2019t look up. They stop. I feel them near me. I feel them looking down at me. I wait but they don\u2019t speak. Maybe they think I\u2019m passed out. I wait to be nudged, told to move. If it\u2019s the cops, they might put me in a paddy wagon this time, take me to the Bryant Street station or drop me off at Fresh Start. I\u2019d get in a detox program there. At Bryant, I\u2019d probably be held for the day in the drunk tank.<\/p>\n
I wait. Nothing. Finally, I raise my head and open my eyes to a woman staring down into my face. She has on sunglasses and I can\u2019t see her eyes. A yellow sweater hangs off her shoulders, inflates from a breeze that stirs trash and plastic bags ensnared on a wire fence behind the dumpster. She wears dark slacks with sharp creases and heels. We both cover our faces until the wind stops and the dust settles. Maybe this woman\u2019s an outreach worker for some agency and is handing out food and bottles of water. She\u2019s dressed pretty nice for that.<\/p>\n
\u201cExcuse me,\u201d she says. \u201cI\u2019ve just been going around to people I see, you know, people like you, and I saw you here, and I wanted to ask if, well, have you, I mean, have you seen this man.\u201d<\/p>\n
She removes a paper from her purse and gives it to me. I look at her pale fingers, nails polished red and reach for it,\u00a0 embarrassed by my quivering hands. I hold it against my knees and read: Missing. Brian Shelley. Five feet, ten inches tall. Twenty-eight years old. Last seen on Haight and Masonic. A photo of a young man stares out at me from below the words. He has blond hair and a lean face. The veins in his neck show. A thin smile, dull brown eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you recognize him?\u201d she asks me.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I say. The first word of the day. It croaks out of my mouth. I clear my throat, want to spit but not in front of her. Swallow instead, a slimy wafer, and I cough and end up spitting it out anyway. She doesn\u2019t react, doesn\u2019t move. Taking off her glasses, the woman pinches the top of her nose like she has a headache. I don\u2019t tell her but I think she looks like this Brian Shelley dude a little bit.<\/p>\n
\u201cSorry,\u201d I say. \u201cIs he on the street?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow does this happen?\u201d she asks.<\/p>\n
A group of pigeons rise, wings flapping noisily, and they soar above us, blinkering the pale sunlight. The restaurant door opens. A woman in a red-stained apron leans out and heaves a trash bag. It arches in the air and falls with a clatter of breaking glass into the dumpster. She notices me and then the woman and hesitates before she turns and shuts the door.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know. It just does,\u201d I tell her.<\/p>\n
I look at the paper again as if somehow a second look will help me recognize this guy. I don\u2019t. I wish feel so on-the-spot. I didn\u2019t have the shakes. I wish I had some wine. I can\u2019t move. Shaking too bad.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you all right,\u201d she asks me.<\/p>\n
I nod. I must look like I\u2019m vibrating to pieces. Feels like it.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know him,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ve been handing out his picture to people, you know, to people in, well, your situation. What I imagine is your situation. Like you, they haven\u2019t seen him.\u201d<\/p>\n
Still staring at the paper, I think of how sometimes, at Fresh Start, I ask one of the social workers if I can use a computer to look up a job. I don\u2019t think anyone believes me but they set me up. I get on and go to Facebook and find people I knew long ago, like in high school, but none of their pictures match my memory of them. Of course they\u2019re older, I get that, but still. I\u2019ve even looked up my mother, Susan Johns. Not my mother, her name. She died from a stroke because of high blood pressure probably from drinking so I can\u2019t look her up for real. Instead, I check out other women with the same name. There\u2019re a lot of Susan Johns. None of them look like her and many are younger than she would be now if she was alive but it\u2019s like she\u2019s not gone when I see her name, and I read what a particular Susan Johns posted as if she was my mother.\u00a0 It\u2019s something to do when I get to feeling a certain way but their posts don\u2019t make any sense. They talk about people I don\u2019t know. One Susan Johns said she was going to the Grand Canyon next month. My mother would have had no interest in the Grand Canyon. Deserts weren\u2019t her thing.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou can call me if you see him,\u201d the woman says.<\/p>\n
She points to the bottom of the page at a phone number.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou probably don\u2019t have a phone, do you? Maybe you know somebody who does?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFresh Start lets me use their phones,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
