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Martie
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since 1999-09-21
Posts 28049
California

0 posted 2000-11-24 07:57 PM




                       Sweet William


     William was sleeping hard on that early morning because it was so cold.  There was dampness in the boards and papers.  A dampness that had seeped into the final fleece of fabric next to his skin.  He was curled in his womb of rain soaked boards.  He had covered himself with newspapers.  A National Geographic magazine was over his face.  
     William woke at dawn.  He wished he could go back to his dream, then he would be under a tree, near a noisy river in the wilderness.  As he got up in all his bulky clothing, newspapers fell from him and splayed softly on the dirt floor.
     The rain that had been dripping was misting now, and a mean wind was finding all the cracks in his protection.  He had the fleece sweatshirt and pants next to his skin.  They were as soft as sheets that have never been washed nor hung to dry in the warm stiffening sun.  Next, he wore a flannel shirt, the cowboy flannel of Arizona and New Mexico.  Flannel with zippity-do-da, I’m on a horse, feel.  On top of that he wore two button down cotton plaid shirts and one Hawaiian print.
     He left his stuff in the safety place, covered with a piece of plastic that smelled of cat pee and mildew.  He had tried being a snail, but he was embarrassed pushing the burden of his life in a shopping cart.  I’m a homeless snob, he thought to himself, then laughed hard and loud ‘til his sides ached and he could no longer remember what was so funny.  
      He walked to the gas station.  He usually went in the back way so no one could see him.  Today there was an old 1967 Buick Skylark parked by the restroom door.  The back end of a pair of jeans was bent over the engine.  The sound from the engine grated on his ear, like off-key music.  "Carburetor," he said softly as he whispered by.
    The jeans turned and William saw the face of a boy about seventeen looking at him.  He heard the boy’s, "What’d you say?" as he closed the restroom door.
     He had a comb, a razor, bar of soap and a toothbrush,  no toothpaste though.  His image in the glass looked tired. His eyes were clear and dark blue under heavy dark brows and eye lashes.  They were still good enough to see the deep lines around them and the gray-streaked dark hair curling over his forehead.  The hot water in the sink was good to feel as he washed his hair and face.  He took off all his shirts and washed the skin of his belly and under his arms.  He pulled down his pants and soaped up his legs and privates.  Rinsing was the tricky part.  He stood blotting his skin with paper towels as he shivered in the morning cold.  His reflection in the mirror was pale, except for his face and neck that were tanned and weathered by the sun.  His legs had muscles from all the walking, but his arms and torso were skinny.  You’re getting old, William, he thought as he pinched the loose flesh at his waist.  He came close to the mirror and squinted as he shaved, humming under his breath.
     When he came back out he noticed that the boy had taken the top off the carburetor and was fiddling with something inside.  William smiled and slid around the corner of the building.
     Next, he walked a block to where he knew there was mint growing in the alley behind the hardware store.  He picked a small piece and put some in his mouth to chew.  He put the rest in his pocket for later.  He was fifty something, couldn’t really remember since he’d stopped counting on his forty-eighth.  He told time by the position of the sun, and he knew when Sunday was.  Sunday was when he had to stay away from his place behind the church.    
     His world now, was only a few blocks long and the places he saw in his head, places he’d seen pictures of in books and magazines.  His favorite dream-place was Sequoia-King’s National park.  He formed pictures of it in his mind,  pictures that were just like the pictures in the National Geographic he kept for dream making.  

