Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71303 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71303 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
In another life, I might’ve even flirted a little if I knew he was so inclined. I did a bit of that with my customers when I worked in a salon, just for the fun of it. When I pretended not to have a care in the world. But I was hiding something then too.
“Nice to see you again,” a social worker named Tessa said as she passed through the room, greeting visitors. The staff made themselves available if you wanted to discuss amenities, their employment program, or scour through donations, which was nice. They usually had extra soap and toothpaste on hand, along with socks and undergarments and vouchers for a nearby laundromat to wash our clothes and sheets—or whatever was rummaged up to sleep on each night.
Some nights it wasn’t more than a stray grocery bag; however we could make do.
Sitting down with my meal, I said a silent thank-you and tried not to inhale my food. Afterward, I’d get in the next long line for the public restroom. The waiting for this or that could sometimes take up most of my day, but I wasn’t going to complain. Not when the sun was shining and the weather cooperating. It was the little things.
2
FOSTER
“Come on, boy.” I clipped on Oscar’s leash, closed the door behind me, and led him to the elevator. I was running a bit late because it’d been hard to get out of bed the past few days. The cloudy day didn’t help. But I forced myself, knowing Oscar was waiting. I had him to thank for keeping me going. My job as well, since it paid my rent and all.
I’d moved to downtown Cleveland in the fall to take a position at the university library. The city was smaller than Chicago, the rent was cheaper, and those factors suited me better. It was perfect, really. Though I’d quickly learned that change was still hard, even a change for the better.
It was the middle of the spring semester, and by now, I had gotten pretty acclimated to the city. If only my mental health would catch up. But what did I expect? I’d likely have to take antidepressants my whole life.
I’d been walking the same route with Oscar for weeks. We’d pass the same buildings and street corners every morning. But yesterday was different. The coffee shop I normally went to was shut down due to a gas leak, so I decided to try the new one, about two blocks from my apartment, that a coworker had mentioned.
I’d spotted the man in a yellow tent the moment I turned on Euclid Avenue. But I would have anyway, given Oscar’s beelining for him. He was a friendly dog, but acting like he knew the man was just plain strange.
Since my regular coffee shop was still closed this morning, I walked in the same direction, knowing there was a chance the man from yesterday would be camping there, but maybe not. Maybe he moved around. I couldn’t be sure. I’d seen my share of destitute people in plenty of cities, and I sometimes gave money to panhandlers. Maybe I should ask what they did with it, strike up a conversation like I did with the man yesterday—though, let’s be honest, I wouldn’t have had Oscar not made such a fuss.
Guilt crowded my stomach. He’d seemed good-natured for a man who lived in a tent on a city street. It had to be a stereotype that most homeless people were strung out and used the money they got for drugs. Or was the current terminology houseless or unhoused? I had read in a recent newspaper article that certain phrasings were preferred over others, placing the ownness on the city’s lack of affordable housing rather than on the person who didn’t have reliable shelter.
The man in the yellow tent looked around my age, and I couldn’t help wondering what’d happened in his life that led him to these tragic circumstances. Made sense to think of him as experiencing homelessness—rather than the idea that he’d caused it himself.
As we rounded the corner and the tent came into view, Oscar immediately began pulling on the leash. Goddamn it. I considered turning in the opposite direction, and just as I made the motion, Oscar planted his feet and wouldn’t budge. “Stubborn dog.”
Maybe the man wouldn’t come out of his tent this time. I’d have hated to disturb him again, so as we approached, I kept to the building side and away from the curb, but Oscar kept tugging toward the tent. I finally gave up and let him lead me, hoping he’d only sniff the area and be satisfied.
I watched helplessly as Oscar inspected the tent. When I tried to move him along, he pushed his snout at the nylon fabric near the flap.