Shame

The windows were smashed, the paint peeling. A drunk lay sleeping on the porch as a light snow began to fall. He was barely illuminated by the flickering street lights, but there was no one passing by to notice, much less care. He dreamt of a wife he once had, both together in a place he had never been, and they shared laughter, like they did when they had first met, so many years ago. They sat, on furniture the likes of which he had never owned. A cat, an orange tabby he called Ricardo, jumped into his lap, curled up and fell asleep. He stroked it absent-mindedly as she went to get him a beer. She opened it for him, and he thanked her as she sat next to him. Rodney Dangerfield was on TV, announcing that he was running for President. "Since I never get any respect, I might as well do something where I don't deserve it," Dangerfield said. "He's got my vote," she said, and they both laughed again. Then he woke up. He was aware of the cold, cursed the snow, but at his present level of intoxication, he fell back asleep, not to awaken again until the sun began to rise. His head ached, and his stomach was queasy, but he forced himself to move, slowly standing, then rolling up his sleeping bag. He held it in his left arm, and carried the bag with his few belongings in his other arm, unsteadily walking to the sidewalk. It was three blocks he had to go to get to the nearest bus stop, and he got on the first bus that came and just sat down. The bus driver let him do so. About ten minutes later he was downtown, and he walked to the soup kitchen he frequented. They gave him a hard-boiled egg and a bowl of cereal on a tray, and he poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down by himself. He stayed there many minutes after eating his food and finishing the coffee, even after the workers announced he would have to get out of the cafeteria. Soon after that, a cop came over and told him to leave. He did so without a word. He didn't feel like talking, but he wanted to say "Poverty a crime now?" Obviously it was: that's the only reason there was so much of it. He went back outside. The snow that fell last night was already melting, so he would scrounge up enough for a cheap bottle of wine and drink it, then go back to the abandoned house to sleep. It wasn't much of a life, but it was the only life he had, so he lived it. As long as he didn't have to interact with any other human being, he was okay with that. Everyone he ever knew was dead, gone away, or wanted nothing to do with him, and he couldn't blame anyone but himself. There was total peace in not giving a shit. He just wanted to get drunk and go to sleep. With any luck, he would see Ricardo again.