Homer and Clarence

Homer wore a frayed army jacket to keep the cold out. He dived into the dumpster behind the grocery store, a place where employees came out to smoke and no cops patrolled. He dug through stinky messes and found a blanket and a half-full box of cereal. At least he would have something to eat for dinner.

He pushed his way out, stood on the pavement, and shoved his finds into a battered backpack. He plodded north. He had no idea where he would spend the night, and the cold was pressing on him.

“How ya doin’, old man?” a store employee called to him. She took a draft on her cigarette and stared at him under her dark eyes.. Her jeans had holes in them, her blouse revealed her cleavage, and her ample belly protruded over her belt.

“Hmpppph,” he said and kept walking.

“Wanna cigarette?” she asked. “I got one for you.” She finished her own cigarette, dropped it to the pavement, and stomped on it. She dangled another cigarette toward him. “I’ll even light it for you.”

“Don’t smoke,” he said. “Bad for my health.”

“Bad for your health?” she mocked. “You sleep on the streets and you say a ciggie is bad for your health?” She came toward him with the dangling cigarette.

“Y-you leave me alone,” he mumbled and walked faster.

She walked faster than he did. “A free cigarette, mister. See, I’ll even light it for you.” She stopped and lit it and took a drag. Free for you. I’m your Angel of Mercy.” She held out the lighted cigarette.

“No,” he said, “You’re the Angel of Death.” He picked up a paper bag and kept it between himself and the cigarette.

“I’m doing you a favor,” she said. She stuck the lit end of the cigarette to his left arm, and when he yelped, she put the cigarette to the paper bag, which lit on fire. When it became too hot to hold, he dropped it. “See, now you’ve started a fire, old man,” she said. “You should’ve taken my cigarette.” She stomped on the bag and put the fire out. She picked it up and swung it at the old man. “You burnt-out piece of garbage. Get away from my store!”

“D-don’t hurt me,” he said and hurried off the store property. To his right, the street went downhill and ended in a pile of garbage, with broken glass, bedsprings, and boards with nails sticking out. To his left, the street went uphill to an underpass where no people would bother him. The sidewalks and streets, splattered with dried vomit and littered with needles, smelled like urine. 

He liked to pretend that the roar of the traffic overhead was from a waterfall. He kicked some needles and trash away, sat down on a dry piece of cardboard, and pulled out the box of cereal. He munched on a handful of cereal and glanced around at the neighborhood, which consisted of abandoned storefronts with their windows boarded up. Even the fire hydrant across the street looked forlorn, with its blotchy paint and the graffiti with the name of a street gang.

He spotted a shopping cart behind the fire hydrant. Maybe it belonged to someone, maybe not. The street had its code. You don’t steal someone else’s shopping cart or their stuff. He walked over to the cart and inspected it. It wasn’t shiny anymore. It had picked up the dirt and grim of the street. Inside it were food jars and boxes, feminine items, a green shawl, two baseball bats, and underneath were broken down cardboard boxes.

“Everybody needs a friend.”

Homer looked up and down the block. No one there. As long as he took his meds, and he did, he no longer heard voices. So where did this voice come from?

“A friend in need is a friend indeed.”

He banged on a boarded-up store window. “Hey! Who’s in there?” he shouted.

“No one there, no one with a care.”

He spun around, enraged. “I don’t want to hear voices again. I’m cured! Don’t do this to me! It’s not funny.”

“Hey man, calm down. It’s only you, me, and the chickens.”

“Who are you? Where are you?” Homer stormed up and down the sidewalk and peeked through windows. A green Subaru drove by. The woman driver did not look at him. He shook a fist at her. “You’re a government agent. Don’t beam messages into my brain!”

“You need a friend, be a friend,” the voice said.

“Once I find you, I’ll smash you to bits,” Homer said. “You play with my mind, I’ll kill you.”

“Harsh words, old man. Take it easy. Life is a journey. Smell the roses.”

Homer said, “I’ll bash this cart into your face, once I find you.” He turned in circles and looked up to see if an airplane was beaming the words into his brain.

A police cruiser pulled to the curb. A cop in the passenger seat rolled down the windows and asked, “You all right, man?” He was a burly man in his 40s, clean-shaven, with dewlaps that hung from his jawline.

“Yes, sir,” said Homer. He pulled up and saluted as if he were a private addressing a commanding officer. It was his way of mocking the cops without mocking them. “I’m so happy with this economy. I lost my house and found this shopping cart. I’m as fine as a hound dog on a rabbit trail.”

“Dirty as a hound dog, too,” said the cop. “What happened to your hair, man?”

“I went bald about the same time I lost my wife. This city chews people up and spits them onto the streets. I’m lucky the garbage truck lets me be.”

The officer pointed and said, “You’ve got Manic Marla’s cart.”

“Who’s Manic Marla?” Homer asked.

“She’s a homeless woman, you may have seen her around. She took a baseball bat into a vaping store, said they were selling poison, and smashed some cases. Storeowner called us. She’s in custody.” He smirked.

