SHUT YOUR EYES AND PRAY
by Rob Rosen
Marlin sat on the corner of Harrison and Seventh and stared up at the highway overpass that generally provided him protection from the elements. Since it was neither raining nor particularly sunny that day, he opted for the great outdoors of the gray patch of cement nestled between the burnt out warehouse and the street. Though, for all intents and purposes, pretty much anywhere he found himself was outdoors and never really all that great. Actually, he couldn’t remember a time where he had a real roof over his head or he felt anything but tired, hungry, and beaten down.
Then again, it had been a long time since he tried. To remember that is. He pretty much tended to live in the moment, as the moment was all he had. He had lost everything else years ago. Too many years to count. Too many to even allow himself to consider. Life under an overpass was miserable enough without thinking of what might have been. Or worse yet, what actually had been.
What the hell, he thought to himself. It couldn’t hurt to at least try. Maybe there was a good memory nestled in there somewhere that would bring a smile to his face. Though he’d practically forgotten how to smile anymore either. The nickels and dimes tossed his way caused him more despair than relief, certainly too little to bring enough happiness to crack even the semblance of a smile. They just reminded him how much more he needed in order to afford a decent meal, or any meal for that matter. Anyway, he shut his eyes good and tight and prayed for a memory that would bring him even a brief respite from his life.
But all he saw was the endless black void behind his lids. Not a glimmer of anything else. No memories hiding anywhere to bring him even an ounce of joy. But just as he got ready to open his eyes to the even bleaker world in front of him, he spotted a tiny speck of light in the distance of his inner vision. It was so minuscule that he almost discounted it as one of those floaters he frequently saw if he moved his eyes back and forth really quick. Though they were generally much darker. And this was definitely light. A light that he noticed was starting to grow.
“Fuck,” he said to himself. “That can’t be good.”
Still, he kept his eyes shut tightly and watched in amazement as the light grew and grew, until all that he could see was the brightest of white light. And then in the light he could discern certain shades of gray. And these changed to fuzzy outlines of objects. And these in turn started to take on concrete shapes. Shapes he could recognize. A table. A chair. And then a wall and a ceiling. Then the grayness shifted into colors. Muted reds and greens and browns. Then nothing but color and the only white came from the low-watt light overhead.
“Wait, I know this place.”
At hearing his own voice, he opened his eyes and he was no longer on the sidewalk by the overpass out in broad daylight. He was back in his apartment. The one he’d lived in last. Before the overpass. He looked around at the old, beaten up furniture: the black and white television; the couch that folded out into his bed; the nicked and dinged end table with the alarm clock he’d had as a child; all his belongings that fit snugly within the one room apartment that was far, far away from the overpass. And though it all looked old, threadbare, and as beaten up as he felt inside, it was a hell of a lot better than the cardboard box he had grown sadly accustomed to.
“A ceiling,” he said, as he looked up. “How long has it been? Five, six years?”
He walked around the small apartment and admired his few, meager belongings. Remembered how he had to leave them all there. He couldn’t pay the rent anymore, and couldn’t take any of it with him. All he could carry were a few sets of clothes in a duffle bag. When he looked again at the end table, he knew what would be in the drawer if he opened it. He walked over and proved himself right. It was just where he had left it.
It was a cheap, glass pipe. Funny how something so small could do so much damage, he thought. He lifted it up and could smell the residue. Felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He hadn’t been so close to it in a long time. Thought he’d gotten over the craving. Guessed he’d never really get over that. The matches were right where he had left them as well.
“Maybe for old times sake?” he said.
But before he could put flame to glass, a pounding on the door startled him and he dropped the pipe, shattering it into innumerable pieces.
“Open up, Marlin,” came a voice from the other side of the door. “Pay up or get out.”
He knew his landlord’s voice. Had heard those words so many times that it was practically etched in his brain. The pounding continued. The landlord’s voice got louder. Marlin kicked at the broken glass around his feet and once again shut his eyes tight and prayed the landlord would go away. Prayed the pipe would stop calling to him. Prayed for that white light again. And then he saw it. Just a speck in the black, but growing larger.
“Hurry up,” Marvin whispered aloud. “Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.”
And the light grew with each plea until it once again filled the space behind his eyelids. Until it fairly blinded Marlin. And then, as fast as it had appeared, it receded to reveal yet another room. A room far removed from the previous one. This one was not Marlin’s, but it did look fairly familiar.
“I’ve been here before too, but when?” he said to himself. And just as he said it, he knew. Spotted the pictures on the solid marble mantelpiece. “My boss’s apartment.” Marlin’s last real boss, to be exact. Before everything fell into ruin. Before the pipe became his boss.
