Every Night Alone

By Mark

 

 

 

The smell was the first thing you notice, but the first thing that fades away. Porter once again found himself sitting between the Bank and Nancy’s Department Store. It’s an alley that he has become very familiar with, and yet he wakes up with the sun, and wonders what he’s still doing there. The alley used to smell of rotten fruit, and old meat; but that has been forgotten. He is reminded of an experiment in biology class when he was full of hope and ambition. A vinegar bottle under your nose, and the teacher asked you to inform him when you thought it was pulled away.  Porter, try as he might, the smell becomes too much a part of life and seems taken away, but in effect it was still in place. Porter chuckled thinking that his alley had become as familiar as the vinegar. He wakes up with immense sadness, and the joy that he made it through another night; although it didn’t matter. Where else was he going to go.

 

He whipped around franticly looking, but all he found was a paper bag with an almost empty bottle of Jerry-Dun vodka. Jerry-Dun vodka was not a particularly good selection of vodka, but it did the trick just fine. Porter enjoyed the last few sips of his morning cocktail. He liked to read the wall across from him where local members of gangs had claimed their space with paint, and words that would offend the oldest children. Porter couldn’t help but laugh. The level of work that was put forth into such a reckless act humored him. Eyeing the empty Jerry-Dun bottle, he found himself once again wishing it were full. Alcohol was more like a friend at this time. It eased the pain of everyday life by ten fold. And right about now, Porter could use some easing.

 

As he put his left hand down to prop himself up, a piece of glass went unnoticed, right into his hand.

 

“Damn!” he screamed as the glass pierced in.

 

He tore off a strip of his badly tattered Hawaiian shirt and wrapped his bleeding hand. This was just another reason to grab a bottle. Porter stood to his feat, if you could call it standing. He looked more like a weakened version of a Popsicle stick tower swaying in the wind; You couldn’t help but feeling like he was going to topple at any moment. With one last survey of the alley in the early morning light, to ensure nothing was left behind, Porter quietly vowed that this was the last time he was waking up leaning against Nancy’s Department Store. Although he’s thought it before, today he was going to change his life.

 

Stumbling toward the lip of the alley, Porter makes his way onto the street.

 

“You! You there young man!”

 

“Look lady”, Porter’s barks at the shocked woman. “I know you’re gonna call the cops next time I sleep on your building. Shut up already. Every morning the same shit comes out of you God damn mouth. Shut up.”

 

Nancy didn’t take to kindly to this type of verbal whipping. She was disgusted that this vermin was defiling the side of her store. Probably doing drugs she thought. Certainly she was off to call the police, but there was no reason for Porter to stick around and find out. As much as Nancy thought her store was the center of the city, it was placed in a real shifty neighborhood. This area, once run down and filled with violence had been made over. A little paint, and money infused for the economy, and all that remains are a few small rebel gangs and s fair sized homeless population. Nancy felt as though she was doing her part to keep the neighborhood cleaned up. What she didn’t understand is that although pushing Porter away would temporarily remove the problem, it would certainly be back. Porter pushed on.

 

The first part of Porters day was to procure nourishment. He took steady steps on the concrete sidewalks as busses sped by. A small wind was brushing his dirt-covered face, reminding him that he was indeed not dead. He pulled his winter hat further over his ears to remain somewhat warm. Traveling along the busy street, he gathered the usual looks of disgust and remorse. He found that although many people saw him as the bottom of society, there were others who felt he just needed a hand up. It was those people he counted on to remain alive.

 

After shifting over several blocks, he game to the alley behind a Tony Roma’s Restaurant. It was one of the few restaurants that threw out food rather than donating it to some soup kitchen or shelter. Bones aching and all, Porter climbed the dumpster and did his dive for breakfast. At one point Porter was disgusted with the smell and general sliminess of a dumpster, but now it was just another room in his home. Breaking open the black kitchen bags with his dirt-filled nails, he searched for that which was edible. Although food was plentiful, he learned early on that not everything was healthy. Several times he’s made trips to the hospital for eating certain types of meat. Sifting through banana peels, and soggy bread, he packed his mouth full of cooked carrots. It was the only thing edible at this time. He would come back after lunch, the special today is pasta.

