So I'm back to blog two days in a row, a personal best. Note I've shortened the title of this thread down to an acronym, followed by the Roman numeral 'IV' for the 4th installment. Why use an acronym and Roman numeral? Easy. I'm getting too lazy to type out the whole title every time I sit down, and for some reason I felt particularly pretentious enough to use IV. And yeah I know I could just cut-and-paste the title, but that's not how the M-O-double R-I-S rolls.
So last time I used the third personal to describe some of my experiences in North Las Vegas. Your humble narrator thought it was interesting enough to continue the stylization, so let's get to it forthwith:
Hours crept by as Jim stood in the shadows of the Social Services building located on the Catholic Charities campus. He literally had nowhere to go and nothing to do until 5pm, when beds would (hopefully) become available. With the late-October temperatures in the mid-80s, he stayed in the shade and watched a line of mostly black and Hispanic men and women, most with kids, stand in a line that wound out of the building to the sidewalk.
As he listened to various snippets of conversation, he learned that man y of these people had started lining up at 5:30 that morning; that was now going on eight hours standing in a line hoping for assistance on rent, utilities and food from the organization. Many of them would be turned down, as evidenced by several people screaming and escorted off the premises by security guards.
He was still numb from the experiences of the past two days. He still couldn't believe he was here in a rough part of the city, surrounded by vagrants, poor people, and who knows what riff-raff blown here by the vicissitudes of fate or personal choice.
And Jim wondered: What brought me here to this moment in my life? Was it a conspiracy of the Fates, weaving threads that would lead to his overall destruction? Was it the actions of a vengeful God who wanted to punish him for his lack of faith and belief? Or was it actually his own personal choices that brought him slowly to ruin? Did he actually want this sort of scenario to play out so that he could be the victim? So that he wouldn't have to take responsibility for his actions?
Every step, every choice had brought him to this moment, standing in the shadows of a building with a pull-along luggage cart containing most of his worldly possessions. Had taken him from a comfortable lifestyle where his biggest concern was which movie to watch; to here, where his biggest concern was if he might sleep on the street that night. Suddenly, those movies and video games that seemed so essentially seemed extravagant and pointless. Maybe he should have realized it all the time. Instead of indulging in leisure activities, maybe he should have contributed his time to helping those more fortunate. Maybe ...
(There's more material along these lines but since this blog doesn't come with violins or a box of hankies, I'll fast forward the narrative -- JM)
Was it Fate, personal choice, or the vagaries of chance that brought him here? Hell, for all Jim knew, maybe it was just bad mojo. At any rate, there was no use crying about it now. It was done, son, and he was in the shit. He walked around the block again just to keep moving and not arouse the interest of the security guards.
As he strolled, Jim noticed that one vital function still operated as well as ever: His appreciation for the opposite sex. He noticed a few homeless women who were actually attractive in a dirty grimy sort of way. Some were dressed in rags, others had soulless eyes, but some were genuinely attractive; no doubt a high percentage of them were hookers.
One of the women had beautiful toned legs shown off by a microscopic black skirt. A nice little nothing she was wearing, as James Bond might say. She bent over and it was plainly evident she wore no underwear. Must get drafty up there, thought Jim. He wondered if there were any ex-models or actresses who had been suffered a fall from financial and professional grace wandering about the area.
He also wondered, to his shame (well, almost), what it would be like to take of those women and have sex with her in some rank back alley. Could he even get it up under those circumstances? Probably not, considering these women likely had STDs that could vaporize even the strongest condom. You'd need a condom made out of Kevlar for these girls, he thought. And so the erection that had been stirring in his pants was put down by images of his genitalia rotting, turning grayish-green, and falling off his body like an overripe banana from a tree. (I'm actually proud of this imagery -- JM)
Jim was stopped by a casually dressed guy wearing Ray-Bans. He didn't look homeless or destitute. The man wanted to know if Jim had a legal ID
"Why?" he asked.
