(Fake) Homeless

So today was our last day of talking about The Grapes of Wrath in my American Literature class. I tried really hard to pay attention, but once again my thoughts began to wander. So I wrote this little piece in response to a question me and my friend Jaimie had about my first Homeless piece. Enjoy...

I stand at the base of the off-ramp, perched on my little concrete island. A dark, shabby man…I’m dirty but not so filthy that you can’t still see yourself in me. My clothes are dirty and ill fitting—but I’m not wearing rags. I’m not the ghost of humanity…I guess I’m closer to a zombie of Western civilization. The non-living and undead. I stand there, clutching a neatly printed lie:

“Homeless Vet
Please Help $
God Bless”

I invoke God and country in a clear, calculated bit of manipulation. I’ve never even been a Boy Scout…let alone the military. Despite my meek, beaten down visage…I wage an aggressive assault on your morality. I pray on your guilt and fear. Fear that someday you too will be poor and desperate. A little spare change buys you some peace of mind…and me some booze. People accuse me of being useless—but that’s really not true. I provide a very important service. I contribute heavily to modern society. I’m like a garbage man, hauling away all your unwanted feelings of guilt, remorse, and sympathy. I remove the burnt ends of your conscience.

I own a beat up Ford truck and live in a rundown apartment. I struggled for years against the current, back when I was younger. The drinking took away my job and I was left looking for work. I got hungry, so I did what comes natural to a starving person—I begged. It was difficult and shameful. Eventually, over time…it became a little easier. I spiraled downward into this life. It became my job while I was between jobs.

Now it’s my life and livelihood. I’ve given up trying to keep my head above the water. I’ve let myself sink below the water. Not that what I do is easy, far from it. I stand for six, sometimes seven hours a day. The summers are long and hot. The winters are short and cold. Rain pelts my shoulders and face, chipping away at my features. Like any salesman, I hear the word “no” all day long. Rejection is the name of the game. So is physical violence. Some people, they see me and get angry. For some, it’s because they can tell that I’m not really destitute. Others however, lash out because they are frightened. They’re scared that what they are seeing could one day be them. I’ve been punched, slapped, kicked, scratched, and spit on. Hell, one lady even pulled my hair. The police harass me daily. This is a hard job, and make no mistake…a job is what it is.

We all pretend to be something we’re not. You pretend to be an honest, hard working person…I’ll pretend to be worse off than I am. Be sure you understand the distinction that I’m making; I’m not pretending to be poor—because I am. No one gets rich begging for spare change.

Sometimes, early in the morning I watch the sun rise over the city. I think about those massive columns of steel and glass. Man sure is capable of great, mighty things. When I was young, I remember when those men went up and touched the moon. It’s hard for me to wrap my brain around the fact that nothing separates men who touch the moon…and men who wear rags begging for money. There’s a devil that sits on my shoulder…sometimes I hear him whispering. Whispering about how hard life is, and about how I’m trapped here by this off-ramp. I can’t see a future or a past. Not just for myself, but for anyone. Everyone. “People are really just animals,” I hear my little devil say. “All of this crap is really just pointless. You’ll die and be forgotten just like I will be forgotten. Maybe those astronauts who touched the moon will be remembered as long as people exist…but someday there won’t be any people. Someday the last man will die. Then we’ll all be forgotten, and it won’t matter who you were or what you did. We’ll all be equals in the eyes of decay and time. So why even try?”

That’s the question I asked myself. I answer I came up with is this life. This lie.

“Hey buddy, can you spare some change?”

Maybe you’ll buy some of my lie. Maybe you won’t. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. The sun sets and my days over. I walk back to my truck and drive home. Tomorrow I will get up and ask you for your money again.