Black Ice
Summer 2006
Three basic types of people walked by my spot on the sidewalk: the blind, the deaf, and the dumb.
The blind walked by as if they couldn't even see me. I'd be sitting there against the building in layers of mismatched dirty clothes, my cardboard "Anything Helps – God Bless You" sign boldly printed, hair frizzed into cumulonimbus formation, thanks to the South Texas humidity, and a bright red shoebox for donations on the concrete at my hip. I wasn't exactly blending into the sea of humanity.
Now the deaf, they weren't so bad. They'd at least acknowledge my existence; most would toss in some change before heading back into the flow of worker ants. They'd done their good deed for the day, tossed some alms into the box of the whacked-out broad living on the street.
It was the dumb I could have lived without. They tried to talk to me, to build some sort of relationship, as if I'd make a good fourth for bridge or a colorful addition to the family picnic.
This is really simple, folks. Leave the change. Go to work. Come back with more change tomorrow.
I'd even gotten job offers while sitting there, barely able to lift my head from my most recent binge. Tragic. And me without my resume on hand. I fought my desire to properly respond to the offers to clean office toilets or drop by for some light yard work, wheel barrowing hundreds of pounds of sand for little Ricky's playground. "Gee, I'd love to come to work for you," I'd say, tucking the offered business cards into my ripped pants pocket, "but currently I am completing my thesis on transcendental meditation in an outdoor urban poverty setting with the aid of chemical deadening agents. Please leave a message at the tone, and I'll get right back to you once I reach an appropriate state of consciousness."
By far the absolute worst were the people who had all the answers in the form of a big black book featuring, among the stoned-to-death whores and half-blind thieves with one hand, a dead guy who was tortured before they nailed him to a cross. Seriously? I'll pass, thanks.
It had taken me a year of living on the street to score a good spot to "work." I found a place nestled between security goons in the commercial district. The security boys were on pretty tight leashes around here and, like the well-trained bulldogs they were, stayed in their defined yards. They wouldn't take more than five steps outside their established perimeters, no matter how you dressed or how bad the smell. Even the cops bypassed this street; they had better pickings down on Commerce and Houston, as well as the all-important tourist traffic to protect. But it was my little homeless oasis.
I had nodded out shortly after the lunch crowd scattered back to their cubbies and piles of paperwork. When I woke back up, hours had slipped away. The traffic had slowed and the limestone on the building I was resting against had turned a faint pink in the fading light. I was lucky I hadn't gotten kicked out. The compassionate politicians at city hall outlawed sleeping on the street years ago, giving cops the legal excuse they needed to roust people like me out—effectively, destroying the proud Latin tradition of the afternoon siesta. It would be just a matter of time before they'd start watering down the margaritas, removing hydraulics from the low riders, and banning breakfast tacos.
The sun dipped behind the bank building in front of me. Great. I had slept through rush hour. That had undoubtedly cut down my profit margin. People always gave more to conscious beggars. When you make eye contact, you connect with those who respond out of a relentless societal guilt (I have so much . . .), although you can usually still score with those who toss you money as a way to stave off bad luck (there but for the grace of God . . .). Bottom line: if you're sleeping, you lose a good two-thirds of your take. Not to mention exponentially increasing your chances of getting ripped off.
Time to get inside. I had learned quickly that on the streets, unless you were interested in a career in the world's oldest profession, the streets at night were no place for a woman. Frankly, I didn't have the shoes for the job. Or the back. Or the attitude.
So I headed for a shelter. On that particular day, I decided the Angels of Mercy was my best bet. They weren't very busy in the summer. Most "streeties" tended to set up an outdoor camp in good weather. Not me, though. I hated sleeping on the street in the South Texas heat. It was like sleeping on a fast food grill during the lunch rush. Greasy, hot, and noisy.
I grabbed my donation box, replacing the top snugly. Today's collection, facilitated by Nike. Me and Tiger. Swoosh. Pulling out my deluxe grocery store plastic suitcase, a.k.a. the bag from behind the trashcan in the alley, I tried to ignore the rhythmic pounding in my head. It was a long walk to the Angels of Mercy, but I made it before Venus became visible in the darkening sky. I pushed through the doors of the shelter, and headed to the check-in table.
Her name tag said Celia and she was one of those shelter intake volunteers who'd clearly gotten past giving a damn. No trace of a smile, not even a fake one. We'd burned her out already. Of course, it didn't take much. Volunteers poured in there and other places like this to help the less fortunate, but from what I'd seen, most streeties didn't really want the help these people wanted to give. These volunteers were determined to help "turn your life around." They couldn't begin to understand why we were there, that we'd had our lives turned around by forces bigger and more powerful than anyone in a plastic covered name tag could comprehend. Plenty of the streeties were like me—we wanted to be left alone so we could sleep off the numbing agent of our choice, then we'd work on scoring enough cash to head back to our own private oblivion the next day.
