Читать книгу The Promise - P D Michaels - Страница 4

It was damn cold. My entire body was shaking and I could feel my back spasm with each shudder. I tried to lift my head, but a pain shot down my spine. I laid it back down and tried to open my eyes. There was a dull light leaking through obstacles. Slowly, my focus returned, and I glanced unknowingly at my surroundings. The light was coming through an assembly of cardboard and wood surrounding me. One side looked to be a pallet that had a series of flattened cardboard boxes woven through its slats.

I had a torn green blanket over me. I tried lifting my shaking hands, but more pain shot across my back. The blanket smelled foul, like the inside of a wet sneaker. I raised my head enough to see the white stains, obviously bird waste, speckling the blanket. I choked at the thought and tried again to move. The pain was too much, so I collapsed on the hard surface that served as my bed. I was lying, slightly inclined, on cardboard sheets. I suspected there was unyielding cement beneath them.

My shaking was getting worse. I was soaked from head to toe, and the water was foul. Maybe it was I who smelled so bad. The bridge drifted back into my mind. The events leading up to it and then, Amber. Grief flooded back as the uncontrollable shaking continued. I couldn’t even fall off a bridge properly. It would be slow, but I was going to freeze to death. I could feel my fingers going numb and my lips weren’t moving right. I closed my eyes; they say succumbing to hypothermia is just like falling asleep. Amber was there, in my mind. Something was missing, and I couldn’t figure out what it was. My memory was imperfect. I knew it was her, but something was off. It didn’t look quite right and I struggled, shaking, to bring back the perfect image. I was losing her. I hated myself.

Footsteps, walking through loose gravel, echoed in my cardboard tomb. I opened my eyes and turned my head toward the sound. The steps left the gravel and became quieter as they hit a harder surface. I realized this must be the person who unsaved me.

A small section of the cardboard cocoon was pulled away to reveal a cloudy, dismal day. I could make out some large concrete supports and the brownish iron underlying a portion of the bridge. An old black man, his hair graying on both his face and head, grinned at me. His teeth could furnish a dentist with months of work.

“You’re up,” he said with eyes brighter than his weather-beaten face. “They call me Houser. I pulled you out the water.” He tossed a bundle into the tiny shanty, and it landed on my chest.

“Should have left me,” I chattered, not realizing talking would be difficult.

“This side’s mine,” Houser stated firmly, “you want to die, go to the other side.” He used his head to gesture along the bridge to the other bank. “Them’s dry clothes. They ain’t the finest,” he smiled again, “but they’s dry. Got them from the shelter, so they’s clean.” He crawled into the hovel and reclosed the opening. He didn’t smell any better than I did. I tried to sit up and a sharp pain put me back down.

“Just roll me back into the water,” I groaned. Houser laughed. It was a halting laugh that didn’t speak well of his mental state.

“You missed most of the rocks, but ya found a few.” Houser chuckled. “Bet you’re real sore about now.” That’s all I needed, some homeless guy laughing at me about my failed suicide. I took a few deep breaths and cried out as my muscles protested. I forced myself to sit up. The dirty blanket fell forward onto my lap and my upper body felt even colder. I sat shivering, trying not to move much. My lower back would have preferred I lie back down.

“Give me your shirt,” Houser demanded. I took a couple of deep breaths, trying to give my back time to get used to the new position. It wasn’t fast enough for Houser. “The shirt or you leave. You have to go somewhere else to die,” he said while holding out his dirty hand. I was in no condition to leave and I guess he had a right to demand I didn’t die in his home, as crappy as it was. I tried to unbutton my shirt with my shaking hands. The mixture of the cold and the shooting pains as I moved my arms made it very slow going. I couldn’t feel much in the tip of my fingers, which made it difficult to shove the button back through the wet hole. Houser started laughing again. “Maybe you don’t miss the rocks next time.” He barely got it out before resuming his inappropriate laughter.

“My fingers are too cold,” I stuttered between shakes.

“I’ll do it, but don’t get no ideas,” Houser stated as he, and his stink, moved forward. I tried to give him my ‘are you out of your friggin mind’ look. I don’t think I fully managed it. He deftly undid the buttons and quickly scooted back again. It was agonizing pulling the wet shirt off my shoulders. I must have really bruised my back. The air hit my wet skin sharply, and my shuddering increased. Houser quickly took the wet shirt and handed me a dry one he had liberated from the pile in my lap. It was only an old t-shirt, but it was dry. Pulling it on was another slow, agonizing process. Houser handed me a worn flannel shirt that buttoned down the front.

“Layers, I learned that my first year,” Houser spouted proudly. There was more pain putting my arms in the armholes. The shirt smelled clean. In truth, it didn’t smell at all, and that was clean from where I was sitting. I was able to get the shirt buttoned myself, much to Houser’s relief, who seemed overly concerned about his virtue. The dry clothes started warming my chest quickly. The shivering didn’t stop, but the severity receded, and I had more control over it.

“Now the pants,” Houser said, and quickly stepped outside, “let me know when you’re done.” I smirked, my lips working a bit better, at his worries. Even if I was gay, Houser wasn’t my type. I laughed inwardly at the thought. He was old and homeless with all the right in the world to be from the kooky side of the street.

