I just couldn't catch a break that day. First I'd got up early, and made it down to the day labor office by five in the morning, waited four hours, but never got called. That seemed to be happening all too often these days, and money was in especially short supply. Then I discovered that I had somehow lost the pack of cigarettes I'd had in my shirt pocket, along with my bus fare, which was tucked inside the cellophane wrapper.
It was a frigid January day, but I didn't mind the four-mile walk home as much as I minded not having my smokes. Whenever all else fail me, cigarettes offered me solace.
The sky above had the light gray cast of deep winter. There was no wind, and my breath lingered in the cool air in jolly wisps. My boots crunched over the snow that had been trodden solid in front of the small stores whose owners failed to shovel and salt. The green field jacket I was wearing, less winter lining, was barely enough to keep me warm, but only if I kept moving.
Before I had traveled two blocks, I was in the midst of a major nicotine fit. It was maddening: I had only worked six shifts in the past month, at home my refrigerator was bare and on the kitchen table was a cheery red cut-off notice from the gas company-- and, even now, some stranger was smoking the cigarettes I'd lost.
I paused for a red light, and the cold air began to infiltrate my field jacket. I watched the cars and trucks pass through the intersection. I didn't envy the drivers their vehicles, in which they sat cozy and warm, listening to their stereos. But I was quite piqued to see, now and then, one of them sucking on a cigarette. That just didn't seem right.
The light turned green, and I continued on my way.
If there was an art to knowing what to do when there is nothing to do, I never learned it.
I considered stopping at an outreach mission where I could get a hot meal. It came with a price, though; you had to endure the preaching. Not that I had anything against prayer and those who resorted to it; there was just something that wouldn't allow me to believe I was desperate enough to need prayer. Then, too, the people who ran the mission generally frowned on smoking-- it seemed those people frowned on everything that can offer a person true peace and serenity.
There was a group of people standing at a bus stop. I paused to try to bum a smoke. It wasn't easy anymore; smoking was so frowned upon these days. If anybody saw you smoking, they regarded you with sneers. If you asked for a smoke, they looked at you as though you'd reached the height of depravity; wanting to smoke, it seemed, was infinitely worse than actually smoking. Most of the people ignored me. One elderly woman, who weighted about three hundred pounds, primly informed me it was bad for my health. One guy dropped his eyes to the snowy ground, and reached protectively inside the pocket of his ski jacket-- definitely a non-sharer.
I continued down the street.
I reached my apartment building, a seventeen-unit monstrosity made of ugly dark brown bricks badly in need of tuck-pointing. There were four retail stores on the sidewalk level. Three of the storefronts were shut down, their front windows painted black. The fourth, and largest, was occupied by a diner. It had many names of the past few years. Oddly enough, although the diner changed hands, the employees always remained the same. It was now known as Uncle Charlie's.
I decided to stop in to see if Roz was working. She was one of the waitresses. I could always count on her for a free cup of coffee when I had no money. She was just a friend, though-- no more. Not that I didn't think she was attractive and likeable. She just carried around too much baggage, having gone through a long series of boyfriends, every one of which ended up abusing her. She ought to be in the Guinness book of world records for the person most often the victim of domestic violence. I felt sorry for her, but I could never get romantically involved with her. I just wasn't going to dance into that kind of minefield-- no way.
I sat on one of the stools in front of the counter, which was chipped and scratched here and there. I was the only person at the counter, and the only other customers in the place were a group of old guys who were sitting in one of the booths back by the bathroom.
