Top
Advertisement

Pawn Takes King 55

Donny had been given 2 sets of clothes. His current outfit was a pair of pajama pants and a Mettalica t-shirt. Donny just stood a moment in the hallway corridor. He listened, as gym patrons were gathering their things and leaving. The front desk was closed. The hum of the fluorescent lights is steady, and soothing. Donny thinks about the first night he spent underneath the gazebo.

          He was so cold that night. It was sleeting, the weather turning from bearable temperatures to agony measured in Farenheits. It was 5 degrees, -15 degrees Celcius. Whichever temperature it was, it meant death for Donny if he did not find a place to hunker down. It got so bad, he could hardly feel his toes squelching in his Chuck taylor's anymore. It was in the winter months, but before the snow had started to accumulate. The precipitation was building up. After this rain, it very well may snow 2-5 inches.

          All Donny wanted was at least to find an enclosed area to cut down on the wind. If it meant having a structure over his head, to stop the rain, the more the better. At first, Donny had sat in the open area of the gazebo, where the picnic tables were. Sure, the rain wasn't falling on his head, but it was too open. The gusts of wind were chilling him to the marrow of his bones. He tried to sleep, first on the picnic table's seat, then on the cement beneath that. All he desired was to rest. He was so cold his legs were cramping up from lack of bloodflow. He would've cried, but he did not have the strength. He was in the city, amongst thousands of people, yet he might as well have been stranded in the woods. Noone cold help him. Donny was so bitter, he wasn't willing to develop even the rudimentary social skills required to make friends. At one point, he thought about just lying in the sleeting rain, and dying of exposure. His nose was runny and sticky, sliming his upper lip with mucus.

          Out of complete madness, Donny got up and leapt down beside the shrubs beside the foundation of the gazebo. He wrenched the lattice free, cutting his hands superficially on the fingers and on one wrist. He couldn't even feel it, his hands were so numb. He slithered into the whole, replacing the flapping lattice, which was still attached on the other section, by nails. The concrete was freezing, but both the wind and the rain was no longer a factor. He curled up his legs as close to his chest as he could, and tucked his hands together, laying them between his thighs. Deep shivers struck his body like icy convulsions. His body was exercising various reflexes in an effort to keep him living. The shivers lessened in severity, but did not entirely go away.

          Donny managed to get a few hours sleep. The wind howled through the cracks and crevices around the gazebo. As haunting as it sounded, for some reason it was conducive to sleep for Donny. When he awoke, his entire right side was stiff. But at least he could feel something, anything. The rain had stopped. Donny intended to build a fire. If he could do that, it would be okay. He had a Bic cigarette lighter that was nearly full.

          He pushed the lattice aside, and it broke. He separated the splintered pieces from one another, and put the free-hanging portion beside the entrance. He would still replace it whenever he came back in. The whole surrounding park was encased in a sheet of ice. Donny's feet crunched upon the frosted splinters of grass. They were brittle underfoot. The midday sun was veiled by clouds, but Donny could detect the glare of the solar reflection on the surface of the glassy sidewalk. Donny gathered smaller sticks for kindling. After taking them back to his hole, He happened upon a large tree limb which was knocked down from the weight of the ice. Donny dragged it back, and leaned it against the steps of the gazebo. He jumped on them, breaking the limb in several spots, where they were stretched across the open space. He decided to make the fire in a trashcan lid he took from the city park's garbage can. He thought about building the fire underneath the center of the gazeebo at first, but decided against it. He would either burn down the structure, or suffocate himself with the smoke.

          Donny criss-crossed the kindling in the lid. He tried to make something like a pyramid shape, leaving a space beneath the wood to allow air to flow. His lighter got it going, but only after the ice had a chance to melt, and dry a bit. A few discarded fast-food paper bags provided a means to start a temporary blaze, to light the kindling. After the third bag of wrappers and plastic containers was engulfed, the kindling began to crackle. He heaped a piece of the limb onto the small flame. The fire hissed, as the ice melted from the limb as well. At times, the fire went out completely, but Donny just held his lighter against it, and the embers would relight. The limb went from black, to grey, to glowing orange. The fire got going good, but Donny controlled it by only letting one section of the wood on at a time. There was a little smoke, but nothing too noticeable. The last thing Donny needed was someone calling the fire department about a reported blaze.

