They’re like the harshness of the clouds above and the merciless gust of the wind from every direction. I can pretend they don’t exist, but they still make me lose the feeling of my limbs. They give me blisters and pain.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks again, and for some reason, it feels like he wants me to tell him I’m not.
But why? And to what end?
I’m just one of thousands of homeless people in this city. A man like him, who’s surrounded by an impenetrable air of confidence, hinting that he’s in some prominent position, shouldn’t have even looked in my direction.
But he did.
And now, he’s asking if I’m okay. Being used to invisibility makes me feel fidgety when I’m suddenly visible.
Ever since this Russian stranger gripped me by the arm, there’s been an itch under my skin, urging me to jump back to the shadows.
Now.
“Yeah,” I blurt. “Thank you.”
I’m about to turn and leave when the authority in his voice stops me. “Wait.”
My big shoes make a squeaky sound on the concrete when I follow his command. I normally wouldn’t. I’m not good at listening to orders, which is why I’m in this state.
But something in his tone gets my attention.
He reaches into his coat and two scenarios burst through my head. The first is that he’ll pull out a gun and shoot me in the head for disrespecting him. The second is that he’ll treat me like many others and give me money.
That sense of inferiority hits again. While I usually accept change from people to buy my beer, I don’t beg for it. The idea of taking this stranger’s money makes me feel dirty, less than invisible and more like a speck of dust on his black leather shoes.
I intend to refuse his money, but he only retrieves a handkerchief and places it in my hand. “You have something on your face.”
His skin brushes against my gloves for a second, and though the contact is brief, I see it.
A wedding ring on his left finger.
I bunch the piece of cloth in my hand and nod in thanks. I don’t know why I expected him to smile or even offer a nod in return.
He doesn’t.
His eyes penetrate mine for a few seconds, then he turns around and leaves.
Just like that.
He’s erased me from his unlucky afternoon and is now going back to his wife.
Considering the extreme discomfort I felt in his presence, I figured I’d be relieved when he left.
On the contrary, it feels as if my breast bone is digging into the sensitive flesh of my heart.
What the hell?
I stare at the handkerchief he placed in my hand. It has the letters A.V. embroidered on it and appears to be handmade. Something of value.
Why would he even give me this?
Something on your face.
There’s a lot of shit on my face. A layer of dirt, actually. Since I haven’t been in a public restroom for some time. Did he really think a freaking handkerchief would be the solution?
Pissed off at him and at my reaction toward him, I toss the handkerchief in a trash can and storm in the opposite direction.
I need a hot meal and a bed tonight, and if it means meeting the devil again to have them, so be it.
4
Winter
I stop before rounding the corner toward the shelter.
Saying I’ll face the devil and actually doing so are two different things. After all, I clawed at his face, kicked him in the balls, then shoved him against his desk the last time I saw him.
He might really catch me and force me to spend a day in the police station.
A low growl escapes my stomach and I wince as it contracts against itself. I can almost feel it opening its mouth and when it finds nothing, makes this god-awful sound.
I wrap an arm around my middle as if that will magically appease the ache.
Okay, I’ll just try to sneak in some soup and leave. Many homeless people who don’t spend the night here come only for meals, so my plan shouldn’t be weird.
I pull my hood over my head and rub my hands together in a half-assed attempt to warm them as I round the corner.
Two police cars are parked in front of the shelter with their blue and red lights on. A few news vans are scattered around the shabby building. Reporters and cameramen are everywhere, like bugs searching for a juicy piece of trash to bite down on.
Don’t tell me that slimy asshole called the police and the media because of me? I only kicked him. Okay, maybe I clawed at his face and punched him, too, but that was in self-defense. He’s the one who called me into his office and was feeling me up where he wasn’t supposed to be touching.
I might have little—okay, nothing—but I can protect myself against bastards like him.
But if I tell that to the police or the media, they won’t believe me. Why would the respectable director of a homeless shelter, who’s also running for mayor, touch an insignificant, dirty person like me?
I really should search for another shelter. But will they let me in if Richard has already blacklisted me?
Was it the clawing, the punching, or the kicking that sealed the deal for him? If it was the latter, so be it. Because kicking him in the balls isn’t something I regret in the least.
A pebble hits me upside the head and I wince, turning around. A smile lifts my mouth when I make eye contact with the only person I’d call my friend in this shithole.
“Larry!” I whisper-yell.
“Come here.” He motions at me to join him in a small alleyway that’s used for tossing trash.
I briskly move to his side and wince at the smell of garbage. Not that Larry and I are the best smelling people around, considering the limited amount of time we get to shower.
Larry’s tan skin appears even darker in the shadows. He’s a middle-aged man—around mid-fifties, as he told me—and he has the wrinkles around his eyes as proof of the time he’s spent on this earth. His features are harsh, angular, and the bone in his nose protrudes due to being broken before.
He’s wearing a second-hand hot orange cashmere coat that he got from some charity. His boots and gloves are navy blue. Obviously, his sense of fashion is definitely better than mine.
We met a few weeks ago at one of the subway stations and he shared his dinner with me. I gave him half of my precious beer and we somehow became best friends. The one thing I love most about Larry’s company is that he’s not the talkative type. We both daydream in each other’s presence, not bothering to ask too many questions. We’ve found camaraderie in silence. In shutting the door on the world. He knows about my alcohol problem, though, and he told me that he’s a veteran.
Larry is the one who brought me to this shithole, saying we’d get free meals and a warm bed. We’ve stuck around for each other, so when one is sleeping, the other takes guard so no one touches us. When there are no beds available, we sit beside each other, I lay my head on his shoulder, and we sleep like that.
“I’ve been searching all over for you.” He pants. “Where have you been?”
“Around.”
“Did you steal some beer again?”
“No!”
“Winter…” he pinches the bridge of his nose as if I'm an insolent child.
“Okay. Only one. I didn’t have any change.”