He looked up and down the darkened street before climbing onto the porch of
the funeral home. A lone street light provided weak light, so he could see where
he was going.
The sun was down and the only people looking might be the police. He kept an
eye out for them.
He was drunk and trespassing, but he was homeless and needed a place to lie
down. A funeral home was as good a place as any.
He shambled over to the corner, getting as far away from the street as he could,
and lay down on the piece of cardboard that he had bought with him. He stunk
of liquor and had not shaved or bathed in days. Still, he used the cardboard
because he had been upset when, yesterday, he awoke covered with dust and
dirt. Sweet’s Funeral Home’s porch was only swept on funeral days, and they
were not thinking about making it nice for Izzy Grant.
Izzy pulled himself up to his feet yesterday, brushed himself off, and wandered
away. He didn't get most of the dust and dirt off until he got to the shelter.
There, he ate cold cereal and milk. He had to get something into his stomach.
“Hey, Izzie. You ok?”
That was Jackie, the morning man at the shelter. He was a big man, who had
been out on the streets himself, so knew what it was like.
Jackie was used to coming into the shelter in the morning and hearing about this
or that one being dead.
The day guy was dead men walking before he came into the shelter for more
then a meal.
He looked at Izzy as if he was seeing the signs of wet brain for the first time.
Izzy was a short, skinny white guy, but he always more or less kept it together.
Nowadays, he knew, he was much dirtier and unkempt then Jack had seen him
before.
Izzy ate, went outside and wandered down to the Avenue, where he would bum
change and get a bottle.
He would drink half of it fast to get the edge off and then sip it until dinner time
back at the shelter.
He sat on some steps, sipping his bounty and thinking softer thoughts.
If, and when he asked himself why he didn’t get off of the street, he would take
a sip and the thoughts would go away.
At dinner time, Iggy went up and sat in the park across from the shelter. He
would cross the busy street and get in line for a meal. He did not see anyone he
knew.
The shelter was across a street, but between the booze and the speeding cars,
sometimes it was a lifetime away. There were times when he could barely
manage to get to his feet to wait patiently to cross the street.
“Iggy, man. How you doing?” asked Jackie, spotting the small, man in the back
of the line and walking back to greet him.
The line of homeless men went out onto the sidewalk these days. There was
something about Izzy that interested Jackie.
Izzy was white and Jackie was black, but one alcoholic recognized a kindred spirit.
“I’m fine.” Izzy said, looking at his shoes.
“You know, they got good things here for a fella like you and me.”
“Yeah.”
Jackie walked away. It seemed to Izzy that Jackie was feeling the melancholy that
this much misery brought. Not being able to do jack-shit about it made a man
feel bad.
Izzy knew Jack was trying to figure out what drove him and whether there was a
smart man underneath all of that booze. He ate his meal just as he had done
earlier, alone, never asking anyone to pass the plastic bowl containing the slices
of bread you could use to mop up the spaghetti sauce.
Afterward, he disappeared and went back down to sit alone.
“No, please, no. Oh, God. Stop......No.”
Izzy groaned in his sleep, but did not turn over, or even move.
Even though he was uncomfortable on the cement porch of the funeral home,
the dream arrived each night. He did not know that he dreamed, but always felt
hung over in the morning, even though he only drank a small bottle.
He had been sleeping down by the tracks and been awakened by the noise.
After the men had done what they wanted to do with the girl, they had come
running by where Izzy was.
Izzy opened his eyes a bit, but he soon resumed his vodka infused sleep. But
he'd seen one of the men and the man had seen him see him. He knew that.
The next time Izzy arrived at the shelter, Jackie came wandering around, asking
how he was in a friendly way.
"’m ok.”
“Where you crashing, man?”
“Around.”
“You know, we got room.”
“I’m ok.”
“Somebody said somebody was hanging around Sweets.”
“I wouldn’t know.” replied Izzy. His heart thrummed in his chest. Jackie watched
the little man shrug and twitch slightly.
“Hanging around a funeral place would give me the creeps.”
Izzy paused and looked intently into Jackie's face.
Jackie underwent a remarkable transformation in the past few years. He was
clean shaven and wearing nice clothes. Not everyone could get there.
When they found Izzy’s body, they first thought he had frozen to death. It was
January, after all.
When he was assaulted, he was anaesthetised. He didn't feel the thrusts, nor
hear the voice saying, “sorry, man, but I can’t risk you remembering”
As he drifted toward death he'd heard only the voice of his father..
Turning him over, the officers saw the puncture wounds in his chest.
As they drove away, Officer Claiborne began talking about a TV show his old lady
had been blabbing about.
Then they started talking about how a tiger can’t change its stripes....
the funeral home. A lone street light provided weak light, so he could see where
he was going.
