Disclaimer: I know I said I wouldn't do sequels anymore, but "My Subway Angel" got such a good response from you guys that I was inspired to write more on Doug. And hey, who knows, if I get good feedback on this, I might be further inspired to at long last finish my "Learning the Ropes" story. Tell me what you think.
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"My name is Doug, and I have breast cancer." All I can think as these poor, gaunt, fatally ill women were looking up at me as I stood before their support group was, "Don't laugh, don't laugh". Their wide eyes overflowed with sympathy and grief for my imaginary condition. I didn't have the heart to tell them I was only there for the refreshments.
How did I end up here? I had a crappy part-time cleaning service job. I lived with Raphael, who pretended to be my friend just long enough for me to move in with him.... then kick me out on my ass after an argument. I had the world's most beautiful boyfriend, who doesn't want to know me now that I'm on the street and need him most. Life is like that-- when it rains it pours. All the good stuff comes at once and then you pay for it with ten times as much bad stuff. I've been completely abandoned by everyone I know and love. I could go to my sister and mother, who live in a small apartment with barely enough room for the two of them and a cat, but you have to understand. I've been the man of my nuclear family since I was ten. The crazy old man who sired me didn't have it in him, so I had to step up to the plate. All my life, I've been the rock, the plaster holding together what was left of my family after we escaped that old, violent lunatic. My mother and kid sister don't have much money, and they certainly don't need a moocher like me eating up all their food and sleeping on the kitchen floor.
Better they think I went on with my life and forgot about them for a while, than let them see me like this.
So this is the depth to which I've stooped. You'd be surprised what you're capable of when you're homeless and starving, though crashing support groups is a new low for me. Usually I just go dumpster diving, or stand by the Burger King waste baskets waiting for people to approach with their meager leavings then steal their trays. I've tried going to soup kitchens but it's like prison – intimidating and overcrowded. Further, if a bunch of guys see a new face and they want that dude's food, they're going to come over and take it, and there ain't a damn thing that new dude is gonna do about it. Just being *around* a soup kitchen is dangerous. And it's not like the food tastes any better than vomit. Begging on the subway for food is risky, cause it's illegal. Transit cops are a bunch of douchenards who are always uber-pissed 'cause they aren't good enough to be real cops. Real cops can be bitches too. Especially since now you can't even eat or put your feet up without worrying about some stupid fine. Sleeping on the subways is good and bad. Good because regular people won't bother you. Bad because you've got a lot of competition, and other bums will definitely try to knife you for your shit.
I primarily stay in Brooklyn, because I know my way around. I know which buildings are empty and aren't part of gang territory, and I know which store owners don't pay too much attention to their outdoor merchandise. I've been bold enough to go up, try on a shirt and just walk away with it, leaving the old nasty one behind. I will go to a fruit store, fill a few bags and just walk away. (Thrift stores are my favorites) I've only had people chase me a handful of times, and I was only caught once. Not many people are suspicious because I try not to look like a bum. I go into restaurants and clean my hands and face often, and when possible, take a hooker bath. (A hooker bath is that quick wash-down prostitutes do to freshen up in between johns)
Lately I've taken to trading with a few other residentially challenged persons such as myself. There's Percy, this old dude with 2 teeth and more hair coming out of the mole on his chin than he has on his head. He lives in Prospect Park al though I rarely go in there, especially alone; I'd be just asking for problems. We usually meet by the subway station. He apparently knows a lot of kids, so I can always get some canned food or a cigarette lighter in trade for whatever random toys I can steal. Then there's this crazy woman with tits down to her knees; she lives in Crown Heights and will take any kind of cigarettes I can bum off people. She gets me those trick metro cards with the bent edges that will get you past a turnstile every time. (They don't work on the bus though; I learned that the hard way.) And then there's Marlo, who hangs out in Canarsie. Even filthy, he's a beautiful sight – tall, lean and wiry, with thick, shoulder length curly black hair, dark brown eyes and a scraggly beard. He doesn't carry anything on him, because he's super-religious and he thinks God will provide everything he needs. Perhaps I go to see Marlo too much, but despite our conflicting opinions on a higher power, we get along famously. Strangely enough, it is I more than God who provides for him. In fact, I've gone to great lengths to steal unique foods and gifts he would appreciate. What he offers me in return isn't material. It's security, company and advice, which has probably been the reason I'm keeping myself together as well as I am.
In other words, I love him, and the fact that he's so religious makes me hesitant to let him know. Tonight I find myself on the L train once again, on my way to see Marlo. I can always find him inside the Holy Family Roman Catholic church helping out in confession or just sitting there quietly staring off into space, which is exactly how I find him tonight. I sit down next to him and mutter quietly into his ear.
"Psst. Ey, meng. Joo gots da blow? I gots da green."
After a long moment he turns to me, his thick eyebrows knitted. "Behave, midget, you're in God's house."
"Yeah, he tried to lock me out but I got in through the doggie-door. That'll show him, eh?" I reach into my pocket when I see him inhaling, preparing to tell me to have some respect. "Besides, I come bearing gifts. You hungry? I got you some cheese."
"I...*cheese*?" His eyes light up. He's so fucking beautiful. He unfolds his hands and touches the foil package. His arms are so dirty they're black, all the way past his elbows. He kind of reminds me of a cat that way, how some of them have limbs of a different color. "Wow, it's cracker barrel. Where did you get this?"
"Some shmoe left the trunk of his car open with bags of groceries inside...haha, then took some upstairs. I grabbed what I could and ran. You want to eat this here, or outside on the lawn?"
He gives me a solemn look. "There's a man who roams the station who could use this more than us."
"Are you kidding me??" I stuff it back in my pocket angrily. "That guy could'a come out and kicked my a--"
"Doug!" He cuts me off. His shout slices through the oppressing silence of this place and echoes ominously. I allow a moment of silence to follow. His dark, dramatic eyes burn with insult. "This. Is. God's. House." He grits his teeth and points towards the door. "We'll continue this conversation outside."
I give him a wide-eyed, sorrowful expression and sulk towards the door. He mutters a prayer and eventually follows me.
We sit beneath the singular tree out in front. He used to call it the Twin Gardens. I'd retorted with, "a five-by-eight patch of dying, yellow grass does not a garden make." I suppose to someone who's never been outside this city, it's as much of a garden as he's ever really seen. We sit there in silence for a few moments and a big black man with a potbelly and a greasy muscle shirt walks by and hocks a big, juicy loogey right at the foot of the steps.
"Disgraceful." Marlo snarls under his breath.
"Down, boy." I massage my fingertips into his shoulder. "Most people have no idea what's going on around them. He probably didn't even see this was a church." He merely stares hatefully as the man shuffles away. "I'm going to compromise with you. I'll break this cheese in half. We share one half and we give the other to that dude in the train station, okay?" He turns to raise his brows hopefully at me. "It's probably better we each have a part, too much of this rich stuff would make us sick."
