Bill dreamed of the dogs again. First, the terrier. Little more than a mutt, it capered over a suburban lawn at dusk, imbued with energy in spite of its protruding ribs, its matted fur, its bloodied and torn ear. It had no one to care for it. No owner. Its dinners consisted of scraps stolen from garbage cans.
Inside the house, a dachshund stood on its hind legs, peering out of the living room view window at the terrier. It yipped and danced on manicured toes, its coat freshly brushed, its personalized collar jingling. Its stomach bulged slightly from the meal recently served by its master. It had everything a dog could want--except to be outside right at that moment, playing with the chewed-up tennis ball the terrier had found beneath the winter-blighted quince.
Hunger drove Bill to consciousness. The dream faded. Peeling away his blanket, he rolled off his pile of cardboard. His muscles complained, yet the cardboard was better than concrete, and the warehouse, vast and unheated as it was, fended off the rain and wind. He stood and tried to stretch. The mist of his breath trailed up toward the distant rafters, where the pigeons cooed their good mornings. His footsteps echoed as he shuffled to the restroom.
The toilet worked, as did the cold water tap. By month's end the warehouse's legitimate tenant would no doubt return for his stacks of empty pallets, do the final cleaning, and shut off the utilities. Bill filled the sink, stripped, took out his cherished washcloth, and began scrubbing his body. The process set his teeth to chattering, but he did a thorough job. The better he smelled, the closer he could approach the tourists.
Restoring his socks and thermal longjohns, he gained control of his shivers. He inhaled the whole-wheat roll he had saved for breakfast, washed it down with water, and hurried to prepare himself for the streets.
Delving into his make-up kit, he debated what to be today. Clown or mime? His tips were bigger as a clown, but the other choice required less make-up, fewer props. Also, his mime togs were less wrinkled. Done. With a wig, a fake mustache, and a bit of whiteface, he transformed himself into an updated version of Charlie Chaplin's Little Tramp.
The one part of his clown gear he included was his harmonica. Stuffing touch-up cosmetics in his fanny pack, he placed his remaining possessions in his battered rucksack and exited the restroom.
Keys rattled in a lock on the far side of the building. Bill leaped behind a screen of pallets, adrenaline surging. The creak of hinges was still echoing across the cavernous interior when he reached the loose board, pushed it aside, and squeezed onto the deserted loading dock.
His blanket remained behind on the pile of cardboard. Bill cursed.
He rounded the building and blended into the world of sidewalks and storefronts, struggling to maintain his I belong here aura. The commute hour was in full swing, and though traffic was light in this part of town, Bill shrank from each passing vehicle. It was the rucksack. He never liked carrying it in the open. It marked him as homeless.
Relief settled upon him as he turned into a refuse-laden alley. An unshaven, middle-aged scarecrow of a man, prosthetic foot jutting from his trouser leg and Purple Heart medal glinting on his khaki shirt, sat in a large crate that had been turned on its side against one of the buildings and covered with a tarp. The veteran nodded as Bill wedged his burden into the gap between the crate and the brick wall.
"Morning, Jimmy."
"Sleeping late this fine day?" the man scolded, tilting his thumb at the sun, which had cleared the rooftops to the east to shine directly on the crate, bringing a welcome and remarkably substantial dose of warmth.
"Fate has made me rich, and I live a life of ease."
"Must've found a spot indoors. And you didn't let me know?"
"Too late now, I think." The warehouse was too risky for further use, though he would try recovering the blanket assuming the tenant failed to notice it and the loose board. "Next time."
Jimmy spat. He did it to the side, but Bill winced. He needed the veteran. Jimmy provided a base of operations. Thin and ragged though the old guy was, he had the skills to defend this turf from scavengers. Over the past month, Jimmy had often guarded Bill's rucksack like he watched Claude's spare boots and Zach's valise of mementoes. In return, Bill and Claude and Zach and other transients were supposed to share whatever bounty they turned up, saving the vet the annoyance of clomping around the city with a bum foot.
"I'll make it up to you," Bill promised.
"Eh," Jimmy said, spitting again and waving him off.
Unsure whether the man was reassuring him no-harm-done or spurning the apology, Bill's sense of security remained unsettled as he said his farewell and headed downtown.
)
