A Home at Last

Mr. James jolted forward suddenly, awoken by the strange man who jumped out at him from an alleyway in the nightmare his mind had concocted. He grasped the arms of the chair, steadying himself in the real world once again. The room was dark, with only the moonlight and the glow of some street lamps down below dimly shining through the expansive windows. As he looked around the room, he squinted his eyes, forcing them to adjust to the darkness. He could make out only shapes at first. Then, as his mind caught up with him, he was able to add context to his surroundings. He had been here countless times before and knew that the towers in front of him were actually book cases, housing cookbooks with instructions on how to prepare any meal imaginable with ingredients from all over the world. He spent most of his time perusing this section of the nine-story library, traveling from country to country and back in time through the pages. He thought of the weeknight dinners his mom used to prepare for him and his siblings, the porkchops with roasted carrots and a can of peas heated in the microwave, the tuna fish casserole with egg noodles and saltines crumbled on top. Mr. James winced at the pain the memories evoked. He had lost so much since the days of eating at the round kitchen table with just enough spots for his mama, his older sister, his baby brother, and him. 

He knew these cookbooks well; they represented an impossible fantasy. In fact, Mr. James knew every inch of the Harold Washington Library better than any other patron. He had spent nearly every day here from open to close for the past few years. Now, though, it was after hours, and he was still here. Huh, he thought. Has it always been this easy? 

Another implausible fantasy was to have a home of his own. A place where he could enter and leave when he pleased, not relying on another person to unlock the doors and usher him in, eyeing him suspiciously, wondering what he might steal or what trouble he might cause. He wanted so badly a safe haven away from the dangers that living on the streets of Chicago presented. He shuddered at the thought of the harsh, icy winters when he’d have to wiggle his fingers and toes diligently to make sure they were still there. He never trusted the passersby, particularly the groups of young men and women who would drunkenly stumble past his sleeping bag in the middle of the night, accidentally or purposefully kicking his makeshift bed and startling him awake. They wouldn’t see him through their bleary eyes clouded with the fog that alcohol and a late night bring until he was jostled by their own doing. Then they would scream, then laugh, each emotion exaggerated, their inhibitions evaporated into the ether. This scared him the most. What might they do to him on a frightened whim?  

For tonight, he was safe. He grinned, cautiously at first, then more widely when he remembered he was alone. His smile faded at the thought of being alone. He used to love the moments growing up when he could hole away into the closet in his shared bedroom, while his brother was out playing. He would bundle up into a fort of blankets and pillows, pretending he was floating on a cloud, and tear into the latest Hardy Boys book he had gotten from the library after school that week. Now as an adult, he was always alone, and there’s a fine line between being alone and being lonely. He had far surpassed the allotted amount of time one can spend without the company of friends and family before feeling utterly unloved. Mr. James yearned for even the slightest gesture of kindness from any stranger who passed him by, though most just ignored him. Sometimes he wondered if he really was invisible. In these moments he would look down at his hands, weathered and chapped. He’d turn them over, then over again, inspecting both sides, to test the theory that he was even human. Perhaps he was an angel, sent down to watch over the city’s citizens as they rushed along the sidewalks, paying him no mind. But no, that couldn’t be, because there’s no way an angel would be put through this much suffering. 

Mr. James stood up. He might be lonely and invisible, but on this night that was okay. He could accept having no one to share this beautiful mansion with. He laughed at the thought that he owned this place, it was all his, at least for one night. This was his home. Besides, it didn’t slip his mind that being virtually transparent, or otherwise blending in with the scratchy fabric of the chair behind all the bookshelves on the fourth floor was the sole reason for this being possible. He had tried before to hide in the crevices of the building, in bathroom stalls or under work stations. The security guards always found him and kicked him out, telling him no one was allowed here after hours. He had given up the dream of being able to sleep here during the night and resigned himself to capturing its warmth and comfort during the day, but the guards must have gotten lazy or maybe by some power unbeknownst to him he had turned invisible and while he was napping they closed up shop and didn’t bother to evict him. He smiled broadly again, his yellowing teeth bared to the world. He was elated, for he was safe and warm.  

