Spare Change #14

There are so many empty bottles around me that there’s hardly room to stand, much less walk. Bud, Coors and Michelob clink together indiscriminately when I shift my foot, like someone just made a celebratory toast at an important gathering.

Which I guess this is, in a way. Empties, loaded thoughts, one life-altering decision and me – perhaps not the most impressive guest list ever created, but an important gathering it is.

I roll the last unopened bottle of Bud between my hands back and forth, back and forth. The stained sink reeks of spilled beer, with a hint of the dark rum that was the first liquid to go down the drain. I almost take a deep whiff before stopping myself, wondering if that would be cheating.

I thought this would be the easy part, a way to ease into flushing the two plastic baggies of weed in the back pocket of my jeans. If this is like pulling teeth with rusty pliers, I don’t want to think about how the dope is going to go.

“This is all your fault TJ,” I tell the empty room; it’s coming up to noon so Phakov is long gone. Have I really been at this for five hours? What is that, like four bottles an hour? This is pathetic, I’m stronger than this, I don’t need this poison.

I rip off the twist cap and the familiar sound sets my mouth watering. One last sip, a final toast, then down the pipes with it.

No, I’m done with this crutch. This break will be clean, I won’t do it halfway. I tip the bottle sideways and as the first drop splashes down my hand begins to shake. How embarrassing, I’m glad there’s no one around to see.

By the time the bottle is empty I’m shaking so bad I can barely hold on to it so I throw it on the floor to join his dearly departed brothers. I grip the edge of the sink with both hands as I fight the sudden urge to vomit. Do I know how to throw a party or what?

Once the waves of nausea subside to more manageable swells I try to gather myself for the next stage. As if this wasn’t going to be enough of a challenge on its own, the toilet here stopped working in the 70’s so I’ll have to go to the gas station two blocks away to finish the job. Two blocks to freedom… so close yet so very, very far.

I push away from the drunken sink and make my way slowly through the graveyard of the life I hope to leave behind. No, that I am leaving behind. The first steps have been taken, I’m on the road and there will be no turning back. I wouldn’t survive the return trip.

Down the barely there stairs, out into the shaded courtyard, the momentum is building. I head west for the gas station at a brisk walk, swinging my arms like wrecking balls, smashing down the wall standing between me and a better tomorrow.

Half a block from the station the weed in my back pocket turns to cement and tries to drag me down to hell. My pace slows but I refuse to stop. I’m going to walk into that stall, throw the junk in, flush it down and walk out. No thinking, no delay, just a quick, clean cut and I’ll be done.

I enter the store at the front of the station and grab the washroom key from beside the cash register. The clerk thinks about saying something but decides to keep quiet. I can’t blame him, I probably look like I’m on a serious bender.

I go back outside and stride to the side of the building. My hand shakes as I try to slide the key into the slot. God damn it. After scrapping a few paint chips off the door I finally get it in. I rush to the toilet and throw the weed in, bags and all. As my right hand reaches for the lever, my left hand reaches in and grabs the dope.

“Oh come on!” I yell. It’s hard to have faith in yourself when you’re standing in a dingy gas station washroom with two bags of weed dripping with toilet water in your hand. I guess you really do learn something new every day. “Just throw it back in.”

Still as a statue I stand, although no one would be foolish enough to commemorate this scene with an actual statue. Well, never say never with art these days; maybe “Bum on the brink” would be a big hit.

“I don’t need this garbage,” I say as I stare at the past sitting in my hand and try to see the future in my head. Then I finally get it, it finally sinks in at last: “I don’t want this.”

I drop one bag into the bowl, then the other. The slap of the plastic meeting the water seems amplified, like this scene is playing out on the big screen in the movie theatre downtown. I resist the urge to look for a camera and focus instead on the cracked lever sticking out of the right side of the toilet.

I reach out and my hand is steady. I press down and my demons are sucked noisily away… for now. I know this is not the end. But it is a start.

Spare Change #13

I place the strawberry smoothie on the table in front of TJ then slide in across from her and take a sip of mine, blueberry of course. The diner is pretty quiet and the counter girl seems to be enjoying the brief break between the lunch and after work rushes.

“You’re looking well,” I tell TJ and mean it. Her short curly black hair looks recently washed and cut, she looks alert and well rested. Same dirty white t-shirt as always though.

“Thanks, you’re… not,” she says with the smallest hint of a smile.

“Well share your secret and I’ll start catching up.”

“I’ve been clean for a while,” she says while stirring her drink with a straw.

“I guess that would do it,” I admit. “How long?”

“Since the day after I last saw you,” she says matter-of-factly. I let that stir around in my head for a few seconds before replying.

