The last few drops of drink splashed on the cold, hard ground.
I turned the cup over silently praying that a miracle would happen and the cup
would suddenly be filled, but nothing happened. My mouth pleaded for more. The
thick saliva that had been built up all day was only temporarily washed down
with the cup of water. I knew it would only be a matter of time before it
returned. My head pounded as dehydration racked my bones. I cursed as I threw
the paper cup to the ground beside me. It bounced before rolling to a stop a
few feet from where I was sitting. The clamor of the busy street passed by me
as I despairingly let my head fall onto my knees as I pulled them closer to my
chest. I wrapped my arms around me trying to keep the cold from warring against
my body.
My name is Gunner, and I’m homeless. My story starts out
normally, I was raised in downtown Chicago by a mother who did all she could to
give me the world. My mom worked in a machine shop during the day. At night she
was a whore, selling her body to satisfy men’s temporal pleasures that they
think needed filled. That’s where I came from. And when my real father found out
my mom was pregnant with me he split town. As in, he got scared so badly that
he moved his real family out of Chicago. I never met him. When I was 13, I was
introduced to Mary Jane. She gave me a high that no one could match. I soon
found myself spending every waking minute with her, letting her lead me to all
the places that I knew I shouldn’t go. Eventually, her friends Heroine and Meth
became part of the picture. At 18, the four of us left my mother’s good graces
and I took up the spot where I am now—on the street. I would give everything I
have to go back to my mother, but I never wanted her to see me like this. I
haven’t seen her in five years, and the grip my three friends have on my life
has made me quite repulsive. I’ve come to accept this lifestyle. Until I break
out of my addictions, there’s no way to get off the streets and into a normal
life.
My thoughts were interrupted by a sound I wasn’t expecting
to hear. The paper cup I had tossed haphazardly to the side had been set
upright next to me. I quickly looked up to see who was trying to steal one of
the few belongings I possessed. A man was bending over me, dropping a few bills
in my cup. He looked at me and silently smiled. As I looked into his face, I
could see the Middle Eastern descent in his tan skin. Some stubble proudly
sprouted out from his chin and his shaggy dark hair was going berserk in the
piercing Chicago wind. He couldn’t have been any more than 32. I looked up at
him and smiled. “Oh, wow. Thank you so much, sir. That will go a long way.”
“You’re welcome, friend. One more thing…”
He pulled out a thermos from his messenger bag that was
slung over his shoulder and opened it up. I saw the steam clouding his face as
he looked into the thermos and smiled. He closed it back up tightly before
bending down and setting it next to me.
“I hope you like coffee. I don’t really need it considering
I can just grab some at the office. You can keep the thermos too, it might come
in handy.” He patted me on the arm before standing back up and continuing his
trek to work. I sat in silence staring at the $5 bill that lie folded in the
bottom of my cup. I knew exactly who’s hands that piece of paper needed to pass
through in order to get my fix. It had been days since I had a smoke and my
slight shaking betrayed my cravings. Yet something about that man burned in my
mind. He had to have known where that money was going. Surely he saw my
shaking. Surely he saw the yellow film coating my teeth, and the black that was
appearing on my fingernails. Yet he gave me money anyway. He wasn’t feeding my
addiction, he was giving me a choice. That $5 could go towards my drug fund, or
it could go towards a hot meal or shower. It was his way of saying that my
lifestyle was my choice. He believed I would make the right choice and make
something of myself. For once, someone believed in me, how could I let them
down?
I crumpled up the bill and shoved it into my coat pocket.
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