Thrown Away Page 3

  Then I walk to Nathan’s bible and pick it up. I open it and read the first passage I see, “Proverbs 3:5-6. Trust in the LORD with all your heart, And lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, And He shall direct your paths.”

  Then I close the book and slip it into my winter coat with the cigarettes and lighter.

  ***

  We have been living in the factory for a week. After returning from the city to get my daily meals, I enter the break room in the old factory.

  Bob sits upright on his cot, lowers the newspaper, and says, “Did ya hear about Nathan?”

  “No,” while I shake my head back and forth.

  Bob hands me the paper where he had circled a small story on the last page. “He died in jail. The police said he committed suicide by strangling himself with his shoelaces wrapped around the neck.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. The police always took my shoelaces during my visits there.”

  “Bingo,” Bob shouts.

  “Those sons of bitches.”

  I sit down on the lawn chair next to Bob as my heart races while my face reddens. Then I yell, “Those sons of bitches.”

  I know Nathan was young, immature, a little misguided, but he didn’t deserve to die, but the police must use some people as examples. They show the public who’s in charge, and what they can do to us. That way, they keep everyone in line.

  Well, we can only do one thing to a bully, and it’s not talking about touchy, feel-ly stuff. Someone must stand up to a bully, and give him his own treatment and make him swallow his own medicine.

  I begin thinking. Being homeless is the worst feeling a person can experience. I wouldn’t wish homelessness on my enemies. I feel horrible, useless, and defective, and society will just not let me be. Society interferes with me any chance it gets, reminding how worthless I am.

  Bob passes a bottle of Jim Beam, “Here man. Here’s to Nathan.”

  I make a toast to the heavens, “Here’s to Nathan,” and I gulp down a large swallow.

  Then I begin thinking how I can avenge Nathan’s death. Those sons of bitches must pay.

  Chapter 3

  I search through the old factory, going through the rubbish and trash that lies scattered in every room. I carefully lift the rubbish on each pile because I don’t want to anger the rats, raccoons, and other critters by disturbing their homes.

  Then I see an old door that had rusted shut.

  Utilizing a long iron bar, it takes half an hour to pry the door open. After the door has squeaked open, I let my eye adjust to the darkness before entering. I see old, rusty shelves filled with bottles and containers of chemicals.

  I look at the various containers and use my hand to brush the cobwebs and the thick layer of dust off them to read the labels. Then I tilt the label towards the light entering the doorway to read the labels.

  After going through half the chemicals on the shelves, I find success. I smile as I dust off small glass bottles of paint thinner with the caption below the name – Extremely flammable. Keep away from fire. I slip one of the bottles of paint thinner into my pocket.

  The next morning, I walk along the old trail along the river that snakes through the old homeless camp. I pass our old camp and keep walking. Then I search for a scrawny, five-foot, oak tree.

  After walking for 10 minutes, I spot the tree about 10 feet from the path.

  While approaching the tree, I can’t see the flat stone rock because a layer of dead leaves covers the forest floor. I brush the leaves away from the tree and uncover a flat rock. I look around to ensure other people are not lurking around.

  Then I crouch on my knees and move the rock to the side. I try to dig into the dirt with my hands, but the dirt has frozen together.

  I spot a small tree branch nearby, grab it, and plunge it into the earth to loosen the soil. Finally, I begin digging and uncover a freezer zip-lock bag with a small metal lockbox inside.

  I hid my ID, important papers, and a stack of 20-dollar bills inside the box. I slip a twenty-dollar bill from the stack and stuff it into my pocket.

  Then I pick up the photo of my mother and study it.

  I return the photo to the lockbox, close the lid, and tuck the box into its zip-lock bag and rebury my booty. Although most the homeless at the camp are honest people, we have several thieves who steal everything and anything.

  I replace the stone marker on top the soil and use my hands to cover the area with leaves again.

  Then I head down to the city for breakfast at the Homeless Center.