Sometimes, I find a magazine with a subscription insert. I call the 800 number on it and when someone answers, I pretend I\u2019m interested in subscribing.\u00a0 I\u2019ll go, How much a month does it cost? How often will I get the magazine? How long is the subscription? I try to loosen them up and get them talking. Where\u2019s your office? I\u2019ll say. What\u2019s the weather like where you are? Are you having a busy day? Sometimes they sound like they\u2019re from another country. I spoke to one guy who was in India. I asked him what it was like there and he got to talking all about Mumbai. You should visit, he said. Oh, I will, I said. I plan too. On my next vacation. After a while, he got back to business and asked me for my credit card number. I apologized, told him I didn\u2019t have it with me but that I\u2019d call him right back. You won\u2019t get me, you\u2019ll get somebody else. That\u2019s OK, I said. I didn\u2019t call back. He didn\u2019t expect me to, I think. Maybe he knew. I don\u2019t know. I just wanted to talk.<\/p>\n
I look at this Brian guy\u2019s photo again. If he\u2019s a drinker I might run into him. Drugs, no. I don\u2019t hang with tweekers. I know one guy, he\u2019s a drinker now, but back in the day he used heroin. He got on methadone to kick it. He tells me he doesn\u2019t understand why younger people use meth. Crazy shit, he said. Back in his day, it was just smack. We\u2019re old, Walter, he tells me. A different generation, you and me.<\/p>\n
\u201cI checked with the police, but he\u2019s not there,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n
Squinting, she looks past me her eyes tearing. I look away. She takes Kleenex from her purse and dabs her nose. Then she points at his name on the paper as if I haven\u2019t noticed it.<\/p>\n
\u201cHis name is Brian Shelly. This isn\u2019t anything any of us ever expected.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHave you tried the homeless shelters?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
Traffic picks up on Clay. Buses stop two deep, letting people off. Cars beep and more and more people hurry along the sidewalk. Long shadows creep up the sides of buildings. I should get up, I think. Go to the detox at Fresh Start. These shakes. Fuck that. I need a bottle.<\/p>\n
\u201cThank you,\u201d she says again.<\/p>\n
She offers me five dollars. I look at it. There\u2019s my morning wine. The bill flutters between us. I feel better, my heart not hammering my chest so hard. I\u2019ve been delivered.<\/p>\n
\u201cCall that number if you see him, even if you\u2019re not sure it\u2019s him,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n
\u201cI will,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u201cTake care.\u201d<\/p>\n
I take the five. She turns around and walks toward Clay. Pausing, she looks back at me.<\/p>\n
\u201cCall.\u201d<\/p>\n
I watch her leave, hear the sharp sound of her shoes against the pavement. At the end of the alley, she turns right and disappears. I rest my head between my knees and close my eyes. In a minute, I\u2019ll walk around to the drop-in center at Fresh Start and ask guys, You seen this dude? Do you recognize him? I\u2019ll call her and say, I\u2019ve not found him but I\u2019m working on it. Or, I got a lead, someone who looks just like him. Maybe we\u2019ll meet somewhere and go over what I\u2019ve pieced together. Maybe. Maybe not. Not. I\u2019ll get a bottle is what I\u2019ll do. Need to do.<\/p>\n
Wrapping my arms around my knees a little harder, I rock back and forth, back and forth, trying to summon the control to stop shaking long enough to stand and make it to a liquor store. The flier drifts from my fingers and falls by my feet, gets picked up by a breeze. I shiver, watch it dance in the air, bobbing and weaving like nothing else matters, Brian\u2019s face hovering above me until it gets plastered to the fence with other garbage.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Footsteps. The sound of someone walking toward me. I don\u2019t look up. They stop. I feel them near me. I feel them looking down at me. I wait but they don\u2019t speak. I wait to be nudged, told to move.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":18274,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[502],"class_list":["post-17941","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-homelessness","writer-j-malcolm-garcia-2"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17941","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=17941"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17941\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":18275,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17941\/revisions\/18275"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/18274"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=17941"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=17941"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=17941"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}