     The dumpster behind the grocery store was full and smelled ripe.  William knew about health.  At first he hadn’t cared whether he lived or died.  He would eat and drink things that he knew had more bacteria than nutrition, just to fill the ache in his stomach.  Now, he was more careful.  He had learned a mean lesson from a cracked jar of mayonnaise.  It was surprising how many things were thrown away that were perfectly good.  He found a dented can of spaghetti and some wilted lettuce.  He even found a bag of bran muffins.  They were hard, but not moldy, perfectly good.  He ate in a nest of bushes.  
      William liked the sky. He sat down on an empty bus bench and looked at the clouds.  He had watched many skies.  He especially liked sunsets.  Watching the sun set was like a prayer to him, prayers of orange, purple and pink.  He would say the names of colors in his mind, tasting the sound, like cake.  
     William walked some more.  Under him, from the cracked sidewalk, weeds zigzagged in a crazy quilt of persistence.   The sun was shining now. He could hear children’s voices coming from Longfellow Elementary School--screams and laughter, yelling voices, mixed into one sound.  The first time he had heard this sound he was new to the streets.  The sound had come out of nowhere, pushed him until he was running, running away from his memories.  After that, each day he had walked a little closer to the school, letting the sound hit him like an ax at first, and then more gently, until he could sit on the curb for a minute and listen.  He didn’t go too close to the school.  He wanted to, but didn’t.  He had seen the suspicion of parents and teachers.  Even the crossing guard had told him one day, "Get lost, before you have more trouble then you can handle."  So, he just got close enough to hear the sound.  Now, as he listened, a spirit swirled past, twirled and pirouetted, sat next to him and said, "let go now, Sweet William, it’s time."
   He let her memory in for just a minute.  Samantha Elizabeth Matthews, who smelled like flowers and had hair  the color of the sun.  Just let me feel the good, he prayed to some giver of memories, not the bad.  Then he was back in the barbecue smoke, sitting on the porch swing on his forty-eighth birthday.  It was a party on a summer evening when crickets sang and the smell of jasmine hung in the air.  Life had felt so sweet on that night, so perfect.  That night had made him afraid of perfect.  
     It had been the ice cream.  "We can’t have cake without ice cream," William had said, "vanilla ice cream."  
     They had teased him then.  "You want ice cream, then go and get ice cream."  
     He’d refused.  It was his birthday, after all.  He would just sit on the porch and wait till they came back.  But, they never came back.  They were hit head-on by a drunk driver.
   He remembered the numbness he felt at first.  Then one day a wave so powerful and so full of grinding pain hit him, that he wished that he was dead.  It fell on him and ripped through any fabric of pretension that he wore, then found his soul and squeezed it hard.  He screamed, tore a chunk of hair from his head, then took a hammer from the kitchen drawer and went searching for his tormentor.  He found him in the bedroom in front of the bathroom door.  He took the hammer to the full length reflection of himself, until only small shards of glass remained scattered on the teal carpet.
    William stood up and walked away from the school,  walked fast, then ran, trying to escape the memories.  He was huffing by the time he got back to his place and sank to the ground.

