Rummaging through the malodorous urban dumpster like a ravished stray animal, the homeless man searches for a magic bullet on the other side of the putrid rubbish.
I observe the sad state of events unfold for the downtrodden urban dweller from the comfort of my own balcony just a few hundred meters away as I caffeinate, stimulate, and exercise myself in the sun cresting the Western horizon on this glorious Saturday morning. The glistening rays beat down on both him and I equally, and yet it feels unfair, as I can bask in them like a gleeful painting turtle soaking up the afternoon heat on his favorite perch, and he must toil away at his twelve labors like a condemned Hercules. What the man is searching for is a question that even life’s greatest thinkers could not answer; I fear that his search is simply a mechanism to pass the time as his dreadful existence marches on across the desert sand of reality.
The truth is that his search will be all for nothing. The dumpster he is digging through is located behind the grimiest nightclub in the greater metropolitan area. A nightclub where seediest of characters frequent. Where violent confrontations regularly occur. Where fraternities and sororities hold date parties for some unknown reason. If our dear homeless man is lucky, he may find a used condom or a Jimmy Choo high heel. Or maybe he will find a wounded beer that someone pitched in the dumpster before heading into the nightclub – a nice little pick-me-up on a lovely weekend morning. But in no way, shape, or form will our nomadic wanderer find any trinket or object of value that will rescue him from his destitute existence. He is sifting through his own personal hell; wading through the exact system that damned him to the streets; combing through the nasty, pungent smells of capitalism and consumerism and hedonism and any other “ism” that the average grad student might mention in his half-baked senior thesis.
But let’s explore the hypothetical for a few paragraphs. Let’s venture out from the cozy confides of my moated balcony and head downstairs and outside to the very streets that this homeless man is roaming. I place my half-smoked nicotine stick on the brim of my lightly-creamed drip coffee, which has come to a lukewarm temperature in it’s chalk-white mug, and head out for a brisk walk around the block. As I stroll past the homeless man, I imagine the events unfolding in an alternate universe, where instead of finding pyrite while panning for fortune, he instead finds those twinkling yellow flakes in the crevices of the dirt; yes, our homeless man has struck gold in the form of a long-lost, yet to be cashed, crumbled but still legible winning Powerball ticket. How the homeless man is able to immediately recognize that the numbers on his ticket match the numbers of the most recent drawing is a moot point; for all of you weirdo realists reading this, I will place a billboard in the backdrop of the dumpster in this hypothetical scenario, which clearly and proudly announces those winning numbers. The homeless man looks first at his ticket, and then up at the billboard, and then back down at his ticket, and then once more at the billboard, and a final time at his ticket, and once again at the billboard to confirm his is in fact not dreaming, and that his greatest wish has come true. His face has been permanently frozen into an eternal frown, and this discovery breaks the ice covering his cheeks and allows him to smile for the first time in years. His eyes well with tears of joy. The aura of boundless energy is radiating off him like a warm bonfire in a cool summer night. It is 7:30 AM on a Saturday morning, and no one is around to witness or celebrate or marvel in his rags to riches story with him except for me, casually observing from the sidewalk just a few hundred feet down the road, as I had been a few moments earlier from my patio.
What happens next is inexplicable, horrific, and heart-rending. At the peak of his glory, the homeless man drops dead like a fruit fly who has outlived its expiring genetic timer. As if he had labored his way to the top of Mount Everest, only to be frozen the exact moment he reached the summit. Or he had ventured around the globe in a galley fit for sailing the high seas, aiming to circumnavigate the world, only to be killed by an infectious disease just a few miles from his original embarkment point. I hardly could believe my eyes as his ragged body slowly fell to the steaming pavement. I sprinted towards his lifeless corpse, but when I arrived a few seconds later, he was already gone, evaporated into thin air, dust blowing in the warm summer wind, carrying him away to the next life. I hardly knew the man, but my heart was broken. As I wept at the ending of his tragic story, I felt a premonition arise from the depths of my broken soul, and I knew what I had to do. The winning Powerball ticket was laying on the pavement next to where he had met his fate. I saw my reflection in the ticket, and then I saw his face, his trembling smile, staring back at me like it was the face of someone I knew in a past life. Frantically, I pulled out my uncharged phone (I hardly charge my phone at night these days. It feels like a burden greater than having to roll a boulder up a ten-thousand-foot peak) and searched for the nearest location where I could cash in his fortune. Grand plans and schemes began forming in my head. I would use the newfound resources at my disposal to contact every single friend and family member from the homeless man’s past life. And when I say every single, person, I mean it. I would pay $1000 to figure out the name of his 7th grade crush. Everyone was getting invited to a massive party and retreat at a rented out private island to celebrate the life and legacy of my beloved homeless man. I know not the first thing about extravagant festival planning, so I would hire someone to do that for me. This is starting to sound like my fifth-grade gifted math program where we were given a project in which we had to spend a million dollars and meticulously document every single penny we spent. My friend and I irritated my teacher by finding a repossessed yacht that was for sale for the skimpy price of ten dollars located off the coast of Italy. We spent the rest of the $999,990 dollars on luxury furniture, vintage arcade games, lavish getaways all around the globe, and copious amounts of food. That was just one million dollars; can you imagine the damage I could do with 500 times that amount?