“He never should have shown me where he left his house keys. Should have kept them locked in his drawer,” Marlin said aloud, as he cased the apartment. “Who needs this much…this much stuff? He’ll never miss it.” Marlin pocketed some of the smaller items. The gold and silver objects that he was sure wouldn’t be missed. At least not right away. After all, Marlin needed his own stuff. Needed it as sure as he needed the air he breathed. He felt the pangs of guilt almost immediately, but the need to fill the pipe outweighed all other concerns.
Just as he filled his pockets with the last of the trinkets, he heard a pair of feet coming up the steps. He dove behind the couch just as the door flung open. The smell of his ex-boss’s stale cigars wafted over him and filled him with an awful sense of dread and nausea. Almost at once he recalled why he had been fired. Why this man was his ex-boss. Why he couldn’t get a job after that one.
He shut his eyes tight and prayed that his boss wouldn’t find him there, hiding behind the couch, his pockets filled to the brim with the objects that surely wouldn’t be missed. But of course they would be. How could they not? The only thing that would be missed was the life Marlin left behind the day he got caught crouching behind the couch, tears streaming down his face, valuables spilling out of his pockets.
Marlin shut his eyes and prayed not to get caught. Not to be found behind that couch with his boss’s valuables that were sure to be missed. Wished that he’d never seen those keys in the first place. But he had seen them, taken them, used them. Still, with his eyes closed he couldn’t see any of that. Could only see the blackness of it all. The endless void. And there it was again. The speck of light in the distance. Barreling at him like a train. Growing and spreading. Filling the void. And then just as quickly as it had come, it faded to reveal yet a third room.
This room filled Marlin with a feeling of warmth he hadn’t felt in countless years. The furniture was worn, but sturdy. Passed down from his own parents. He remembered their joy in giving it to him and his new wife, Leslie.
Leslie. He hadn’t thought of her for almost as long as he hadn’t thought of that apartment they shared. She’d stuck by him the longest. Far longer than Marlin deserved. But even she couldn’t compete with the pipe. He sure wished she’d tried, though. Wished he’d tried, as well. But both had given up and went their separate ways. His way lead him under the overpass. Hers to Lord knows where. He lost track years ago. Lost track of her life as well as his own. But there he was, miraculously back in that apartment they loved so much.
He walked over and sat on the couch that once belonged to his mother and her mother before that. It was still firm and he bounced up and down on it, remembering the way he had done so as a child. His mother always scolded him for doing just that, but he’d always ignored her. Ignored so many of her warnings. Maybe if he’d only listened to more of what she’d said he wouldn’t be in the mess he was in.
And it sure felt nice sitting there like that. A hell of a lot more comfortable than the sidewalk. And it smelled like heaven. Like his wife, actually. He reached for a pillow and inhaled deeply. Lilacs and gardenias. His wife’s perfume. He always said she smelled like a country garden. “When’s the last time I smelled a garden? Or saw one?” he said to himself, as he eased himself into the couch.
“Is that you, Marlin?” he heard from the next room.
It sounded like his wife. “Yes, Dear. Just me.” He hadn’t heard that voice in so long. He’d forgotten how she sounded. Like an angel.
“Dinner’s almost ready. Go wash up.”
“Dinner? Wash up? When’s the last time I washed up to eat? When’s the last time I had a home cooked dinner, for that matter?”
“What’s that, Marlin? You say something?” Leslie asked, as she opened the door from the kitchen and stood there before him.
He’d completely forgotten how lovely she was. And so young. And there was that smell again. Like a garden. He breathed in and looked at his wife in amazement. “You’re so beautiful,” he said to her. She smiled and looked at him quizzically.
”You okay, Marlin?”
“Never better,” he said, and stood up to hug his wife. “Never better.”
He smiled, the first smile in so many years. And he stood, frozen in place and time, as he shut his eyes tightly and prayed that he could stay that way forever.
And that’s how they found him. Sitting on the sidewalk, just to the side of the overpass. His face locked in a smile, like he’d just seen the most beautiful thing in the whole world. Which, truly, he had.
© Rob Rosen
Reproduced with permission
BUNNY AND HOPPY
by Rob Rosen
A crack ho named Bunny sashayed her tired ass down Twelfth Street near Harrison. It had been a long and aggravating day. She’d already been nearly busted and had made only fifty bucks. Twenty-five was stuck in her ripped garter; the other had gone up her nose. It was one of those days a crack ho was better off staying in bed. Alone. No johns, no dealers, no…men. But men were Bunny’s life, or livelihood anyway. And even a crack ho has rent to pay. So…
“Yo, Gimpy, you lookin’ for some action?” asked Bunny, as she stared down at a one legged homeless man who had obviously seen better days himself.
