Carroll and Nate, a chance encounter, near downtown, Any City, finding warmth and sharing.
Meeting strangers can sometimes show a silver lining.
CARROLL and Nate met in the city, an area called Crap Town, not quite the homeless peoples’ town near Crap Town where many live under the overpasses and do nothing but look for the next high. Carroll did a little better, was not a part of this group, he lived in a building.
Not too bad if you are used to living with nothing, zero expectation, and no family out there to come for you. You can be completely dependent on the city, the city gives you stuff, if you timed it right you can even get free stuff to shoot up. But those are the dwellers under the highway structures that live in a haze, don’t care if they eat; don’t care what anyone may do to them but somehow hold out that impossible hope for that next sweet kick with little expectation to get out alive.
Carroll and Nate bumped into each other near a garbage dump in Crap Town, both were hunting for goods or anything to be used in an apartment somewhere, or to sell. Crap Town is just north of the downtown, bottom, low-end apartments, lots of immigrants pile into these places and send money south.
Most of these immigrants are clean as in drug-free, and all have to work otherwise they get cast out of their small community made up of groups of illegals from Honduras, Mexico, El Salvador, Nicaragua, and they stay within their own groups though there are plenty of cases where the individuals will mix say when a young Salvadoran falls for a Honduran. Unless it draws unwanted attention from the Immigration people or I.C.E. no one cares.
So amongst these Latins who live in a hectic, nonstop rhythm of work and survival, like worker bees working and rushing headlong from job to job to keep their system functioning live the wandering Individuals. These are people that have shown up from anywhere and everywhere knowing that the sanctuary city will provide these people don’t want to end up under the highway full of needle holes, they do whatever it takes to avoid this fate. But unlike the Latins, these people can’t seem to hold on to a construction job.
These folks hang on the best they can to a life that resembles some kind of civilized thing, some even make their way to church, those who serve free breakfast. But for some damn reason or another they are at the very edge, alcohol, drugs, mental issues, most have no home or family but they are doing whatever it takes to stay away from the cardboard towns. Separate subcultures.
The Individuals are the real loners as they do not group for comfort while in a drugged stupor, nor do they drink themselves into tomorrow with strangers. Most hold minor jobs, pot washers, dishwashers, bathroom cleaners, bussing tables, some even make it as assistant waiters or waitresses, some train to tend bar in struggling bars. This group takes the worst hospital jobs which include among others removing and piling the constant flow of bloody and infected things to a central pick-up point. Amongst the Individuals are some writers and artists who when not working a midnight shift washing pots work in their small places creating things from the heart.
The college youth get the jobs in the popular bars, kids who often at days end go home to parents. The Latins control the few low-end house construction or cleaning jobs and do not hire anyone with the appearance of instability. Their jobs are guaranteed if the manager needs them for one thing or another on any given day. They don’t work if they’re not needed... Some Individuals work two or three jobs, these people afforded better living; a bit further down the street in an area that once must have looked nice. Carrol was one of these Individuals.
Carroll was rummaging around a fresh trash heap that a huge apartment had kicked out its back service doors, the slowly disappearing cover of snow brushed aside, the hardcore recyclers had already gone through the stuff, some of these were meth heads who carried kitchen knives or bats and they claimed the right of first look at garbage, they grabbed anything that might be of value which left little or nothing. Every once in a while a strung-out meth head would overlook a gutted sofa or a squashed lampshade, this is the stuff that Carroll was eyeing for this day.
Carrol had a hold of a wood chair whose caning had disappeared, kicked out, or just worn out, he figured a small board and the chair would work just fine. Carroll realized someone else pulling on another leg, for an instant he was fishing salmon again on the edge of the mountain reservation while his dad was still alive, the pull on the chair was the same sense of exciting mystery. Another man was pulling at the same chair to get it from under garbage.
Surrounded by a cloud of steam produced by their rapid breathing in the cold, the mist enveloped the men and the pile they were standing on.
“Whoa! Hey man, whoa! Wait, wait, wait, lets’ be cool here. Civilized you know man…” Carroll added, “Didn’t see you man, it’s ok.”
They stood still, several yards away was an elderly couple going through the debris, they watched the commotion, the passing traffic was slow and because of the cold, the exhausts billowed white clouds. Bright, slanted sunlight made it look like the morning when in fact it was the beginnings of Spring, and it was early afternoon.
The young white man pulling on the chair looked to be early twenties, long scraggly hair and mustache, no beard, white t-shirt, and blue jeans. “Hey man it’s okay, you take it, man.” Said the white guy. Both stopped, looked at each other, and laughed. Carroll thought: here was a mother fucker who at least for now would not cut me open with a fucking knife. The relief was palpable.