Anyway, fancy celebrations and rounding up next of kin are trivial in the grand scheme of my doings. What I really am striving for is the permanent enshrinement and establishing the homeless man’s immortality. Soon, I would be working the phones like a money Twitter salesman, speed dialing every government institution in the city, demanding that the current name on whatever public building would be renamed with the full name of my beloved homeless man. All of the stadiums would also have to be renamed. Soon, the city would resemble one located in a propaganda-laden dictatorship; you wouldn’t be able to walk a block without seeing the name of my beloved homeless man etched in stone on a courthouse or bank headquarters. His story would be written, just as it is being written now. Mass published and distributed far and wide. The New York Times Best Seller list would call; I would politely tell them to go fuck themselves, as I would rather send a large sum of cash to PETA in a driverless Tesla, only to be remotely destructed in the parking lot upon arrival. Decades later, a curious student on a school field trip would catch a glimpse of the homeless man’s name on the side of a building, and do further research while he sipped a Coke at the buffet. Enamored by the tale, he would go on to chase his dreams of becoming a writer and author. The child would stumble along the way and fall into the trap of feeling as if he could either sell out and get paid at the expense of quality of work, or live like a starving artist, toiling away like the dear homeless man he looked up to, inconsistently producing works that were nothing short of brilliant. Eventually, the child would make it big and inspire ten thousand other writers. All of this is possible because our homeless man lived a life of tragedy and poverty. His legacy is beyond the scope of human comprehension. And I was but a mere vessel to see out his destiny; a shepherd sent to lead the flock of sheep to the promised land; a conductor who was handed the baton by necessity; a lighthouse pulsating a faint beam of hope in the misty world we call home.
What horrible, meaningless, gruesome thoughts I have. Perhaps I should hop in line with the rest of the folks waiting outside of the medically legal weed shop just a few steps from where the homeless man was performing his labors. Those people do not know how lucky they have it to be gifted with the ability to choose their method of coping with this brutal life we live. Completely oblivious to my dear friend down the road. They sit there waiting for the place to open its doors. They only allow one at a time; you must be swiped in by a security agent manning the front door as if it some secret government research facility. Patiently waiting for their next dose of escapism. Trekking through life in between moments of getting high.
And yet who am I to judge? Do I not have my own coping mechanisms? I ridicule the people lined up outside the weed shop, yet I use my own remedies to propel myself through the passing hours and days and weeks. Deep down, we are all hurting. We are all still reeling from that unprotected right hook we took years back. The retired construction worker is not self-medicating because he has lower back pain, but because he can no longer participate in the physical activities that used to bring him joy. The marketing manager at the regional bank is not using drugs because she is depressed, but because there is still a gaping black hole in her cursed heart, left by the man that tossed her to the curb one day in the middle of their blossoming love story.
I am not coping myself because I hate myself, but rather because I curse my ancestors from Southeastern Italy deciding one day to pack up and escape the impending fascism that was ready to sweep across the continent a little over a century ago. He made the right decision, but I still must ask myself why. One day he woke up slightly anxious left on a whim. Fled his old life in search of a more promising and lucrative one in the states. My entire existence is the result of a poor night’s rest.
No longer am I able to stroll through the park and smell the proverbial roses without feeling the unbearable guilt knowing that blood was spilled on this very soil just a few centuries ago. Every blossoming annual rising up from the fertile topsoil, every drop of water cycling through the black tinted lake, every eroding monument standing tall above the brick path surrounding it is a reminder not only of the beautiful things in life, but the ugly, nasty sinful things as well. The homeless man has officially broken my brain. I cannot help but think of all of the close calls I had myself. Making one off the cuff, confident comment to a cute woman that struck my eye at the cozy house party, and fifteen years later we are sitting in a divorce court arguing over custody of the kids, house, and boat. I so happened to catch her at the right time in the right moment after the right amount of alcohol. Divine intervention, coincidence, self-fulfilling prophecies; it does not matter what you want to call it, the fact is that it was etched into the rock face of time, and now I must swallow the consequences, just like the homeless man’s fate was when he stumbled upon the winning lottery ticket.
