Homeless (9 page)

“You done whining for having to do some time for ya' crime?” Kevin told a bad joke at Lonnie's expense. Slurring and giggling like a girl, it was easy to tell the privileged white boy was high as a kite, as usual. His friend's misfortune hadn't slowed down his habit or his partying in the slightest bit.

“Yeah, I guess,” Lonnie responded after his first day of volunteer work, not really in the mood for his white friend's personality. “It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, real talk,” he said honestly, but not really wanting to talk about his unfortunate circumstances.

Loner Lonnie was more consumed and interested in the beer can he was trying to find the bottom of. He was growing nauseated, but was trying to fight against it. Lonnie wasn't sick with the stomach bug, just going through withdrawals. His body had gotten used to the daily regimen of pills, so not having them made him ill. The unsettled adolescent wished he had the means to run away or at least money to make all his problems vanish.

“Good, that shit'll be over and you can be back over here partyin' and bullshittin' with the crew in no time.” His words managed to lift Lonnie's spirits. “But I don't know about moving in. My homeboy needed somewhere to crash and you were gone so—”

“What the fuck, man? I know you ain't call me to run me in the ground even more,” Lonnie snapped, hearing another person was getting off scraps just as he was heading toward getting back on them.

“Aw, man, before you get back on that whining shit, let me hip you to what a bitch I stuck my dick in put me onto today. It'll help you with your troubles.”

Kevin could never be of any assistance with homework, studying, or any positive stuff like that. His specialty was pills, booze, partying, and bitches. Lonnie wondered what Kevin could help him with that he could indulge in without getting in trouble with the judge.

“I got these pills that make them Zannys seem like Flintstone vitamins,” Kevin slurred, speaking the truth because he was as high as a kite. “These motherfuckers be having me not caring 'bout shit. They so strong that you only need to pop half, but you know I like to get wild.”

“Kev, man, damn. You forget I gotta drop or something?” Irritated, Lonnie wanted to get off the phone and find some solace. Because today hadn't been so bad, he wanted to get some rest and prepare for day two of fulfilling his sentence. Lonnie was dog-tired but fighting sleep, not wanting a repeat of last night to see his mother in another nightmare.

“Naw, I ain't forgot. Shorty, who I'm sticking my dick in, works at a clinic, be selling scripts, and charging a few extra bucks if you need her to make you up a file.” Kevin was extra excited since his favorite pastime and all-the-time activity was to pop pills. What he was telling Lonnie was that he'd found a semilegal way to do drugs. He'd also told Lonnie he had a pharmacy in his backpack.

“Say, word? That shit sound too fuckin' good to be true. I been over here spazzing out trying to see if I should tiptoe on the tightrope and pop this X-pill for one last high, and yo' ass over their plugging up the plug.” Lonnie was live, right along with Kevin. So much so that he agreed to take a few of them off his hands—just to try.

He didn't have the money to pay the girl for the pills or the file he'd need, but he could try the testers Kevin was offering him. Instead of taking the X-pill, he'd experiment with the Chill Pill, the name Kevin told him he'd nicknamed it. He couldn't, however, remember the actual name for the comparable but better drug than Xanax.

Kevin had a female in the passenger's seat when he brought Lonnie the tester pills, although it wasn't the same woman from the clinic. Lonnie hoped his friend didn't mess up a good thing with ole' girl at the clinic before it got started. Walking up the stairwell back to his apartment, Lonnie swallowed the capsule dry mouthed before reaching his door.

Unlike the first day Lonnie woke up having to do community service, he woke up the second day without a headache and feeling like the day wouldn't be so bad. Matter of fact, his musty-smelling pillow was covered in slob. Well rested, Lonnie had slept uninterrupted and without nightmares. He didn't even remember getting naked in bed or falling asleep. Scratching his head, yawning out a foul odor of morning breath, he remembered the Chill Pill he'd taken the night before and the fact he still had one more.

It was different than Xanax and gave him an even more relaxed feeling. That's why he and Kevin nicknamed it as such. Before even getting out of the bed, he sent a text asking him how much for a full prescription. Since Kevin had gotten the scripts from a chick he was banging that interned at a medical clinic, Lonnie felt it was all good and safe to get it back on and popping with his pill habit. He needed them to cope, especially after seeing how it felt to go through withdrawals.

Just like yesterday, he could put in his hours without running into anyone he'd had dealings with; then get home and get high. All he intended on doing was his job and staying out of trouble and dealing with Mr. Reynolds. He hoped he was there today so he'd get a chance to thank him for the gift. Lonnie didn't want the man to think he was unappreciative and not bless him again.

Lonnie got out of bed, shook the wrinkles and any dirt crumbs from off his clothes, and slid them on like they hadn't been worn for the last few days back to back without being washed. The accustomed-to-struggle teen didn't frown today, however. He was happy that at least he had the fresh fifty he'd been gifted with in his pocket, along with the bus passes. Lonnie hadn't spent a dollar of the bill. He knew what his future could hold. What he didn't know was when Mr. Reynolds was going to gift him with some more money. As always, Lonnie had to play it smart, unlike many of his peers. It sometimes depressed him that he couldn't be careless like Kevin.

