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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Character Based
- Published: 08/07/2014
A Quarter's Worth of Life
Born 1941, M, from Harvest, AL., United StatesA Quarter's Worth of Life
By
Carl Brooks
The derelict sat with one leg wadded under his almost vertical torso as he leaned against the dirty brick building. His clothes were soiled from neglect and his shoes were not a match, either in style or in size. He wore them without socks mainly because he did not know where to come by any and because socks were such a personal thing he refused to steal them as he had the shoes. It wasn't particularly difficult to find shoes to steal, due to the abundance of winos and homeless men who slept in the alleys of the neighborhood. There always seemed to be a new batch. After awhile he learned to spot the new arrivals quickly by the clothes they wore. Not that their clothes were all that new, or good, or even clean, but often they were several degrees better than the ones which he wore. Then, after the newcomers had been around awhile, and if their clothes had not been stolen, they began to look like the resident winos that scrounged and begged in that area.
The clock in the window across the street read 2:15. The derelict sat watching the second hand nervously, but accurately, twitch from one notch on its face to another. The sidewalk was hot and had been for almost three hours now, except for the small area which was covered with his body. He would wait another forty minutes, challenging the sun to disappear behind the building across the street as it had done regularly for at least the past three years. The exact time of disappearance varied each day, but he took all this into account and waited, somewhat annoyed, for it to sink.
He felt droplets form in the depressions of his eyes until they became heavy, as gravity took over and an occasional fly discovered their salt. His pale, clammy skin puffed up in an abnormal swelling which gave him the false appearance of being well fed. A thick mass of gray colored stubble ran solidly from just below his cheekbone down to where it disappeared into his frayed and stained shirt collar. The tufts of multicolored hair growing wild inside his ear cavities and the deep scar-like wrinkles in his face testified to the fifty-odd years of his life; years which had not been kind to him.
He closed his sick eyes and felt a chain reaction of sweat streaking down his cheek, which finally mingled with the moisture escaping regularly from his nostrils. This was his favorite spot. Before, when things got really rough and he couldn't squeeze a quarter out of anyone, he came here to his lucky spot. Then, things always seemed to work out. He wasn't particularly superstitious, but he couldn’t argue with results. Over and over he told himself that sooner or later someone would take pity on the disgusting sight and give him a quarter for some life-giving wine. He didn't mind thinking of himself as disgusting, for he'd lost any semblance of pride long ago. He knew what he was and what he'd become. When worse came to worse he could always count on that same guy who came by every weekday and without so much as a comment would toss a coin at him. The act seemed to cleanse the man somehow.
There was nothing complicated about it. A drink of wine and all would be good again. There was no such thing as enough. During good times he drank until he passed out, or shared what little he had with friends. In sharing his wine during times of plenty, it assured the obligation of others to also share with him during times of need. The system had been well established long before he arrived on the scene. But more and more he had spent much of the day just trying to get enough of the sweet elixir for mere survival. It was the simplest solution in the world. It's not as if he was asking for something personal, or expensive. A quarter isn't so much. Hell, most people wouldn't miss such a small amount of change. But to him... it meant everything... even life itself. He stayed out of everyone's way and didn't make a nuisance of himself, except maybe occasionally, but he couldn’t help himself. If you came right down to it, people owed him something. He could be on welfare or unemployment or something. That would cost a lot more than a lousy quarter.
He opened his eyes and tried to move the leg that was lodged under him. It was asleep, so he decided to let it be. He wasn’t going anywhere and didn’t need it anyway. The relentless pain in his stomach seemed almost unbearable and had been that way for several hours. His last drink had been almost thirty-one hours ago. He was sick. Not just queasy and uncomfortable, but the kind of sick only a junky, or alcoholic knows. Somehow, he had to have a quarter. He searched for the pain in his stomach with his hand as if he could pull it out and throw it away. The gnawing never seemed to stop, as if it were a hungry animal eating away at his guts, demanding the single nourishment it craved. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, nor did food matter to him anyway. Food wasn't what kept him alive; it just made him sicker, and always came up again. The dreaded DT's weren't far off now. They had visited him before, leaving him cowering, humbled and totally out of control. The same cycle had repeated itself over and over again in the past. He was familiar with the sequence. His film-covered eyes squinted in the face of the brilliant white circles, as he fought the sun's glare. Finally, they relented. His eyelids spasmodically twitched in protest, then closed.
He wanted to get up and beg a quarter from the next passer-by, but found he couldn't move. Then, if he could just hold out his hand and let them know he needed a quarter. He managed to force his right hand from the sidewalk and laid it on his knee, displaying its dirty, empty palm. Now... someone would see his hand open and put a quarter in it… they had to. He waited for someone to come along and help him; help the dirty old man who couldn't help himself. He needed help. He wanted to cry out for help… shout it... but no audible sound came from his swollen, drooling, mouth.