          Donny dried his socks beside the fire. He put his hands and feet beside the fire and actually went to sleep again, it was so comfortable. He now smelled like smoke, but it was a small price to pay for warmth. It might even smell better than his usual customary ass fragrance. After he was sufficiently warm, Donny trekked over to the gas station and bought a package of hot-dogs. He also managed to steal some charcoal briquettes by ripping into the thick paper bag when the cashier wasn't looking. Donny felt no guilt as he paid for his hotdogs, all along while having the 10 or so briquets in his pocket. He was borderline sociopath then. survival meant doing bad things. It was after the robbery, and all things considered, it was a lot less harmful than the rob job he did with Jessie. Stealing the charcoal was a victimless crime. No violence.

          It was a hobo cookout. He scrounged around the park, and pried a steel grating from one of the stationary public grills.  Donny cooked those hot dogs well. He even stocked up on ketchup and mustard packets from the same gas station where he got the frankfurters from. There was a condiments table set up for purchases of hot food, like their fish and chicken sandwiches on the heating tray. Donny thought the tree was an elm, and it seemed like the wood helped flavor the food. It might've been that Donny was literally starving from hunger, too. He devoured 4 of the 8 hotdogs, before putting the bag away for later. He made a mound of ice and put the hot dog package there for a type of refrigeration.

 

          Donny was now getting a steady supply of free hot meals at the YMCA. Donny's opinions about the social net of America was changing. There really were programs put in place. Donny lucked out by being the most lowdown and out of any person. It was all because he was addicted to drugs. Addiction may have been the routine to obliterate him, but it was also what expedited his entrance into free shelter and food.

          Donny thought of Gus. The Carpet King was a much better character than Donny could ever hope to be. But simply because Gus didn't choose to indulge in hardcore drugs, it meant Gus would fend for himself. Donny vows to himself (and his deceased father Ronald) that he will aid Gus in some way in the future. It is because of Donny that the Carpet King lost his treasures, among them, the space heater and tools.

 

          The welfare check was in Donald's hand. The amount was $300. Unbelievable. This was so much more money that Donald had seen in forever. It was the equivalent of 6,000 pop cans. He had applied for state-aid some time ago, when Eugene gave him a ride over to the methadone clinic. Donny had never once thought he would qualify. It turns out he was cleared for assistance almost immediately after submitting his info. But without an address to send mail, or a bankaccount to deposit to, the amount of money accumulated. The $300 was back-pay from the money that built-up over that time.

          Donny felt undeserving of this cash that was bestowed. He had been doing just fine without state support. The YMCA supplied him not only with housing, but free hot meals as well. He didn't really need the funds. He would not turn it away, however. There was much he could do with such a supplemental income. 

          His first act as a newly-initiated welfare recipient is to cash the check at the nearby cash advance place. The store takes $20 from the amount to do so, but Donny does not complain. He did not work for this money, and so any amount that is shaved off the total is inconsequential. Donny is enthralled by the site of money being stacked into his waiting palm. He thinks back to the bad days, when this money would go up like a puff of smoke. The old Donald Grieves would squander this dough on pills. No longer.

          His first purchase was a 10 sack of weed. He felt vaguely guilty about using welfare money to buy pot, but he intended to smoke it with Greg. It was something of a peace offering between them. It wasn't hard to score a bag. He simply approached a few rough-looking characters that he knew frequented the Y. The third inquiry was a charm, resulting in a brief drug deal with a guy whose name he didn't even know. They stepped outside, to the smoking area to arrange their bargaining. There was a bucket filled with water and sand, to collect all the extinguished cigs, but many butts still littered the ground like tiny nicotine pegs.