“You saying you couldn’t have done that with me around?” I try to keep the anger out of my voice with limited success. This is typical TJ, always blaming me for the choices she makes.

“I’m saying, J, that it was a lot easier without constant temptation to -”

“I never forced you to do nothin’!” I say in a harsh whisper, jabbing a dirt covered finger at her. I’d yell but I like this place and want to be able to come back. “I never paid for your dope, I didn’t say I’d leave you if you went clean, I -”

“J lower your damn voice,” she says in her best high school teacher tone. “I’m not blaming you for anything, okay? I’m just too weak to get clean when you’re not. Besides, this isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about. Sit down.”

I didn’t even realize I had stood up. I glance around and slump back down, glad the diner is still mostly empty. Why do I let her work me up so easily?

“Alright, so what is?” I ask quietly.

“I heard you got yourself a proper job -”

“Oh, you need money, no wonder you -”

“If you can’t keep your mouth shut for five seconds,” she hisses at me, “I won’t waste anymore of my time here.” I glare at her for a full minute, exactly sixty seconds. Counting the seconds out, that’s how long it takes me to settle down enough to speak calmly.

“Fine, say what you’ve come here to say.”

“Thank you. Now, with a proper job comes proper money,” she says as I nearly draw blood by biting my tongue. “And with proper money comes some pretty serious temptations in our world. Do you have a plan for that money? I care about you J, God knows why, but I do. I don’t want to see you dead in a ditch because your new money got you into trouble you couldn’t handle.”

“I’ve got an idea or two,” I reply. I haven’t told her about the account with Karl and I’m in no mood to do so now. “I’m not planning on buying so much of Tommy’s dope that he’ll be able to retire, if that’s your concern. Although a hut on a warm beach somewhere might be exactly what he needs right now.”

“J this could be your chance, what you’ve been wanting for years,” TJ says, giving me an uncomfortably intense stare. “A chance to get off the streets.”

“How do you figure that?” I squirm a little in my seat but manage to maintain eye contact. This crazy cow will be the end of me.

“Just think – you keep this job for a while and maybe you find a landlord that’ll rent you a place. A steady job, a roof over your head, hot water, a bed… if you went clean you’d never see the streets again.”

“Sorry, what was that last bit again?”

“You could do it J,” she says, leaning across the table, close enough to smell her strawberry breath. “I’ll help, if you let me. We could do it together – support each other in the weak times, celebrate the successes. Be a real couple.”

I’ve heard enough. I stand up, leaving my glass half empty… or is it half full? I don’t trust myself to tell up from down right now.

“Please don’t leave J. Sit down, let’s talk this through. Let me help you.” She’s practically begging. God damn her.

“I’ll see you around TJ,” I tell her and walk away.

“What are you so bloody afraid of?” she yells after me. It’s a good question and I don’t have an answer for it. Not yet, anyway. I just need some time, some space, this is all too much.

“When I figure that out,” I call as I walk out the door, “you’ll be the first to know.”

A Dozen Days, A Dozen Ways

Homelessness action week will be October 12th to 19th this year and in the twelve days leading up to it the Stop Homelessnes site will be featuring an idea a day on how to help solve homelessness. They've put out a call for submissions, so head over there with your best idea and let them know what you've got buzzing around in your head.

They've linked to this here page of mine in their Friends section, which I thought was pretty cool. So if you get here from there, welcome and I hope you enjoy your stay.

Spare Change #12

“Does this purse go with these shoes?”

“For the last time, yes baby. Let’s go grab some burgers for lunch.”

“Burgers, you know those things go straight to my thighs!”

Ah, Saturday at the mall – it’s been too long. I’d forgotten the teenagers who don’t have a dime to spare for me but have a few hundred bucks for Nike. I’ve missed the seniors who either jab their canes at me or drop bills in my hat; thankfully I’ve seen more of the latter than the former in the last three hours.

Three hours and no sign of TJ. I’m in our usual spot, just to the left of the east mall entrance, just far enough from the bus stop to avoid confusion about my purpose here. It took a few weekends before we finally found the sweet spot where we no longer got asked if we needed change for the bus but could still work the traffic going in and out of the mall.

Waiting here may not be the most efficient way of finding TJ but at least I’m making money doing it. In that area it sure beats checking the shelters and wandering the streets. If she doesn’t show today, I’ll come back tomorrow. If she still doesn’t –

“What would you do,” a man asks, leaning in much too close. How can I describe his proximity? Imagine you have a tiny hair in your eye. Now picture yourself stepping outside yourself and turning to face your body. Imagine how close you’d lean in to find that elusive hair. That’s how close he is.

