The Return of Things

I get to the shelter to find Dante's bed stripped bare.

Another one bites the dust. I wouldn't go as far as to call Dante a friend, not after nights of him scowling at me, or staying up to the wee hours of the morning staring at me. But for the most part, he was someone that I could turn my back on. I could drop down my guard, I could relax around. Now...who knows what kind of thief, nut, flake they're going to put in his place.

Igor comes up to me, standing over me all conspiratorial. "It came back," he says. What, Igor? "My Ipod and headsets." I do a doubletake. You're kidding me. "No shit. It was on my bed this morning. It just appeared." Well, that's good news no? "It was Paul, it was this guy," he points to Paul the Stooge's bed. " He took it because I wouldn't lend him money for his heroin. He's a creep. Probably couldn't sell it." Probably. "Or was afraid to."

John appears, standing over my bed also," We know it was him because he was the only one in the dorm when the shit came back." John nods while speaking, almost as if he's excited. "Probably because Igor said that if he found out who took it, he'd punch him in the face." No doubt, John. Well, aren't you glad to have your shit back, Igor? "Yeah, I've already taken back the new ones that I bought for a full refund. Those are some expensive headsets."

Igor, although subdued, is happy to have his shit back. He' is subdued in a retarded way. As if only half of life is reaching his brain. "Want a peach?" He asks.

I go through the rest of the night writing my screenplay. I'm drawing in the loose ends, tying up the characters. I finish episode twenty two. One more to go. I would estimate by this time next month I should be finished. This would be a project that took years in the making, and I should be done with it in just a few weeks.

I crawl into bed but can't sleep. I'm having problems again. I stay up all night and I'm sleepy all day. I can't seem to keep my eyes open at Noon, but at Midnight I'm still going strong. I put my headsets on and listen to some music. The Yeah Yeah Yeahs. I drift off and back into the land of the living without a dream. Or if I did have one, it was not remembered.

This morning, on my way out to Starbucks I run into Ralphy in the corridor. "Take and umbrella with you. It's pouring outside." That's cool. I have a small umbrella in my bag. I stroll outside and indeed it's coming down. I set out against the downpour. The wind is stiff and angry, carrying the rain like sand in a sandstorm. Halfway to Starbucks my poor umbrella inverts, tearing the ends of the umbrella from the tines. Then it snaps back and crumples in half from the wind. I shove it into a nearby garbage can and fight the rest of the way to Starbucks in the rain, wearing a heavy sweater, that could have been a sponge for all the good it did me.

Sitting in Starbucks, drying, I notice the number of skeksies that wander in from the rain. This is their shelter just as much as it is mine. They stroll in one at a time, dirty clothing, long scraggly hair, unclean. I don't remember them from my time on the streets. They are new to the works. I feel for them. I remember when I was a bone hard streeter, and all I had going for me when the rain fell was Starbucks. Either that or the library. Anywhere actually, that I could find some shelter from the rain.

Those were the miserable years.

Now I sit in Starbucks and drink coffee, after sleeping in a comfortable bed and getting some good exercise on. I am spoiled. I write email and blog and stare at my fellow homeless people as if I'm someone or something different. As if I'm like you, with a job, money and a home.

I nod off in Starbucks repeatedly, like an addict on a heroin nod. I keep waking up to find letters running across the page. My finger fell asleep on a key.

This is heaven to me.
There is no other way that feels as good.

Hobobob