          The guy had to eyeball the 10 sack because he only weighed out eights of weed divied up. It looked a bit on the skimpy side, but Donny did not mention this. It wasn't Donny's money that was buying the marijuana, but the taxpayers. Besides, the bud was seedless and smelled wonderful.

          Donny called off tomorrows computer-teaching session, saying he had to help a friend move, which was actually true. Donny promised he would be there for the night class later that night. 

          He fashioned another rudimentary pot-pipe from a roll of aluminum foil. He bought some food, along with the foil, from a close-by convenience store. No soda cans needed to be deposited before making his purchase. He takes the battery from out of the smoke detector. He is not supposed to smoke in his tiny apartment. He sits by the window, and cranks it open. The weed is strong, and Donny is ripped after only a few tokes. He is happy. He stares out the window of his flat at the traffic streaming down below, the cars following each other like links in a chain. It was no longer a struggle to persevere. Donny can now plan the future. He has made it past the bad parts.

          He heats up a can of Chef Boyardee Ravioli and devours it. The munchies have grabbed hold of him, and so he cooks another of Chef B's famous dishes. Feeling full, Donny smokes another smidgen of weed. The food killed his high, but it is restored by more bud.

          Donny feels industrious. The money he had would not last long, because he planned on settling an old debt he had long neglected. Donny calls for a cab from the front desk phone. It was a complimentary phone provided for local calls only. The taxi arrives and Donny piles into it. He directs the driver over to the East side of Cedar Rapids. The downtown buildings transition over to ghettofied houses and shabby domains. Some homes still have the condemned stickers, from the flood. Over by the Czech village area, those houses were obliterated. They had moss on them like accumulating skin.

          He points out the rundown apartment complex. Donny opens the door and the driver demands to be paid for the fair already racked up on the meter. The driver is no fool. He recognizes a possible drug addict when he sees it. It is better to play it safe and get paid, before Donny can escape. Donny hands him a 10 dollar bill and asks him to hold the cab for him.

          Donny searches for the room number. Hopefully the previous occupant has not moved since last Donny saw him. Donny steels himself and knocks.

          "Who is it?!?!" an angry voice hollers from within. Donny does not answer. The pinpoint of light from the peephole is obscured as the person checks it. There is a flurry of movement, the scratching rattle as the chain is pulled free from the lock. The door flings open, revealing an elderly African American man standing there in grungy gray sweatpants, and a wife-beater undershirt. Donny hitches a breath.

          "Smokey," Donny says in a hushed tone.

 

          "Donny." Smokey says slowly, as if trying to confirm the sight with his senses. Donny opens his mouth to speak further, but Smokey cuts him off.

          "Mutha Fucker!!" Smokey snarls, a stream of spittle dropping from his lip, like the snap of a dog. Smokey bends downward, retrieving a heavy object that is propped against the door. Donny's eyes follow the motion of Smokey's sinewy hands, as they come up into view. Smokey points the shotgun directly at Donny's face. Donny's blood freezes in his veins. He backs up from the gun, raising his arms in a surrendering gesture. Donny continues backpedaling until he runs into the far wall of the hallway. He jumps in startlement when making contact with the plaster of that wall. SMokey stalks forward, the shotgun poised before him like a joust. Both of his veiny hands grip the shotgun, one on the slide, one on the trigger. It seems like a very long time as Donny stares down the tunnel of death that is the weapon's barrel. That weapon pushes forward, until it rests against the underside of Donny's chin, against his adam's apple. The circular metal is cold against Donny's skin.

          "Smokey," Donny says in a pleading voice, "hear me out."

          "Fuck you, cracker," Smokey says coldly, "the only thing I wanna hear is this buck shot going through that junkie head 'o yours!!"

          "I know I stole from you," Donny says desperately, "but I can make it right!! I have money to give you!!"