“You jokin’, lady? I’m lookin’ for lunch. I’m looking for a shower. I’m lookin’ for a place to sleep tonight. Action ain’t high on my list right now,” answered the man, very matter of factly. “Besides, you ain’t my type.”
Bunny thought of a lot of things when she heard his last comment.
She thought about kicking the man hard with one of her cheap stilettos, but thought better of it since it was her last good pair. Actually, her only pair.
She thought about slapping him and telling him where to get off, but her Lee Press Ons were on their proverbial last legs as it was.
She even thought about simply ignoring him and keep on walking, but that wasn’t Bunny’s style. Yes, even crack hos have their own sense of style, especially Bunny.
Instead, she plopped her tired ass down next to the stranger and started to laugh. A rarity for her.
“You got a type, Gimpy?” she asked, lighting her last cigarette.
“Oh, I got a type, alright,” said the man, also lighting his last cigarette.
(Truth be told, they were both better off not smoking. Had they had health insurance or the availability to adequate medical care, they’d both have found that they were already in the early stages of emphysema. But such is life.)
“And what type might that be?” she asked, deeply inhaling her Camel.
“Well, first off, Honey, I dig women,” grinned the man.
“Oh child, first off, the name’s not Honey, it’s Bunny, and second off, Bunny is all woman,” she retorted, exhaling in his face.
(Now, in her rattled brain, Bunny might have actually believed this lie, but Bunny was, in all actuality, Marvin. Again, with adequate medical care she could have been, well, a “she”, but again, that fantasy had long since passed.)
“Bunny, huh?” smiled the man “Looks like you’re rabbit’s foot ain’t workin’ too well.”
“Ain’t that the truth, Gimpy,” she said.
“The names not Gimpy, it’s Steve,” he said, extending a hand in greeting.
Now that rattled Bunny’s bones to the quick. Crack hos aren’t generally afforded everyday common courtesies. A hand offered in friendly greeting was something she had not received in quite some time. She was, in her own limited way, touched.
“Steve, huh?” she said, giving him the quick once over. “I’ll never remember that. How about…Hoppy?”
To which Steve responded, “Ah, I see you have a predilection for all things lepine.”
“Huh?” she asked, not sure if she was being insulted or not.
“You dig rabbits.”
“Oh, sure, whatever. Besides, pardon my rudeness, but Hoppy seems…uh…appropriate.”
“True,” Steve smiled again. “Well, I suppose Hoppy it is then. Please to make your acquaintance.” Again he shook Bunny’s hand and again she was touched by the gesture. Maybe her day was looking up.
***
Actually, crack hos rarely have days that look up. Generally, they have bad days or worse days. Bunny’s were generally bad, but South of Market trade was fairly consistent and mostly docile. She made her own hours and had no need or want of a pimp. She shared her turf with a few other “ladies” and that was fine all the way around. In short, her life could have been worse. In short, it could have been Steve’s.
For even though her life was shit, she did have a roof over her head, a fairly steady income and easy availability to cheap crack. All things a successful crack ho desires. Steve, on the other hand, was homeless, penniless and, well, quite legless. One leg less to be exact. Gangrene had taken that from him several years earlier. And South of Market wasn’t as kind to him as it was to Bunny, though it was quieter and safer than downtown. In other words, things never looked up for Steve.
***
The next day, Bunny tricked three times in two hours. This was considered a boon in her business. That meant rent, a bag of blow and lunch. Though the crack generally kept her away from large meals more than a few times a month.
“Yo, Hoppy, what’s shakin’?” she asked, retaking her seat from the previous day.
“My bones,” he replied, looking sad. “Fuckin’ San Francisco weather.”
“Amen to that, Hoppy. Would some lunch help?”
“Couldn’t hurt.”
“Well, today’s been good to Bunny and I have two extra pieces of fried chicken and a half bottle of whiskey. Would that help them bones?”
He nodded and his grin returned. Bunny liked it when he grinned. She saw men’s faces in all sorts of contortions, but a grin, or at least a non lascivious grin, was rarely one she got to see much of these days. It was a warm respite in her otherwise dreary life.
“Good chicken,” Steve said, fairy devouring it.
“The Colonel knows his chicken, Mr. Beam knows his booze,” she replied, keenly aware that she had made her first joke since she could remember.
