Thrown Away

Thrown Away

  Kenneth Szulczyk

  All characters, places, and situations that appear in this work are purely fictitious, created in the writer’s mind. Although the places in the novel do exist, any resemblance to real people – living or dead – are entirely coincidental.

  Thrown Away

  Copyright © 2014 by Kenneth Szulczyk

  All rights reserved

  Cover design by Kenneth Szulczyk

  Chapter 1

  I awaken in a small tent and peel the two layers of dirty sleeping bags away my body. I rise, unzip the tent, and crawl to a new, dreary day. Then I close the tent door and zip it up to keep the insects and critters out.

  I stand up and look up at the sky as the clouds hide the morning sun. I begin shivering from the cold air. The mornings are becoming colder as winter sneaks closer by the day.

  I walk through the homeless camp and walk around the scattered tents throughout the woods. I’m one of the founders of tent city and had pitched my tent near the center where we set our fires. As the years dragged on, others have joined our camp while others have left. It’s hard to tell how many people live here in the tent city. Perhaps a 100 or a thousand. We never counted heads.

  Then someone begins a long coughing spell, clearing the phlegm and tobacco residues from his throat.

  I walk along a winding path through a patch of woods near the city. For the next mile, the trail follows the river until I reach the bridge. Then I walk up the embankment, climb over the guarding rail, and walk along the sidewalk to the downtown.

  Every couple of blocks, I stop walking and cough for a minute from the pollution and smog from the morning traffic. Drivers rush to work during the heavy traffic to clock in before 9 o’clock as they weave in and out of lanes trying to beat the other drivers.

  I reach the Homeless Center by 9 o’clock, just in time for a late breakfast. Entering the Homeless Center, I cross the spacious, empty lobby and join the late crowd – the who’s who of the lowest of the low. The homeless with jobs and interviews eat at seven along with the other workers in the world while the few homeless mothers rush their children to school.

  I stand at the end of the line with the other chronic homeless. Of course, none of us wants to be homeless. We’re ashamed of our positions, always looking down, walking around in a trance. Unfortunately, society looks down upon us as outcasts, losers, and failures except the few who take pity on us and help us, like the volunteers in this shelter – God bless them. Unfortunately, most people sit comfortably in their homes along with families as they fill their lives with activities.

  I reach the stack of yellow trays and grab the top one. I flip it over, place it on the track that follows the counter and add a fork and spoon. They never give us any butter knives because we can easily steal and sharpen them into weapons. Everyone stands quietly lost in a trance. I slide the tray along the track as the line moves forward.

  One helper slops a serving of grits onto a plate and adds a slice of margarine. Another helper uses an ice-cream scoop to form a hill of scrambled eggs next to the grits. Then another adds a burnt patty of sausage and passes the plate over the counter.

  I grab the plate and say, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome” the helper replies in a chirpy voice.

  I study the new helper. The helpers and volunteers last about a month, always being replaced by the endless pit of students who attend the university nearby. Perhaps they take pity on us and want to help us, or they earn credits as they further their studies in psychology and sociology by studying the rats in their natural habitat.

  I continue pushing the tray along the track. Then I add a glass of orange juice, two slices of soggy toast, and a cup of coffee with extra sugar and cream.

  At the end of the food line, Fred, a large, jovial man with a neatly clipped, full black beard smiles and says, “Hi Jason.” Then he hands me a small bag filled with the ends of the loaves of bread.

  I nod my head and reply, “Thanks Fred,” while slipping the bread into my coat pocket.

  I always sit at the same place and begin eating my breakfast, taking my time – of course, I have plenty of time, the only precious commodity that a homeless person can own. I sip my artificial orange juice to help wash down every bite of food. After finishing the meal, I sip my bitter coffee.

  We rarely talk or smile while we’re eating, but who can blame us. How can a homeless person who moves from one place to another be happy? We never know where our next meal will come from or what dangers lurk on the streets after midnight, when the decent folks drift off to sleep in their secured homes.

