The Captain's Log

It seems like forever, but only a couple of weeks have passed, which means there is too much I choose not to remember as my past is disappearing if forever is two weeks ago. I have watched the ankle turn into an official sized softball that sends a sharp pain through my broken body then slowly return to near normal size with less pain. The rotgut alcohol around ignored piece of terra firma has been a good night medication on occasion, otherwise sleep would not have been possible, and as beautiful as all of those stars up there in the sky can be, a man requires rest. I am recovering, if one can recover in these conditions.

The days are getting longer and warmer. It seems every place I hobble to reinforces the stories I have heard about the plight of men. More and more came, despondent, hopeless, having left families behind because they are unable to pay the bills and feel they have become a burden, and the government is more prone to help a mother abandoned. Having destroyed the families of good and proud in the black community, apparently the doers of “good intentions” in the governing operation will not be satisfied until they have achieved their actioned goal: the destruction of the family. And I hide here, licking my wounds...this cannot suffice.

Moving amongst the new men who are unsure how they have found themselves without in this nation of stated greatness, I ask, prodding to understand. I can give no suggestions, for I have found myself living like this for years, but as one of the first to be out of character in this environment, I must, will, be one of the first to excise myself from this dead end zombie camp...but how...when...

I must change my surroundings. With all of these men having lost their homes, there must be many empty homes. A razor, some running water and I can cleanup and reenter the world. I must. I cannot hide him any longer, no matter how I feel about myself. Moving in a direction, out, that is all I need to do. It is the dawn of a new day of delights, so why not now...there does not have to be an excuse today.

Beginning my exit, I leave the ruin of the shantytown in an unclaimed lot and begin to walk. There is pain, but the future is ahead, and I must go. I no longer look down as I walk, but into the eyes of my citizenry to let them know of my return, of the return of goodness. Every man and woman had the same response; they looked away, still preferring I did not exist, unable able to see the he within me.

After 40 minutes down the road to a new beginning, I caught the eyes of a young and vibrant beauty. She did not look away but smiled and said hello. It is she that calls for the return of he. And as I turned my head to make a mental note of goodness to be dataed while forging ahead, I stepped in a pothole on the sidewalk, causing my good ankle to fold like a cheap, thin paperback. I was on the ground, hands and knees bleeding before I realized what was happening.

This is greatness? Goodness? Impotence. Tears come to my eyes. I just wish to fade away. What evil has caused my ruin, when we are the creators of our own evil? Tears. I just want to slowly fade away. But that is not he who resides in me. I don’t have to stay down.

The mind begins to work at overcoming the creeping weakness assaulting my ambition. If I stay down, the new bad ankle will swell and I go nowhere. Epiphany whispers in my ear, “You can’t leave me. You are a member of my village. You can’t leave. Come back, your cardboard bedroom is still there and you can rest until your ankles are better. You don’t have to stay for long, just till you feel better, then you can go and take on the new world.” I do need to rest that ankle, but Epiphany is such an easy whore. Once you accept you belong in her bosom you may never leave, because she will lie to you and tell you every lie you know as truth and can embrace, yet when you get her in her naked perfection, truth is undeniable. She calls me back, to heal, which is perfectly reasonable.

“I’ve got you,” a young man’s voice offers as he helps lift my slowly rising body.

“Thank you,” I offer automatically resurrecting instilled good graces, then get a look in his face. The young man has deep blue eyes and a smile that is pure and generous. The smile is a gift. He sees me. He helps me. No judgment, just concern. I smile back, feeling elevated. He within me feels the hand of fate good trying to intercede. “Thank you,” I offer again, enveloped in his goodness, warmed by the fact he was still touching me, not drawing his hands back in repulsion after being erected.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes. Yes I am. Thank you, young man.”

“Is there anything I can do for you? Do you need help getting anywhere or anything?”

“No. Thank you, but...no. You have been a true gentleman.”

“Anything else?”

Whether it was the generous smile or the warm eyes or the desperation of nothingness but possibility, I felt comfortable asking. “I need work, a job,” I whispered, trying to hide the obvious desperation.

“I don’t know what I can do. I work at that coffee shop over there. They are always hiring. You should put in an application.”

Looking at my appearance, my clearly desperate, smelly presence and know how such an application would go, just like it did every other time. “Thank you, son. Thank you, but this does not go over as well as you might think,” I answer with a guilt relieving smile.

Without hesitation, the young man guided me into the giant store of pharmaceutical dispensing. Limping, I followed without question, an article of faith or curiosity. He grabbed a hand basket and took me to the personal hygiene products. Into his basket he threw a disposable razor, shampoo, soap, scissors, a nail clipper and some deodorant. As we were leaving the area he spotted some protein health bars and threw a few of those into the basket. He then took me to the clothing department and selected a shirt, pants and shoes, each costing less than a cup of coffee at his place of employ. He then went to the register.

“This should do it. Put these on after you clean up and I am sure you can get a job, as long as you are a hard worker?”

