| General Fiction posted November 29, 2015 | Chapters: |
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A young verteran meets an older homeless one
A chapter in the book The Parking Lot
The Parking Lot Part III
by Delahay
Summary: While waiting for a bus, a young airman just home from Viet Nam, meets a homeless WWII veteran as he crosses a parking lot on a hot August day. He learns about the man's life and something about himself. This continues the man's monologue.
"I told them others over at the park" he said "this way of living do have its ups 'n downs. There's a lot more freedom out here than there was all them years down at th' state hospital. Them folks lock you up in chemical cells and store you away like pickled eggs."
Not too long ago it seems he was suddenly cured. Not by any doctor with a miracle drug or new treatment. No, he was cured by some well-meaning crusader in Washington who decided that the quality of life was lacking for those like him in mental hospitals. So he was de-institutionalized like so many others just like him. Turned out on the street with $20.00, some ill-fitting clothes, and a bus ticket. The bus let him off right here on the edge of the parking lot. Oddly enough most of the people living on the streets seem to have been cured the same way he had been. They all tell the same kind of story as they wander through their lives in lonely isolation.
Could this be some form of insanity? No, he'd been there, done that, got the t-shirt. Now he's on the other side. His only real complaint was acute reality and the cops who stayed on his case for crashing behind Milo's, when they weren't staking out Harlowe's Donut Shop.
After a while his wandering monologue came to an abrupt end. He just suddenly stopped talking and looked at me in wonder as if he had just then realized that I was there. He turned around and, without another word, continued his slow, seemingly torturous journey across the cracked black landscape.
The wheels of the battered shopping cart he pushed squealed in protest as the worn out bearings ground together.
His hands, shaking with the joneses, were burning from the rusted metal handle of the ancient cart. Burning despite the old newspaper he had wrapped around them for protection. Still, he trudged along, making a short stop along the way to remove some ofhis outer layer of clothing. He was wearing every tattered remnant of clothing he owned. Off came the once gray, torn and bedraggled overcoat. Then came the next few layers of clothes, exposing a pasty, grayish complexion acquired from all those Bay Rum mornings. Bay Rum. It's more than an aftershave. It's a cocktail, a meal, a tonic to sooth the nerves.
Every now and then I saw him halt briefly on his trek to bend over and pick up an aluminum can, all the while keeping a sharp lookout for cigarette butts or stray coins. Pigeons followed in his wake like unweaned pups after a bitch, hoping for a stray scrap of food to fall out of the cart. Sometimes he seemed to be holding conversations or debates, without the distraction of an audience, with friends only he could see. As I watched, one of these single-voiced debates quickly became a loud argument that trailed off into silence as he faded into the shimmering waves of heat radiating off the blackness of the parking lot.
Pondering what I had learned as I listened and watched, it seemed as if he was tilting at windmills, fighting a cause only he understood or cared about. So onward he would continue, struggling against demons only he could see and hear.
My bus finally arrived and I climbed on. After paying my fare I found a seat in the back by a window. As the bus pulled away I found myself wondering about the strange life story I had just been made a part of. I watched the parking lot slowly fade in the distance like a desert mirage as I contemplated the vagaries of human existence. Where will I be? I thought. Where will I be at the end of my road?
Summary: While waiting for a bus, a young airman just home from Viet Nam, meets a homeless WWII veteran as he crosses a parking lot on a hot August day. He learns about the man's life and something about himself. This continues the man's monologue.
"I told them others over at the park" he said "this way of living do have its ups 'n downs. There's a lot more freedom out here than there was all them years down at th' state hospital. Them folks lock you up in chemical cells and store you away like pickled eggs."
Not too long ago it seems he was suddenly cured. Not by any doctor with a miracle drug or new treatment. No, he was cured by some well-meaning crusader in Washington who decided that the quality of life was lacking for those like him in mental hospitals. So he was de-institutionalized like so many others just like him. Turned out on the street with $20.00, some ill-fitting clothes, and a bus ticket. The bus let him off right here on the edge of the parking lot. Oddly enough most of the people living on the streets seem to have been cured the same way he had been. They all tell the same kind of story as they wander through their lives in lonely isolation.
Could this be some form of insanity? No, he'd been there, done that, got the t-shirt. Now he's on the other side. His only real complaint was acute reality and the cops who stayed on his case for crashing behind Milo's, when they weren't staking out Harlowe's Donut Shop.
After a while his wandering monologue came to an abrupt end. He just suddenly stopped talking and looked at me in wonder as if he had just then realized that I was there. He turned around and, without another word, continued his slow, seemingly torturous journey across the cracked black landscape.
The wheels of the battered shopping cart he pushed squealed in protest as the worn out bearings ground together.