  After eating breakfast, I place my tray onto the cart – the silverware goes into the container filled with dish soap while I stack my plate, adding the next level on the tower of plates. Then I place the coffee cup and glass on the middle shelf. I notice the cart has a small trashcan mounted to the end, where the homeless can scrape the removes from their plates, but we almost always eat our breakfast and rarely throw any food away.

  After breakfast, we must leave the shelter unless the weather becomes exceptionally cold outside. On cold winter days, the admin may let us hang around in the lobby for warmth and comfort. Today is a tad chilly, but not enough for them to let us stay inside.

  The center wants the homeless to check in if the center has any free beds. They give residents a clean bed, soap and hot showers. Then if we are not working, we must attend classes in life skills, job searches, resume writing, and bible studies. But the shelter overflows with the homeless, and we represent the chronics of the chronic homeless.

  As I pass the door to the men’s dormitory, Doug opens the door and kicks down the doorstop. Then he yells, “Does anyone need a shower?”

  I pause. Then I lift up my right sleeve and sniff my armpit as a strong odor hits my nose because I had not showered in days. I reek like a shit-covered toilet.

  I head into the male dormitory and walk past row after row of bunk beds. Every bed is neatly made up with the bed sheets pulled tight. At the end, I take off my coat and hang it up and slip off my boots. The staff always lies out the supplies in a row of tubs. I grab a small bar of soap and tube of toothpaste from the first tub and a towel from the next tub. Entering the large bathroom, I undress near the bathroom sinks. I hold onto the sink to slide off my pants because the dirt and grime hardened them into a hard plastic. I remove several coins and a small toothbrush from my jeans pocket and place it on the sink with the toothpaste.

  I toss the old, dirty clothes into a large hamper near the bathroom door and enter a shower stall. The warm water fills good flowing over my body as the water washes the dirt and grime away. Then I move away from the spray of water and apply a thick lather of soap over my hair and body. I close my eyes and wash my face last. Then I plunge myself into the shower to rinse off.

  I stand in the shower for fifteen minutes and let the hot water massage my body. Then I turn off the shower, grab a towel, and begin wiping my body. As I wipe my legs, I spot a red rash spreading across my right thigh. I wince in pain a little when the towel rubs against it. So I pat the rash gently with the towel. Then I wrap the towel around me, grab my coins and toothbrush, and approach the sink.

  I look myself in the mirror – a stranger with a hollow face and sunken eyes stares back at me. I don’t recognize myself anymore. Street life had quickly aged me; although I am 25 years old, I look like a fifty-year-old man. I’m not sure when this stranger stole my body, and what he did to me, but this stranger refuses to leave.

  I grab a tube of toothpaste from the counter and squeeze a healthy squirt onto my brush. I begin brushing my teeth. Then I rinse and spit out the paste into the sink.

  I wait near the door as three homeless men enter the bathroom.
Then I exit and head to the donated clothes bins. The first bin contains socks while the next one has underwear. The next bin has stacks of neatly folded shirts, and the last contains neatly folded jeans.

  I grab a change of clothes that will fit me and put them on while standing near the row of beds, out of the way of the other men. I slip the toothbrush and coins into my pocket and feel the fabric of the dress shirt – “too thin,” I whisper to myself.

  I head to the clothes bin filled with old, tattered rags and begin digging for my flannel shirt. I find it near the bottom. Then I slip on the flannel shirt and then I put on my coat and boots and head outside.

  I walk the three blocks to the library. After entering the building, I head to the magazine section and always grab the latest local town newspaper and a magazine or two. Then I hide in a corner away from the patrons.

  I read newspapers and magazines every day to occupy my copious free time. I always skip the classified section. With no home or residence, employers just glance over my application. Once I became unemployed for a year, employers never interviewed me. Sometimes, the managers quickly send a rejection letter.