“What would you do,” he repeats, recognizing that I’ve figured out how to describe his closeness and have rejoined him in the moment, “if I gave you ten thousand dollars right now?”

What a stupid question. I’d do what any man in my position would do: go down to Cherry’s, pick out the two hottest strippers (Doll and Candy, for the record) and ask what ten grand would get me. Well, nine thousand, nine hundred and eighty-six dollars and sixty-nine cents, after the mandatory drinks.

But something in the look of this guy says he just might have that kind of green and I don’t think that’s the answer that would convince him to hand it over.

“Well,” I tell Blue Eyes (for what else can I name him but what takes up 90% of my field of vision), “I’d probably start by getting some new clothes, then I’d splurge on a motel room for the night. I’d take the longest, hottest shower in recorded history, order some pizza and then sleep until checkout.” Or until 7 am if Phakov found me; I’m pretty confident he would.

“Is that right?” he asks, only his lips moving as his eyes burrow into my skull. I can smell his breath – there’s a trace of fine wine, of a three course lunch, of a life I’ll never know. “You wouldn’t get drunk or high?”

“I don’t do that garbage, man.” Not this early in the day anyway – a man’s gotta have limits. His eyes narrow, his nose twitches as though he can smell the lie.

“You know what I think?” he casually asks as he straightens to his full height. “I think you’re just saying that in hopes of getting my money.”

“Why should I even believe you’ve got that much money at all, much less on you?” I ask, trying to swerve the conversation around that nasty pothole. He stands there, unblinking, trying to decide which of our questions should be pursued first, when a well dressed redhead appears at his side.

“Darling, are you being mean to the homeless again?” she purrs.

“Of course not dear, we were merely discussing finances,” he says with a stiff pat on her arm. She sniffs daintily and looks away, losing interest already. Having no idea what to say, I remain silent. “He doesn’t believe that I have ten thousand dollars on my person.”

“Oh stop being silly darling,” she says without looking back, “nobody carries cash these days.”

“Sad but true,” he murmurs as he reaches into his front pocket, pulls out a five and drops it into my hat. They turn together and stroll away, arm in arm, never looking back.

“Making new friends J?” a voice asks from my right. It’s been a while so it takes me a moment to recognize it. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, open them again.

“Hello TJ.”

Spare Change #11

I watch the storm clouds gathering while waiting for the traffic light to turn green. It’s another six blocks to DJ’s store and I’m quickly losing confidence that I’ll arrive dry. I wish I hadn’t stopped to check in on Tommy and then wasted even more time asking around about his whereabouts when he wasn’t there.

It’s been two days since the knife incident and it seems like nobody has seen Tommy since. I’m trying not to worry about him but that’s proving to be difficult.

The walk signal brings my attention back to the here and now. I step out onto the crosswalk and –

“Hey, watch where you’re going moron!”

“What the…” It takes a few seconds to realize that this clown on a motorcycle almost ran me over. “Watch where I’m going?”

“If you had scratched up my new ride there woulda been hell to pay!” He has flipped up his visor and all I can see are flaring nostrils and angry blue eyes. Ignoring common sense, I don’t walk away.

“Sorry to get in the way of you running a red light,” I say with a sneer. “Next time I’ll be sure to let you ride on through so a cargo truck can knock some sense into you.”

“Are you getting smart with me?” I’m not surprised he’s unable to figure it out on his own. The walk signal is flashing now so I shake my head and turn to walk away. “That’s right, chicken. Walk away.”

Throwing rational thought out the window, I spin and flip him off. We’re frozen for a breath as we both try to comprehend the situation. Then he jumps off his bike.

Rational thought makes its triumphant return and I turn and run.

I glance over my shoulder as I reach the far sidewalk to see him getting back on his motorcycle as the light turns red. I slow to a walk but keep watching to make sure he goes straight instead of left. He does and I breathe a sigh of relief. Is anything going to go right for me?

Right on cue, the first drop of rain crashes onto the top of my head.

I hunch up my shoulders and hurry to DJ’s, taking special care to look both ways five or six times per intersection. By a minor miracle I manage to arrive without further incident.

“J-man,” DJ says as I enter, dripping rainwater on his clean floor. “There’s a washroom in the back, go dry up and we’ll get started.”

I nod gratefully and make my way past the coffee bean bag blocking the back hall and into the cramped washroom. I do what I can to sop up my dripping clothes and only bang my elbow on the sink three times.

When I reenter the store DJ is with a couple customers so I hang back to browse his “DJ Mike Picks of the Week” display. I’ve listened to all of them before which is both reassuring and a let down. Good to know I’m keeping up with the good stuff, disappointing I don’t get to discover something new.