Celia's red-tipped nails drummed on the sheet as she checked where I signed in. "Okay. Carl is it?"
I was having a bad hair day, apparently. "Carol," I corrected.
"Right. Whatever. Here are the rules." She pointed to each rule on the sheet as if I was supposed to read along with her. "There's no using the shower after ten. One person per bunk. If you need another blanket, ask one of the volunteers and they'll get you one. Bathrooms are in the back." She plunked down a plastic bag on the table and pushed it toward me with her pencil, determined to avoid any possibility that we might come into physical contact. "We've got some complimentary personal hygiene bags with shampoo, toothpaste . . ."
"Wow. Is this the Holiday Inn?" I joked. "I must be lost."
She went on as if I hadn't said a thing. Tough crowd.
"We've got the phone over there, and everyone gets a free five-minute local call. Any questions?"
She was already looking over my shoulder at the next bag lady behind me, ready to move on from our invigorating conversation. Celia would make a great politician someday. Or short-order cook.
I tilted my head, considering an appropriate response. "Well," I said, smiling, "most of mine are existential questions, Cecil. But I can see you're busy, so maybe you can stop by my bunk later. We can stay up and discuss the meaning of the universe." She looked adequately horrified as I grabbed my bag and moved on.
The Angels of Mercy was sort of an industrial-warehouse-meets-rundown-dormitory type of shelter. Outside of the main room were the sleeping quarters, divided for men, women, and families. In the small room for women was a scattering of mismatched nightstands alongside beds that were little more than cots. Thin blankets stretched over the beds, barely concealing the mattress lumps that would wake you up in the middle of the night, digging into your lower back with the finesse of a pro wrestler. Still, compared to sleeping outside on the sidewalk with my grocery bag of possessions acting as a pillow, the Angels of Mercy was practically the Ritz.
I headed over to a cot nearest the window. There was a bag on it already from a competing grocery store, overflowing with dirty white socks. Squatter. I preferred to see the streetlights when I fell asleep; this cot had the brightest light shining through a grimy window. I had come to consider it my cot. And while the rules are that this is an emergency shelter, and you can't become a long-term visitor, there was a group of us regulars who made it to one of the city's few shelters nearly every night. Usually my cot is open since not too many streeties like the light in their eyes, but some woman with a dirty sock fetish had beaten me to it. Since I wasn't about to move that bag, I flopped down on the dark cot, one over from the comforting pool of light. I wasn't looking forward to meeting the owner of those socks. Next trip out I'd pick up a permanent marker and scrawl my name on the nightstand.
Sighing, I lifted the top off my donation shoebox and started sorting the day's take. A good bit of folding money, lots of quarters, pennies, matches. What the hell? Some jerk dropped his matches in my box. Granted, I drank my way to oblivion daily, but I never smoked. It cut into the booze money. Under the fluorescents, the matchbook was shiny, the logo of a high-end restaurant on the Riverwalk gleaming back at me. It looked brand new. I opened it up.
A phone number was scrawled in heavily slanted, thick, black ink on the white cardboard flap. I was about to toss it, then stopped. Wouldn't it be a trip to thank the guy who tossed these in? He probably gave me a buck or two.
No, of course not, I thought, it wouldn't be the number of someone who tossed in some cash. Why would somebody write their own number on a matchbook?
I looked at the number again. Something about it drew me in. The thick lines, the way they slanted to the right. The number reminded me of something, something that felt important, but I'd be damned if I knew what.
What the heck, I had a free five-minute call and nothing pending on tonight's social calendar. I stuffed my grocery bag-slash-suitcase under the cot, mussing up the blankets so it was clear I'd claimed the spot; then pocketed the day's take, grabbed the matchbook, and headed over to the phone.
I waited my turn behind a strung-out girl who stared vacantly and nodded, holding the phone with one hand while chewing on her thumbnail until it bled. I could hear the voice on the other end, rising and falling. Begging, getting angry, going quiet. Through it all, the girl chewed on, never changing her expression until she hung up suddenly and scurried away.
I brushed a few stray cuticles off the chair, picked up the phone, and dialed giddily, like I was about to pull a prank on someone. Maybe I would just breathe heavily and hang up. I almost started to laugh out loud when a deep voice picked up on the line.
"Carol? Is that you?"
I felt the darkness rise from the floor and knife into the souls of my feet, turning my legs to ice.
“Listen, Carol. It’s about Ella. I know what happened. Do you hear me? I can tell you what really happened to her."
The black ice rose over my legs and through my pelvis, and on upward until it covered my breasts, and it was all I could do to reach out and hang up the phone.