  ***

  After taking a sack lunch from the Rescue Mission, I walk around the downtown for a while. I don’t know what possesses me, but I’m walking around while a light snow begins falling to the ground on this cold, dark November day.

  While walking past the closed down cinema, I see the bubble gum machine of a police car parked in front of a large grocery store – Perry’s Supermarket. The lights are switched off, and the car sits quietly.

  I notice the cop car has an open window on the driver’s side, just open a crack.

  I stop and pull out a winter hat with the missing top fuzzy ball out of my jacket pocket. I jerk the hat down onto my head until it almost covers my eyes. I tug on each glove on my hand, tightening the gloves. Then I change direction and head towards the police car.

  While approaching, I pull out Nathan’s old pack of cigarettes and lighter, and light a cigarette up and inhale the first drag.

  As I draw near the car, I read the propaganda on the side – To Protect and Serve. I mumble, “So that’s what the state calls it.”

  I look around and see no one in the parking lot. It’s around 3 o’clock and most people are either working in warm offices or sitting on a warm couch at home watching TV. People rarely trek outside when temperatures dip below freezing.

  I reach the front of the car and turn to look at the front doors. I don’t see anybody because a thick frost covers most the store’s glass windows. The cop must be in the office towards the back – probably arresting a shoplifter like one of my homeless buddies – searching for a little liquid antifreeze to keep the body warm.

  I pull out the bottle of paint thinner and twist the cap off, holding it upright. I slip the bottle through the open window and slip the cap into my pocket.

  The bottle lands on the driver’s seat as the fluid gushes out.

  I grab the cigarette from my mouth and mumble, “Here’s for Nathan, you sons of bitches. I snap the butt off the cigarette and slip the butt into my pocket while I toss the lit cigarette into the window.

  BOOOOOSH!

  I walk past the police car to the three-foot wall forming the edge of the parking lot. The wall separates the parking lot from a busy thoroughfare. I grab the top of the wall and hurl myself over.

  After landing on the other side, I peek over the wall to see what I’ve done. The fire burns a bright orange that lights the dark parking lot while heavy black smoke pours out of the open window. I smell the pungent smell of burning plastic filling the air.

  Bystanders gather outside the store’s entrance while a police officer runs toward his car. He opens his eyes wide and screams into his walkie-talkie as he watches his car burn.

  I duck and begin walking along the sidewalk on the other side of the wall, where the officer and bystanders can’t see me.

  I continue walking to the intersection and cross it and turn right. I walk one block and then I turn left. I hear the sirens of the fire truck approaching.

  Then the fire truck passes by with its flashing lights and sirens blaring.

  Then I continue walking in a zigzag direction towards the homeless camp. One block I make a right, the next I make a left.

  Then I see my old liquor store. I walk to the entrance and toss the cigarette butt into the overflowing ashtray on top of a trashcan. I duck inside for a couple of minutes to shake off the coldness. I figure if I must go away for a while, I’d want to s
pend a little time with my old friend – Jack, so I bought a pint of Jack Daniels and slip it into my winter coat.

  I walk by the Homeless Center and see the open Thrift Store next door. I enter the Thrift Store, and the young clerk sets his book on the counter and looks up at me, “Hello Jason. It’s been a while.”

  “Yes, it has. I’ve meant to come in. I got a new voucher for some clothes, something a little warmer.”

  “By all means, help yourself. We have some new winter clothes. I’ve just put them on the shelves this week.”

  “Great,” then I head to the racks and choose a new winter coat, making sure it’s different from the winter coat I’m currently wearing. Then I grab a new knitted winter hat with its fuzzy ball on the top and a thick sweater.”

  I approach the counter and pull the coupon out and hand it to the clerk.

  “What’d do you want me to do with my old coat?”

  He studies my tattered clothes. “Unfortunately, we can’t reuse your coat.”

  “I understand.”