The world around me has grown vividly cold and heartbreaking. I have no means of comforting myself in this time of suffering. Every step I take is a step further into my own incinerator. My phone has died. The only chance for my survival is if I hurry back to my balcony and re-light the half smoked American Spirit that is still resting atop my lukewarm coffee. A brisk walk turns into an awkward trot which turns into a desperate sprint as I dodge incoming traffic and dog-walkers in my return journey. I finally reach my building and attempt to scan in. My key fob fails the first time. Those two seconds from when I hear the first beep of rejection until when I am able to try again feel like one million eternities. The second attempt is successful, and I sprint up the stairwell. I see a half finished White Claw from the night before. Tempted to drink it like a dying diabetic searching for a a small hit of insulin, I skip the unfinished beverage and continue my climb. I once again scan in, this time to enter my floor. It works on the first attempt. My frantic shuffling has turned into a borderline bear crawl through the silent hall of my building. I reach my door and fumble around with the keys until I have selected the correct one. The deadbolt turns and I simultaneously kick my door in and sprint to my balcony. The door is still open. I shuffle over to the side table only to see that the cigarette has rolled into the cup of coffee, and is currently sinking in the bitter waters, soaking up liquid and slowly descending to the bottom of the mug like the hull of the Titanic.
In the distance, the homeless man has given up on the dumpster, and is now dragging his lifeless body away, head drooped, shoulders slumped, in search of his next adventure to pass the time.
You know, when you get old in life things get taken from you. I mean that's...part of life. But, you only learn that when you start losing stuff. You find out life’s this game of inches. So is football. Because in either game, life or football, the margin for error is so small -- I mean one-half a step too late, or too early, and you don’t quite make it. One-half second too slow, too fast, you don’t quite catch it. The inches we need are everywhere around us. They’re in every break of the game, every minute, every second.
-From an Al Pacino speech in the film Any Given Sunday
The drip coffee machine quietly hummed as it expelled its poison into the empty cup of his company-branded mug. It was one of the many perks listed on the job description when he had first applied to the Accounts Receivable Analyst position three-and a half years ago. In the mean time, he had been promoted from specialist to analyst, received a 3% annual pay raise, had a baby girl, and moved into a slightly larger house a bit farther from the location of his job but in a safer and quieter location. His existential dread and angst was so overbearing that he hardly felt a thing these days. As he waited for his morning cup of caffeination, he heard familiar footsteps approaching the break room. He had become keen on recognizing the sound of each of his coworkers’ foot steps. This particular pattern of thumps and thuds make his heart sink and his blood boil. It was the sound of his boss, who despite having a beer gut and droopy eyelids, had the confidence to stroll around the office like a bull on his way to impregnate a dozen calves. The A/R Analyst hated his boss’s guts, which was nothing special, and had become a national pastime in his damned country. How he wanted to do take his piping hot cup of joe and throw it in his ugly, smug face when he walked by and uttered the same words he said every morning, “good morning bud”. Bud. What a derogatory and insulting term. He wanted to scald his eyeballs and cold cock him in the face like a heavyweight boxer and then curb-stomp him to death like that scene from American History X. These thoughts carried him through each and every day. He would do this in broad daylight, right in the middle of the break room for everyone to see, to prove to everyone that he had big meaty clackers swinging in between the seams of his pleated dress pants. He would make Tyler Durden look like a saint. The more he watched that movie, the more he wanted to kill someone in cold blood. Yes, he would take the not-so-innocent life of his asshole boss, and he would flee the scene with the cute secretary that he vividly imagined gave him hot eyes every morning when he walked past her desk. The way she said “good morning” to him signified that she was waiting for someone to rescue her from the castle tower that was her cubicle. He would murder his boss and they would run away to a rural coastal town in South America. She would open a tourist shop selling crystals and military grade laser pointers to gullible travelers. He would rent jet skis on the beach and work on his great American novel on the side. They would have a dozen children, and at least one of them would go on to become a multi-billionaire. When that happened, he would take a one way ticket to Mars and live out the rest of his days there. But for now, he would enjoy a steady diet of steak and pineapple while falling asleep in a cozy cabana next to his stolen lover.
The dream slowly faded and he snapped back to reality. As he moseyed back to his work station, his mind returned to the daily tasks he had to complete. There was a spreadsheet waiting for his correction. It had a circular reference error. Procurement had sent it to him and asked him to fix it. He sat down at his desk and opened his email. As he waited for the attachment to open, he wondered if the light fixture in the men’s bathroom would support his bodyweight. He received a text from his wife. It was a reminder that he was responsible for dinner tonight, as she had that jewelry selling pyramid scheme meeting at Sherry’s house at 7 PM.
Onwards,
Tony
Humble Wordsmith/Depressed Suburban Pulp Writer
Loving these stories Tony