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There goes a cat— like a rolling leaf, like a puff of smoke. Sudden animation
on an empty city street seems unreal, out of place, when the city wreaks its
outline, its pattern of order and stillness, on the night sky itself. The moon is
somewhere behind a building, shadows are thrown by street lamp and stoplight,
and you can't see the stars so close to a city.
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Up against a brick wall, hiding from the wind in a tunnel between two buildings, stands an old man. A bum,
an alcoholic, a drifter, he color of a coffee bean, wrapped in a gray work shirt, a pair of overalls, a worn
black suit jacket, hiding from the cops and the coming winter chill. They’re nailing people on vague tonight.
If you’re worried about vagrancy, go on back to the Sally and get some money to cover your vague charge
before a cop comes.
Sam Carson hunches and paces and hopes they won't find him. The buildings are abandoned, but when he
looked for an open door he found them all locked, nailed shut, boarded tight or bolted. The fire escapes and
the stairways are stripped and broken. All the businesses are gone except for the Salvation Army store and
the husks of empty factories safe behind razor wire.
Behind the alley there’s a parking lot with weeds growing through it. Railroad tracks cutting back through
the weeds towards the river. The wind picks up; the old man stirs and shifts with it.
Getting cold at night. Time to go south. Wait until night comes, catch a ride out of here. Time to start
thinking about going to New Orleans for the winter.
A train horn blows in the distance. The sound hangs in the air. He rode Old Dirtyface once or twice, back
in the day, before the FTRA scares-- now the trains are too fast for him, too buckled down, and they sure
don't slow down for the likes of you.
Old man hiding in the brick licks his lips in the dark. There is a hiss on the asphalt of the parking lot behind
him as a cop car enters and begins to spotlight the doorways, making sure of security in an abandoned
building.
Sam hears the rush of the tires on the old blacktop and sees a hint of the stabbing light crouching, reaching
toward his hiding place. The light pulses, throbs, lifts from the ground and stabs into the tunnel.
The old man hides, skittering like a leaf, trying to disappear into the smoke hung by his breath in the cold
October night.
Be a good thing now, get out of here fast, so many cops around, cold, oh —Damn! They come back around
the other side! Shit got me sittin' right in the light this time of night! Out of the car now, hopin' for a drunk
but they always got vague, goddamn, BIG ones—
“You have any reason for being out here at this hour?”
“I was just goin' home!”
“Now, okay, just cool down a minute, where do you live?”
Damn, damn, damn! Hadn't thought of an answer! Stupid! All eat up with the dumbass.
“Do you have an address?”
“I stayin' with a cousin.”
“What's his name?”
“Charles. Tony.”
“What's his address?”
“I ain't a vagrant!” He waves the limp dollar bills in the night. “I ain't a vagrant! I got two dollars!”
The cool white cop makes a sound up his nose. The broad black cop chuckles like a car engine.
“Well, now, hey old man, I'm sorry, but you got to have ten dollars in this town now.”
All Material Copyright © 2005 by Michael Fountain
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