Of Numbers and Nothing
He closes his eyes and thinks of a time when the only number he considered was his bank balance.
Jack wakes up counting four walls, two doors, one to a bathroom attached and another leading into the hallway. Fifteen empty beer cans, two packs of cigarettes, one full ashtray, and four blades on a ceiling fan that hasn’t worked since he moved in. There is one pillow on one queen-sized mattress, and he sleeps only on one side. The other side of the bed is littered with papers, books, the ashtray, and a lighter.
His two lungs ache, his one head throbs, and his two lips open to a wheezing sound. The doctors told him he shouldn’t smoke, but he hadn’t been back since he started.
He stands on two legs and reaches for one pack of cigarettes counting what was left. Four including the one in his mouth, or is it three now? Jack lights up and walks to the bathroom, with one mirror, one toilet, one sink, and one shower. He takes a piss, doesn’t bother washing his two hands or brushing his thirty-two teeth.
Jack puts on one pair of pants and one T-shirt, two shoes, and lights one more cigarette. He opens one door and walks down the hallway opening another and walks down four steps and toward the bus stop.
Jack sits on one bench, with four other people. He holds one bus pass in his hand and flicks the ashes of one cigarette onto the sidewalk.
“Bus should be comin’ soon huh?” says one sad looking man near him.
“Yeah.”
“Where you headed youngin?”
“Southside.”
“You goin’ to work?”
“No.”
“That plasma center?”
“Yeah.”
Twice a week, Jack goes to the plasma center and one phlebotomist takes one needle and sticks it into his arm four times to take his blood. They gave it back and a large container filled with some piss colored liquid that was invaluable to the recipients and worth thirty bucks to him. He lays one bed ignoring one TV and watched the people around him.
The commercial lies. They have actors who read lines written by a marketing executive.
We love coming here, every time we donate we know we’re saving a life.
I get to save a life and make an extra buck.
We saved a life and got a discount at Bucks!
He’s been coming here for nearly two years. There has yet to be a single wholesome looking individual walk through these doors. Only the wretched, and those that preyed on the wretched.
This place prevented more robberies and prostitution cases than any cop, neighborhood watch, or missionary could ever hope to. We couldn’t care less about saving anyone but ourselves. Those dollars given to us on a plastic red card were a respite from everyday life. It wasn’t enough to pay a single bill, but for the time it lasted it made us have just that, thirty extra bucks to spend on whatever we wanted. Which otherwise wouldn’t even be in the realm of possibility.
Forty five minutes later one woman in a white coat comes and pulls the needle out of Jacks arm. Wrapping one beige bandage over one white square of gauze. Jack walks out of the center thirty dollars richer, to the nearest convenience store and buys one twenty five ounce beer.
Jack sits on one bench drinking his one beer smoking one cigarette. Only two left now. He keeps it behind his leg between sips to avoid trouble with the city PD who despite the drugs, murders, and rapes, a person drinking out in public a prime target for arrest.
The bus arrives, he can’t finish his beer, leaving one-half empty can under an empty bench. The homeless, aimless, broke, and careless populate this particular route. From the first to the last bus it was always an uncomfortable ride. All those smells, mouth breathers, beer sweaters, tweakers, heroin addicts, and CNA’s assaulted anyone’s nostrils. So disregarding courtesy he opens his mouth and inhales the stink, adding his own into the mix.
He pulls a thin yellow cable and the bus comes to an abrupt halt. He and one homeless man step out.
“You got a cigarette man?” says the bum.
“Yeah,” Jack pulls out one of two cigarettes and hands it to him.
“Got a light?”
“Yeah,” Jack hands him a lighter.
“Shit, you may as well smoke it for me.” The bum grinned, six long teeth on their way out of a mouth of canker sores and blackening gums. “You went to the center today?”
“Yeah.”
“Times are rough, but they get better man.”
“Did they for you?”
The bum took a long drag off the cigarette and blew a puff of smoke toward the sky.
“Yeah, they did? It may not look like it but I’m happier now. Get my little check every seventh and sleep under the stars.”
“Cool, I gotta run man. Enjoy that smoke”
“I will youngin, you try and enjoy life. Go get laid or something.”
Jack walked into the liquor store and headed for the bottom shelf stuff. A thirteen dollar bottle of Old Crow and one pack of eight dollar cigarettes left him with around six bucks for the morning. The people at the plasma center said to eat, but his stomach couldn’t hold down food anymore. Ulcers probably. There wasn’t any blood in the toilet so there was still time.
He counted the steps up the trailer, one…two….three…four… He opened one door, two people scream.
“Fuck you whore!” says a tattooed shirtless man.
“Yeah, call me a whore go fuck one of your Facebook bitches,” says one woman sitting on a broken chair, next to a plastic table, in a yellow kitchen, with a sink full of unwashed dishes and cockroaches gathering around food that’s been left out for a week.
“Jack where have you been?” says the tattooed man.
“I went to the center to donate.”
“Yeah, and you bought that shit with it?” He motioned to the bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag in Jack’s hand.
“Yeah. Got a pack of smokes too.”
“You’re a fucking alcoholic Jack,” says the woman on a chair shaking her head furiously.
“My husband is a bum and my son is a drunk. Thank you, God!” She lifts her hands to the ceiling and looks up.
“Shut the fuck up bitch!” says the tattooed man. “Like it’s your problem.”
“Fuck you!” she screams and Jack takes that as his cue to walk away. He lays on one mattress counting four walls, smoking a cigarette and sipping from a cheap bottle.
He closes his eyes and thinks of a time when the only number he considered was his bank balance.
The screaming interrupted his daydream.
“Shut up Bitch!”
“What are you gonna hit me again?”
“Oh, here we go again always bringing up the past.”
“C’mon mother fucker you think your man enough? Swing pussy!”
“You need to get the fuck away from me whore.”
“C’mon pussy! Can’t even provide for your family.”
Then came the slap and the scream.
“I told you to stay away from me bitch!”
“Jack! Call the cops he’s beating me!”
“Crazy bitch!”
Jack looked toward the door as another slammed shut. One car started and four wheels squealed down the road. The woman screamed, wanting anyone in the world to hear that she was in pain. That pain she held so sacredly. Those awws and pats of comfort that she had come to love more than life itself. From strangers and people she thought were her friends.
Jack lit a cigarette and watched the blue-gray smoke from his cigarette disappear into the rotating fan blades. His phone rang.
“Yeah?”
“Hey, can I come over?”
“Not a good time.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to a party then, just wanted to see if it’s okay with you?”
“I have no say in your life, I’m not your husband or anything.”
“I know I just don’t want you to freak out again.”
“I’m fine.”
He hung up the phone, it didn’t ring again. It wouldn’t for a few weeks. She would end up calling, picking him up and driving somewhere to get drunk. They’d talk about the future and then avoid it at all costs. There was nothing left to do but wait now.
Jack sat up on his bed and listened to the weeping woman on the other side of the door.