His hands, shaking with the joneses, were burning from the rusted metal handle of the ancient cart. Burning despite the old newspaper he had wrapped around them for protection. Still, he trudged along, making a short stop along the way to remove some ofhis outer layer of clothing. He was wearing every tattered remnant of clothing he owned. Off came the once gray, torn and bedraggled overcoat. Then came the next few layers of clothes, exposing a pasty, grayish complexion acquired from all those Bay Rum mornings. Bay Rum. It's more than an aftershave. It's a cocktail, a meal, a tonic to sooth the nerves.
Every now and then I saw him halt briefly on his trek to bend over and pick up an aluminum can, all the while keeping a sharp lookout for cigarette butts or stray coins. Pigeons followed in his wake like unweaned pups after a bitch, hoping for a stray scrap of food to fall out of the cart. Sometimes he seemed to be holding conversations or debates, without the distraction of an audience, with friends only he could see. As I watched, one of these single-voiced debates quickly became a loud argument that trailed off into silence as he faded into the shimmering waves of heat radiating off the blackness of the parking lot.
Pondering what I had learned as I listened and watched, it seemed as if he was tilting at windmills, fighting a cause only he understood or cared about. So onward he would continue, struggling against demons only he could see and hear.
My bus finally arrived and I climbed on. After paying my fare I found a seat in the back by a window. As the bus pulled away I found myself wondering about the strange life story I had just been made a part of. I watched the parking lot slowly fade in the distance like a desert mirage as I contemplated the vagaries of human existence. Where will I be? I thought. Where will I be at the end of my road?
"I told them others over at the park" he said "this way of living do have its ups 'n downs. There's a lot more freedom out here than there was all them years down at th' state hospital. Them folks lock you up in chemical cells and store you away like pickled eggs."
Not too long ago it seems he was suddenly cured. Not by any doctor with a miracle drug or new treatment. No, he was cured by some well-meaning crusader in Washington who decided that the quality of life was lacking for those like him in mental hospitals. So he was de-institutionalized like so many others just like him. Turned out on the street with $20.00, some ill-fitting clothes, and a bus ticket. The bus let him off right here on the edge of the parking lot. Oddly enough most of the people living on the streets seem to have been cured the same way he had been. They all tell the same kind of story as they wander through their lives in lonely isolation.
Could this be some form of insanity? No, he'd been there, done that, got the t-shirt. Now he's on the other side. His only real complaint was acute reality and the cops who stayed on his case for crashing behind Milo's, when they weren't staking out Harlowe's Donut Shop.
After a while his wandering monologue came to an abrupt end. He just suddenly stopped talking and looked at me in wonder as if he had just then realized that I was there. He turned around and, without another word, continued his slow, seemingly torturous journey across the cracked black landscape.
The wheels of the battered shopping cart he pushed squealed in protest as the worn out bearings ground together.
His hands, shaking with the joneses, were burning from the rusted metal handle of the ancient cart. Burning despite the old newspaper he had wrapped around them for protection. Still, he trudged along, making a short stop along the way to remove some ofhis outer layer of clothing. He was wearing every tattered remnant of clothing he owned. Off came the once gray, torn and bedraggled overcoat. Then came the next few layers of clothes, exposing a pasty, grayish complexion acquired from all those Bay Rum mornings. Bay Rum. It's more than an aftershave. It's a cocktail, a meal, a tonic to sooth the nerves.
Every now and then I saw him halt briefly on his trek to bend over and pick up an aluminum can, all the while keeping a sharp lookout for cigarette butts or stray coins. Pigeons followed in his wake like unweaned pups after a bitch, hoping for a stray scrap of food to fall out of the cart. Sometimes he seemed to be holding conversations or debates, without the distraction of an audience, with friends only he could see. As I watched, one of these single-voiced debates quickly became a loud argument that trailed off into silence as he faded into the shimmering waves of heat radiating off the blackness of the parking lot.
Pondering what I had learned as I listened and watched, it seemed as if he was tilting at windmills, fighting a cause only he understood or cared about. So onward he would continue, struggling against demons only he could see and hear.
My bus finally arrived and I climbed on. After paying my fare I found a seat in the back by a window. As the bus pulled away I found myself wondering about the strange life story I had just been made a part of. I watched the parking lot slowly fade in the distance like a desert mirage as I contemplated the vagaries of human existence. Where will I be? I thought. Where will I be at the end of my road?
In the late 1960s and early 1970s it was decided that it was wrong to institutionalize the mentally ill. Many who left these institutions ended up living on the streets with no treatment or support. It is becoming increasingly common for veterans of war to become homeless and to be suffering from untreated Post Traumatic Stress.
Bay Rum was a product made from distilled rum and bay leaves used as an aftershave or hair tonic. It was common for people, desperate for a drink, to drink it.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Bay Rum was a product made from distilled rum and bay leaves used as an aftershave or hair tonic. It was common for people, desperate for a drink, to drink it.
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