Carroll produced a cigarette, handed one to the white guy.
“Hey, thanks, man.” He leaned towards Carroll and accepted a light.
Carroll said, “hey you take the chair, it’s alright.”
“Naw you take it, man, you saw it first…” the white man offered; exhaling a cloud.
“No,” said Carroll, “it’s bad luck… I mean the chair is ok it’s just the thing you know, it’s yours man….”
The long-haired man hadn’t noticed until now that Carroll was native American, a lone feather hung from the side on his long black hair. Carroll wore torn jeans, cowboy boots, and a white, western-style shirt with snap on buttons which had seen far better days. Long hair wore sandals, jeans, dirty blue T-shirt. They considered one another and Carroll asked: “where you from man?”
“Mondoong man about two hours from here.” long hair said.
Carroll responded, “Mondooong huh man, never heard of it must be from South parts.”
“Yeah my mother lives over there but there ain’t no jobs or anything over there for a guy like me, I don’t have no high tech shit knowledge and so I move from job to job. Tried apple country for a while, you know, east of here, but those people are pretty uptight you know, run my ass outta town.” Then long hair chuckled, Carrol noticed his sinus or whatever were all clogged up, like stuffy, some druggies got that way.
“Hey man, my name’s Carrol Lone Fedder Stevens man what’s yours?” and stuck out a hand.
“Nate” And they shook.
Carroll carried the ruined chair several blocks down the street just off Capitol, an area known for junkies, bumbs, where prostitutes called home, shitty bars, liquor stores, cars up on blocks. Entering the once glass doors now fit with graffiti smeared plywood into a three-story, red-brick block, a voice from a closed room reached them, lyrics clear and steady repeated, “I been gone long too long, baby…”, and after walking upstairs and going down mostly dark and musty hallways Carrol used a key strung around his neck and they entered a room. A small rug set in the middle of the room, two open windows that looked out over the bay, and a gentle, early Spring breeze brushed the tops of leafless oaks that just reached past the level of the third floor. Long hair noticed the many ocean-going ships and smaller white and green ferries as they were in the slow process of coming or going from Trackers Bay.
A large radiator clicked as it churned out heat, filling the room. Long hair felt the outside cold try to enter, but the heater created an invisible barrier of heat resulting in a pleasant temperature in the room.
One bed without mattress had instead a stack of cardboard piled high, a backpack served as a pillow, two standing lamps seemed to give the space a sense of Feng Shui. Long hair had learned the name Feng Shui from a girl in a bar; that was her work. On the wall was a tacked poster of what looked like an old Indian Chief with full head feather regalia, standing on a faraway mountain ledge and looking like the noblest image ever.
“Geronimo, the great warrior.” Offered Carroll. Nate doubted it was Geronimo, he recalled from primary history courses, Geronimo wore a wrapped headcloth, not this full feathered headdress. They always depicted Geronimo in a desert-like area, rocks, and parched ground with small shrubs, not the full pine forests shown here.
Carroll sensed something in Nates' silence and added: “That was when Geronimo still lived in the rich highlands… before they took everything away from him and his people. Do you know about Geronimo?”
“Naw, in school a little, history class…”
Overtaken by the immediate desire to run upon entering Carroll’s apartment, Nate just wanted out. He wondered why the hell he’d even gone up to this guys’ apartment. Nate always wanted to leave as soon as he entered any enclosing; he figured it was because of the time as a little boy he was trapped in the rapidly filling grain bin; saved himself by climbing out of the top hatch onto the tin roof. Recalling how his friend the farmers’ son was beaten for not having closed the bin before the filling began, which would have suffocated him.
Carrol set the chair down and tore a solid chunk of cardboard from his bedding and set it on the ruined chair weave “Hey man, at least you get the honor of the first try, have a seat.” And laughed.
“Nice man,” said Nate as he set his rear on the chair, seemed to settle down and leaned back, and continued to survey the apartment. Carrol was in a corner going through a top drawer of a small bed table and was soon back holding what appeared to be an unusual pipe, and a small, purple hide pouch.
“OK man, now you gotta sit on my rug see, it’s part of the ceremony, that’s how we do it, this is our peace smoke…”
“Whatcha got there man?”
“This is real opium, go it from a buddy who works at a weed shop man…”
“No way man, no one can get opium, must be some other shit, probably some kind of weed.”
“Honest to god man its opium, just wait, you ever smoked opium before?” Nate said he had not.
“Opium or not man, it’s still cool you’ll see. Don’t worry though, it ain’t crack or any shit like that, maybe it’s just real good weed, haha.”
“That’s one weird-ass peace pipe man, where’d’ you get it, from your friend?”
