REG HART OPENED HIS EYES and tried to focus on the face of the person standing above him, yelling obscenities and demanding he get off the railroad property before the police were called. His head was spinning and his mind reeled, consciousness seeping too slowly back into his brain. It was becoming more and more clear what had happened. Gradually, the reality of his miserable life was becoming knife-sharp, bleak, transparent.
The smell of urine and sun-baked vomit filled the air, joined by the sound
of buzzing flies. Together they bespoke the nightmarish, nauseous hours he had spent on the hard ground. Although much of it was a blur, his aching stomach muscles told him he’d suffered a constant bout of dry-heaves from alcohol poisoning.
Out of habit, the pathetic-looking creature glanced at his wrist to check the time. A layer of crusty bile covered his arm where a watch had been strapped. His designer shirt, pants, shoes and socks were gone. He eased himself into a sitting position, wincing at the pain of the fiery sunburn covering the right half of his mostly naked body.
“Get out of here, you no good stinkin’ drunk!” the railroad worker started in again. “Get your clothes on and get outta here.” With that, he kicked at Greg a heap of filthy clothes that blanketed a pair of scuffed shoes. “I’ve got enough to do without worryin’ you bums are gonna wander on to the track of a movin’ train.”
Greg scraped the clothes into a pile with his fingers and tottered to his feet. Over the top of a row of empty boxcars he could see some distant dilapidated buildings, and headed out in their direction.
“The other way!” squawked the man. “You hafta go around 40 cars that way.”
Greg reversed direction and lifted a hand to shade his face from the pounding sun. The smelly rags in his arms shifted and a shoe fell unnoticed to the ground. Greg trudged on toward the end of the cars.
The few people in the greyhound station tried not to stare as the outlandish figure, wearing only his underwear, stumbled across the complex and made his way to the restroom. Dropping the filthy pile of clothes on the floor, he grasped both sides of the soiled sink and lifted his gaze. The mirror didn’t lie. Greg had thought he was at a low the day before; now he could hardly believe the sight that reflected back at him. He raked his hair from his face and fingered the sunburned skin that was swelling his right eye almost shut.
The gurgle of a flushing toilet was heard. A young man, yet in the act of zipping up his pants, stepped from the far stall. Looking up, he sniffed and wiped a fingerless glove under his nose. “Wow dude, you okay?” he asked. “Maybe I should get you an ambulance or something.”
As far as Greg was concerned, the kid was a punk–a real freak. Studded jacket, purplish spiked hair, multiple piercings. . . . A worthless punk.
Through his swollen tongue, Greg could hardly spit out the words. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah, and I’m George W. Bush,” the kid snickered. “You look worse than my old man after a week off the wagon.”
“I’m fine,” he repeated as he turned on the water.
“‘Fine’ people don’t crap their pants and wander around in public in their boxers. Come on, let me give you a hand.”
Greg cupped his hands under the flow and raised the cool, heavenly liquid to his face. Still queasy, the blood that rushed to his bent head brought him to his knees. As he fell, his chin struck the sink. Asickening, hollow thud echoed throughout the tiled bathroom. A pair of hands caught hold of him, bearing him to the floor. His hazy vision caught sight of the purple-haired kid above him, his dark features silhouetted against the fluorescent ceiling light.
“You hold on while I go call an ambulance.” He started for the door.
“No! Just give me a hand. Please!”
The young man hesitated, then retraced his steps. “What the heck, dude. . . . I got two hours to burn and you’ve probably got one wild story.”
Eddie cut the tape from the wrists of his most promising young brawler and cuffed him on the back of the head. The old man’s voice was sharp and gruff. “You’re doin’fine, boy. Get that left hook down, maybe we’ll see you in the square. Go cool down on the walker and hit the showers.”
“Thanks, Pops.” Luke, all of 14 years old, tucked his fist under his skinny arm and pulled the glove from his hand. “I’ve been wondering if I could bring a friend tomorrow. His mama, brothers, sisters, they came to the shelter last night. They was beat up pretty bad. I could be his friend and you could teach him how to defend himself.”
Eddie lowered his voice. “I always got room for one more boy. You bring him and his mama with you–we’ll suit him up and fit him with a pair of gloves. If he’s not using drugs . . . ah, you know the rules.”
“I know. He don’t look like that kind’a kid.”Eddie took the boy’s headgear and tousled his hair. “Now go cool down so you don’t cramp up.” The boy lit out with a bounce in his step that let Eddie know the he would never again be afraid of his father.
The old man stooped to gather up the clumps of discarded tape from the floor. Clutching them in his fist, he stuffed the sticky debris in the overflowing trash basket. Then he took down a fresh roll of tape from the shelf and made for the back of the building.
Ty still stood guard at the metal door leading to the basement. Eddie shook his head in disgust as he limped down the darkened corridor. “Could’a been a contender,” he mumbled in disgust.
The brawny, ebony-skinned man caught what Eddie was saying and lowered his eyes in shame, disappointed, after all these years, at having let the old man down.
The metal door crashing open caught the grizzled woman rifling through the dumpster below off guard. “It’s just Eddie,” she droned, as if speaking to someone nearby. “I’ll bet he’s got a roll of tape fer us.”
Eddie waited for the door to slam behind him before he set the garbage basket on the steps. He stretched out the stiffness in his back and let his leg and arm joints unfold in the rays of sunshine that angled between the walled alleyway. Retrieving the trash, he performed a step-hop off the landing, bounced down the remaining steps, and did a quick-step shuffle with his feet while tossing his head to each side, dodging imaginary blows. Although his moves were somewhat rusty, for a bent old man he could still dance around pretty good.
“I see ya still be pretendin’, you old codger.”Eddie smiled a kindly smile. “And you’re still diggin’ in my dumpster, buttin’ into others’ business.”
The old woman broke into a toothless grin, causing waves of wrinkled, weathered skin to buckle in its wake.
“How’s Cap’n?”
“Moved his shack from the Rio 95 bridge to I-15. Says there’s less noise there. He’s gettin’ more rest.”
“And Ritter’s bunions?”
“Still pretty bad. . . . He’s okay, though.”
Eddie drew the roll of athletic tape from his pocket along with a twenty-dollar bill. “Here’s a roll of tape and a few bucks. Maybe more of that cream will help.”
“God bless you, Eddie.” The old woman pressed the bill close to her face to determine its value.
The bygone fighter unfurled a hanky from his back pocket to wipe his nose. As he did so, the black booklet in which he kept his meticulous notes fell to the ground. He bent to pick it up. “I’m going to need all the blessings I can get if I turn the grandson in. Soon, I’m afraid, I’ll be joining you on the street.”
“Still givin’ you trouble?”
“Thinks he’s some kind’a gangster. They got something going on in the basement behind that locked door. The money’s gotta be dirty.” Eddie paused and turned to the side as though he were greeting an old friend. “And, Belle, how are you today? I wish my grandson was as well behaved as you are for your mother.”
“She’s always been a good girl–never given me a lick ‘a trouble,” the old woman chimed in, nodding in the direction of the empty alleyway. “We’ll be goin’ now. I’ll get some gauze from home and see if I can find Ritter.” The ragged woman climbed down from her milk crate and lifted it into her over-stuffed shopping cart. “Come on, Belle, we got things to do.”
Shuffling, the homeless figure jostled the squeaky cart out of the alley, all alone, mumbling to herself. Eddie reached up and dabbed at his eyes.