Lonnie went through his same routine of getting ready and was out the door headed to the bus stop within fifteen minutes from first getting up. Despite all the negative circumstances around him, he was trying to look on the bright side of things. He'd be able to eat meals at the soup kitchen, take a few toiletries for himself, and even get a few dollars whenever Mr. Reynolds felt like blessing him. He knew it wasn't much, but it could be counted on.

It even crossed his mind that maybe he could work at the shelter for a few dollars during the morning shift after his community hours had been fulfilled. That way, he could have money to pay room and board somewhere at least. Lonnie knew it was a long shot to think with some hope, but nothing else so far had worked.

Many of the people waiting on the same city bus that ran by the schedule of the driver, not what the route truly said, made Lonnie their early-morning topic. They thought they knew him well, despite them not knowing his story at all. The two women who were always late to work behind Lonnie paying his fare in all pennies or begging the driver for a free ride or transfer rolled their eyes. Because of him, they'd been put on probation.

“Don't even stand here waiting on the bus if you ain't got enough money or what little you do maybe have in order,” one of the women rudely addressed Lonnie.

“Yeah, matter of fact, start counting that shit out now. That way, you won't be up there stumbling and mumbling when the time comes,” the other woman joined in clowning the teen.

Lonnie bit his bottom lip. He knew he'd seen these women before, and he knew he'd also held the bus up before. Yet and still, he didn't deserve to be belittled. He was growing tired of people treating him inhumane and acting like his feelings didn't matter.

“What? You can't hear either? Hello!” The woman who'd started the verbal attack against Lonnie yelled and waved her hand in his face.

Something in Lonnie snapped. Here he was trying to find the rainbow in a hurricane that was his tumultuous life and yet another random woman has pissed in his cornflakes. He felt his chest rise and fall three strong times as his blood surged though his veins. Grabbing her wrist, he twisted it, then pushed her back. Not enough for her to fall to the ground, but enough to shake her out of his face. Lonnie didn't want any problems, just to be left alone. “Keep your hands up outta my face, lady. I don't know you, and I swear fo' God you don't wanna know me.”

The lady, in disbelief that she'd just been checked by a man so dirty and disheveled, ran her hand across her bunched clothes, then balled up her fist. She wanted to bark at Lonnie, attack him back even, but knew he'd probably beat her to a pulp. And she also knew she was wrong for being in his space in the first place. And it was too early with no one else around. If things went left and the police needed to be called, she knew they weren't coming for petty shit, especially in the hood. They barely responded to burglaries of businesses and homicides. She took her friend's advice as well as the little voice in her head telling her to back down and did.

The bus arrived, and Lonnie was everything but a gentleman. He was tired of being nice and having women be disrespectful for no reason. He hadn't been taught to put his hands on girls, even told he'd be less than a man for doing so; yet, he'd just learned that's the only way to put them in their place. For the first time since his mother's death, he didn't wonder how she felt looking down on him. Lonnie was tired of taking the cards he's been dealt. Especially when everyone else cheats.

With his bus pass in hand, he stepped up and handed it to the driver.

The smart-mouthed woman, who Lonnie thought had learned her lesson, spoke up. “Slide it in the machine where the dollars go. I know you don't know that since it seems you never have none.” She felt bold with the bus driver there.

Lonnie's face turned red. After sliding the bus pass into the slot, he hung his head and walked toward the back of the bus. Back there, he could hide his shoes with worn out soles, dirty clothes, and maybe perhaps if he was lucky—the bad luck that always followed him.

Lonnie managed to ride the entire route without having another verbal or physical altercation with the lady, or anyone else, for that matter. The driver had announced he didn't want any shenanigans from anyone and would gladly put those that couldn't adhere to his rules off. Not one person complained. Even the school-aged kids who normally clowned him and took pictures of Lonnie for their social site pages kept their space and their snickers to themselves.

* * *

Getting off an exit too soon, Lonnie wanted to stop at the nearby liquor store first. He knew he needed to hold onto the fifty dollars, but it was more important for him to relieve his frustration and tension before going into the shelter for community service. The last thing Lonnie needed was for Mr. Reynolds or anyone else that had some sort of ranking to send a bad report back to the judge.

Walking with his hands stuffed into his pockets, one of them holding the money tightly, his footsteps shook the ground. Lonnie remembered his mother telling him to keep the devil underneath his feet and to stomp on his neck when the devil seems to have a hold on him; so he was trying to follow her advice now. He would've done just about anything to catch some peace. Overstressed, Lonnie couldn't wait to take another Chill Pill.

Walking into the store, he grabbed a big bottle of water from the cooler, then headed straight for the counter. He'd woke up early and had gotten a good start, but was now close to running late because of this detour.

“Let me get a couple packs of Tylenol, one pack of Motrin, and a Snapback,” he spoke loud enough so the attendant could hear him through the thick Plexiglas. Strategically waiting for the attendant to get the over-the-counter pills, Lonnie then asked for the two-dollar shot of liquor he wanted. The low-dose pills wouldn't give him the strong high he was chasing without the alcohol. Mixing them all together, Lonnie had learned from Kevin how to intensify the side effects of any pill.

