It's another cold rainy day here on the outer fringes of what most people call paradise, I choose to use the word “most” with the utmost care and consideration in the regard that not all people would define this particular part of space and time as paradise. Oh, I suppose things could be worse, I am alive if one could call it that, existing rather than living, I have a coat to keep me warm on cold nights, and the company of other human beings who in ways warm me with the generosity of their companionship when others would rather repel from view at the mere sight of what I have become. I am after all still widely regarded as human by most people who know me, in spite of what others may think. My name is Walt, I am 54 years old as of last December, I am not an animal, I am homeless, and I am not alone.
Homeless. It is strange, when you stop to think about it, what is home really? Where you are at any given moment? Or a specific structure or place? Or somewhere you keep all of your worldly possessions? Where you build your life brick by brick, raise your family, and store all of your most precious memories, your child’s first step, their first fall. or how good it feels to sleep in your own bed. I have such memories, as do most that live here under this bridge. Although I don’t remember exactly how I ended up here, I do recall having a life once, a job, wife, son, a daughter, and yes, it seems to me that I do remember sleeping in my own bed, now though, I can barely remember that last time that I've had a bath. I was corporate, I wasn't the CEO of a major company, but I was in sales, I made really good money, then one day they took it all away, I feel it was just because they could. I lost the job, I heard all of their bullshit excuses, but it was economics they said, then at the first sign of trouble, the wife left with the kids and then the bank took the house.
So there you have it and here I be. I am indeed now homeless, but at least I’m in good company. See that fellow over there? That’s Oscar, he’s 29, he worked as a car salesman, well you can probably guess how that turned out. He’s here with us now. There’s Flo, over there, she used to be a waitress I think, There’s big Mike, there’s Bobby, there’s Sully and Doris. The list goes on and on. They all have a story or two that they could tell, but most prefer to keep them to themselves. Here, they are my friends and family now, the only ones that I know, we live here together, sleep here, breathe here, and when we can, eat here. We do not judge each other, nor look at each other with great disdain at our own unclean appearance.
When life here affords us the opportunity we build a fire in a barrel, and sit around and regale each other with stories reflecting lives that we are no longer a part of, we share memories, tell stories, some real, others merely implied, We talk about our hopes and fears, we compare scars, and in spite of all that we lost we still dare to dream of something better. We hope and pray to the very same god that others more fortunate than us do. For we too are human. Well the sun is setting, and the rain appears to have stopped for now at least, and Big Mike has some fuel for the evenings fire, so we’ll sit around it and try to stay warm and dry, and some will sleep tonight, while others will keep a wary eye open for the police, or an unfriendly stranger that comes calling looking for someone to prey upon. So now I’ll put my back to the wall, and pull up my collar, and light my last cigarette. Tomorrow will be another day, another day in paradise here under the bridge.
~Scratch A.B.T. copyright© 2009~