  He returns to reading his book while I slip off my old coat. I put the sweater on, the new coat, and the new hat. Then I put Nathan’s cigarettes, lighter, and pint of Jack into my new coat.

  I head outside with the old coat folded under my hands. Then I toss the old coat into the dumpster behind the store and head home.

  I enter the abandoned factory around five and see Bob sitting on the lawn chair while he stares at his portable TV.

  He looks up at me, “Did ya hear?”

  “Hear what?” I reply.

  “Someone set a police car on fire in downtown about two hours ago.

  “No shit! Who would do something crazy like that? That must explain why I saw a fire truck speeding past me when I was coming home.”

  He turns the screen so I can see the news on his portable TV. A fireman recoils his hose while the reporter pans to the police car. The outside of the car looks fine, but the fire completely ruined and blackened the interior.

  A news reporter says, “The police are following leads and searching for a suspect or suspects. If anyone knows who done this, please contact the police at 5-5-5 and 5-5-5-5.”

  “Damn,” I mutter and add, “That’s crazy!”

  “Jason, just be careful. This world is filled with some real crazies.”

  “Boy, ain’t that no lie.”

  Bob pulls out a bottle of Jim Bean and shows it to me, “I thought we could share this.”

  “Thanks man, but I thought I would spend a little time with my old friend - Jack.” Then I pull the pint out and show it to him.

  “Ole Jack. He’s an old friend I haven’t seen him in a while too.”

  “Let me have my lunch and then we can visit our old friend.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  ***

  I know I jammed a stick into a beehive, and the angry bees are swarming, wanting to sting anyone nearby. The police start harassing the homeless regularly, searching for the suspect who torched the police car.

  Bob runs into the break room in a frenzy, and he’s royally pissed off. He yells, “The police pulled me over. They said I swerved too much and crossed the yellow line. Then those bastards made me take everything out of my car and place them on the side of the road. And those bastards laughed the whole time while I did this.”

  “Damn, that’s messed up. Let me take a whizz, and we can start drinking.”

  Then I jog to the storage room and start pouring all the flammable liquids from the small bottles into a 5-gallon gas can – an old red, metal can made decades ago, when Americans actually used metal to make things. After twenty minutes, I fill the gas can at least three-quarters full. Then I place the small empty bottles near the door in four rows across and five deep.

  I return to the break room and Bob sits in his chair, completely quiet while his face remains a bright red.

  I pull out a pint of Jim Beam I’ve been saving, and let Bob do the honors.

  Bob twists the lid and takes the first swig.

  I pull out a cigarette from Nathan’s pack.

  When Bob sees me light up a cigarette, he asks, “I didn’t know you smoked?”

  “I don’t, but this is a special occasion.”

  “Those are Nathan’s, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah, I thought I would smoke them in his honor.”

  “Could you give me one too?”

  I toss him the pack, and he takes one and lights it up.

  After he exhales the first drag, he lifts up the bottle of Jim Bean in a toast, “To Nathan,” and takes a large gulp. Then he mumbles, “I wish someone would teach those bastards a lesson.”

  He passes the bottle to me, and I repeat the toast, “To Nathan.”

  ***

  The next morning, I go to the storage room and grab two bottles and slip each one into my winter jacket pocket. Then I hide Nathan’s cigarettes and lighter on the top shelf in the back where no one could see them.

  I walk through the woods to get my breakfast, and once I make it half way into the woods, I hurl one bottle far into woods. The bottle hits a tree and shatters into thousand shards of glass. I throw the other bottle, and it hits a tree with a ting and falls on top of the snow.

  I know it’ll take me two weeks to dispose of all the small glass bottles. Of course, I don’t want to litter, but I can’t carry the bottles into the city and throw them away in the various trashcans and dumpsters scattered throughout the city. Although the police aren’t the brightest fruits in the salad, they only got to catch me with one bottle, and they’ll know I was the one who torched the police car.