It took a long time to switch my pants. My lower back must have taken quite a hit. My muscles were protesting loudly. I more or less scooted out of the pants since I was unable to fully bend my legs. Houser had brought a pair of cotton exercise shorts and some old stained cargo pants. I replaced my boxers with the exercise shorts, almost screaming to get them over my feet. The cargo pants were even more difficult. I looked around and noticed for the first time that my shoes were missing. They were probably the same place my socks were.

“Houser, where are my shoes?” I asked as I rolled over onto my hands and knees. I wasn’t sure I could stand up without passing out. I certainly couldn’t stand up in the hovel.

“I put them on the vents,” Houser answered, “they be dry soon.” I crawled to the exit and poked my head out into the gray day. I was housed under the bridge, right where the supports met the land. My shaking had stopped. It wasn’t terribly cold now that I had dry clothes. Houser looked down at me. “There’s socks in there too,” he said, pointing into the hut. I crawled back and painfully donned a pair of dry black socks.

“What’s your name, jumper?” Houser asked with a bit of sarcasm. I decided it was best he didn’t know. I didn’t plan on staying and didn’t really trust him.

“Frank,” I answered. It was the first name to come to me. I subconsciously felt for my phone and remembered it was at the bottom of the river, along with my wallet. I really wasn’t planning to need them anymore.

“Why’d you do it?” Houser asked. I looked up at him and saw the glint in his eye. I could see he wasn’t really concerned about me. He was more interested in the story. I guess I was what passed for entertainment under a bridge. “You bankrupt? Kill someone?” he continued. He gave me the best lie, the one that said I was not worth anything.

“Bankrupt,” I lied. Houser laughed his crazy laugh.

“I’m always bankrupt,” Houser said, “don’t need no money, so I don’t care if I don’t have any. It’s you idiots that put worry in it.” I chuckled at that. He was right in his own way.

“You’re a wise man, Houser,” I praised, His face lit up like a Christmas tree. I have no idea why I found that pleasing. He’s an old man who lives under a bridge. Why would I care if he was happy? Nevertheless, his dental disaster of a smile made me feel good. I tried to stand and decided against it when my back fought against it with pain.

“Lie flat,” Houser instructed, “you might be stuck here a day or two. I will take care of you and then you owe me…that’s how it works.” I slowly rolled over onto my back and slowly straightened my legs. I smiled at him.

“What will I owe you?” I asked. I was thinking in terms of dollars.

“I don’t know yet!” Houser snapped, “you share what you get or do me solid. Nothing more than what you get. I’ll ask when I see it. Can’t live without helping each other out here.” He was talking at me like I was an idiot. It was a simple barter system, favor for favor.

“Sounds more than fair, “I responded lightly, “you just let me know. I will owe you good when I get out of here.” Houser smiled again and nodded his head. He really enjoyed the idea of being owed. I would have to find a way of paying him back. I was impressed how simple his life was. Right then, I envied him.

“It’s almost four,” Houser said absently, “kitchen will open soon. Sadie said I could bring you back something ‘til you feel better. She won’t do it for long, so you got to get better.”

“Sadie?” I asked.

“She runs the kitchen,” Houser said incredulously, “don’t you know nothing? You’re lucky I found you.” He was shaking his head as he headed off beyond the bridge supports. He acted as if the whole world knew about the kitchen.

I lay on the cardboard mattress feeling physically better than when I woke. I closed my eyes and saw my flawed vision of Amber. “I miss you, baby,” I whispered. The vision didn’t improve. I had already lost perfection and knew it would only fade more over time. My grief returned and I wished Houser hadn’t left. I needed his simplicity, as strange as it was.

Houser returned as the sun began to set. I wasn’t sure how much time had passed because my watch was on the bottom of the river. It was kind of nice not caring what time it was. I have spent my whole life watching a clock. All that happened was time ran out for Amber and me. Now time could just suck itself.

“I got you some fried chicken and a cup of Jell-O,” Houser said as he handed me some chicken balled up in a napkin and a paper cup filled with red Jell-O. Strangely, it seemed like a feast. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I smelled the cold chicken. There was a leg and half a breast that had been cut with a knife.

“Got to eat out here,” Houser pointed to the cement. “Don’t want critters inside.” More homeless wisdom. I crawled out and sat up slowly. I was starting to figure out how to move with the least amount of pain. The lower left side of my back felt like it had been hit with a sledgehammer. If I kept myself tucked a little to the left, I could withstand more movement.

“Thanks, Houser,” I said sincerely, “I owe you.” Houser smiled and nodded. I was getting the hang of this favor thing. Just acknowledge the debt and pay it back in kind in the future. If only the rest of life were that simple. I dug into the chicken and it disappeared quickly. It was actually pretty good as fried chicken goes. Even cold, the seasonings partied with my tongue in a snappy way. After the last bite, I was wishing there was more. I emptied the cup full of red Jell-O cubes into my mouth and enjoyed the brief sweetness. I stuffed the napkin into the cup and looked around for a waste can or something. Houser laughed and grabbed the cup out of my hand, walked down to the river and threw it in. Pollution was obviously not part of his ethos.