 

Porter worked his way a little further down the street until he was beside the post office. The post office was one of the busiest buildings in the city, and the people that passed it seemed to almost always have change. Porter placed his hand against the post office, and he was quickly reminded about the glass that tore his hand earlier. After a small nudge of pain, he surveyed the ground and brushed away some hefty sand. With great awkwardness, like watching a gerbil try to swim, Porter made his way to the pavement.

 

“Spare some change for a war vet?” Porter queried as people passed. Although he wasn’t a war veteran, the hat he used to collect change was an official naval ball cap, and made his story more believable. He found that people were quicker to give to a person who helped the country and was down on his luck, rather than some guy who dumped his family. Maybe it’s the charisma of the story, but it just worked better. “Thank you sir.” He showed genuine enthusiasm. After all, with enough change, he could set up a meeting with Jerry-Dun.

 

“Get a real job. You’re fucking dirty, take a god damn bath!” a passerby shouted. Usually younger boys were the cruelest. “You’re lazy that’s all. Get the hell up!” Porter ignored them as best as possible. He may be homeless, but he was human - he has feelings.

           

            Counting his collections from his hat, he had four dollars, plus another eighteen in his pocket. You never keep all the cash in your hat because people tend to give less if you look like you have more than them. Twenty-two dollars is about a two dollars more than Porter needed. Not like he was going to give it back though. He just held is hat out, but didn’t put the effort forth to ask for change, because it was not needed. It was too early for lunch, and he was tired, besides, he enjoyed watching people pass by - wondering who had it worse, him or them. Often he thought that people who worked for a living had it worse because they had bills, and college funds, and bills. Porter just needed enough money to last a day, much easier. He smiled as more change fell into his hat.

 

            It was late afternoon before he decided he needed to move again. He collected his change and belongings, and quietly bid the post office farewell for another day. It was off to Tony Roma’s for lunch, but first a quick stop at the spirit store. He pulled out 20 dollars for a bottle of J-D Vodka, and cashed in. When you’re homeless, the small things mean so much, and a bottle of J-D on the street meant you were to most popular person on the block. With is late-day cocktail in hand, it was time to find some food. Porter new he could have used the money to purchase a meal instead of a drink, but the meal would last him a half hour, while the drink would keep him warm all night.

 

            He reached up on the dumpster behind Tony Roma’s, once again his tight grip made him wince from the glass this morning. It didn’t take long for Porter to cash in. After looking through a bag, he found some fettuccini with a creamy sauce. ‘Delightful’ he thought. It was no secret that utensils were not kept in the dumpster, and it may seem a strange sight for a man to eat pasta from his palm, but Porter remained well hidden in the bin until his dinning was complete.

 

            Dusk would soon be upon the city, and that signaled the time to move to the underpass. Porter hated hanging out with the other bums at the underpass, but they made barrels of fire to keep warm, and not often did the police come by. The problem that arose, was the golden J-D in his side pocket, would become the most wanted commodity. Every night he hoped someone was drinking something better.

 

            “Eh, Porta! Get your little ass over ear!” Simone screamed with a grin. Simone never had anything to show for her money. She was a smack addict, and that was more than just a little habit. She constantly had to score. “Watcha got today?”

 

            “Oh, I didn’t grab anything Simone. There wasn’t nothin’ good in the streets today, so I had to bust down and get food. You mean you ain’t got nothin’?” Porter knew the answer. Simone was a fairly attractive person for being homeless, but recently she has not been looking so well. Her face seemed more pale, her eyes tired, and her weight must be grossly low. “How come you never pick up shit? I’m always the only one who buys anything. Shit. Maybe you guys should chip in.”

 

            “Ah, Porter. You know we love ya. Now whadda got? I know you got something, you always got something”, she whined. Porter couldn’t help but feel sorry for Simone. It sounds a little strange, a homeless person feeling sorry for a heroin addict, but somehow, Porter felt better off than her. “Common! Quit holdin out.”

 

            Porter surveyed the area and noticed a fair amount of people around, some drinking, some not. The underpass was a cesspool of homelessness, and people just seeking warmth. It was a fairly damp place, but with the fencing and old factories around, it was fairly secluded. There were a few makeshift sitting areas, some more comfy than others, but at this point, he preferred to stand and keep warm.