His eyes began flickering more violently as he fought to keep them from rolling up inside his head. He couldn't keep them open, but the salty sweat found them anyway. In a way, he welcomed the burning pain. The pain he felt was his only clue that he was still alive and not in hell. A car-door slammed in the distance, then, he heard footsteps. “I'm here! Can't you see me!” he mumbled.
“Probably a woman,” the old man said to himself. They won't give you anything. Men seemed to understand another man's need and help him. After all, from where they are to where this derelict is, isn't that far of a fall. That one guy, he remembered, stared at him for a long time. Then, he crumpled up a twenty dollar bill, threw it at him before hurrying away.
The old man tried to look at the clock across the street. Fifteen more minutes to go and everything would be alright again. He never got anything while the sun was shining… nothing. Maybe the shadows made people feel better, or more generous, or… something. Maybe it was as simple as that he presented a more pitiful picture of humanity when he was in the shadows; the shadows, where he belonged. He didn’t care about the reasons. He only wanted results… a measly quarter. Pretty soon the sun would disappear behind the building and he could blend in with the other shadows.
“My God! For a lousy quarter.”
His hand had fallen off his knee and shook spasmodically on the hot sidewalk. The mumbling grunts escaping from his mouth made no sense anymore… to anyone… not even himself. He'd lost all control. Urine soaked his already sweat-stained trousers as he became almost child-like with the shame of it. Cramps and spasms racked his neglected body and tortured his brain. Tears streamed down his face and he was powerless to do anything about it. Just a few minutes more and it would all be over. He'd have his quarter... his life giving wine. The clock ticked away the precious, damning seconds. Just a quarter… such a little thing to keep him alive... to restore his sanity... to give him some semblance of control again. He strained to see the clock, but his eyes saw nothing. He could no longer feel the sun’s warmth so he decided it must be behind the building. He'd made it. Saliva streamed from the corners of his mouth as his body toppled over onto the sidewalk. His voice trailed off in incoherence, as his lips formed the name of someone who, perhaps, he'd known long ago in another life. Bright colors and distorted animations ran through his mind. He didn’t hear the quarter clank on the sidewalk beside him.
The End
A Quarter's Worth of Life(Carl Brooks)
A Quarter's Worth of Life
By
Carl Brooks
The derelict sat with one leg wadded under his almost vertical torso as he leaned against the dirty brick building. His clothes were soiled from neglect and his shoes were not a match, either in style or in size. He wore them without socks mainly because he did not know where to come by any and because socks were such a personal thing he refused to steal them as he had the shoes. It wasn't particularly difficult to find shoes to steal, due to the abundance of winos and homeless men who slept in the alleys of the neighborhood. There always seemed to be a new batch. After awhile he learned to spot the new arrivals quickly by the clothes they wore. Not that their clothes were all that new, or good, or even clean, but often they were several degrees better than the ones which he wore. Then, after the newcomers had been around awhile, and if their clothes had not been stolen, they began to look like the resident winos that scrounged and begged in that area.
The clock in the window across the street read 2:15. The derelict sat watching the second hand nervously, but accurately, twitch from one notch on its face to another. The sidewalk was hot and had been for almost three hours now, except for the small area which was covered with his body. He would wait another forty minutes, challenging the sun to disappear behind the building across the street as it had done regularly for at least the past three years. The exact time of disappearance varied each day, but he took all this into account and waited, somewhat annoyed, for it to sink.
He felt droplets form in the depressions of his eyes until they became heavy, as gravity took over and an occasional fly discovered their salt. His pale, clammy skin puffed up in an abnormal swelling which gave him the false appearance of being well fed. A thick mass of gray colored stubble ran solidly from just below his cheekbone down to where it disappeared into his frayed and stained shirt collar. The tufts of multicolored hair growing wild inside his ear cavities and the deep scar-like wrinkles in his face testified to the fifty-odd years of his life; years which had not been kind to him.
He closed his sick eyes and felt a chain reaction of sweat streaking down his cheek, which finally mingled with the moisture escaping regularly from his nostrils. This was his favorite spot. Before, when things got really rough and he couldn't squeeze a quarter out of anyone, he came here to his lucky spot. Then, things always seemed to work out. He wasn't particularly superstitious, but he couldn’t argue with results. Over and over he told himself that sooner or later someone would take pity on the disgusting sight and give him a quarter for some life-giving wine. He didn't mind thinking of himself as disgusting, for he'd lost any semblance of pride long ago. He knew what he was and what he'd become. When worse came to worse he could always count on that same guy who came by every weekday and without so much as a comment would toss a coin at him. The act seemed to cleanse the man somehow.