      William picked up the National Geographic that held his favorite pictures.  It opened automatically to the page he read again and again.  When he emerged onto the asphalt  parking lot behind the church his hands had stopped shaking and his heart had quieted down.  He looked toward the mountains.  They looked so close.  He was wondering how long it would take him to walk there.  They were not the mountains of the magazine.  These were the mountains of Manzanita and Scotch broom and boulders painted with graffiti.  He remembered, from a trip taken in his other life, a twisted scrub-lined road that led to a picnic under pine trees that were smog damaged.  What he yearned for were big trees and meadows and clean air.  The images of the golden craggy peaks of Sequoia-Kings Canyon were in his mind, and they cast a shadow across his soul.  He wanted something more then he had for a long time.
     William had a library card.  Many afternoons he would go there to sit and read and dream.  To get there he had to walk by the elementary school.  He took a deep breath and headed in that direction.  There were just a few children on the play ground for after school care.  The crossing guard was closing up his umbrella and chair and putting the big red stop sign in his car when William walked by, nodded his head and said, "Nice day".  The crossing guard looked away without responding.  
     At the library, William sat and read magazines and the newspaper.  He listened to the sounds around him--the crackle of a turned page, someone clearing their throat.  He could almost hear thoughts zipping in and out of sections, skidding across tables, zapping from computer terminals.  The smell of the library was the perfume of knowledge, crisp and clean, yet with an edge of the dusty history of so many people, so many places.  He liked the feeling, everything hushed, the polished tables, the books.  He liked the books with photographs the best.  He found the travel books on California and looked up Sequoia-Kings Canyon National Park, "America’s longest single continuous mountain range," he read.  Then he started reading about John Muir.  The book called him, "the pioneering conservationist."  He wrote down on a piece of scratch paper that the library provided something that John Muir said: ‘When I entered this sublime wilderness the day was nearly done, the trees with rosy, glowing countenances seemed to be hushed and thoughtful, as if waiting in conscious religious dependence on the sun, and one naturally walked softly and awe-stricken among them.’  He folded the piece of paper and put it in his pocket.
     When he left the library the sun was setting.   The cement steps, the clock tower and even the sidewalk were stained and colored by the sky.  He thought about what John Muir said and realized he was seeing that same rosy, glowing countenance here in the city.  He saw buildings instead of trees but there was that same reverent hush around him.  A couple across the street walked quietly holding hands, their faces upturned.
     As he walked toward the school he noticed two police cars.  He could see the uniforms of several police officers and some other people standing in the front of the school.  The crossing guard was one of them.  William saw the red stop sign still leaning against the side of his car with the chair and the umbrella.
     "There he is", the crossing guard said and pointed at William.  
     Everyone turned and looked, and William felt afraid, even though he knew he had done nothing wrong.  The police officers headed towards him.  
     "We need to ask you some questions," one of them said.
     "Come with me," the other one said, and took hold of William’s elbow and headed with him towards the police car.  
     "What’s going on?" William asked.
      The first officer went back up to where the others were standing.  William could see him gesturing to the crossing guard and saw all of them look in his direction.  The crossing guard was nodding his head.
     "I didn’t do anything wrong," William insisted.
     "We’ll just see about that."  They stopped in front of the car and the officer continued, "Where were you this afternoon between four and five?"
     "I was at the library."
     "Were you there with anyone?"
     "No, I went there by myself.  I go there a lot."
     "Did you talk to anyone while you were there, check out a book or anything?  
     "No, I didn’t talk to anyone and I didn’t check out any books.  I just sat and read.  I was reading about Sequoia National Park. Look," he said, "I copied this quotation from a book while I was there."  William pulled the piece of paper from his pocket.  He had folded it until it was so small that it seemed comical.  He unfolded the paper and showed it to the officer, feeling embarrassed for some reason.  The officer looked at the piece of paper quizzically.
     "This doesn’t prove anything," he said.
     The other officer was coming back towards them with the crossing guard.
     "This the guy you saw earlier?" he asked him and nodded towards William.
     "Yes, that’s him alright, and I’ve seen him before.  He used to come over here and sit on the curb.  Right over there across the street."  He pointed to where William used to sit and listen to the children’s voices.
     "I thought there was something peculiar about him, then.  I told him once he better stay away from the school.  He would sit there with the weirdest, far away dreamy expression on his face.  You like little girls, do ya mister?"  His face turned into a parody of a smile as he twitched his mouth into the question.
     "We’ll handle the questions sir," the young officer replied.
     They were all looking at him as if he had done something terribly wrong.  "What’s wrong?" William repeated. What do you think I did?"    
     "A man forced a little girl behind the bushes this afternoon, right down there," the policeman pointed in the direction that William had come.  "He touched her in a way that no man should touch a child, before she got a way.  You match the description she gave, and this man here," the policeman nodded at the crossing guard, "said he saw you walking by here about the time it happened.  We’re going to take a little trip down town until we can figure this thing out."
     With that, the police officer, a young man with dark hair, brown eyes and a soft voice, turned William around, brought his hands around behind him and snapped handcuffs onto his wrists.  "If you didn’t do anything then you got nothing to worry about," he said and opened the car door.
    "Am I under arrest?" William asked as they headed away from the school.  His question seemed to echo in the stale air that filled the back seat.  He got no answer.  As he looked out the window the car moved down the street and the once familiar neighborhood changed.  The sidewalks looked cold, the streets were sharp angles full of pot holes.  The buildings were unfriendly with pulled shades and bars across entries.  People were looking down with slumped shoulders.  A beat up Volkswagen bus passed by full of teenagers.  They all turned and looked at him.  One girl stuck her tongue out.  
     The police station was located in an unfamiliar part of town.  The poverty of not owning a car had given William borders.  In his world there had been no police station.  William sat in what he thought seemed like the interrogation rooms he had seen in the movies.
     The children’s voices echoed in his memory.  The sound that had been healing was now accusing.  He’d never told anyone about his innocent love of the soft muted hum and squeals that came from the school yard.  
     He looked at the table.  There was a Styrofoam cup at the opposite end from where he was sitting.  The walls were light.  The brown floor reminded him of the floor that had been in his high school cafeteria so many years ago.  He had never noticed it then, but now he recognized the stains of the many years and many lives that had walked on it.  In the mirror on the wall he saw someone watching him, pale like the walls, brown and old and stepped on like the floor.  He could see no guilt in the face, only confusion.
     "Have you got a picture of yourself?" a young man who introduced himself as Detective Jacobs, had asked him before bringing him in here.  William had given him his drivers license. He kept it in the hope of one day owning a car again, a car that would take him as far as his dreams.
     He couldn’t remember being so scared, ever.  Even when he got the phone call about Samantha and Tim.  Then, he wasn’t afraid, he was caught by something black and hard that pushed him down to someplace where he didn’t feel anything.  The feeling of fear that he had now was prickly and sharp and changed the tempo of his pulse, made every thing in his digestive track sour.  His perspiration even smelled corrupt.  
     It seemed like hours that he sat there in the room by himself before Detective Jacobs came strolling back in.  "Mr. Biggs", he said, as he handed William back his drivers license, the picture of a smiling William.  "I’m sorry to have detained you for so long.  The child said this picture’s not the man."
     William took the picture and looked at it.
     "You understand", the detective continued.  "It’s important that we check out every story.  You’re free to go now."  He got up, then as if in afterthought, turned again and asked, "Do you need a ride?"  
     "I’m not under arrest?  I can go now?"  William could hardly believe it.  He had seen his life move from giant sequoia’s to years in jail in a couple of hours.  He had never felt so free.  
   "Oh, I almost forgot," the detective said not un-kindly, as he handed William back the folded piece of paper.  "You might need this."



