Jerry looked out of the doorway into the street, stretching. It wasn't the most comfortable doorway he'd ever spent the night in, but was welcome after the last few days of sweltering heat. Sometime in the last day, the weather finally broke and became cooler again. At least, he thought it was in the last day. Sometimes, the days ran together anymore. It didn't happen often, but when it did, he often lost one or two days at a time. He always woke up feeling refreshed, somehow. He was certain, though, that it couldn't be a good thing to lose track of days.
His bony fingers lifted the half-burned cigarette to his lips and he lit it, inhaling the smoke. He closed his eyes as he exhaled, the now all-too-familiar burn as it seared his lungs only hurting a moment. He hated the taste, the smell, even the feel of the damned thing. It would probably give him cancer, if it hadn't already. But smoking was what you did when you lived out here. It suppressed the appetite. It was how you coped when you couldn't get anything to eat. He laughed, and immediately began a coughing fit that lasted almost a minute. The irony - the cigarettes were killing him, but it was the only way to stay alive and not go crazy from the hunger.
He stretched out his legs. They cramped up every night, now, and he couldn't walk without first stretching them out and trying to get the blood pumping again. It didn't help when he was sleeping in cramped doorways of abandoned restaurants. But the night was nice enough that he could get away from the shelter, at least for a night. He might see if he could go back there today for some soup, but there were no guarantees.
That part, at least, he liked. Every day could be something new. Enough spare change to buy a lottery ticket and a hamburger was a good day. A pack of cigarettes was even better. He could make that last days. Sometimes, he was forced to choose between the meal and the lottery ticket. Mostly, he chose to eat. Mostly. When the cigarettes were plentiful, he could do that. There was always the hope tha maybe this time it would be different, and his numbers would work.
His numbers. He laughed again and went into another coughing fit. That was happening more and more frequently, but there was nothing he could do about that right now. His numbers. He always played the same ones: 06-17-19-98. They weren't really his - they were hers. He smiled. His ritual every morning was to spend a few minutes thinking of her, hoping that maybe today would be the day that life changed and he could see her once again. It was foolish to hope that she would ever really know him or accept him, he knew, but he just wanted to know if she was alright. It was all he lived for, now.
The cigarette burned down to the filter and went out, still in his dirty hand. He threw away the butt into the street and watched the commuters go by. He remembered what it was like, trying to eke out a living like the rest of them. He considered himself free, to a point, these days. No schedule, no time clock, no errands to run - free from all of those silly things. Yet, he was restaine, too. No resources, no food, no comfort - forced to smoke so he wouldn't feel the pain in his stomach.
He sighed as he got up out of the shelter of the doorway. Last night was a boon for him. Five dollars in change. And he had more cigarettes. Maybe he would forego eating and buy a second ticket. He shuffled down the sidewalk. Maybe he'd be able to find her today. If the nightly Cash Four worked in his favor. Just once.
Today, I saw a man sitting in a doorway on my way in to work. I don't know if he was homeless or not, but it made me think of this.
Thanks for reading.
The Fat Kid
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