I nodded, assuring him I was not a bum, just without.

“Nope,” he said, looking into his basket.

He exited the checkout line. I was sure he was going to take everything back. I feared he had changed his mind or was an evildoer who just wanted to taunt the less fortunate. The panic was desperation, hope fading. He was taking it back. He did not. He went and picked up a toothbrush and toothpaste, and a small bottle of mouthwash. “Our manager has a thing about breath. If you have bad breath, you don’t get hired.”

“Thank you for the warming,” I said meekly, dependent, unsure of how to react to a man who was trying to change my life for a few dollars.

“You should get these also,” he said, picking up a bottle of aspirin. “It will help keep the swelling down.”

The pain was there, but I was ignoring the anchor of misery as this young man gave me more hope than I dared to consider after so many years of simply surviving. He did not see what I had become but who I had been and could be again.

“Thank you,” I offered again. Then again at checkout. Then again outside the building. And again as he walked away toward his work, encouraging me to apply but demanding nothing.

Standing alone with a bag of taken for granted basics held tightly with both hands, I wondered why, and what I must do to make the most of this opportunity. It was now up to me to give purpose to his actions.

Naked and perfect, Epiphany returned. She smiled, letting me know that I was welcome to return and that it would be easy, but that I would never leave, because to leave means to have moved beyond just trying to survive. As perfect as she was, she showed me truth and I limped away, with her comforts of nothing at my back.

Protein, pills and safety at my back, I limped away. I needed to find an abandoned house, something, to take a shower and get cleaned up. I think I might have a shot at a job.

Wherever I go, I cannot go back, back to the place where I have held myself hostage for years. Epiphany’s naked beauty has shown me truth...I can hold myself hostage anytime.

I do not know the why or what for. Time passes, slowly sucking the limited life out of my tired and sore presence. I need to move. I am stuck, like a dented and damaged workhorse of a car abandoned on the side of a busy, neglected highway. Forget that I am living amongst those without homes of their own, watching and sponging up the hopelessness they ooze each day. The numbers grow. And here I am.

There was a plan, well laid. I was to exercise the he within to give birth again to the strength that wishes to spread its wings and flap madly. I could not simply stand around or sit by and watch the citizenry each day and expect to make progress. I had to move so he could come forth again.

Plan: Exercise. (Start simple, walk.)

Seemed like a good plan, simple with purpose of complex forethought. Your body becomes weathered and worn when you live outside like an old canoe in the desert. You must ask for it to forgive your sloth and use it again to bear a better man. So I walked. And walked. And walked. It was working. I was felling better about he who was I and he who was within thee. Appetite improved. Scrounging became more successful. Even with the rain and overcast of too often sunless days, I knew I was ready to escape this dilapidated definition of my physical presence. I needed to push harder.

Not too far from this small piece of land some feel comfort in calling a park and others call out of necessity a home is a hill, a steep hill that leads into a very nice neighborhood — is there any other kind of neighborhood the receives ornately colored sidewalks? The hill was steep and without a doubt an exercisable challenge. And to become you must be.

The first time the hill was challenged, death swung its harsh scythe and nearly reaped another soul. Tightness in the chest, lungs screaming for oxygen, I paused. What can you prove if you do not live another day to fight the good fight, especially when it was not fight that took away another day? What do you prove when you die proving nothing? Pause. Paaaaaaause! Eventually the heart slowed its panic and the lungs filled with enough air to get the system working somewhat properly again. Not a quarter way up the hill, it was time to turn around and contemplate a return.

Near the bottom of the steep hill, unnoticed on the sidewalk, was a piece of concrete jutting up. Pushing up and breaking the concrete was a tree root trying to escape its artificially defined allocated space.

The jut brought tears of pain and misery. Stepping on the piece of concrete pointing toward the surviving goodness caused the ankle of exercise to fold like a flimsy school book in an illiterate third world country run by a dictator who believed he was benevolent and kept the curtains closed. Without hesitation, the body collapsed to save the ankle an all of the smelly manness of an outdoor resident came crushing down. The hands went out to keep the concrete from kissing the face coarsely, so the palms had the tender skin ripped back to reveal the rich beauty of a mammal’s flowing vibrant color oxidated. The tears poured, the pain immediate with the promise of more to come.

There was no doubt that to remain a heap piled on the ground, the ankle would swell and stiffen rapidly, and there are places where those without an assigned structure are tolerated, nice neighborhoods not amongst those places, which is why so many are encased by walls. It was imperative that I gained erection and returned to the dark and damp place all men of pending intent felt comfortable. Stroking away the tears, I quickly stood tall, hardening myself for the task ahead.

It took quite a while to limp back to the place where my ilk were accepted, but I did, and here I have been for a month, without exercising. So hopeful and energetic, throbbing with life, and I am barely mobile, moving just enough to sustain. One step forward, two steps back, but that is not the rule, simply a momentary circumstance.