“Ten for the pills, my man; and I'ma need to see ya' ID for the liquor,” the store worker told a slick Lonnie, then exchanged the packs of pills for the money.

Working in the hood, although he didn't indulge in getting high himself, he was, however, familiar with all the street drugs and concoctions the kids were making. They'd get high off anything. Not caring how they mistreated and poisoned their body, he would've sold Lonnie the liquor without making him show identification to prove he was twenty-one and legal to drink; yet, he had just caught a helluva fine. The store owner was lucky to still have his liquor license and wasn't getting ready to risk fucking up how he fed his family for the poor Negroes he took money from daily. He tapped his foot, waiting on Lonnie to tell him a lie.

“I forgot my shit rushing outta the house,” Lonnie lied, desperate, but proving the store owner right. “You can take an extra dollar if you look out for me this time.” Trying to bribe the store owner with a measly buck, Lonnie was desperate, and it showed.

“You can take those pills and get the fuck on up outta here, dude. I ain't even 'bout to entertain what you just said to me, embarrassing yourself and trying to play me like a sucka.” The store owner spoke like he was from the hood, not an Arab traveling up the highway daily from suburbia to the hood.

Waving Lonnie out of his store with his hand, he frowned at the teen, feeling sorry for yet another black man. Day in and out he saw their kind trickling in his store to buy bottles of poison, tobacco that's labeled it'll kill you with cancer, and snacks with so much sodium in them they'd kill you with high blood pressure; yet their ignorance was the money he lived by. He didn't tell Lonnie not to return to his store, because he'd take his money for what he could legally purchase. And when the heat died down from the state trying to enforce rules and regulations, he'd probably sell Lonnie a pint an hour just to speed up the young black man's destruction.

Being turned away for trying to buy liquor being underage, Lonnie asked for change and took one of the five-dollar bills out to the bum he'd seen sitting on the side of the building. He knew the man would do him the favor of buying him a shot of gin. With the change, he offered to get the bum one as well. Lonnie might've not had the money to spare, but he knew nobody in the street was scratching backs without getting theirs scratched. The bum grabbed the green bill, ran inside the store, and Lonnie licked his lips, already tasting the liquor.

Standing right by the door to make sure the bum didn't get the bright idea to run off with his money, Lonnie watched traffic passing him by. The prostitutes were walking as close as they could to the streets with their skirts hiked high up advertising their overused and fishy-smelling twats; the alcoholics were lingering a few feet from him begging for change from even the kids that were running errands to the store for their parents, and the hardworking homeless man was scouring the earth for trash and pop bottles to return for a deposit. He scratched his head and took a deep a breath, wishing the bum would hurry up.

The bum, laughing to himself because the attendant of the store told him he knew he was buying liquor for a kid, came out with Lonnie's change and two shots of gin. He hoped the desperate boy didn't notice he'd spent an extra dollar on a bag of chips and a cheap juice for later. The bum didn't care about pressing his luck, since he didn't have nothing to lose. Lonnie, desperate to make the over-the-counter pills react, was completely oblivious to how much change he'd stuffed into his pocket. He was too caught up in ripping the packages open of his over-the-counter pills and washing them down his throat with his shot of dark liquor.

It wasn't out of the norm for a boy to have grown men problems when he lived in the hood. Like Lonnie, the majority of them are born into poor families that work hella hard and still don't have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. The bum was used to seeing li'l niggas do grown thangs like smoke weed, drink, steal, sell dope, and even shoot up; but Lonnie looked like a different type of youngin' to him. His eyes told a story of pain instead of a story of just having it hard.

“Damn, young blood. You ain't even old enough to have no real problems,” the bum said, seeing Lonnie pop all the 200 mg pills into his mouth, followed by drinking the shot like it was a cold glass of water on a scorching hot summer day.

“Age ain't nothing but a number, O. G., on the real. I wish I didn't have a story to tell.”

“Buy me another two-dolla' shot and I'll point you into the direction of the dope man around here. He ain't but a block away and got every pill known to man. You ain't gonna catch the high you chasing with them weak-ass capsules,” the bum joked but was very serious.

He sat outside this liquor store day in and out, not begging for handouts, but watching all the crime that unfolded in the neighborhood. Although it was a foreign hood to Lonnie, it wasn't to the bum. He knew how every drug dealer, prostitute, and Arab business owner was making money in the run-down area. Never a part of any of it, he was the go-to guy if you needed some information on someone. He'd blab for any amount of money or drug. The bum didn't care about Lonnie or what he had to say. He was just hopeful that the young buck spared him a few more dollars to feed his alcohol addiction.

Lonnie didn't have to think about how he'd answer. “That's a good look, old man. Grab us two more each. Then I'll be looking forward to hearing where ya' connect is at. You better not be selling me no shit so you can get another drink,” a slightly suspicious Lonnie warned, without having a plan of revenge if the man didn't have a pill seller connect. Even if the bum didn't know a man, he was still a help because Lonnie wouldn't have been able to get the liquor had it not been for him.