Time Didn’t Fly

A constant rumble from the wheels of my luggage echoed coarsely off of the monolithic inner-city buildings. It was around 3AM, cold and chilly, and, despite the many city lights’ valiant efforts, dark and foreboding like your grandfather’s once un-neglected tool shed. I was headed for a Denny’s to seek shelter until morning when the light of the sun would keep the city’s sinister citizens at bay. The heebie-jeebies made progress swift.

I was pulling an overstuffed rolling luggage case along with two bags slung on either side; one, duffel-sized and similarly bursting at the seams like an obese girl’s pants; the other a smaller carry-on; and finally a backpack to complete my armor. Were I geared up for tackling practice I might have been in better spirits --- as it stood, or in this case hobbled, I felt more like a draft animal amidst a concrete plantation.

The further I progressed, heavy bags slapping my sides at every other step and rolling case roaring like Niagara Falls, the more lost I felt. The directions I had been hastily bestowed before being kicked out of the Greyhound station proper (apparently, they could no more allow me sanctuary whilst I waited on my airplane carriage to arrive at the nearby port than they could to any of the hundreds of bums walking the night’s streets) were in city-distances, meaning I had to square them up to realistic distances. I was, after all, used to living in a small town in Arkansas for the better part of my life, which doesn’t prepare one at all for the likes of Sacramento. At this point I was only trying to get home to the corn bread and fifteen minute car rides to anywhere in town.

I was well exhausted from the day already and the baggage seemed to grow heavier at every street crossing --- which, by the way, after the fourth or fifth one without a Denny’s in sight I figured a block in city-terms meant seven miles. Street lights blinked silently from red to green, trading colors back and forth in their careful, rhythmic pattern. I had to stop to catch my breath; the thought of gasping icy air in an uncertain locale not outweighing my need to set my luggage down for a moment, I chose a bus stop enclosure. I kept my bags on and the rolling case between my legs, giving me a pleasant yet hollow sense of security.

An entire city of 400,000 seemed barren all the while going, yet not 30 seconds after I stop did I notice one of them. He was garbed in drab, dark fleece and well-worn jackets with frayed edges, the kind you see at the Salvation Army for years that nobody ever buys. At his side he carried a long... something, wrapped in black material, a dreadful vade mecum that seemed to complete his ominous air.

I prayed he would not see me.

At first he was headed in a direction perpendicular to mine, but, sensing prey or money (or both), veered off course, feigning an attempt at coincidental. He was soon upon my three-sided windowed enclosure, moving swiftly in the cold December night air, disturbing the stillness with gusts of foggy breath and our norms with habitual trash bin inspections. His dark eyes seemed glassy yet scrutinizing as he approached, graying stubble against dark skin mirroring wildly unkempt hair.

“Cooooold night.”

His voice came roughly yet earnestly. He unsheathed a fold up nylon camping stool from the black material and promptly, with new weariness, took a seat on it, sitting parallel to me now with the same dreary view of the night city before us. Light from a nearby post directly behind him from my point of view silhouetted his figure such that details were even sketchier up close; he appeared to be a middle-aged African American man with, thankfully, no obvious signs of intoxication (enough college parties had given me a good eye for that sort of thing.) I was still unsure of what to say, let alone do, when he continued, uncaring of my thus far reticence.

“Cold night, indeed.”

Apparently, the confirmation to himself of the current temperature was profound enough to stand on its own. He even rubbed his wool-gloved hands together for emphasis.

“Think I could borrow a few cents to buy a hot cup of coffee?”

And thus the revealing link; the focal point of his weather talk. Now came one of the many times in everybody’s life where you are offered a chance to be a good, selfless citizen, to which each of us invariably chucks aside like wrapping paper on the big bowed present of life.

“Sorry man, I don’t have any change.”

In my own defense, this was the truth. The only reason I was out there on that cold and lonely night sitting under a hardly protective bus stop overhang engulfed in luggage next to this pauper was precisely because of this truth. When I arrived at the Greyhound, I discovered I had no money and could not afford transportation to the airport. After several hours of hanky-panky with the customer service lady at the desk (a heavyset middle-aged woman who reminded me of that “I’ve given up on being nice to the world anymore” stereotype) to arrange for a specific taxi or shuttle service that accepted credit cards it was too late, my plane had left, and there would not be another until 6AM.

I hoped that my eyes would tell him all of this so that he would know that I wasn’t just another one of those “well, gosh darned it, wouldn’t you know it --- I left my wallet at home!” types that smiled sweetly only to later to tell all of their friends that some filthy guy rudely accosted them. You don’t understand, sir, I’m not one of those people. Honest!