“Yeah man, same guy, it’s not an Indian peace pipe like, you know, Native American like, this is a pipe from India man, those old guys smoke these on the side of the Ganges River over there.”
“No shit!” The minutes passed. “Never had anything like this or seen a pipe like this one, cool. Musta cost a shit pile…”
“Well sure man, but you know, my friend said it fell off the truck, know what I mean?”
“Dig it.”
Carroll reached over to a small fridge and pulled an unopened water bottle handing it to Nate “Here’s some water man, how about some Fig Newtons, here’s a pack, another friend works in a restaurant and they give these out to the employees. I’m trying to work there too.”
An ambulance screamed by. Birds seemed to react to the sudden whine and started a racket of their own.
“You have a lot of friends man.” Nate said more out of curiosity.
“Friends get you stuff, most of my friends are white guys.” Carroll said.
Nate reflected. “But you guys, you know, like have tribes right? I thought you guys hung together…”
“No way man!! When there’s no money forget it, all that shit goes out the window okay? If you have money everybody says he’s your brother man, even if you have two bucks in your pocket.”
Nate laughed, “No shit man, tell me about it, you don’t have to be an Indian to know about that; that’s why I stay outta the limelight.”
Silence. Carrol was reviewing Nates’ last comment. He lit up again and after taking a pull handed the oddly shaped pipe to Nate who did the same.
Carroll said: “Yeah, the limelight man, I never woulda thought about it that way, haha, no shit, stay outta the limelight, no red carpet for us!”
“Fuckin’ a man, that’s right, otherwise all your new friends try to take it away!” Nate declared.
“Hey, I dig that Nate, the limelight! Good one; that will be part of my new slogan. I try to live by certain slogans if you know what I mean. You know like the one an old uncle of mine who died from drinking used to tell me: ’don’t take no wooden nickels son…’ I still don’t know what the fuck that means, you know, but it sorta makes sense.”
Carefully Nate ventured in: “Well, you know, wooden nickels are worthless of themselves, right? Nother words needs to be the real thing otherwise you’re screwed. Yeah, the one my old man used to say when he wasn’t drunk was: ’is your silence golden or is it yellow?’ Dig? Whenever I’d open my mouth, he’d kick the shit outta me.”
Both rolled over laughing.
“Hey man, Nate, so where do you live man?” The question seemed important to Carroll.
“Oh, I don’t know, I’m not from around here, ‘member I told you I’m from Mondoong, they make parts for automobiles, wire harnesses, south from here, couple hours. I’ve been here for a couple of months, right now I work pot washing over at the Red Kettle, not too bad, get meals, don’t have to pay for my uniform. The waitresses split tips with me, they don’t give me too much shit.”
“Cool, so where do you live Nate’”
“Oh, you probably don’t need to call me that.” Long hair said evenly.
“What? Call you what?”
“Nate.” He took a swig.
“So, my name is Carroll, you’re Nate right?”
“Well sorta.”
“What about Long Hair, some people like nicknames, or how about LH, for short, no joke intended. Need to call you something, I think. I mean, I don’t want to blurt out: hey you! Lacks proper respect.”
“Yeah, I see your point man, It’s okay, call me whatever. I live down the street, about three blocks, you know that place that looks like a two-story motel-style? Been there a while, it’s okay. No one bothers. One of the waitresses, Leah, lets me crash with her.’’
“Sweet,” Carroll said, slowly nodding up and down. He stood up and looked at himself in the cracked mirror on the wall, straightened out his western shirt. “Well, man got to get to work. So you never asked me where I come from. I come from the big reservation north of here, the rich ones made it big in the casinos, like me.” And burst out laughing.
“Sorry man, just don’t like prying you know. What do you do?”
Carroll covered a smile. “Well I’m sort of doorman at a big vintage store over on Settlers Square, they like my Indian looks,” he laughed, “all I do is open the door and say ‘Welcome, please come in’, except I have to lower my voice and say it slowly. Yep, I get paid full wages just for doing that. They want me to wear a bolo tie made out of buffalo bone. I told them I’m against killing buffalo so they’re thinking about that.”
“Damn, sounds kinda like a nice setup.”
“Not bad man,” he almost said Nate, or LH but said neither. ” Hey so I’m headed that way right now if you want to join me I’ll show you my workplace.”
“Sure, that’s cool. I’ll go.”
“Who knows man, I get out around eight tonight and then because it’s Friday they have half off at Tigers on their fish and chips, almost like salmon out of the rivers! How about it, my treat. Bring your girl.”
“Sounds like the start of a good thing man, hey I owe ya, thanks Carroll, call me Nate.” He smiled.
“Oh hell you don’t owe me a damn thing Nate, what are friends for.”
They shook on it.