DJ rings up their purchases and sends them on their way with a smile and a promise that they’ll be back. I arrive at the counter to begin my training as the door closes behind them.

“Alright J, first things first,” DJ says. “I am not the post office, I’m not hotmail and I sure as hell ain’t Facebook. So don’t plan on turning me into your message center.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This is the first and, more importantly, the last time I pass on a message to you, okay?”

Who would leave me a message…? Karl and Tommy are the only people who I’ve told about this gig. Karl would never do it and Tommy was so out of his head that I can’t imagine he remembered anything we talked about after he came back down.

“Got it man. What’s the message?”

“A woman came by yesterday, said she needs to talk to you,” he says. I swallow hard. “Said her name was TJ.”

Interlude

Alright, apparently I'm missing two weeks. But hey, I haven't missed a day yet on my Daily Writing Practice.

So... yeah. July 25th will be the return of Spare Change.

Spare Change #10

“So what’s new with you?” Tommy asks as he admires his own smoke rings.

“Well, I’ve got a job,” I say, still not really believing it even though it’s been two days since I told DJ I’d cover for him. “I start in a couple weeks.”

“Nice man, who you selling for? Doug will rip you off; I hope it’s not Doug.”

“No, I’m –“

“And Petey’s crack is terrible; please tell me you’re not selling his junk.”

“Listen,” I begin but Tommy isn’t paying any attention to me. He’s just blowing rings and patting that damned rabbit of his – bastard still won’t tell me where he got it, probably stole it from some poor kid.

“You gotta watch who you work for on these streets man, competition is getting scary,” he says before taking a long, deep drag on his joint.

“I know Tommy, that’s why I’m not selling drugs,” I tell him and he finally looks at me. Alright, now that he’s listening –

“You think hookers are any safer? Man, if the pimp don’t get you one of those crazy who-“

“Tommy! Just shut up for a minute, okay?” He looks a little hurt but at least he keeps his mouth closed. “I’m not doing any of that crap, alright? It’s a legit job – DJ Mike asked me to run his shop for a week so he can take a vacation.”

“Tiny wants you to run his shop?” Tommy says in disbelief. “I thought that man was clean.”

“He’s not high, at least I don’t think he is.”

“Might explain a few things if he was,” Tommy says as he feeds the rabbit a scrap of bread.

“I didn’t know rabbits ate bread.”

“Oh, they’ll eat all sorts of things,” he says from far, far away; I’m gonna have to cut him off soon. “Isn’t that right Hopper?”

“Oh good, you finally got around to naming him.”

“Her.”

“Right, her… every other bum in this city has a dog or cat for a pet, but not you – always gotta be different, huh Tommy?”

“Hopper ain’t no pet,” he mumbles. “You see a leash?”

I concede the point as Hopper nuzzles my hand, searching for food. I’ve got nothing on me so I give her head a pat and she goes back to Tommy. However he got her, pet or friend, they’re definitely together now.

“Anyway, DJ wants me to come by a few times this week to show me what he wants done while he’s gone,” I say as I try to get back on topic. “I wasn’t sure at first but I’m starting to look forward to it.”

“Whatever floats your boat man,” Tommy says, flicking away the remains of his joint and reaching into his jacket pocket for another. “You get to wear a cute hat and uniform too?”

“It ain’t McDonald’s man,” I say, finally starting to realize this isn’t the person I should be talking to about this. I reach out my hand to stop him from lighting up again. “I think you’ve had enough of that for today.”

“Don’t you tell me when to stop!” He’s leaning over me in an instant, breathing hard through his mouth like a rabid dog. I’m so shocked by his change in demeanor that at first I don’t see the knife clutched in his right fist.

“Where the hell did you get that?”

“You shouldn’t be worrying about where I got it,” he spits, waving the blade in front of my nose. “But where it is right now.”

“What are you smokin’ man, to pull a knife on me?” What the hell is this? Did someone lace his joint or was it something he was doing before I got here? The only thing I’m sure of is that this is not the Tommy I know.

“Get out of my alley before I throw you out… piece… by piece,” he says matter-of-factly, tapping the blade first against my right cheek, then my left.

“Tommy, what is going on man?” I ask, doing my damndest not to panic.

“Get out you thief!” he screams at me from inches away. I scramble to my feet and back away down the alley. My eyes never leave his face; his eyes never leave my throat. “And don’t come back!”

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I call down the alley as I reach the sidewalk. “Hopefully you’ll have all the crazy out by then.”

He screams incoherently and throws an empty soup can in my direction. I duck around the corner and head for home. I need to get back to relative safety… I doubt I’ll be able to sleep tonight. Maybe I’ll get to see Phakov coming in the morning.

Oh man… what just happened?