Too excited to sleep, Mr. James decided to explore the house that was so familiar to him but seemed like an entirely different universe under the shadow of the prohibited. He climbed the frozen escalator stairs up one story, then another, then another, until finally he was at the top. He paced the perimeter of the giant room, looking down at the sidewalks and observing the individuals still milling about with their groups of friends. He had long since learned how to tell the time without looking at a clock, but instead by counting the people on the streets, the cars stopped at red lights, and the stores still open. He reckoned it was a few hours before midnight and sometime after eight based on the flimsy brown boxes of leftovers in people’s hands and the straggling mini-vans and sedans driving slowly home after an evening out.  

He longed to be in one of those cars, holding the hand of someone he loved in the passenger seat with a sleeping child buckled securely in the back. He squeezed his eyes shut and reminded himself he was in no position to dream. He turned away from the overpromising windows and walked through the labyrinth of shelves, trailing his fingers across the smooth spines that didn’t pretend to be anything they weren’t. These books were perfectly labeled; they came with a warning. This one is real, this one is not. 

At the sight of a bathroom door, he recalled earlier today when he was working on a computer, searching for answers that he couldn’t find, there was a pair of teenagers at the desktop across from him. The black monitors created a wall between him and the girls that blocked him from sight, but not from scent or noise. One of them had pinched her nose and asked, “What’s that smell?” to the other in a whiny voice. The other peered around the barrier of computers and her eyes went wide. She quickly reverted back to the safety of the screen and whispered something to her friend. Mr. James heard them laugh. He ended his session and walked away. Now, he entered the restroom, grateful it was left unlocked for the night, solidifying the idea that this really was his own place. He turned on the light and blinked rapidly before being able to fully take in his appearance. His scraggly beard was well past his chin and his hair below his ears. He wished he could shave it all off.  

He took off his baggy coat, weighed down with his entire life packed into its pockets. He laid it down gently on the countertop. Then he lifted his shirt above his head and placed that on top of the jacket. Both garments were covered in the dirt that accumulates over years of sleeping on the ground. He wished he could wash them, but knew that was too risky. He didn’t have the privilege of committing to being in one place long enough to wait for them to dry. 

Without any means to properly wash himself, Mr. James went about doing things in the makeshift manner he was forced to do everything. He pumped the foamy soap out of the dispenser screwed into the tiled wall and turned on the faucet. The water was cold at first. He didn’t think to wait for it to turn warm. The enticement of hot water had long since left his mind. This was a survival technique: limit the things you want to only those that you need. Hot water wasn’t a necessity.  

He rubbed the suds into his armpits, starting with the smelliest section, then worked his way across his chest and down his arms. He lathered every inch of his torso. He wadded up a wrinkly paper towel that was more paper than towel and scrubbed the skin until it hurt. Then he splashed water carefully across his body to rinse off, trying to avoid getting the floor and his pants too wet. He wanted to wash his whole body, but was too afraid someone would walk in on him, find him out, catch him in the act while he was buck naked. 

When he had sufficiently washed and dried himself, he sniffed his pits. There was only the lingering odor of sweat and he figured this was the best he could do. He used up all the remaining paper towels wiping down the counter and floor to erase any trace of his being there. Then he replaced his clothes and was disappointed to find that his new clean scent was overpowered by the grime etched into the fabric. He laid one hand on the cool wall and let his forehead follow suit. How could he get food or respect or a job if people couldn’t even stand the smell of him? His mama would be so disappointed in him. She used to smell his breath every night before he went to bed to make sure he had sufficiently brushed his teeth. She would hold his hands in hers, looking for signs of a sloppy showering job. When she was satisfied, she would kiss him good night and send him to bed. 