  Today’s coldness bites and burns my exposed skin as if hot metal is singeing my skin. Large areas on my legs are chapped from the lack of moisture, and my legs burn every time the pant leg brushes over them.

  I make it to breakfast with no problems and then retrieve my sack lunch around noon.

  As I’m walking home on the sidewalk, a squad car screeches to a halt next to me.

  Two police officers jump out the car and surround me.

  “Get your hands up,” an officer demands.

  I notice each police officer has their right hand resting on top of the gun holster.

  I raise my hands.

  The officer yells, “Do you have anything sharp in your pocket?”

  “No sir,” but before I could finish my sentence, the officer already stuck his hands into my coat pockets, searching for contraband.

  His smile deepens as he pulls out my sack lunch, “What da we got here?”

  He rips the bag open while his smile inverts upside down, “What the…”

  My sandwich, crackers, and soda fall to the ground. Then the officer begins stomping on my food.

  Then he continues searching my pockets and yanks out my bible.

  He throws the bible onto the ground.

  The officer yells, “I should take you in for littering, and… and… vagrancy, loitering, and, and, and disturbing the peace” while he clenches and unclenches his fists, as if he is preparing to punch me.

  “Hold on Frank. Let’s not lose our cool.”

  Frank slips his hands into his thick coat.

  “We just want to ask you some questions.”

  “Okay. Can I lower my hands?”

  “Sure, but keep them where we can see them.” He pulls out a small writing pad from his coat pocket while keeping his eyes on me. Then he begins, “What’s your name?”

  “Jason. Jason Mathews.”

  The officer scribbles this information in a little book.

  “Do you have your ID?”

  “Sorry sir, but I haven’t had an ID in a while.”

  “When were you born?”

  I pause for a second and start thinking.

  “When’s your birthday, dirt bag?” the mean officer yells.

  “It’s been a while. It’s February ninth, nineteen ninety.”

  Both officers step back a foot and study me.

  “
Sir, are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. I know the street life has been rough on me.”

  The officer scribbles this in his notes and quickly asks, “Do you smoke?”

  “What? No sir, not in a while.”

  “Which brand do you smoke?”

  “Sir, I don’t smoke.”

  “Do you know who set the police car on fire last November?”

  I want to look to the ground, but I know that would be unwise. I look straight into his eyes and reply, “No sir.”

  “Where do you currently reside?”

  I know I can’t tell them about the factory. I know when they’ve got a slow day, they’ll be there rounding us up and kicking us out.

  “The tunnels.”

  “Oh, the tunnels.”

  Frank, the mean cop, says, “Let’s take him in, Sean.”

  “Do you want to do the paperwork on him? You remember what the captain said. Write citations for people who can pay. Besides, this guy is so poor, we couldn’t rub his two ass cheeks together to squeeze out a nickel.”

  Then they chuckle.

  “Let’s go,” Frank says.

  Sean opens the driver’s side of the door and hops in while Frank stomps one last time on my sandwich, twisting his foot back and forth over the sandwich several times.

  Then he looks at me while pointing his finger at me, “I better not catch you breaking any laws.”

  Then he walks to the passenger side and hops in, and the police car speeds away.

  I bend over and pick up my lunch, feeling completely and utterly humiliated and violated, but I must eat.

  I slip the flatten sandwiches and pulverized crackers into my pocket. Then I pick up the bible and can of soda, and slip them into my other pocket and head home.

  At least I didn’t crack. The police think I live in the tunnels with the tunnel people. The tunnel people hobble along the sewers and drainage tunnels under the city, trying to survive as society’s wastes and filth tries to drown them and erase their existence.

  The sad thing about being homeless, the people name us after our abode. If we live in the sewer tunnels, then the people call us tunnel people. If we stay in tents, then we become the tent folks. If we live in RVs and campers, then they call us tent people on wheels while sleeping in cardboard boxes relegates us to the box people.