Read Online Wasting Away by Richard M. Cochran - Free Book Online

once in a while, I see smoke from the roof
and that’s it. They go out as much as I do.”
    “Never?”
I asked with a grin.
    She
nodded her head and returned my smile. She turned her attention back to the
bag. “So what are we having tonight?”
    I
focused on the cans and replied, “Anything you want.”
    She
smiled again and picked through the bag, shuffling cans to the side, and pulled
out a bag of pasta and a can of sauce. “Do you suppose it’s still good?”
    “Absolutely,”
I said.
    I
opened a can of Sterno and placed it on the stove and sat a few of the
gas burner grates on top to give the flame room to burn. I filled a pan with
some of the bottled water and brought it to a boil before adding the pasta.
    “Have
you ever heard the song Canned Heat Blues ?” I asked, waiting for the
pasta to cook.
    “No,
I don’t think I have.”
    “I
don’t suppose you would have,” I said. “It was recorded in 1928. It was about
hobos drinking the alcohol they strained from cans of Sterno ,” I said.
    She
tightened up her face. “Really?” she asked. “They would go through all of that
for a buzz?” She laughed.
    “During
the Depression, people did whatever they could to get by, to make life easier.”
    “I
suppose they had to,” she said, watching the water bubble up in the pan.
    “It’s
a lot like it is now.”
    “What
have you done to get by?” she asked.
    “Things
that I would rather not remember,” I replied, shaking my head.
    Once
the pasta was cooked, I strained what was left of the water into a cup and
returned the spaghetti to the pan, pouring the sauce over with a sizzle. I
added some of the water to thin it out and placed the pasta in some bowls that
Mary had wiped clean.
    I
don’t remember anything ever tasting so good. There’s nothing in the world like
a plate of hot food.
    “What
did you do when you found the building, that supply store you were talking
about?” she asked, wiping sauce from the side of her mouth.
    As
I looked back through my memories, a bitter taste came up in my mouth. The
story just came out and I did little to hold it back.

 
     
     
    Chapter 8
     
     
     
     
    Hand
over hand I climbed a series of water pipes to a fire escape on the side of the
building. I couldn’t feel my fingers by the time I made it to the landing.
Calluses ripped open on my palms and dotted my skin with blood. I rubbed my
hands together and balled them into fists to make the circulation return. As
the numbness went away, so did the pain.
    I
edged my fingers through a small gap at the bottom of the window and pulled it
upward. Tight and swollen, the window opened a few inches with every tug. When
it was halfway open, I knelt down for leverage and pushed it up the remainder
of the way.
    The
smell inside was stale and musty. I held back a sneeze as the dust drifted
upward. My eyes watered as I placed my hand over my face and breathed slowly to
make the urge subside.
    Once
in, I found that I had come into an office. A half full cup of coffee sat on a
desk positioned in the center of the room, mold floating on the top. A yellowed
newspaper lay open next to the cup with the headline ‘Pandemic sweeps the West
Coast’. I scanned the page for a moment before I realized that I was reading
history. I smiled to myself and sighed as I went for the door.
    A
long, dark hallway stretched out in both directions as I poked my head out from
the doorframe. Pictures hung between each of the doors that lined both walls,
depicting nature scenes and landscapes.
    Down
a narrow flight of stairs I made it to the first floor. There was a door behind
me with an exit sign above it and another door ahead, unmarked. I tried the
knob of the unmarked door and found it was locked. I thought about shooting off
the lock, but didn’t want to give myself away.
    I
took to the stairs again and back into the office. I hadn’t noticed it on my
way out, but the door was labeled with a placard that read ‘manager’s office’.
I