  Managers are such suspicious people. If someone has a year gap in their employment history, the managers suspect the applicant is hiding vital information. The applicant must have spent time in prison or in a looney house, or the applicant went on a crime spree robbing gas stations and convenience stores. Then the applicant decides to become a law-abiding citizen again before the police catch them in the act.

  I’ve been unemployed for years. The government considers me relatively healthy with no medical conditions or disabilities, so the government gives me no help. Their motto – all abled-bodied males must work.

  I turn the page and spot a story – ABC Fabrication has lain off 500 workers. Wow! I applied at that factory after I was laid off from Taylor Manufacturing. I used to make automotive parts when I was working at Taylor. I made three times the minimum wage with health benefits and pension. I operated an industrial shear at a steel fabrication plant. I would move large sheets of steel or aluminum, onto the table. I measured and drew the cutting lines- remembering the rule – always measure twice and cut once. Then I adjusted the shear, aligned the cutting lines with the shear’s bladed. Then I pressed the button that rammed the shear downward with thousands of pounds of force, cutting the metal sheet along the marked line.

  Then I heard Taylor Manufacturing experienced financial trouble and had defaulted on their bank loan. The day I lost my job, the bank sent a company out and repossessed the machines.

  At that time, I didn’t worry. I collected unemployment benefits and had a pension. I also possessed job skills, but I was wrong. In the beginning, I went to a dozen interviews, but they always found something wrong with my qualifications. They wanted someone who could operate computerized equipment. What the fuck? We were craftsmen. We could outdo any dork with a computer-operated machine. When my unemployment benefits had run out, I found out the company robbed our pension fund, leaving us with nothing.

  Of course, I still didn’t worry after I spent my savings and lost my unemployment check. If I had known what would happen, I would have bought a better quality tent and top-notch camping equipment.

  I turn to the next page on the newspaper.

  One of the librarians walks around, doing her hourly rounds. She spots me but passes by today without saying a word. The staff usually leaves me alone if few patrons are visiting the library. If school students show up or more patrons visit the library, then they may ask me to leave. After that shower, I imagine my stink cloud had shrunk, so she probably didn’t smell me today until she had walked past me.

  After several hours in the library, I walk the five blocks to sit on a park bench near the river, but I must be careful. I always avoid the teenagers who rarely come to this park – those cruel bastards. They always say the most insulting and disgusting things such as “Get a job you lazy bastard,” or insults that include me performing various sex acts with my mouth and tongue on various parts on their bodies for the change in their pockets. Then I read the stories when some teenage bastards doused a homeless guy with lighter fluid and set him on fire, or they hurled a large rock on a homeless person’s head while he slept on a park bench.

  I pull a bread end out of the bag, tear each slice into several pieces, and toss them to the pigeons. I always like feeding the pigeons because they never judge me or look down upon me. They eagerly gobble those crumbs from a homeless man.

  I break the bread into five or six pieces and toss each crumb to a bird. The bread quickly goes as the birds fight over the crumbs. Then the birds scatter after they had eaten all the crumbs.

  I just stare at the river and dream of a different life – a life with a job. Perhaps that life would include a wife or girlfriend waiting at home, or a couple of kids who would run to the door screaming, happy to see their dad enter the house after a day of work, but I have no one.

  I have no mother; I have no father; I have no grandparents, no sons, and no daughters. My parents and grandparents died long ago, leaving me alone in this cold, cruel world. I have a brother and sister, but I stopped talking to them after my mother had died. They fought over my mother’s things while I shook my head in disgust. At that time, I had a good job with a nice apartment and a good used car.

  It was so long ago. I don’t remember the last time when I visited a relative’s house, or received a phone call, or hugged a loved one. I have no one to call during holidays and birthdays, and I always dread my birthday because I have walked one step closer to my final resting place. Of course, my death does raise a good question – what will the state do with my body after they find me dead on a sidewalk or decomposing in the woods.