“And you’ve got a customer,” he said, pointing to a car that had pulled up as they sat there and ate.
“Well, Lordy be,” Bunny said, jumping up and wiping her hands on her mini. “It’s raining men today.”
“Hallelujah,” Steve said, wiping his face with his sleeve.
***
This “relationship” went on for several weeks. Actually, it was the highlight of both Bunny and Steve’s days. Bunny rarely if ever talked to her johns, except to say, “That’ll be twenty.” and nobody ever talked to Steve, even when they threw him a nickel or a dime. Except for his interactions with Bunny, he was, strictly speaking, a non-entity. So the two of them formed a sort of bond. A friendship, if you will.
“Hey, Hoppy, how about a ham sandwich today?” she asked, taking her now regular place on the sidewalk.
“Sure. Might you have some Gray Poupon for that?”
The joke was lost on her, but she smiled anyway. Steve’s jokes almost always went over her head, but she loved the way he grinned when he said them. No one had ever told Bunny to always look on the bright side of life, but Steve had seen it in a movie once and it must have stuck. It was, after all, fairly gray most of the time down in their neck of the woods, and he still managed to smile whenever possible. Now Bunny managed one every day, though only with Steve.
“Nice day today, Hoppy,” Bunny said, still grinning.
“Nicer than most,” he agreed.
And just before she got up to leave, they heard an alarm going off down the street at The Eagle. Years on the street had taught them to hate that sound. It meant that cops would be nearby soon and cops were not their friends. Cops treated them worse than anybody else.
“Look,” Steve said, pointing up the sidewalk.
They both watched as a man ran towards them, a bag in one hand and a gun in the other.
“Fuck,” they said in unison.
And then a funny thing happened.
The man, obviously unaware of the homeless man and the crack ho sitting on the sidewalk, kept running at full speed right in their path. And then “Splat”, down went the thief, his gun flying in front of him and his bag flying behind him. Given the layout, it wasn’t all that surprising that he jumped up, grabbed the gun and continued to run forward. Thieves rarely go in reverse.
Bunny sat there dumbfounded and Steve sat there laughing his ass off.
“What’s so funny?” she asked, standing up and going towards the bag.
“You know what irony is, Bunny?” he asked her, tears streaming down his face.
“No, what?” she asked, opening the bag.
“Being tripped by a one legged man. That’s irony, Bunny.”
“How about having a bag of money fall into your one legged lap? What’s that called?” she asked, opening the bag for Steve to see.
He stopped laughing long enough to take a look and to notice the sound of sirens approaching.
“That?” he said, untying the cord around his pants where his leg used to be. “That’s God’s way of saying, ‘Enough’.”
Bunny, though not usually one to catch on fast, saw what Steve was up to and quickly bent down and started stuffing the money into his open pants leg. It was more money than either had ever seen and it fit nicely down the usually empty leg of his jeans. And then, with the pants retied, they repositioned themselves on the sidewalk and waited for the inevitable. Five seconds later, the cops came blaring by.
Bunny and Steve both recognized the pair that pulled along side them and they, in return, recognized Steve and Bunny. And they knew that Steve and Bunny weren’t the white perpetrator with long blond hair that they were now looking for.
“Which way?” asked the cop that was driving.
“He went thata way.” Bunny pointed in the exact opposite direction the thief had run.
“Fuck ‘em,” she said, as they sped away.
“Fuck ‘em indeed,” Steve said, patting his leg.
***
A month went by since that fateful day. The two of them, being the friends that they were, gladly split the money, which was several thousand dollars plus some change, and then they quickly went their separate ways. Because, though thieves rarely go in reverse, they frequently do return to the scene of the crime. Especially if they’ve left their loot behind. And Steve and Bunny were well aware of this.
And then that was that.
Bunny took a break from the crack and the streets and Steve found a shelter with a locker and a dead bolt. When God says, “Enough”, he means it!
And life went on. And Bunny still smiled from time to time. And Steve never stopped grinning since that day. And there were two less people South of Market. And then…
“Can I bum a cigarette, man?”
Steve looked up from his coffee and his paper and thought he recognized the handsome man standing before him.
“Sure, you smoke Camels?”
“You know I do,” the man said with a wink.
“Name’s Marvin,” said the man as he took the cigarette in one hand and held out his other hand in greeting.
“My friend’s call me Hoppy,” the other man said as he shook Marvin’s hand.
“Hmm. You don’t look like a Hoppy. How about…Steve?”
© Rob Rosen
Reproduced with permission
