Read Online Supernatural: Carved in Flesh by Tim Waggoner - Free Book Online
Authors: Tim Waggoner
Ads: Link
homeless for almost four years now, and it still ain’t easy for me to ask folks for money. But sometimes we have to do things we don’t like to survive, you know? You can’t let your pride get in the way. It’s like a Buddhist thing. You have to die to the self in order to reach enlightenment.”
Joe had no idea what the man was talking about, but he understood the basic sentiment.
“Sometimes it feels like pride’s the only thing I got left.” Joe finished his cigarette and crushed it out.
He’d had a good job working for the county, driving a snow plow in the winter and doing road work in the summer. He liked being outdoors—he wasn’t the sit-behind-a-desk type—and he liked feeling that the work he did helped make people’s lives a little easier. Then the lousy economy forced the county to make some budget cuts, and Joe was laid off. A week later his wife filed for divorce, took their little girl, and moved to her mother’s in Ash Creek. He hadn’t been able to afford a lawyer, so Sheila ended up with sole custody of their daughter, and he’d ended up paying both child and spousal support. He’d looked for other work—every damned day he looked—but no one was hiring. Eventually his unemployment ran out, the bank foreclosed on his home, he lost his car, and the next thing he knew, he became a resident of the street. He told himself it was temporary, just until he could get back on his proverbial feet. That had been four months ago, and he was still here, a victim not of booze, drugs, or mental illness—just plain old lousy luck. He’d adjusted as best he could, but the one thing he hadn’t been able to accept was asking strangers for money. It was one thing to be homeless, but it was another thing to be a beggar. Not that he’d ever use that word in front of Billy. He’d been on the street too long to make judgments about what others did to survive. He had no idea what the man’s story was and how he’d ended up living like this. That kind of personal information was kept to one’s self on the street, shared only with the closest of confidants. But whatever Billy’s story was, Joe knew the man had one. Everyone did.
“Tell you what,” Billy said, “I managed to score a few dollars today. How about we head on over to the Foxhole for a couple slices of pie? My treat.”
“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I don’t need cheering up. Besides, if I have a hard time taking charity from strangers, what makes you think I’ll have an easier time taking it from you?”
Billy grinned. “You got to start somewhere, right? C’mon.” He took hold of Joe’s upper arm and stood. Joe allowed the man to lift him to his feet.
“Well... it has been a while since I’ve had a good piece of pie.”
Billy clapped him on the back. “There you go!”
The two men started walking in the direction of the diner, taking alleys for short cuts. Not only did alleys save time, but you could find some good stuff in them. Discarded or lost objects you might be able to sell for a couple bucks, even cast-off clothing sometimes. Sure, alleys could be dark and intimidating, and they didn’t smell all that good, but they were useful, and when you were homeless, that was all that mattered.
They were only a block away from the Foxhole, walking through an alley between a coin-operated laundry and pizza joint when Joe had the feeling they were being followed. Before he’d become homeless, he might’ve ignored the sensation, figuring it was just his imagination. Who didn’t walk through an alley with their guard up? But during his relatively short time on the street, Joe’s survival instincts had been sharpened, and he knew better than to dismiss any feeling, no matter how trivial it seemed. He gripped Billy’s upper arm to stop him, and then glanced back over his shoulder. He honestly didn’t expect to see anything, so it was a shock when he saw the figure standing behind them. It was even more of a
Joe had no idea what the man was talking about, but he understood the basic sentiment.
“Sometimes it feels like pride’s the only thing I got left.” Joe finished his cigarette and crushed it out.
He’d had a good job working for the county, driving a snow plow in the winter and doing road work in the summer. He liked being outdoors—he wasn’t the sit-behind-a-desk type—and he liked feeling that the work he did helped make people’s lives a little easier. Then the lousy economy forced the county to make some budget cuts, and Joe was laid off. A week later his wife filed for divorce, took their little girl, and moved to her mother’s in Ash Creek. He hadn’t been able to afford a lawyer, so Sheila ended up with sole custody of their daughter, and he’d ended up paying both child and spousal support. He’d looked for other work—every damned day he looked—but no one was hiring. Eventually his unemployment ran out, the bank foreclosed on his home, he lost his car, and the next thing he knew, he became a resident of the street. He told himself it was temporary, just until he could get back on his proverbial feet. That had been four months ago, and he was still here, a victim not of booze, drugs, or mental illness—just plain old lousy luck. He’d adjusted as best he could, but the one thing he hadn’t been able to accept was asking strangers for money. It was one thing to be homeless, but it was another thing to be a beggar. Not that he’d ever use that word in front of Billy. He’d been on the street too long to make judgments about what others did to survive. He had no idea what the man’s story was and how he’d ended up living like this. That kind of personal information was kept to one’s self on the street, shared only with the closest of confidants. But whatever Billy’s story was, Joe knew the man had one. Everyone did.
“Tell you what,” Billy said, “I managed to score a few dollars today. How about we head on over to the Foxhole for a couple slices of pie? My treat.”
“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I don’t need cheering up. Besides, if I have a hard time taking charity from strangers, what makes you think I’ll have an easier time taking it from you?”
Billy grinned. “You got to start somewhere, right? C’mon.” He took hold of Joe’s upper arm and stood. Joe allowed the man to lift him to his feet.
“Well... it has been a while since I’ve had a good piece of pie.”
Billy clapped him on the back. “There you go!”
The two men started walking in the direction of the diner, taking alleys for short cuts. Not only did alleys save time, but you could find some good stuff in them. Discarded or lost objects you might be able to sell for a couple bucks, even cast-off clothing sometimes. Sure, alleys could be dark and intimidating, and they didn’t smell all that good, but they were useful, and when you were homeless, that was all that mattered.
They were only a block away from the Foxhole, walking through an alley between a coin-operated laundry and pizza joint when Joe had the feeling they were being followed. Before he’d become homeless, he might’ve ignored the sensation, figuring it was just his imagination. Who didn’t walk through an alley with their guard up? But during his relatively short time on the street, Joe’s survival instincts had been sharpened, and he knew better than to dismiss any feeling, no matter how trivial it seemed. He gripped Billy’s upper arm to stop him, and then glanced back over his shoulder. He honestly didn’t expect to see anything, so it was a shock when he saw the figure standing behind them. It was even more of a
Similar Books