The ankle went from softball to baseball and now sits as a maquette for a ping-pong ball. The body’s power of renewal are quite amazing. After only a month of sitting under a tarp under grey and overcast skies and wet, cold nights, a twisted ankle is almost as good as a slightly abused ankle...clean living probably played a role, but not clean as in shower...when was the last shower...but clean of manipulants,,,you do not get to experience the full of the heal altered...but a painkiller is enticing...clean...clear...goodness...return.

Soon, perhaps in a week, I will begin to challenge the physical presence again. In the meantime, a question must be considered: As I have spent another month with those without whose numbers are growing, what is happening to the men who have tinkered with this economic engine?

This place is being overrun with able bodied men who are complaining about not being able to find work. Usually, the men around here — it is a man’s place — are complaining, but not about the inability to find work, more likely there would have been a complaint about work finding them, but times are a changing. Perhaps there are others like me who have been crushed by the weight of digital imbalances in the ether unpaid and been told to go outside. Something is going on. These men could use a bit of hope, and in me is the answer from he.

Perhaps I need to accept that the world seeks good, that the world is coming to my universe. I would have said that they are coming to my universe because I am here, but that is I as he and he is still in the fire, yet unable to rise. I will say they are here because that is where they belong...and I am here to show them the way...out?

I am here because it is where I belong...but at some point a shower and a couch and a roof would be nice...when it is meant to be, but not by sitting on the worn and thinning rump of goodness will anything change.

The weather turns hard. It is cold and getting colder. We stand around a pile of broken furniture and trash set alight. The smoke is probably not healthy, which is why I have placed myself upwind. The other guys do not seem to care — not sure why I do. I know it is Sunday because there is a small hand-held radio on and we are all feigning great interest in a football game, as if we had something beyond limp loyalty to wager. Christmas is near, the decorations the city has lined the streets of the shopping district with indicate. They did not decorate this shantytown hiding behind abandoned buildings and rubbish — Matilda did, hanging a wreath she stole off of the front door of a fancy pet store attached to the front of her shopping cart. As cheery as that may be, it is cold and getting colder.

Rubbing the hands of once greatness together, flames stretching to lick the flesh, I shook my head, again in self-disgust. I know things must change. I know I must do something. But what? How? Where is the energy, the passion for goodness when the day grinds you into the ground? When you are crushed by exhaustion in the course of accomplishing nothing, what is left to do something — especially when the something is as rewarding to those who are helped as it is to the soul, but does nothing to help put a roof over your head, and roofs are nice is something learned when they are absent. (I always took roofs for granted, thinking they were just another example of man’s growing softness, until I began living without one and felt nature’s relentless coarse caress.)

I take a deep breath. The air is thick, so much so that I feel I can chew what I am breathing — but who wants to chew the putrid stench of nature’s recycling decay? Perhaps breathing the heavy soot coming off of the burning pile is not such a bad idea.

“Nah,” I grunt, passing on the bottle making its rounds.

“Here,” Du grunts back.

I may not want to drink this time, but I still need to pass the bottle along. Taking the bottle, I prepare to pass it along, but Geez cannot take it from my hand. He tries, but something righteous within will not let it go.

The alcohol in this bottle, it is doing no good. What would happen with these men, with me, if we stopped numbing ourselves to the day, causing all days to become a giant blur? Something to consider, to discuss perhaps, except that before the conversation can occur, Geez tugs with all of his might, using both hands, and pulls the bottle from my hand. Only he did not have control of it himself and it fell to the ground. Three men diving to save the bottle were not quick enough. The bottle bounced off of its edge. The fire sniffed the alcohol and swallowed it quickly, providing a rush of warmth. All were stunned, staring at the grimy face of one once glowing goodness.

It might have been a good time to discuss what we were doing using alcohol to escape any purpose in life, but they were not in a mood to talk. En masse, they rushed my gentle and generous soul and began to punch and kick me as they insulted me incoherently. I did not feel threatened by the feeble, barely pulsing men, so simply absorbed the hits into my frailing body. Coming from the other side of the building I heard carolers singing “We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.” I am not sure if I actually heard the last words or finished it myself, as I was struck in the head with a blunt object — a brick — and knocked beyond subconscious.

My head is killing me. The bump is sore, tender. No one seems to know who threw the brick. No one really cares where anarchy rules. They seem really pissed about the booze. Did I have a hand in doing a little good? In reducing the severity of inebriation? In giving them one day not numbed? Does it matter? Do I care any more than they care?

What I do know is I am alive and I want to live. Not like this, this is not living. I know that this is not where I belong. Checking my pockets I find nothing. I remember the emergency money in my small change pocket: $32, folded tight and small. It’s a start.

The breath of another day is a start, and all any of us needs is a start.

A start. We need only to begin to succeed.

There has been a great deal of reflection. I know who I have been and what I should be again. I know I cannot be who I am, who I have been, in the position I am in now.

Perhaps what I know is nothing more than the excuse of not knowing...