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To
the shelter in long beach? Downtown: the one everyone told him about. He had fought it
for two years always telling himself he would never stay in a shelter but
there he was. He had taken the Blue line to the Anaheim station, walked a few
blocks and stopped in front if a long brick building. The door had iron bars
and a speaker box to the left. The early afternoon sun struck his shoulders
as beads of sweat formed on his ruddy forehead. He was tired. Tired from
staying up all night getting three hours worth of refills in the Dennys on
Wardlow, while counting down the hours, until the Starbucks opened and he
could steal a couple hours of sleep in the back of the cafe. His feet were
torn up and blistered from the constant meandering. Up and down Atlantic. Up
and down Carson. Up and down Long Beach Blvd with cosmic thoughts of making
it to the next day. Blocking out the fact of ‘yes’ he was homeless. Yet he
was working. He had a job but the Curry infused motels, where the desk clerk
from New Deli scanned one with such distain but gladly took the money.
Laughing all the way to the seven-armed god to thank them for destitute
vagabond with horrible credit to fleece. Spoiling humans ripe for foreign
blunder. So they could send their kids to the local state university to be
all-inclusive Yankee white collar.
Those
Asian vampires took all his bread so now it was the street or shelter and the
streets of Long Beach had taken its pound of flesh.
He
pressed a small black button.
"Hello."
"Yes
can I help you?” Shot back a muffled male voice.
"I
was sent down here to get a bed"
"Who
sent you?"
"Lou
sent me."
The
door buzzed and he opened it, walked inside and approached the front counter.
He’d been there before seeking hotel vouchers but was rebuffed and sent back
into the street.
They
commanded all his movement. The God complex was thick and he felt the wait of
their condensing attitudes and already doubted this decision. They almost
sent him back outside but instead let him sign on the list for the shelter.
He
sat in the rows of plastic chairs set up in the large, dim lobby with the old
model TV in the corner broadcasting the afternoon news.
Eventually,
a pretty, dark hair Latina with a curvy build came down from the upstairs.
Theirs eyes meet and he remembered her from before. She gave him a slight smile
but he was in no mood to return it still loopy from being awake twenty-four
hours straight.
"Why
are you homeless? Drug? Alcohol?"
He
pondered that question for years to the point of madness. He was not an addict or
a raging drunk. His drinking had caused chaotic moments and poor choices but
never lost him property or employment: just sleep and some bruises here and
there.
"No
I'm not." He said defensively as an angry pot boiled in his chest.
"Then
why are you homeless?"
She was waiting for some magic moment
of self-revelation but it only made him seethe and regret the choice
even more.
"Just
bad luck."
"Do
you work?"
"Yes
I’m an educator."
On
the wrong side of living.
His
life seemed to strike a cord if interest. She went on to tell him a small
snippet of her life as a recovering alcoholic, hoping to find a connection.
There
was none.
He
pictured her with head in a toilet filling it with that night’s dinner. He
pictured her at work reeking of whiskey with her head face down catching
catnaps in a cubicle.
She explained that the long building
was part of an in house Twelve Step Program and she could get him in but not
for a week.
"Fill
this out."
She
handed out a questionnaire and exited the small room where she took him away
from earshot of the others after he explained his occupation.
"Okay
there’s a van outside to take you to the emergency shelter in Wilmington. The
Beacon House."
He
submitted needing to sleep. He was tired and his feet felt cut with razors. What's
the worst that can happen? You can do week.
She
escorted him to the outside where a small, older, white van with the name
Beacon House on the side waited parked at the curb.
Chat
conversation end
Edited
in Lakewood, Ca.
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