buddies. Then again, that’s what he did every day. Maybe a little change would do him good. And he couldn’t complain about the lunch.
Bridget turned left and headed off while Warren went right along the fence until he came to the corner and then continued up the alley. He found the door to the crawlspace where he’d hidden his saxophone, opened it up and breathed a sigh of relief to see that his instrument was still there. He pulled it out, inspected it briefly, and then walked back the way he’d come with an unexpected spring in his step.
Chapter Six
The homeless shelter was on a street full of newspapers, empty cups and the detritus of human beings who had given up all hope. For Warren the shelter was the closest thing he had to a home. He slept here three or four nights a week, when he wasn’t simply out on the street. On this evening he stepped over a few pairs of legs on the sidewalk and headed through the door to find a man with a trim moustache, thinning hair and a worn gray sweater sitting behind a front desk reading a paperback novel.
“Evenin’ Warren,” said the man as he looked up. “You’re lucky tonight. One spot left. Number 45.” He handed Warren a tag with the number on it. “You better show up earlier, you wanna make sure you get space.”
“Yeah, Bennie, I know, thanks.” Warren took the tag, walked past the desk and turned right through a doorway into a large room full of cots. Only a handful of men were in the room, with one or two already asleep; the sounds of their snores mingling with the traffic noise coming from outside the windows. As for the dank musty odor, Warren was used to it. The smell of unwashed men was one he lived with daily. He found cot number 45, placed his hat and his saxophone on top and then walked back the way he had come, out the door and across the hall into the dining room. This is where the action was as men and women crowded in line to get their dinner and others sat at long rows of tables eating. Warren got in line behind the man he’d seen on the street earlier in the day, with frazzled grayish hair and the cloudy cataract in one eye.
“How’s it going Smiley?” Warren asked.
“You know, still homeless,” Smiley answered.
“Yeah, still homeless. What they got tonight?”
“Tuesday. Salisbury steak with beans and rice.”
“Sounds good.”
“I heard those cops this morning kicked you off the boulevard,” Smiley said.
“Who told you that?”
“Got my sources ,” he stressed the last word. “That just ain’t right. How’s a man supposed to earn a livin’ if they won’t even let you try? Besides, a guy who plays like you should be allowed to play any damn place he wants.”
“I can’t disagree with you there, Smiley, but don’t you worry about me,” said Warren.
At the food counter, a cook in a white apron and hat asked no questions; he just scooped food onto their plates and handed it over. Warren took his plate and found a seat at one of the tables. He looked at the downcast lot around him; men with missing teeth and dirty hair, torn clothes and glazed looks in their eyes. Women whose dreams of youth and beauty were long behind them. Warren held a hand to his face and rubbed the dirty beard on his chin. “A movie star,” he said quietly with the faintest of smiles. He picked up his knife and fork and cut into his lukewarm Salisbury steak.
Chapter Seven
When he walked toward the studio in the early morning, Warren felt a strange mix of anxiety and enthusiasm. He worried that his ruse would be discovered. How long could he get away with pretending to belong there? At the same time, he was surprised at how eager he was to return. Was it the camaraderie that he’d happened upon? Or the mountains of food? Or perhaps the starlet, who reminded him so much of Ophelia? No, there was something else. In the back of his mind, he couldn’t
Bridget turned left and headed off while Warren went right along the fence until he came to the corner and then continued up the alley. He found the door to the crawlspace where he’d hidden his saxophone, opened it up and breathed a sigh of relief to see that his instrument was still there. He pulled it out, inspected it briefly, and then walked back the way he’d come with an unexpected spring in his step.
Chapter Six
The homeless shelter was on a street full of newspapers, empty cups and the detritus of human beings who had given up all hope. For Warren the shelter was the closest thing he had to a home. He slept here three or four nights a week, when he wasn’t simply out on the street. On this evening he stepped over a few pairs of legs on the sidewalk and headed through the door to find a man with a trim moustache, thinning hair and a worn gray sweater sitting behind a front desk reading a paperback novel.
“Evenin’ Warren,” said the man as he looked up. “You’re lucky tonight. One spot left. Number 45.” He handed Warren a tag with the number on it. “You better show up earlier, you wanna make sure you get space.”
“Yeah, Bennie, I know, thanks.” Warren took the tag, walked past the desk and turned right through a doorway into a large room full of cots. Only a handful of men were in the room, with one or two already asleep; the sounds of their snores mingling with the traffic noise coming from outside the windows. As for the dank musty odor, Warren was used to it. The smell of unwashed men was one he lived with daily. He found cot number 45, placed his hat and his saxophone on top and then walked back the way he had come, out the door and across the hall into the dining room. This is where the action was as men and women crowded in line to get their dinner and others sat at long rows of tables eating. Warren got in line behind the man he’d seen on the street earlier in the day, with frazzled grayish hair and the cloudy cataract in one eye.
“How’s it going Smiley?” Warren asked.
“You know, still homeless,” Smiley answered.
“Yeah, still homeless. What they got tonight?”
“Tuesday. Salisbury steak with beans and rice.”
“Sounds good.”
“I heard those cops this morning kicked you off the boulevard,” Smiley said.
“Who told you that?”
“Got my sources ,” he stressed the last word. “That just ain’t right. How’s a man supposed to earn a livin’ if they won’t even let you try? Besides, a guy who plays like you should be allowed to play any damn place he wants.”
“I can’t disagree with you there, Smiley, but don’t you worry about me,” said Warren.
At the food counter, a cook in a white apron and hat asked no questions; he just scooped food onto their plates and handed it over. Warren took his plate and found a seat at one of the tables. He looked at the downcast lot around him; men with missing teeth and dirty hair, torn clothes and glazed looks in their eyes. Women whose dreams of youth and beauty were long behind them. Warren held a hand to his face and rubbed the dirty beard on his chin. “A movie star,” he said quietly with the faintest of smiles. He picked up his knife and fork and cut into his lukewarm Salisbury steak.
Chapter Seven
When he walked toward the studio in the early morning, Warren felt a strange mix of anxiety and enthusiasm. He worried that his ruse would be discovered. How long could he get away with pretending to belong there? At the same time, he was surprised at how eager he was to return. Was it the camaraderie that he’d happened upon? Or the mountains of food? Or perhaps the starlet, who reminded him so much of Ophelia? No, there was something else. In the back of his mind, he couldn’t
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