The sun was down and the only people looking might be the police. He kept an
eye out for them.
He was drunk and trespassing, but he was homeless and needed a place to lie
down. A funeral home was as good a place as any.
He shambled over to the corner, getting as far away from the street as he could,
and lay down on the piece of cardboard that he had bought with him. He stunk
of liquor and had not shaved or bathed in days. Still, he used the cardboard
because he had been upset when, yesterday, he awoke covered with dust and
dirt. Sweet’s Funeral Home’s porch was only swept on funeral days, and they
were not thinking about making it nice for Izzy Grant.
Izzy pulled himself up to his feet yesterday, brushed himself off, and wandered
away. He didn't get most of the dust and dirt off until he got to the shelter.
There, he ate cold cereal and milk. He had to get something into his stomach.
“Hey, Izzie. You ok?”
That was Jackie, the morning man at the shelter. He was a big man, who had
been out on the streets himself, so knew what it was like.
Jackie was used to coming into the shelter in the morning and hearing about this
or that one being dead.
The day guy was dead men walking before he came into the shelter for more
then a meal.
He looked at Izzy as if he was seeing the signs of wet brain for the first time.
Izzy was a short, skinny white guy, but he always more or less kept it together.
Nowadays, he knew, he was much dirtier and unkempt then Jack had seen him
before.
Izzy ate, went outside and wandered down to the Avenue, where he would bum
change and get a bottle.
He would drink half of it fast to get the edge off and then sip it until dinner time
back at the shelter.
He sat on some steps, sipping his bounty and thinking softer thoughts.
If, and when he asked himself why he didn’t get off of the street, he would take
a sip and the thoughts would go away.
At dinner time, Iggy went up and sat in the park across from the shelter. He
would cross the busy street and get in line for a meal. He did not see anyone he
knew.
The shelter was across a street, but between the booze and the speeding cars,
sometimes it was a lifetime away. There were times when he could barely
manage to get to his feet to wait patiently to cross the street.
“Iggy, man. How you doing?” asked Jackie, spotting the small, man in the back
of the line and walking back to greet him.
The line of homeless men went out onto the sidewalk these days. There was
something about Izzy that interested Jackie.
Izzy was white and Jackie was black, but one alcoholic recognized a kindred spirit.
“I’m fine.” Izzy said, looking at his shoes.
“You know, they got good things here for a fella like you and me.”
“Yeah.”
Jackie walked away. It seemed to Izzy that Jackie was feeling the melancholy that
this much misery brought. Not being able to do jack-shit about it made a man
feel bad.
Izzy knew Jack was trying to figure out what drove him and whether there was a
smart man underneath all of that booze. He ate his meal just as he had done
earlier, alone, never asking anyone to pass the plastic bowl containing the slices
of bread you could use to mop up the spaghetti sauce.
Afterward, he disappeared and went back down to sit alone.
“No, please, no. Oh, God. Stop......No.”
Izzy groaned in his sleep, but did not turn over, or even move.
Even though he was uncomfortable on the cement porch of the funeral home,
the dream arrived each night. He did not know that he dreamed, but always felt
hung over in the morning, even though he only drank a small bottle.
He had been sleeping down by the tracks and been awakened by the noise.
After the men had done what they wanted to do with the girl, they had come
running by where Izzy was.
Izzy opened his eyes a bit, but he soon resumed his vodka infused sleep. But
he'd seen one of the men and the man had seen him see him. He knew that.
The next time Izzy arrived at the shelter, Jackie came wandering around, asking
how he was in a friendly way.
"’m ok.”
“Where you crashing, man?”
“Around.”
“You know, we got room.”
“I’m ok.”
“Somebody said somebody was hanging around Sweets.”
“I wouldn’t know.” replied Izzy. His heart thrummed in his chest. Jackie watched
the little man shrug and twitch slightly.
“Hanging around a funeral place would give me the creeps.”
Izzy paused and looked intently into Jackie's face.
Jackie underwent a remarkable transformation in the past few years. He was
clean shaven and wearing nice clothes. Not everyone could get there.
When they found Izzy’s body, they first thought he had frozen to death. It was
January, after all.
When he was assaulted, he was anaesthetised. He didn't feel the thrusts, nor
hear the voice saying, “sorry, man, but I can’t risk you remembering”
As he drifted toward death he'd heard only the voice of his father..
Turning him over, the officers saw the puncture wounds in his chest.
As they drove away, Officer Claiborne began talking about a TV show his old lady
had been blabbing about.
Then they started talking about how a tiger can’t change its stripes....
The Funeral by Bob Fenhagen
r.kv.r.y. quarterly shorts on substances summer/fall 2007
r.kv.r.y. quarterly shorts on substances summer/fall 2007
photo: Tick Tock by Jacob Krejci