          Smokey stares at him with yellowed corneas, his irises like 2 living voids. Donny knows that Smokey is far gone on the drugs, just by the look of him. Donny recalled a much more robust, lively man when last seeing Smokey. Now, the black man looks deathly thin, with a grayish pallor to his dark skin tone that looks very unhealthy. Smokey's legs are bent, into a shooting stance, and Donny sees the outline of thighs that were about the thickness of Donny's upper arms. Smokey is still bald, a huge blood vessel throbbing against his temple like an angry snake. His whitish eyebrows are the only hair on his head, and they are jabbed downward, contorting his eyes into viscous portals of hate. Smokey's thick lips are pulled back from his teeth, which have decayed into jagged yellowish pieces. Crack is hard on one's choppers.

          "I don't want nothing from you," Smokey says thinly, " 'cept to see you die. You were my friend, and you fucked me over!!"

          "I know," Donny says apologetically, "but I want to repay some of what I took."

          Donny calmly moves a hand down to his bears coat pocket. Smokey thrusts forward with the shotgun, shoving Donny's head back, and upwards.

          "Don't try anything, honkey!!" Smokey yells, "I got you dead to rights!!"

          A coolness suddenly descends upon Donald. His life was no longer in his own hands. Death did not frighten Donny. A demise met while trying to reform past wrongs wouldn't be so bad. At least Donny would expire trying to elevate above his crimes.

          "Just let me get the money," Donny says calmly, "it's in my pocket."

          Instead of allowing Donny to reach into the coat, Smokey digs into the zippered pocket and pulls out a wad of cash. It is $150. Smokey stares at the money ravenously. DOnny knows that look. It is a drug fiend's gaze. The money equals more chemical fun for Smokey.

          "It's yours," Donny states, "to make up for what I stole."

          Smokey tucks the bills into his waistband. Donny sees the crumpled money poking out from this thin mans' sweatpants like some kind of deranged stripper. Smokey distances himself from Donny, but keeps the shotgun trained on him.

          "Don't ever come back here," Smokey says through his mangled teeth, "if you do, I'll kill you."

          With that, Smokey slams the door, and turns the deadbolt. Donny sinks to his ass on the floor. His knees are pulled up to his chest, making it difficult to find breath. He stares upwards at the peephole, as if it were a pinhole into the mind of Smokey. The dude was all cracked out. Donny counted himself lucky to walk away alive. Crack was a hell of a drug. It toyed with a person's sanity, like a demented marionette pulling strings. Donny wonders if he is helping Smokey by giving him the money. The amount will surely end up in Smokey's crack pipe. Was this alms-giving for Smokey's benefit, or simply for Donny's? Either way, Donny didn't feel better.

          As Donny rises to his feet, he calls out to Smokey through the door.

          "I'll be back next week, when I get my check!!" Donny shouts. There is no response. Donny leaves as quietly as he came.

          The cab is still idling when Donny emerges. The driver does not ask about Donny's business, but pulls away and deposits Donny back at the YMCA where he came from. Donny tips him an extra $5. As the car pulls away, Donny contemplates his own actions. Smokey was now farther along in his addiction than Donny had ever been. There was nothing left of the old-timer that Donny had befriended. It was just a husk, the shell of a lonely old man who lost his wife, and couldn't cope. Donny wondered if Smokey still got his monthly benefit checks from the railroad where he had worked. If Smokey did get the money, it was all spent on drugs. He certainly hadn't invested in a new place to live. Donny pictured Smokey with rock after rock of crack, just smoking away alone. It would drive a person mental.

          Donny had a brief look at the apartment, over Smokey's shoulder. There was nothing left there, really. The room was naked, with only an aged armchair, and an entertainment center. There was no TV. No radio. What use did Smokey have for such devices when his mind was most likely running circles inside his skull, providing frantic entertainment?

Donny eventually turned back inside, back into his public-housing, back into his struggle to fix his bad deeds. Back.

0
Ratings
  • 159 Views
  • 0 Comments
  • 0 Favorites
  • Flag
  • Flip
  • Pin It

0 Comments

  • Advertisement