His eyes crashed to the ground and then picked themselves back up to look distantly at the view before us. As ashamed as I felt, though I wondered why as I really was telling the truth, I couldn’t help wishing he would just leave. And so he did, packing back up his little fold-out stool, ambling along with less fervor than previously, until he was lost amidst the commercial towers. I had been too afraid of pressing onward until he was well away, still fearful that at any moment he would turn around and rush back towards me, knife brandished in feature-length Psycho fashion, maybe even a banshee battle cry for truly good theatrical measure.

He never did.

Instead my hesitance cost me yet another choice encounter, this time completely by surprise. I was still looking in the direction that the first one had left (the same direction I needed to go) when I heard movement and a decidedly different voice.

“Hey, how’s it goin’.”

Jerking my head to the left and then worrying that it would look too much like he had startled me, even if he really had, I saw the next contestant for the night. He approached the stage with so much more zest than the first I’m still to this day surprised he didn’t attempt to shake my hand and ask if I had found a really good long-distance plan yet. He learned better from his long history of scaring away marks by doing that --- it sure as hell wasn’t his natural ability to exude creepy or anything.

This guy looked like a former hippy from the 70ies: same hairstyle but sans tie-dye and headband, though his clothing, mismatched, grimy, and spotted with sweat stains as it was, still hinted strongly of those ephemeral yet halcyon days of yore. He wasted no time in confirming my doubts by launching headfirst into a rant about various corrupt organizations, the only two of which I remember distinctly to this day were the government (that pithy big “G” gets thrown around a lot doesn’t it?) and the Catholic Church. I regret that most of his extensive dialogue escapes me in detail now, for it was the longest two-minute discussion about the doomed-and-denying-it ecclesiastical once-monopoly of my life. If I had at all been wary of the first guy, this one seemed ready to divulge military secrets as well as whatever it was he had been experimenting with to escape the cold and lonely of being homeless to me before getting really irate over those awful deacons --- did you know they slept with little boys? --- and enacting righteous anger upon my unsaved ass. Oh, and he would treat himself to the clothing in my bags for the Good Lord would not want his just knight dressed in spotted rags. But what am I saying; I didn’t really think this guy was all that religious from his talk. I just knew I wanted to be home where it was warm and safe from people desperate for someone to talk to.

And so, when the bomb finally dropped, and he asked the inevitable, I was shocked. Not because I hadn’t expected it, but because I hadn’t expected it then.

“Yeah man... the Catholic Church, it’s just... just all going to hell... can’t trust any of ‘em anymore. Hey you got a dollar I could borrow?”

He too I had to tell no, and it was now as he too walked away defeated that I felt the burn of abashment. For I knew that it was every bit as much as my fault as society’s for driving them into such a state as to have to spend several minutes discussing the Catholic Church’s recent corruption with a complete stranger and obvious traveler to get even a morsel in their stomach. Or was it? Was I really to blame for either of their misfortunes? Every man is master of his domain --- the buck stops here. Right?

As I continued along down the endless blocks to my haven and destination till morning I kept reflecting on the moments I had spent just minutes prior and feeling guilty. I would not really know why until much later, when I would help a struggling custodian with some heavy boxes and my fiancée would squeeze my arm as we walked away, looking up at me with glowing eyes and tell me how proud she was to have such a goodhearted groom-to-be. I wanted to be that guy, the one who gave the hobo the dollar which got him that cup of coffee which gave him the strength to ask for that job the following day and got him back on his feet. I wanted to be that subtle miracle-man, to be looked up to, respected, revered even, but modestly of course.

And it would be then that I would realize that I was really the beggar, that it was me walking down those barren sidewalks defeated and denied. I had rejected the barter --- cash for self-esteem, straight. We live in a world where pocket change can get you coffee or, if you prefer, confirmation of character. The paradox of selfishly wanting to be selfless was what really troubled my thoughts that night, not that a couple of guys had talked to me in a less than comfortable situation.

Finally finding the Denny’s sign in the distance, that shining beacon of hope as I crossed yet another block, I quickened my pace. Rolling and hoofing up to the glass door, already wafted in warmth and the smell of restaurant kitchen, I entered and allowed a moment’s breath to ease my aching shoulders.

“Hi, welcome to Denny’s.”

Booth for one. Menu.

Drink?

Coffee, of course.

-- Written in late 2006 for another writing class. I rather liked how it turned out. Very autobiographical, but spiced up a bit for added flavor. The title is terrible, but I never could think of anything better. Oh well. --