“I’ll take care of her cart until she gets out,” Homer said.

“That won’t be a for a while. She’s a mental case, and most mental cases take a long time. They need to get back on their meds, and the meds need to kick in, and she has to learn some better ways to cope with life before they get put out on the streets again, and the streets aren’t too safe for women in the first place, even with us around to protect them.”

“In the meantime, I’ll keep it safe, “ Homer said. He pushed the cart toward his new spot beneath the underpass.

“You takin’ your meds?” the cop called after him. 

Homer, without slowing down or looking back, shouted, “Every night with my dinner, like momma said.”

The cop chuckled, and the car cruised off.

“Officer Friendly. But say one thing wrong, and off you go to the pokey.”

Homer thought back. He was sure he had taken his meds the night before and the night before that. Just to be sure, he checked the container and counted out the pills. Yes, he had remembered correctly. Maybe if he took one more, the voice would go away. You can’t overdose on antidepressants, he told himself. He held a single pill over his mouth.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“What did you say?”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“This is crazy, man. Who is this? Everybody tells me to take my meds, take my meds, like God decreed it. But you say no, whoever you are. Stop hiding from me.”

“I’m your friend, the shopping cart. My name is Clarence.” 

“And I’m a brave little toaster. Who’s talking really?” He pushed the cart across the street and into the shadow of the overpass. He was accustomed to the stink and the atmosphere of danger. He wanted to hear his waterfall and eat his meal while he planned a way to get back at the woman at the store. He rubbed the spot where she had burned the cigarette on his arm.

“I’m your secret weapon.”

“Right,” said Homer, “if you’re so hot, find me some better food than this cereal.” He tossed the cereal box into the cart, gathered his other items, and tossed them in, too.

“Head north,” Clarence said. Homer pushed the cart north for several blocks. Clarence said, “Take a left turn at the next intersection.” Homer did as he was told. “Go three blocks.” He did. “Turn right at the next intersection. You’ll see the church food cart.”

He followed the directions, and sure enough, a line had formed for a church food cart, painted red. Homer parked Clarence on the side, in the shade, and he waited in line. He said hello to others in the line, who either didn’t respond or muttered unintelligible replies. When his turn came at the window, a young woman served him meatballs and salad. She gave him a choice of white milk or chocolate milk, and he took the chocolate milk. “When you’re done, come back for dessert,” the woman said. “It’s chocolate cake.”

After dinner, Homer came back for chocolate cake and took his piece of cake over to the secluded spot where he had parked Clarence. He said, “I wish you could eat, Clarence, or I would share some cake with you.”

“Never mind,” said Clarence. “Keep your voice down. The others might hear you.”

“You mean the other homeless people who talk to trees and walls and themselves? They might rat me out?”

“Shush, you nitwit. We don’t want to call attention to ourselves. They’ll put you in a mental institution.”

“Been there, done that,” he said.

“What did you do before you were on the street?” Clarence asked.

“Sold real estate. Then my wife had a miscarriage. Then she died of cancer, and then the market crashed and I lost my home. I got depressed, they put me on meds, I had no place to go, and here I am.”

“You could go back to school, learn a trade,” Clarence said. “A trade school is on the next block north. Tan door. They give scholarships.”

“Dude, I’m too old for that.”

“Never too old,” Clarence said. “Some people bloom in their old age.”

“Yeah, O.K.,” he said. “Look, I need a favor, my friend.”

“What’s that?”

Homer explained the favor he needed. They hurried down the streets to the back of the grocery store. They waited an hour. And waited and hour more. “She might’ve gone home for the day,” Homer said. A minute later the woman who had abused him came out. She and another woman laughed and lit up cigarettes. Homer waited while they chuckled at a joke. He wanted her to notice him before he did anything. 

The woman elbowed her friend in the ribs and pointed at Homer. “That’s him, the dumb homeless man. I scared him off before, and I’ll do it again. Come with me.” She and her friend walked up to Homer and Clarence. “Didn’t I tell you to get off my store’s property?” she asked. “Get out of here!”

Homer held his hand up. “I come to make peace,” he said. “Look, I found this shopping cart. I want to offer you a ride in it.”

“Me, ride in a shopping cart?”

“You did when your mom took you around in a grocery store, didn’t you? Remember the fun you had? Climb in and I’ll take you for a ride.”

“Naaaa, that’s silly. I’m a grownup now.” 

Her friend said, “Go on, Nancy. You’re not scared, are you?”

“Me, scared?” she said. “All right. Hold on.” She climbed into the cart with her friend’s help. 

“All set?” Homer asked. Without waiting for an answer, he pushed the cart to the edge of the store property, paused, then pushed it onto the street.

“Hey, stay in the store lot,” Nancy said.

“You’re going for a ride.” He pushed Clarence to the middle of the street, aimed it toward the downhill plunge into garbage, and let go.

The cart went faster and faster toward the broken glass, the bedsprings, and the boards with nails in them, as Nancy screamed louder and louder.

“Goodbye, Clarence,” Homer said. He turned his back and headed for the trade school.