Читать книгу One Week In November - Sarah Everest - Страница 2

The temperature was dropping. It was undeniable. This meant he was going to have to make a change soon. Already there had been too many days with not enough food, not to mention too much time spent sleeping in a semi seated position. It had not taken him long to realize that, while not being the most comfortable way to sleep, it was the safest.

The benefits of propped up sleeping were two fold. First of all, it was harder to recognize if a person was asleep or awake when half sitting. He had been lucky so far. He had always been quiet, and that ability helped him stay under the notice of the rougher elements that circled around. The second benefit was that, if someone did chose to attack, less of his body was vulnerable to kicking or stomping boots, and he would be able to get to his feet quickly.

He tried not to let his mind wander to the past. It was fruitless to do so. He had watched men complain about unfair treatment and grow bitter. He had seen others drown their sorrows in alcohol, which only made them forget their situation temporarily before becoming angry and potentially violent. Instead of allowing the rosier past to manifest itself in the face of the glum present, he kept himself focused on the things he believed he could manage. Besides, even the best times he could remember were clouded by those he could not.

So, today's objective was to figure out how not to freeze before winter settled in firmly. He methodically went through his possessions. He did this every morning, making sure nothing was out of place. He rolled up the sleeping bag, and forced it into the bottom of his backpack. He opened up a ziplock bag where he kept a bar of soap, a jar of salt, a toothbrush, and a razor. With a can of water that he had boiled the night before, he brushed his teeth with the salt, and washed a few critical areas to avoid any stench from developing. The bag was resealed and put carefully back in the backpack on top of the sleeping bag. Next he put the book he used as a makeshift pillow on top. As always, he leafed through to make sure the articles and photographs were safely stored between the pages.

Once the backpack was zipped, he stood up, buttoned his denim jacket, and slipped the bag over his right shoulder. He put the empty water can into the small mesh compartment on the side of the bag, then kicked the dirt around the place where he had slept. This part of his ritual was not about covering up his presence. It was his way of moving on from his circumstances, as though masking the proof of how he was living made it less real.

Several other men were curled up on the ground nearby. In another hour or so they would be roused by a church group that came around to the various homeless gathering places with sandwiches. He had made the mistake of staying long enough to encounter them once. He had no quarrels with the church. Quite the contrary, he had a great appreciation for what they did, and had his own level of faith, but he had not been prepared to face them in his current state.

To avoid having to deal with the awkwardness, he left early. This also meant it was less likely for anyone to discover where he kept his stash. He hurried away from the shelter of the bridge, and headed into a nearby park. When he first found himself without a place to call home, he had slept on a park bench, but quickly learned that this was the wrong decision. The local authorities made a point of going through the parks and clearing out the vagrants. The last thing they wanted was to disturb the middle class joggers who came for early morning runs in the park. As long as he kept his clothing neat, and his odor to a minimum, he blended into the background as he walked along the pathways.

He looked nervously around to be sure no one watched as he headed off the path and into the trees. Most of the park was well manicured, but in a few places the designers allowed nature to take its course. Deep in one of these preserves, he had discovered a hollowed out tree near a small stream. This was where he stored the food he bought or collected.

Six months ago, if anyone had asked him how he felt about the growing number of people holding signs in parking lots or at intersections, he would have expressed indifference, if not mild irritation. Now, as a member of their ranks, he had learned that judgement was not in his hands, nor should it ever have been.

He was not too proud to apply for the lowliest jobs, but his age and lack of address or any other paperwork, made finding employment next to impossible. He knew there might come a time when he would have to seek asylum in one of the shelters, but that was a last resort. Instead, using a piece of cardboard he had found in a recycle bin, and a pen dropped by a child on the street, he had painstakingly written out a sign with bold block letters: LAID OFF, NOW HOMELESS, LOOKING FOR WORK, ANYTHING HELPS. Then in smaller letters he added: God Bless. He thought the last bit was a nice touch.

He folded up his sign and put it into his backpack, then carefully counted his supplies. There were six cans of beans, a tin of oatmeal (he bought it in bulk, then stored it in the can with a heavy rock on top to prevent rodents from eating it) and the bag of money which he slipped into his pocket. He built a small fire, boiled water in his can then added some oatmeal. He ate quickly, then doused and buried his fire. Once all evidence of his presence was eradicated, he slipped cautiously back into the park.

His watch had stopped working, but based on the number of people jogging he figured it was nearing 8 AM. He headed to the grocery store where he bought three apples which he could spread out over the course of the day. The air was crisp, but not too cold, and there was no wind or rain. These were the best weather conditions for standing on the corner. There was the possibility, on a day like this, that someone might hire him to rake leaves. And, if no work came, he might still receive enough courtesy from people in passing to add to his small stash of money, making another long day standing aimlessly somehow worthwhile.

He picked up his pace, hoping he would get to his favorite corner before anyone else did. In some parts of town there was a pecking order for position. If you found an empty corner there, you were welcome to stand until someone with more seniority or bulk came and asserted themselves. In other regions, there was strict organization. When he mistakenly stood there, he was met by a thug at the end of the day demanding a cut. There had been no point in arguing, but before going out the next day he had asked around to learn the boundaries so he would not make the same mistake twice.

The best place he had found was near a bakery, just a few blocks from the park. There were several others who took turns working the nearby corners, but none of them were threatening.

It was only a matter of getting there first. The bakery owner was generous to everyone, and had instructed all his employees to give free slices of bread to every person who came through the doors, including those who would clearly not be able to afford the beautiful, and expensive, handmade loaves. In fact, he had noticed that they gave extra large slices to the shabbier customers who shuffled through.

He was relieved to see that the street corner he preferred was vacant. He decided to hold off on getting the warm bread, and instead went straight to the light pole and set down his backpack. He pulled out the sign that was starting to look shabby, and set his face into a determined expression. He tried his best to clear his mind, and keep his pride buried. The only way to survive another day on the street was to remain humble, and he determined to do so.