So, Mr. Thomas. That was his name. Eugene Thomas. Age 67. Recently retired. Postman. Widowed. Neighbor, father, almost Grandfather. Soon to be. Of African and Asian descent. A child of the boom. A survivor and a soldier. 6 feet 2 inches. Hair: short and beginning to grey. Temples and sideburns. Renting the top floor of his house to a vagrant rehabbing junkieÖdrunk. Me.
Things are not all that right here and now. I have a vice grip around my neck. Icepicks in my eyes. And that bug I was talking aboutÖwell it caused me to have this broken nose. Every time I swallow the salty sting of blood trickles down my throat. My throat is raw. Ill. I need some food, but if I do I will just loose it and destroy my throat evenmoreÖso screw it.
My day consisted of walking through the streets of this fair city. Depending on the kindness of strangers. Do you know what that is like? I donít think so. Vincent hasnít eaten in 3 days. And this is not his fault. He came back from a war ñ what 11 years ago. He just ainít been right since then. Half of his foot is gone and he sees things that donít no-one else see. (OK I seen some of the stuff, but I think that was the smack). He had a wife but she left. Donít know if heís got kids or not. Donít care. I got enough to worry about. Vincent sits on the corner of Washington and Dearborn. Till the cops make him move then he goes over to State and Jackson. Well because he donít have sense enough to ask for help. He just sits there. He donít get much help from anyone. Just stares and walk arounds. The princesses on their cell phones hoping into the cabs. Their cares are for the next dollar they are going to spendÖwell when you donít got a buckÖ
Me? Shit. I get by. Not as poorly as Vincent. I work those same areas. Just a little different. You see, I can get 15 maybe 20 bucks for one of those cell phones. 50 or so for a nice leather bag. Now though I just been to sick to go out. Been shaking a lot. I quit the shit a month ago and this is almost as bad as that.