Mr. James abruptly ended his moment of self-pity, knowing it would accomplish nothing, then exited the restroom. He returned to the escalators and lost count of how many floors he had descended but stopped on one that felt right. A bright white poster caught his attention in the otherwise grey void. He walked towards it and pressed his face against the paper, cupping his hands around the words one-by-one. 

"Homeless? We can help." He read. He laughed at the words, finding humor in the empty promise. If they really wanted to help, they’d let him stay here for real. The flier touted the ability to help him find a job and an apartment he could afford. He knew this was all a lie. No one was willing to hire him. The number of times he had walked into a chain coffee shop or a clothing retailer just to get shooed out of the store being told he would repulse customers was disheartening. His stench and his limp and his aura were apparently too disgusting to bear. He thought of the fulfilling job he once had and clenched his fists. His heart ached at the desire to go back to that time and that place and that life. 

Mr. James used to be an overnight baker at a local café. He made the most delectable muffins with chunky grains of sugar that he delicately placed on top even though everyone thought they were carelessly dropped there. His favorite was the croissants, the way they rose to greatness under the heat of the iron rods in the enclosed space. The buttery flakes that would stick to people’s mouths after the first bite. He would walk by the bakery during the day to watch the customers laugh and converse and read all while enjoying his masterpieces.  

Then his landlord of eight years raised the rent exponentially, blaming the rising property taxes and gentrification. Mr. James tossed away his pride in a moment of weakness and begged for a break, some extra time to find an extra job. The landlord didn’t care; he wanted Mr. James out so that he could hike up the prices even more to an unsuspecting business person in the city who could afford twice the rent. At the end of the month, Mr. James came home from work early in the morning with his belongings in a pile outside the door. He had nowhere to go, nowhere to bring himself, never mind his items. His mom had died long ago and he didn’t want to hinder his siblings’ successes by becoming a burden to them. They had families of their own and had moved to cheaper suburbs in low cost-of-living states long ago. He barely talked to them anymore. He turned around and left with only what he could carry: a toothbrush, a change of clothes, and other minor objects for immediate survival. 

The surrounding area was too expensive already, having gotten ahead of the curve and increased prices over the course of the past year. He applied for jobs to try to make extra money, but as time went on with no shelter to stay in, the bags under his eyes and the thin layer of soot on his face and hands deterred potential employers. Without modern advances like an alarm clock or a shower, the quality of his work at his existing job declined, and his employer gave him the boot. Over the course of three months, Mr. James went from successful by his own measures to feeling like a decrepit failure of a human.  

As if repelled by the poster’s message, Mr. James backed away suddenly. This place was his but it wasn’t for him. The city had paid for these walls to be constructed, these shelves to be stacked, and these carpets to be laid down for families and college students and everyone but him. He couldn’t feel at home here. The only aspect of this place specifically for him was the security guards meant to keep him out.  

Mr. James once again followed the black ridged steps down through the center of the library. He peered around corners, not wanting to be seen, still worried someone else might be there with him, never able to feel entirely safe. He ambled to the exit that led to the train tracks that he often slept under, kept awake by the rumbling El until the deepest hours of the night. He pushed open the door, unsure if he’d set off any alarms but not entirely caring. Once he was outside they wouldn’t be able to find him, or see him, or tell him apart from any other homeless man on the street. His anonymity, however saddening, could be his only superpower.  

The allure of the massive building was too much to handle. Mr. James felt undeserving and guilty of some crime, having been pinned a criminal for the latter part of his life. The world had finally convinced him that he was breaking all the rules. He wasn’t sure which ones, but it didn’t matter. The evidence that he was subhuman came in the way people traipsed passed him, not bothering to spare him some change or a good morning. The glorious token of humanity, having a warm home in which to spend the night, was out of reach. Sure, Mr. James had inadvertently captured it, but he was still trespassing on a life that the politicians and people of the city and country didn’t want him to have. 

He slumped into an unoccupied corner under the stairs leading up to the train landing, dejected. He laid his face in his hands and his hands on his knees and wanted to cry but didn’t. Even the luxury of sadness was not afforded to people like him.