On the Other Side

Car after car. Window after window. It’s raining. My sign is soggy. I borrowed the marker from Lenny. His kind of marker doesn’t run in the rain. Tricks of the trade. “Please HELP,” my sign says. “no amount too small.” I shaved today. I combed my hair today. I’m standing straight today. People give more when they think you need it less. They’re afraid of people who need too much. They think people who need are wild. Think they’re exiles. Me, I wasn’t expelled. I ran. Steps ahead of the wave that rose above me.

When the light changes to red, I scan the line for drivers’ eyes. Most drivers stare straight ahead, pretend to be preoccupied. Some guys, they’ll pace around, approach passenger-side windows, even knock them with a knuckle. Make rolling-down-the-window motions. I don’t do that. I used to tell myself I was too polite for that. Too dignified for confrontation. I know the truth now and it’s all I can do to tamp it down, squeeze it into a pellet that settles next to my hunger, my thirst, and my fears about where I’ll sleep tonight. The truth is I’m ashamed. Ashamed to ask. To be hungry. To need.

A driver leans over to roll down the passenger-side window. He flips a bill back and forth to attract my attention. I walk over. “Here you go,” he says. A man about my age. But on the other side. I take the money. “Thanks a lot,” I say. I don’t like belaboring it, doing some kind of master-slave routine. I asked. He answered.

I’ve been offered coins, bills, food, and work. And insults. And sneers. And middle fingers. And garbage in a bag. And coffee splashed from a paper cup. And money held out like bait and taken away. And drivers leaning on the horn to scold me or frighten me. When I wake up in the morning and pull on my coat, I’m already beat. I grab my sign and hike to my spot and try not to look like I need too much. Tricks of the trade.

Goggles

The goggles weren't working. He didn't feel more energized or more alive. His outlook had not “brightened to an almost unbelievable degree.” The tiny instruction manual, which had initially inspired confidence by its very slimness, was now dog-eared after vain attempts to find some information in it. The straps were adjusted properly. He cleaned the faces of the goggles with a mild solution of dishwashing soap and water. He discontinued use for twenty-four hours.

He had them on again, and he only felt underwater. The goggles created pressure around his eyes and he felt like he was submerged in liquid. This was not satisfactory. Four easy payments of $29.99 down the drain.

The sales contract specified that he could return his Bio-Enhanced Goggles for a refund only in the event of material defect. And they looked to be sound. No cracks in the plastic casing. No splits in the webbing. They were sound; they just didn't work. Feeling underwater, he sorted some mail, tidied up a bit. He saw himself in the round base of a lamp and did look... different. Distinguished. The goggles were smart, with their pattern of raised "Energy Collector" dots around the faceplate, and the molded nose armature. He had no complaints on that score. And for a while, a few minutes, the light chores were even lighter. He felt more fluid, as though he were gliding through space with water-borne grace. A sinuous, tendrilled thing, at home in a vast mystery. Maybe they were working after all.

He ran to the bedroom and fumbled through the packing materials. Through the cardboard box emblazoned with the legend "Feel more alive! Feel more energized! Feel more relaxed!" He did feel more relaxed. He was more at home in himself than he had been for years. Was it the patented refraction lenses? Or was it the space-age aura magnifiers? He didn't know and he didn't care! Leave that to the bookish scientists! He was free! He was alive!