a work of fiction by nathan evansThe young man was counting his possessions again. Nervously organizing stacks of playing cards and covers of paperback books. His eyes find the old man staring at him with a combination of revulsion, pity and frustration. The old man spits on the ground and leans in.
"You know that your stacks of crap there ain't worth a damn thing, right?"
The young man is seemingly hit with an invisible sledge hammer. This was quickly, but not too quickly, covered up with indignation and a wrathful response.
"You can take your money and shove it where the sun don't shine! Oiiyeee! Yeah you old bastard, I'll tell you like it is!"
The old man shakes his head. He starts to reply back when it seems that he thinks better of getting into a shouting match about respect at this un-godly hour in a homeless shelter. Eleven years the old man has been coming to the First Presbyterian Shelter and Soup Kitchen. Eleven years he has been passing out wisdom to the young men who come through his kingdom. Every year he found someone to rant to about the disrespect that these young men would heap on him. Him, who had been here longer than anyone else! Him, who could find you anything you wanted, drugs, booze, women, a job, you name it. Give him three days and he would find it for you. The young man has turned back to his stacking. The old man turns slightly to talk to the person who is not there and whispers out the side of his mouth,
"Damn druggies...mind is probably fried."
The young man is the only person who hears him. He pauses in his stacking almost imperceptibly. He edges to the other side of his seat. He breathes deeply and hums. He knows that he has never touched a drug, except for the ones he was forced to take. Horse pills. They looked like misshapen birds eggs. Big and white. The young man looked down at his hands. No shaking anymore. The voices didn't leave him alone very much but at least his damn hands didn't shake so much that he couldn't hold on to a soda pop. He glanced at the old man who was now sitting back on his hands and rocking gently back and forth.
"Who the hell does he think he is?" mumbled the young man.
"Ole crack bird been here forever. Thinks he can do miracles, never shuts up about it. I'll show him though, getting my stuff together, going to make my nut."
The last phrase throws the young man back to a far off corner of his memory and of a father who incessantly spoke of making his nut. Hitting it big at the casino or finding his numbers have been called on his ticket. When this never happened, which was weekly and daily, the young man paid for it. Paid for that jackpot the father didn't win with a bottle thrown at his head or a cigarette put out on his unlucky hands. The smell of burnt skin and hair found their way into the young man's nose. The voices became slightly louder. The other people in the shelter became more muffled. The old wants and temptations came back. He eyes the old man with a fervous and cold rage. The old man looks back with a face of contempt that quickly vanishes into slight fear as he gatheres in the young man's pain and coldness. The old man's eyes narrowes and his eleven years of rule quickly stymies his fear of this young usurper.
"Don't you think of pulling anything in here, druggie. This is my place and there would be consequences. You remember who saved you. You remember who I am!"
The self doubt morphed into superiority and delusional power. Memories of the young wife and two small children rushed over him like a spray of boiling water. The thoughts almost physically hurt. He knew he was right. She was in the wrong and she deserved it, deserved what she got. Those two traitorous slags deserved it too. Didn't they understand who he was? He gave them life. He gave them food and shelter. Anything they wanted, he got it for them. Then they went and defended her. They did not stand behind he who ruled. They did not care about justice. The long ago want of punishment and retribution filled the old man like poison being injected into a vein.
The loud speaker on the wall crackles, a beyond bored and monotone voice announces that the line for breakfast may now form against the south wall. All desires are put aside as the all mighty stomach is given it's due. After oatmeal and cheap white toast has been eaten, an unassuming young man sits down at a table in the corner and starts stacking and organizing his playing cards and paperback book covers, his hands are not shaking and the voices had muffled and bowed to the real people. Across the room, an old man sits down to offer his wisdom and services to a new face in The First Presbyterian Shelter and Soup Kitchen.