There was nothing complicated about it. A drink of wine and all would be good again. There was no such thing as enough. During good times he drank until he passed out, or shared what little he had with friends. In sharing his wine during times of plenty, it assured the obligation of others to also share with him during times of need. The system had been well established long before he arrived on the scene. But more and more he had spent much of the day just trying to get enough of the sweet elixir for mere survival. It was the simplest solution in the world. It's not as if he was asking for something personal, or expensive. A quarter isn't so much. Hell, most people wouldn't miss such a small amount of change. But to him... it meant everything... even life itself. He stayed out of everyone's way and didn't make a nuisance of himself, except maybe occasionally, but he couldn’t help himself. If you came right down to it, people owed him something. He could be on welfare or unemployment or something. That would cost a lot more than a lousy quarter.
He opened his eyes and tried to move the leg that was lodged under him. It was asleep, so he decided to let it be. He wasn’t going anywhere and didn’t need it anyway. The relentless pain in his stomach seemed almost unbearable and had been that way for several hours. His last drink had been almost thirty-one hours ago. He was sick. Not just queasy and uncomfortable, but the kind of sick only a junky, or alcoholic knows. Somehow, he had to have a quarter. He searched for the pain in his stomach with his hand as if he could pull it out and throw it away. The gnawing never seemed to stop, as if it were a hungry animal eating away at his guts, demanding the single nourishment it craved. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, nor did food matter to him anyway. Food wasn't what kept him alive; it just made him sicker, and always came up again. The dreaded DT's weren't far off now. They had visited him before, leaving him cowering, humbled and totally out of control. The same cycle had repeated itself over and over again in the past. He was familiar with the sequence. His film-covered eyes squinted in the face of the brilliant white circles, as he fought the sun's glare. Finally, they relented. His eyelids spasmodically twitched in protest, then closed.
He wanted to get up and beg a quarter from the next passer-by, but found he couldn't move. Then, if he could just hold out his hand and let them know he needed a quarter. He managed to force his right hand from the sidewalk and laid it on his knee, displaying its dirty, empty palm. Now... someone would see his hand open and put a quarter in it… they had to. He waited for someone to come along and help him; help the dirty old man who couldn't help himself. He needed help. He wanted to cry out for help… shout it... but no audible sound came from his swollen, drooling, mouth.
His eyes began flickering more violently as he fought to keep them from rolling up inside his head. He couldn't keep them open, but the salty sweat found them anyway. In a way, he welcomed the burning pain. The pain he felt was his only clue that he was still alive and not in hell. A car-door slammed in the distance, then, he heard footsteps. “I'm here! Can't you see me!” he mumbled.
“Probably a woman,” the old man said to himself. They won't give you anything. Men seemed to understand another man's need and help him. After all, from where they are to where this derelict is, isn't that far of a fall. That one guy, he remembered, stared at him for a long time. Then, he crumpled up a twenty dollar bill, threw it at him before hurrying away.
The old man tried to look at the clock across the street. Fifteen more minutes to go and everything would be alright again. He never got anything while the sun was shining… nothing. Maybe the shadows made people feel better, or more generous, or… something. Maybe it was as simple as that he presented a more pitiful picture of humanity when he was in the shadows; the shadows, where he belonged. He didn’t care about the reasons. He only wanted results… a measly quarter. Pretty soon the sun would disappear behind the building and he could blend in with the other shadows.
“My God! For a lousy quarter.”
His hand had fallen off his knee and shook spasmodically on the hot sidewalk. The mumbling grunts escaping from his mouth made no sense anymore… to anyone… not even himself. He'd lost all control. Urine soaked his already sweat-stained trousers as he became almost child-like with the shame of it. Cramps and spasms racked his neglected body and tortured his brain. Tears streamed down his face and he was powerless to do anything about it. Just a few minutes more and it would all be over. He'd have his quarter... his life giving wine. The clock ticked away the precious, damning seconds. Just a quarter… such a little thing to keep him alive... to restore his sanity... to give him some semblance of control again. He strained to see the clock, but his eyes saw nothing. He could no longer feel the sun’s warmth so he decided it must be behind the building. He'd made it. Saliva streamed from the corners of his mouth as his body toppled over onto the sidewalk. His voice trailed off in incoherence, as his lips formed the name of someone who, perhaps, he'd known long ago in another life. Bright colors and distorted animations ran through his mind. He didn’t hear the quarter clank on the sidewalk beside him.
The End
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