homeless shelter

it was one of the last days of winter,

warm but rainy,

I drove into the city

for

my usual Thursday afternoon stint

at a homeless shelter.

my job was to help homeless people find places to rent.

and I had two guys together.

they slept in a van they shared.

rough, barely comprehending what was around them.

stank of alcohol and cigarettes.

and that funk a man gets when he never bathes.

grime over their hands and face.

heads down, moaning.

slouching in their chairs in pain.

barely alive.

as I am going through the computer looking for a possible rental

Charles says to me,  “the coppers give me a thousand dollar ticket

for having an unregistered car on the road.  That’s the fucking car

we are sleeping in.  Just parked there.  On the side of the fucking road!

So what the fuck, how can we pay a thousand fucking bucks, you tell me,

guess?  what do you do?”

I didn’t really know, but held my gaze to his eye, because that’s what he wanted, me to look him straight in the eye.  then I became curious, “what would you do, Charles?” I asked.

“bash and rob somebody, that’s what you would do.  that’s what the coppers make you do.  the fucking cunts!  Or I could just smash you in the face now, then I’ll get a roof over my head and breakfast tomorrow.”

pretending I didn’t hear that, but still nodding, I scrolled down the list of units

for rent on Gumtree, and it was obvious no one would ever rent

their six figure investment to them.

“it’s just easier to die mate,” said the other one to me, Col, in a low, muddy voice.

Col had a bad virus.  was coughing violently.  I didn’t want to catch it, but could do nothing but wash my hands after. 

the rain intensified, smashed against the windows

of the homeless shelter’s computer room, rain now like tiny bits of metal.  it was all we could hear.  it was driving us all crazy.

Col walked out into the wet courtyard, tried to roll a cigarette.

Charles followed him, they huddled together.

that was the last we saw of the two.

aunt

my mother called to say that my aunt hadn’t been

answering her phone.

living alone for decades really, in her apartment overlooking the beach

watching Foxtel

and occasionally seeing one of her friends.

one of those isolated retirements.

she had a cat.

I made sure she had one, drove her down to the pound

a few years before

and we brought home a little black and white kitten

which she called, “Little Fella”.

a life-line to something that existed beyond her and Foxtel.

and wouldn’t cheat on her.

and wouldn’t beat her.

her friend had called my mother who called me to say

that my aunt hadn’t arrived at a luncheon

three days before.

I decided to ring my aunt but no answer, just her answering machine,

with her uncertain flailing voice.

the last time I heard it.

I went to her apartment and knocked on the door.

grave concern

because she is not someone who really leaves her apartment.

even if she had to she wouldn’t

because she hated to abandon Little Fella.

I started banging on the door.

no response.

I went down the elevator to the caretaker’s office

but he didn’t have a spare key.

a locksmith came

a young guy

who didn’t know what he was in for.

but he couldn’t break the lock.

“smash it!” I said.  “just smash it open.”

the young lad heaved his body into it again and again

as the caretaker and I stood behind him.

and finally the lock gave away.

the door flung open.

my aunt was not only my aunt but one of the closest persons in my life.

decades of conversations,

wine,

and what we always ate together, fish and chips.

lying there, looking terrible.  had been lying there far too long.

days.

I looked over her,

then

after a bit I silently walked out,

ignoring the other two

who

stood aghast.

I went down the hall and around the corner,

fell to my knees

and howled in one of those crazy ways,

like how you see on the news.

a peasant howl.

peasant misery.

howling as loud as fuck, the whole fifteen story building would have

heard it.

given the little children nightmares.

made the adults drink.

my aunt has gone,

that is not her.

bub bub

she wakes me at 5 a.m.

“Ian I’ve been trying to wake you for fifteen minutes, I need help!”

I look up

trying to make out what is hovering over me in the shadows,

it’s my fiancé.

“I can’t do this on my own!” she says.

I had been on the gas that night,

maybe a carton of beer

after a day of meditation and reading Dogen in the backyard.

perhaps I was a contradiction.

my fiancé was in tears.

“you lift up the brace so I can get the nappy out,

then hold the nappy with the other hand

so that the poo doesn’t spill anywhere,

oh God it’s so fucking hard with this horrible brace,

I hate it!” she said, sobbing.

our baby, our first, had it’s legs in full plaster to bend the knees

and then also in a hard metal brace to get the hips back in.

not to mention the hand splints.

poo time was a shit.

so I had poo over my hands,

poo over my shirt,

I was still drunk, had had a gig that night, was scared that I had left my guitar

somewhere,

maybe in the back of the taxi,

I know someone that had happened to.

time to straighten up, be a solid support for my woman,

but my hangover

and

the sheer stench of this tiny human excrement

got the better of me.

I raced to the fridge to grab a beer for the hangover.

came back in,

she can’t get the fresh nappy back in under the brace,

trying to squeeze it in but it won’t go,

bewilderment in her sleepless eyes,

and the baby screams,

the baby screams like a tiny unheard nothing,

it’s so small.

I suck on the can of beer

then crush it with my fist,

let it drop to the floor.

“baby, what can I do?” I asked.

cold morning vision

Sunday morning,

mist,

trying to shake the hangover,

on my way to the city to our Zen group’s AGM

wondering

whether I should swallow some codeine

or

if that is not appropriate.

I choose not to.

I see a man

who

seems to be in some kind of state.

fish eyes,

uncomprehending.

walking fast down the edge of the highway,

hands in pockets,

head tilted in an unnatural way.

he bends down

and

picks up a cask of wine and shakes it,

then throws it in disgust.

empty.

I make the assumption that he is an addict

of some sort,

on his way to the man.

I keep driving at 60 kph with my wipers on.

hanging for a piss.

dry eyes.

I know we are all as good as dead.

wipers now start to screech.

clouds fall everywhere.