The Runner

Men fishing. Cars parked by the river. There is rubble behind the enormous green plywood walls—lots of rubble where once buildings employed dozens of lumberyard workers. She comes out from behind the walls; first there is a faint meow or two. She looks at the cars, at the men with their fishing poles. She runs towards the parking lot across from the green walls. She hides near one of the trucks parked there; she waits a minute or more. Now she runs and stands outside the walls. Someone calls her. One hand of the person has a can of wet food, the other a plate. “Don’t you recognize me?’ The person speaks to her gently. The cat’s eyes say nothing. It’s as if she has never seen the feeder before, the feeder she has known for many years. The cat grew up in the lumberyard. A trailer was inside the area that is now rubble. She used to sleep under the trailer. That was part of her home. She felt she belonged. These days she isn’t sure about anything. Where have all the other cats gone? She doesn’t know. The feeder calls her once more. “Come eat, little girl.” She opens the can and puts the food on the plate. The cat stops and eats. The feeder wishes she could pet her. The Calico is a gentle feral, a gentle old feral. Nothing she was familiar with exists anymore. No one has told her why. She is just displaced, with no where to go. “I love you very much, little girl.” The feeder doesn’t know what else to say. She hates to imagine that the Calico will end her life out here, with no one nearby. A place, another place, is so hard to find in feral cat land.

Spare Time

In my spare time. I exist in my spare time. I don’t run. I don’t even walk. I don’t go or move around anywhere. I just am. I am myself. I don’t procrastinate because I don’t want to do something distasteful. I just sit and enjoy. I enjoy life. Only for a few minutes, only here and there. I laugh, or I wish I could laugh. I pretend that life is my own, that it belongs to me. I say to myself that it is a pleasant diversion, with no pressure or stress from anywhere. I close my eyes and it is a different world, a good world, with dreams coming true at last—dreams coming true once and for all.

High Heels and Good Legs

Summer. Happier people on the streets. Happier young people. She got on the subway and saw them. She saw the girl she could have been years and years ago. She remembered herself back then, as she had been. The shabby dresses and the laced- up shoes, the type that nurses usually wear. And the dark stockings and pantyhose. Her young face had pimples; no dermatologist was ever able to make them go away—not until they went away on their own. By then, she was in her mid-twenties. She felt she couldn’t wear make- up with all those red pimples spoiling her face. These young girls now had good faces. She was happy for them, for their ability to enjoy their youth. They were laughing and talking excitedly with their friends and boyfriends. She turned her face away; no tears in front of anybody. She didn’t want that. It wasn’t their fault that her own youth had been different; it had been different until she met the love of her life. To him, she would always be grateful. He had made her feel young and pretty and joyful. Near him, she had been, for a brief time, herself. She had been a woman, a happy and fulfilled woman.

Hurry

Hurry. Hurry. I want another. And then another. I cannot quit. I have lied. I have lied to myself. I have lied to others. I have said I will not drink but I did and I do and I will. I do not mean to, it just happens. Whatever will power I had once, a year ago, a month ago is gone. I don’t know what happened to it. I thought I had it but I don’t. Not now.

The Room in Distress

The boxes were too big. They took up too much space. She had very little space. Almost none left. The boxes held comforters, sheets, blankets—things she was going to need something in the future. But it wasn’t good. The boxes made her not want to be where she was. It had become a great big problem. She didn’t know what to do. Most of it had never belonged to her. Where would she sleep? She longed to sleep so she wouldn’t have to take a look at the mess. She would seek help, but help from whom? Help from where? And why had this happened, her living like this in squalor? She didn’t understand. It was like there was no room for her as a living being, as a human being. It was like the boxes had taken over everything and were pushing her out of existence. She sighed. Maybe, she thought. Maybe I will think of something tomorrow. Or next day. All I know is that this has to end. It just has to. It is more than clutter. It is complete Hell. A life that is no longer visible because of the boxes.

Panhandlers Don’t Wear Prada

Late afternoon. Almost summer. It had been a pleasant if not a profitable day. She looked up at the sky; it was as blue as it had been in the morning. Her time out by the curb was about done. In less than an hour she’d be able to leave. The breakfast crowd had been good; lunch people had disappointed her. She didn’t notice someone standing in front of her until the person spoke. “Hello.” The woman’s voice was soft. She was younger and well dressed. I wish I could wear a suit like that, she thought. “Hello. She nodded politely. Was she going to give her food or money? She was hungry more than anything else. The young woman was carrying a large bag. “I have some stuff here that I am donating to charity. Would you like anything?” She needed a purse. Her beat up bag was embarrassing even for her. “Well, I could use a new purse. I don’t make much here,not enough to buy a good one.”How about this one?” The young woman took a black leather purse from her bag. ” Oh, it’s beautiful. So soft.” She looked at the words written in the purse. Prada. Milano. “It’s expensive. Panhandlers don’t wear Prada.Thank you anyway. She regretted having to hand at back to the young woman. ” No, please keep it. Maybe you can sell it online. ” Yes, maybe I can or maybe my luck will change.” “I am sure it will.” After they said goodbye and then young woman walked away, she looked inside the purse. It was real”not a cheap imitation. She hated cheap. That had been her way of life for too long. Before too many people noticed, she put her new treasure away inside her beat up bag. It had been a good day She got up slowly and crossed the street. It was going to be a quick subway ride back to her room.The quicker the better.

.

All the Times

All the times you should have. All the times you could have. All the times I could and should have stopped you, pushed you away from it. You were scared. I was scared.All the times pile up.They are like a room or a house with too many things inside that take up too much space.The disease has cluttered our lives. It is most uncomfortable to live with the disease. And it won’t go away by itself. It is ready to strike anytime, anywhere. You must strike first. You must knock it down once and for all.

Because

Because of you. Because of me. Because of it, your liquid yellow lover, that one, the lover with the white foam on top. Not having it upsets you; it makes you act in unexpected ways, like a little brat denied his favorite toy. You don’t care about other anything. You just want it and only it. That is how you lost people, important people, in your life. And now you will lose whoever is remaining. They will be gone too. But no matter. Your can, your pride and joy, will stick with you. It will cost you a buck or two. That is a price you will keep on paying for its never ending loyalty to your disease.

Money

Money. It is money. It is always money. Always asking for it, always wanting more and then some more. She was angry; she had been angry for a long time. There was not one to tell, no one at all. Her friends and acquaintances were busy, running here and there. She had to keep as much money hidden from him as possible. She had to do it for her own mental and physical health. Everyone was talking about mental health these days. Her stress level had to be as normal as she could make it. His requests made that difficult. Learning to say NO. She would force herself too learn. Her day was ruined now; instead of peace and quiet she had grief. She couldn’t enjoy anything until she practiced the word NO, until she said it loud and clear.

Help

“I ask for help and you ignore me”, he said. “You ignore me. I only want some help.” The thin man held a large MacDonald’s cup in his left hand. There were no coins in it.  Nothing in the cup made a jingle noise. The young man he said this to showed him his pocket.  “I only have this.” “No, I don’t need hand lotion,” the man told him. He walked towards the other passengers in the subway car. His jeans were dirty and his tee shirt had a couple of holes in it. People shook heads or played with their cell phones. The subway car stopped. The man and some passengers got off. “Not good. It is not good,” a young woman said when the car got moving again. More people shook heads.