 

            Porter pulled out the bottle and took a drink. He loved the first drink. As he stood among the heat of the barrels under the damp underpass, that first drink shoots down his throat with the power of a rifle. It reaches his stomach, and he can immediately feel its effects. Warmth, and comfort from a bottle. He passed the J-D along to Simone, and she dug right in. As they drank they worked their way over towards a pair of metal benches that were brought here weeks ago by a couple of ambitious patrons. They sat and shared for many hours into the night.

 

            “Ah, you have to explain to me what’s so good about smack.” Not that Porter was interested in trying it, he was just curious how someone could let themselves get so far away from reality. “I just don’t understand. Have you seen what you look like? Do you know what it’s doing?”

 

            “I don’t need no god damn preacher telling me shit. You think I choose this life. You think I like knowing I always need it. It fucking sucks. I know it. What am I supposed to do, just stop? Yeah, right. It’s that easy, and the world’s addicted to smack. Why do you drink?” She brought up a good point. But Porter felt he could stop anytime he wanted too. “Give up alcohol Porter, just stop. I’d pay too see that. You’re just a louse. You’re just like me. Pick your poison. Porter. Fuck, you think your better than me. Fuck you.”

           

            “Yeah, fuck me”, Porter chuckled, “I can’t even keep my shit together and I’m trying to fix yours.” Simone smiled and handed him the bottle. He took a large swig, and then for no reason at all, they both broke out laughing as hard as they could. The laugh traveled through the night, danced on rooftops, wisped across windows, and disappeared into the moonlight. “Yeah, one day I’m gonna get outa here. I’m leaving all this behind. You should come with me.”

 

            “Oh, Porter. How many times you talk about leavin? You say that everyday. I know hope is the best medicine, but you ain’t ever leavin. You need the streets as much as they need you.”

           

            “No, I’m done with it. I’m fixin it right now. Me and my bottle. We’re leaving. Lets go.” Porter was obviously intoxicated. He was treating the bottle like it was his infant. “You can come Simone. If you want.” Porter started to walk away. He took each step, each stumble, expecting to stop as Simone caught up. He was really hoping she would come with him. A new life waited ahead, full of potential.

 

            “Porter! You’ll be back! You always come back!” Simone yelled out. Porter detected a bit of a know-all attitude. Simone was positive he’d be back. This time it was different.

 

            Porter reached the main street, the one he usually found himself traveling. He knew that this street made or broke people, and it’s as good a place as any to start over. He walked along the damp sidewalks in the darkness of early morning, lit by only the shady street lights. All the thoughts ripped through him like lightning, he was going to start over. He kept sipping his J-D plotting his big return in life. His thoughts of redemption turned to his wife and kid. Porter tried hard not to think of them, the pain was too great.

 

            His wife Carol had thrown him out for drinking too much. He knew it was coming. Late nights, he would return from a life he once knew, Carol yelling, maybe throwing various household objects. Porter began to cry. Not flowing like rivers, but he felt sorrow, and tears rolled down. After Carol became pregnant, she told him to stop drinking or she would leave. So Porter put the bottle down. They lived happily for a couple month, but the temptation was too great, and he returned to drinking. After a month of heavy drinking his wife had made a decision Porter must go. He started to quiver in the night, he remembered the day like it was yesterday. Carol didn’t want their baby to be exposed to a father so disgusting, so out he went.

 

            Porter moved of the street and into an ally. He slid his back down the side of the wall as he met the ground. The pain was so great. He finished as much of the bottle as he could before rendering himself unconscious. Porter ad passed out in the cold air, only hours before the sun was to rise. He would not triumph his fears on this night.

           

            Porter’s head hurt as he awoke in the early light. Porter once again found himself sitting between the Bank and Nancy’s Department Store. He wakes up with immense sadness, and the joy that he made it another night; although it didn’t matter. He whipped around franticly looking, but all he found was a paper bag with an almost empty bottle of Jerry-Dun vodka. He knew that he may have drank too much, but that didn’t phase him. He was too hungry. First order of the day was to find food. His stomach burned with emptiness. As he stood up, every bone aching, he vowed to get out of here for good. This was the last time he was going to wake up in this alley. He has all the time in the world to figure out how to do it. After all, where else was he going to go.