In rapid, heavily-accented English, the man said: My friend, if you have legal ID I take you to man who take you to casino where he use your ID for (unintelligible) and then he take it to cashier for after the (unintelligible) so you get the fifty dollar. Is good, yes. So you have ID my friend?"
Jim could only blink. The man spoke so rapidly and his accent was so thick that it sounded like: "Myfriendifyouhave legal ID ItakeyoutomanwhotakeyoutocasinowhereheuseyourIDfor (unintelligible)andthenhetakeittocashierforafterthe (unintelligible) soyougetthefiftydollarIsgood,yes. SoyouhaveIDmyfriend?"
Sensing a scam, Jim said he didn't have a valid ID. The man shook his head and made a noise of disgust as if to say,"Bald-headed asshole,why do you waste my time?" As Jim walked on, a thought nagged at him: That guy looked and sounded like someone. Then it came to him. The ID scammer looked and sounded just like a pint-size Javier Bardem. (He really did, honest to God! -- JM)
Across the street was an elderly black woman screaming in fron t of the Shade Tree building. She screamed on and on as if arguing with some non-existent companion. People seemed to take no notice of her; apparently she was a regular fixture there. Pigeons gathered about her ratty area, nearly surrounding her at one point. She made a wild gesticulation and the birds scattered. The sharp flapping noise of their wings might have sounded like applause for the woman's profanity-laden monologue.
There was a white man at the opposite street corner also screaming. He sat back against a brick wall of a pawn shop and screamed words made nonsensical my his raspy voice. It sound like he might have blown out his vocal cords from all the screaming. Near him were a collection of shopping carts filled with assorted junk and possessions that belonged to other homeless people; a kind of temporary commune thrown up haphazardly and without regard for sanitation.
The hours dragged but time did pass. Around quarter to five Jim decided to head back to the Salvation Army. Before going, he couldn't resist a peek at the line of men queueing up for beds at Catholic Charities. The sidewalk on Foremaster was now thick with homeless guys, some standing, some sitting, a few pissing against whatever wall they could find. Jim estimated if there weren't 200 guys waiting, there soon would be. It looked like a gathering of hobos and their debris; all that was missing was a a guy with a stick with a bag of possessions tied at one end.
Back up Owens he went, the street's incline seeming more difficult now. He saw the plain facade of the Salvation Army buildings It was about five until 5pm. The courtyard was slightly emptier from the last time he was here, but the haze of smoke remained stubbornly strong. Many of the same people were still there in the same position, talking about the same things. Apparently they stayed there all day. Jim re-entered the DRC office and went back to the office window. He didn't see anyone else lining up there.
Around ten past five a black woman with too much makeup shoved open the window, not looking at him. Jim leaned in and asked if they had any beds available for the evening. She said to hold on, she was updating the rosters and lists. Not wanting to lose his place, Jim waited another ten minutes when the woman sighed and said, Yes, they did have beds available for the evening. Jim let out a breath and felt like celebrating with an ice-cold soda. But he'd settle for flopping into a bed and crashing.
(Actually, I was getting more and more pissed off waiting for that woman to tell me whether a bed was available. I was worried I might have to sleep on the street or field since I'd bypassed my chance at Catholic Charities. The thought that kept running through my head was along the lines of "Goddammit, will you hurry up, you fucking idiot?" Needless to day, I didn't let on -- JM)
(I didn't really need to write, "Needless to say, I didn't let on." It's kinda self-evident. -- JM)
Your humble narrator here: I'll bring Part IV to a close at this point in the saga. What did you think of telling the story in the third person, along with my editorial comments? It's the writer acting as on-the-fly editor of his own story. Pretty clever, eh? Well hells, man I'm always ready to thrown down with the literary stylistic change-up. As the kids say, you know how I do. I probably should mention there's a lot of ex-cons and jailbirds where I'm staying these days. I say that so you don't think I'm trying to be all, you know, badass with my mad words and shiznit. You know how I do's it.
Don't be surprised if if the next installment is written in a combination of Esperanto and Pig Latin. Ater-Lay.
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