  Time hurls the ultimate cruelty upon the homeless because time only informs me when I get my meals at the charities and homeless centers and how much time I have remaining in the day. I don’t have to clock in for a job, or attend a business lunch at a restaurant, or be on time for a meeting at the office. Time only possesses meaning for people with jobs and somewhere to go with something to do. I have nothing as the cruel hands of time tick ever so slightly. I stopped wearing a watch years ago because I would always glance down at my watch every minute or two and the watch’s hands would never move.

  After a while, I rise from the park bench and head to the art museum. Only entering the vestibule, I glance at the oversized clock on the wall - noon approaches and time for lunch.

  Pedestrians fill the sidewalks as they scramble to their favorite lunch place.

  I walk along the sidewalk while everyone walks around me. They never look in my direction as they pass. Although people surround me, I’m completely invisible.

  As I walk, a well-dressed man in a navy business suit walks towards me. He glances in my direction and quickly looks away. Everyone walks by and never notices me as if I don’t exist.

  I imagine if I dropped to the sidewalk dead, everyone would walk over me – never thinking twice to see whether I needed medical attention. Once my body began to smell and bother the pedestrians, then the city would come along and scoop me up.

  I walk to the Rescue Mission where they pass out sack lunches to the homeless. I stand in line with the others as the line moves quickly. I advance towards a thin guy wearing a white dress shirt, blue tie, and dress pants.

  “God be with you, my brother,” he says while handing me a lunch sack.

  “Amen,” I reply. I grab the bag and walk away.

  I don’t bother to peek inside the bag to see its contents. It’s not that I’m a stingy bastard, but I already know what’s inside – two bologna-cheese sandwiches, carrots sticks, a packet of six peanut butter crackers, and a can of generic soda. God bless them for caring even though the city discourages the churches and good folks from feeding the homeless. Unfortunately, the city would rather sweep us into the sewer gutters and forget about us.

  I return to the camp.

  As
I approach the camp, several men huddle around the campfire while sitting in lawn chairs. A large pot of stew simmers on the edge of the fire as it sits on two bricks while flames lick the bottom of the pot.

  Chapter 2

  As I approach, a young man jumps up from the seat next to Bob. Bob, one of the first residents of tent city, must be in his 50s and almost completely bald. Of course, he seems to enjoy his homeless predicament, unlike the rest of us.

  As I sit down next to Bob, he asks, “Jason, did ya hear?”

  “Hear what?” I reply.

  “The sheriff plans to clear us out on Friday.”

  “Clear us out? Why?”

  “We’re violating the law.” Then Bob hands me the official eviction notice and adds, “We’re squatting on city property, and these tents don’t meet city code. Two police officers carrying rifles and a code officer came out today and said we have until Friday. If we’re still here, they’ll remove us… By force if necessary. ”

  I glance at the notice and hand it back to Bob. I mutter, “shit.” Then I bend my head back and close my eyes.

  Bob asks, “What’re plans?”

  I open my eyes and stare at Bob, “What do you mean?”

  “What do you want to do about this?”

  “What can I do? Oh sure, I can go to the pawnshop and get my rifle back. Then I can shoot at the officers as they approach us.”

  Bob bursts out laughing along with the other members sitting near the circle. Once the laughter settles down, Bob adds, “Just make sure you don’t hit one of us.”

  “Don’t worry,” I reply. “I‘m a terrific shot. Of course, I lost that rifle years ago. The pawnshop gives you two months to reclaim your items. After that, they sell it to anyone who wants it.”

  “I hear ya, man.”

  Tony calls out, “Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus. What’ll we do? Please lord, give us a sign.”

  “Don’t worry Tony. We’ll just have to pack and get. We’ll find another spot to camp,” I say.

  “But it ain’t right,” Tony says while clutching a bible while tears form in the corner of his eyes. “We’re not hurting anyone. We just want to live here in peace.” Then Tony begins quoting a bible passage, Joshua 1:9 “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go.”