Chapter 12
James and his duffle bag returned to the clearing he’d created in the greenbelt off Aurora near Green Lake. This put him in walking distance of a nearby food pantry and donation center where clothes and shoes, new and used, were doled out to the needy. Over the next couple of weeks, he learned the fine art of bathroom surfing. Because clerks at local supermarkets, convenience stores and gas stations saw him intermittently, he made sure to only use their bathrooms no more than once per week, less he face a permanent ban of the facilities. Using wet paper towels, he learned how to give himself a one minute “shower,” a quick washing of his face, back and nether parts without drawing attention to himself. In the early mornings when it wasn’t cold outside, he actually stripped naked and jumped headfirst into lawn sprinklers, beating the early birds to the punch. Out of necessity, most of his activities occurred during the night. With fewer eyes upon him, he somehow felt more relaxed. Often standing in the shadows of buildings and trees, his company was mainly the passing police cars and taxis, all relentlessly plying their trade throughout the quiet nights.
As winter drew closer, he began feeling the nip and chill permeating the air. Rummaging through the bins at a thrift store one day, he secured a few blankets for himself just before the rush of other campers stampeded in. In his greenbelt space, he created a tent of blankets and towels. Because the clearing was thickly covered by intertwining branches and leaves, nary a drop of water fell on him when it rained. When it did rain, he’d sit lotus-style in his protected perch gazing out across the half-developed frontier. Through the mist, he’d see a shimmer just above the trees, like an invisible hand waving the fog around. He watched as cars, trucks and buses drove past in the distance, evenly splashing water with orchestral cadence and rhythmic precision. He gazed as birds flew for cover in the treetops, or darted from foliage to foliage in their quest for some protection from the elements. To help him pass the time, he created sketches of all that he saw; but the colder it got, the more difficult it became to handle his pencils.
If sleeping was the difficult part, then dreaming was its unbearable outcome. During the night, caught midway between being awake and asleep, he swore there were long-tailed animals climbing up and down the trees surrounding him. At times, they’d leap from tree to tree like flying squirrels. Even in the relative darkness these were no squirrels but light-colored, fullbodied mongoose-like beasts the size of bobcats. This kept on all through the night so that by morning time he thought he must’ve been scratched by at least one of them.
Getting up, he checked his body - no signs of bleeding, no visible scars anywhere. Gathering his belongings, he trudged down towards the John Calvin House. An hour later, he smiled lightly as it came into view. It’d been months since he’d laid eyes upon it, but like a beacon in the dark, it was a most welcome sight.
Walking onto the porch, he knocked on the door. Seconds later, a man he’d never seen before answered.
“Yes,” the bearded, heavyset man stated.
“Is Brother home?” James asked.
“Not at the moment. Can I help you?”
“No. I’ll be back later.” He turned to leave.
“You’re Commoner, aren’t you?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
“You have some mail. I’ll go get it.”
Commoner waited while the stranger went inside. Seconds later, he reappeared with Kyd.
“Hey, Commoner!” Kyd greeted him. “Long time no see.”
“Hi,” the young man waved.
“Do you want something to eat?” Kyd asked. “Are you hungry?”
“Not right now. Are any of my pills still around?”
“Sorry,” Kyd replied. “All your stuff is gone. Have you met Ingemar?” Commoner waved hello to the new man who then handed Commoner his mail.
“Sorry about everything,” Ingemar apologized.
“He has your old room,” Kyd explained.
“I guess all the rooms are taken, huh?” Commoner supposed.
“Yeah,” Kyd answered. “Fills up quickly, especially during the winter. How are you holding up? Have you got a place?”
“I’m still looking.”
“Maybe you should give Marion a call later,” Kyd suggested. “There may be openings somewhere else we might not know about.”
“Sounds good.”
Commoner picked up his duffle bag and looked at Ingemar. “It was nice meeting you.”
“Same here.”
The ex-airman then turned to Kyd. “Tell the others I said hi and I’m doing okay.”
Kyd saluted him. “Come by anytime you feel like. The guys miss you.”
Commoner nodded then turned and left.
Sitting at a bus stop up the road, he quickly went through his mail. One of them was from the Department of Social Services. Opening it, he saw an appointment had been made for him to be interviewed for public assistance. Unsure of what day it was, he asked a passing stranger.
“Monday, December the twelfth all day,” the stranger answered.
Commoner thanked him and sighed as the date and time for his appointment was December 13 at 10am. He then turned back to the stranger.
“Um,” he asked, “can I ask you something?”
“Go ahead.”
“Where can people get free meds around here? I need a doctor.”
“Well,” the stranger answered, “there’s a low-income clinic just off North 45th St.”
“Thanks,” Commoner said.
Walking up North 45th St. nearly an hour later, he asked several passersby for the clinic’s location. A few of them didn’t know but a mother pushing twins in a pram did. Minutes later, he entered the facility and stood in line to see a clerk.
Standing in the long line in front of him were about 20 people. Looking over, he could see all three clerks were busy writing things down or speaking to the clients. The waiting room itself, though small, contained approximately 20 people sitting in chairs waiting to be called. Some were reading, others just staring into space as if hypnotized. Occasionally, young children would go zipping through the legs of standees as their mothers chased them. After 30 minutes, Commoner finally reached the top of the line.
“Yes?” the frustrated clerk asked dryly.
“I need to see a doctor,” he told her.
“Are you registered here?”
“No.”
“Here…” she said, handing him a clipboard with several papers of different sizes and colors were attached.
“Read this first,” she uttered flipping the pages, “then sign here, fill this up all the way to this line, then sign here, sign here, sign here, read these instructions, fill this one up and don’t forget the back, if you agree to this one sign here, and this one you keep for your records.”
Taking the intimidating cache of forms, he removed a pen from a cup on the counter and sat down. By his estimate there must’ve been at least 12 pieces of paper with countless places to sign. Staring at the first sheet he had a nervous tic in both arms. Some of the instructions, he thought, were written in print that was either too small or too convoluted for his troubled mind to attempt to decipher at that time. Minutes later he was walking down North 45th Street with his untouched application still sitting on his seat.
That evening, he went downtown to see if a cold weather shelter was open. Standing in a queue with his duffle bag strapped around his back, he dreamed about standing in a hot shower and maybe even throwing back a pint or two of spiked eggnog. Nearly fifty men were in line waiting to be registered for a cot. Some were milling about outside the center looking as lost as a crocus in a coalmine. Occasionally, homeless men would bend down and pick up nearly-finished cigarettes, hoping to coax a last drag out of them.
Biding his time, he heard a commotion near the front of the line. Leaning to catch a glimpse, he saw two men pushing each other, no doubt arguing over which one of them was next in line. Th
en, standing just behind the restless duo, he spotted Drew. Although he was bearded and haggard, there was no doubt in his mind it was his former floor mate. Commoner rubbed his chin. Once inside the facility he was sure he’d run into Drew, a meeting he was trying to avoid. Moments later, Drew entered the self-help center. Commoner stepped out of the line and walked away. He spent the rest of the night in nearby Chinatown, nodding off in parks, between dumpsters in alleys and on a staircase behind a Vietnamese restaurant where the exhaust from the oven kept him as warm as Linus’s ever-present blanket.