Here's the third story I wrote within a fever-induced dream while living in Ohtawara-shi, Tochigi-ken, Japan in October of 1991. While the first was written in the 1st-person format and a second separate story in the less common 2nd-person style, this one was in the all too common 3rd-person. Again... it was this story and the other three (one more coming tomorrow) that made me realize I could not only write... write something other than comedy... but that I could not only be a writer, but that perhaps that was how I could one day define myself...
I hope YOU enjoy it more than the story's hero...
Obviously, the Loving Spoonful never had to wake up to yet another chilly autumn day on the streets of Manhattan, thought Craig as he quickly turned off his radio-alarm clock.
That clock was one of the few things he still had of his past life. That included the greyish undershirt, the camouflage army pants, and one of the shoes currently on his feet. He also wore a green tee-shirt and an over-sized grey rain coat that he found near a dumpster last week. Some shards of self-respect still remained, but even those became more and more like slivers the longer he stayed here.
He yawned and shoved a thickly veined hand down the back of his pants and scratched his ass for a good 20 seconds of pure contentment.
Cool, dark grey eyes that easily belie his 22 years stare at the slow lazy mist that wafted up from the damp street.
Although the sun was up bright and early at 6:14 AM, its cold and sterile rays did nothing to warm the inhabitants of The Knock.
A deep squint of the eyes to the east showed Patrolman Ernie Walters tippy-tapping his baton against the building walls to wake up yet another inconsequential use for existence.... At least that's what Craig thought of the people who lived here. Even if he was wrong, no one would ever say so. That was because the only people who talked to you here were the choir boy helpers at the Mission who'd try and save souls long since mortgaged; and the "crazies" who look like they're talking to you, but are really talking to the air.
Maybe the "crazies" should be paired-up so that it looks like they're talking to each other, mused Craig. It wouldn't solve the problem, but at least it would place a little pancake make-up on yet another bruise on the Big Apple's thick skin.
Walters wasn't a bad sort... even for a cop. Although his well-wishing "Good morning!" often fell on deaf ears - at least he made an effort. Of course, he did sometimes kick a few guys awake, but only after they'd tell him to "fuck-off" with his daily salutations.
Even still, Craig supposed Walters was a bit of an asshole - that's why he was a cop - because he'd always try and antagonize the same guys with his greeting every morning.
Getting up, Craig stumbled over to a nearby alleyway where the weekly garbage was piled awaiting pick-up by one of the mob controlled disposal companies. He walked past the towering edifices of smelly green plastic and paused. He kicked a few bags, unhitched his pants and began to urinate. He always kicked the bags first to make sure that there wasn't anybody or anything under one. He wasn't going to ever make that mistake again.
Shaking himself a few times, he then squatted, defecated, gathered himself together and began the short amble to work.
Work, as in Craig's case - though not for all homeless people - was to panhandle spare change from the plethora of business executives who dotted the avenues while marching to and fro between the offices. He wasn't like some of the pathetic fucks who lived on the street by night but went to work in the steely skyscrapers by day... too cheap to find a real place to live. They did it because they liked it. They liked the challenge of living on the street. Although deprived, Craig knew in his heart he wanted nothing more than to live in a place of his own that didn't say "THIS SIDE UP". It had been a long time since he last lived indoors.
His mind clouded over.
Your mother was an alcoholic-junkie who turned tricks between government checks to buy her "juice". When she began coming down from the highs, the depression invariably led to rage. Her frustrations would always be taken out on you. All this you could tolerate. But, when the Sherman Tanks of marijuana laced with PCP started to screw-up your mother's judgement to the point of irrationality, you began to wonder. When she began visiting you in your bed, you reacted like any normal teenager... your natural horniness over-powered any fragment of common sense you may have possessed. Later, your feelings of vilification left you spent in more ways than one. There was only one sane recourse left for a bastard child to do, so you took it. You ran away from the fractured lifestyle of Brooklyn to a slightly less painful version here in Manhattan. At The Knock.
With a shudder he snapped out of his reverie and dropped a hand down into his left pant pocket. He quickly retrieved a half-eaten Big Mac that he had saved from yesterday.
Living on the streets was dangerous enough without having to eat stuff like this, he thought while tucking into the cold dry burger.
Finishing up his breakfast, he placed the styrofoam package into a nearby trash can. Craig ambled over to a street corner devoid of other transients but full of people from the suburbs. He smiled at the irony of that thought. Actually, it didn't matter where he was to begin work. Craig had an angle. He rhymed.
He began as he always begun. He walked up to an oldish suit-clad businessman and said, "Excuse me, my friend, but I'm down on my luck. Could you spare some change or perhaps a buck? I use the money for food not for drink, because I'm not a fool who likes to stink."
The Poet is what people called him. If they prodded him for another, he would recite some of his more legitimate prose. A quality one. It was always good for some applause and cash. People always marveled at how such a "romantic" could have fallen so low. It wasn't that Craig ever really had far to fall, it's just that for some reason unknown to him, he could create good poetry.
He was managing to save quite a nest egg. For what he didn't know. Still, it was a nice hedge against inflation, he chuckled to himself as he waited for the suit to pull out some change.
Although it was a fun way to make a living, it was a lousy way to live.
I hope YOU enjoy it more than the story's hero...
THE CITY BOY
By Andrew Joseph
"Hot town. Summer in the city.
Back of my neck getting dirt and gritty.
Been down. Isn't it a pity?
Doesn't seem to be a shadow in the city."
Obviously, the Loving Spoonful never had to wake up to yet another chilly autumn day on the streets of Manhattan, thought Craig as he quickly turned off his radio-alarm clock.
That clock was one of the few things he still had of his past life. That included the greyish undershirt, the camouflage army pants, and one of the shoes currently on his feet. He also wore a green tee-shirt and an over-sized grey rain coat that he found near a dumpster last week. Some shards of self-respect still remained, but even those became more and more like slivers the longer he stayed here.
He yawned and shoved a thickly veined hand down the back of his pants and scratched his ass for a good 20 seconds of pure contentment.
Cool, dark grey eyes that easily belie his 22 years stare at the slow lazy mist that wafted up from the damp street.
Although the sun was up bright and early at 6:14 AM, its cold and sterile rays did nothing to warm the inhabitants of The Knock.
A deep squint of the eyes to the east showed Patrolman Ernie Walters tippy-tapping his baton against the building walls to wake up yet another inconsequential use for existence.... At least that's what Craig thought of the people who lived here. Even if he was wrong, no one would ever say so. That was because the only people who talked to you here were the choir boy helpers at the Mission who'd try and save souls long since mortgaged; and the "crazies" who look like they're talking to you, but are really talking to the air.
Maybe the "crazies" should be paired-up so that it looks like they're talking to each other, mused Craig. It wouldn't solve the problem, but at least it would place a little pancake make-up on yet another bruise on the Big Apple's thick skin.
Walters wasn't a bad sort... even for a cop. Although his well-wishing "Good morning!" often fell on deaf ears - at least he made an effort. Of course, he did sometimes kick a few guys awake, but only after they'd tell him to "fuck-off" with his daily salutations.
Even still, Craig supposed Walters was a bit of an asshole - that's why he was a cop - because he'd always try and antagonize the same guys with his greeting every morning.
Getting up, Craig stumbled over to a nearby alleyway where the weekly garbage was piled awaiting pick-up by one of the mob controlled disposal companies. He walked past the towering edifices of smelly green plastic and paused. He kicked a few bags, unhitched his pants and began to urinate. He always kicked the bags first to make sure that there wasn't anybody or anything under one. He wasn't going to ever make that mistake again.
Shaking himself a few times, he then squatted, defecated, gathered himself together and began the short amble to work.
Work, as in Craig's case - though not for all homeless people - was to panhandle spare change from the plethora of business executives who dotted the avenues while marching to and fro between the offices. He wasn't like some of the pathetic fucks who lived on the street by night but went to work in the steely skyscrapers by day... too cheap to find a real place to live. They did it because they liked it. They liked the challenge of living on the street. Although deprived, Craig knew in his heart he wanted nothing more than to live in a place of his own that didn't say "THIS SIDE UP". It had been a long time since he last lived indoors.
His mind clouded over.
Your mother was an alcoholic-junkie who turned tricks between government checks to buy her "juice". When she began coming down from the highs, the depression invariably led to rage. Her frustrations would always be taken out on you. All this you could tolerate. But, when the Sherman Tanks of marijuana laced with PCP started to screw-up your mother's judgement to the point of irrationality, you began to wonder. When she began visiting you in your bed, you reacted like any normal teenager... your natural horniness over-powered any fragment of common sense you may have possessed. Later, your feelings of vilification left you spent in more ways than one. There was only one sane recourse left for a bastard child to do, so you took it. You ran away from the fractured lifestyle of Brooklyn to a slightly less painful version here in Manhattan. At The Knock.
With a shudder he snapped out of his reverie and dropped a hand down into his left pant pocket. He quickly retrieved a half-eaten Big Mac that he had saved from yesterday.
Living on the streets was dangerous enough without having to eat stuff like this, he thought while tucking into the cold dry burger.
Finishing up his breakfast, he placed the styrofoam package into a nearby trash can. Craig ambled over to a street corner devoid of other transients but full of people from the suburbs. He smiled at the irony of that thought. Actually, it didn't matter where he was to begin work. Craig had an angle. He rhymed.
He began as he always begun. He walked up to an oldish suit-clad businessman and said, "Excuse me, my friend, but I'm down on my luck. Could you spare some change or perhaps a buck? I use the money for food not for drink, because I'm not a fool who likes to stink."
The Poet is what people called him. If they prodded him for another, he would recite some of his more legitimate prose. A quality one. It was always good for some applause and cash. People always marveled at how such a "romantic" could have fallen so low. It wasn't that Craig ever really had far to fall, it's just that for some reason unknown to him, he could create good poetry.
He was managing to save quite a nest egg. For what he didn't know. Still, it was a nice hedge against inflation, he chuckled to himself as he waited for the suit to pull out some change.
Although it was a fun way to make a living, it was a lousy way to live.
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