© Copyright 2000 Martie Odell Ingebretsen - All Rights Reserved
Romy
Senior Member
since 2000-05-28
Posts 1170
Plantation, Florida
1 posted 2000-11-24 10:21 PM


Such a sad, sweet story!  I really enjoyed it! It made me think of how vunerable the homeless are and how quick we can be to judge them.
Good Job!

LoveBug
Deputy Moderator 5 Tours
Moderator
Member Elite
since 2000-01-08
Posts 4697

2 posted 2000-11-25 12:40 PM


This is extremely well written. It's amazing, one day we can be living our normal lives, and the next day we could be on the street. We should all treat people like that with kindness, especally this time of year. Thank you for reminding us!

"Where there is great love there are always miracles" -Cather
"Love heals everything, and love is all there is"- Zukav



Poertree
Senior Member
since 1999-11-05
Posts 1359
UK
3 posted 2000-11-25 08:32 AM


oops

[This message has been edited by Poertree (edited 11-25-2000).]

Poertree
Senior Member
since 1999-11-05
Posts 1359
UK
4 posted 2000-11-25 08:33 AM


Martie
this is a well written glimpse into a few hours in the life of a homeless person, and as has already been said the ease with which we judge.  I can feel absolute sympathy for, and maybe even maybe a small degree of empathy with, William because you've answered the question that I always ask myself as I walk past the homeless living in the streets of London:

why is he where he is?

maybe years of giving money to people who often turn out to be "actors" or "con-men" have made be suspicious and cynical - I guess I always wonder whether its "their own fault"....humm

anyway I loved this

thanks martie

Janet Marie
Member Laureate
since 2000-01-22
Posts 18554

5 posted 2000-11-25 01:51 PM


your writing holds me from the first word....
this is so descriptive and well written.
You wrote William and defined him so well,
that after only a few lines...the reader knew him and liked him and eventually suffered with him.
As always your gift for imagery is the thing that ties all the rest of the story together.
like when you were describing the sunset colors and the images of the mountains..
but even more so the detail of his shirts,
the lasting impressions of the fabric and print.
awesome read Martie ...
I wanted it to go on all day...
must mean you need to write a novel  
(you know, in all your spare time) *smile*
love ya my queen of fiction
jm

Martie
Moderator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-09-21
Posts 28049
California
6 posted 2000-11-25 10:14 PM


Debbie--I'm so glad that you see the vulnerable person in the story and how they are often judged without thinking...thank you so much or reading.

Love Bug--yes, we should...and at all times of year...especially when it's cold.

Philip--I know sometimes people are mean and ugly, but that has nothing to do with where they live...thanks so much for your reply and for reading my story and letting me know how you feel.

Janet--There is a longer version...100 pages so far, supposed to be a novel...if I can ever finish it.  Thanks for your wonderful reply!

Marge Tindal
Deputy Moderator 5 ToursDeputy Moderator 1 TourDeputy Moderator 1 TourDeputy Moderator 1 Tour
Member Empyrean
since 1999-11-06
Posts 42384
Florida's Foreverly Shores
7 posted 2000-11-26 11:44 PM


Martie~
I wanted to give this my undivided attention -
I did and it is just so heartrendering.
Made me 'know' William and 'know'
that I'd like to read more of his life.

It sure made me feel all soft and mushy inside -
my heart has such sympathy for the homeless.
They still should be treated with dignity and respect.
I have gone to groups of the homeless and sat
and asked questions of them -
it broke my heart hear some of their stories.

When I had my roller skating center -
I gave a job to a man I met at an Alcohol Treatment Center.
He was an Oxford University graduate who just
got his life messed up with alcohol.
After two years of working with me, his family was located and what joy there was
in that reunion.
He had been 'homeless' and on the streets for
over four years.
What a blessing warms my heart even now when I hear from him.

So, Sweet William has the same appeal to me.
Wonderfully written, dearest lady.

*I just scrolled down and saw your reply about the novel -
Oh ... I can't wait.
Thanks for sharing this with me.
*Hugs*
~*Marge*~



~*The pen of the poet never runs out of ink, as long as we breathe.*~
noles1@totcon.com

Wilfred Yeats
Member Elite
since 2000-08-04
Posts 2704
Wilmington, Delaware
8 posted 2000-11-30 06:30 PM


I too read the replies - and all I can say is -  this novel is begging to be finished - and add me to the list of beggers ~G~
Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354
Listening to every heart
9 posted 2000-12-02 10:42 AM


Martie

took out the red pen...only things I found, running it through the grammar check and all, is a need to make sure all "thoughts" and/or "true speak" should be in quotes...story line reads quickly, reaches all ages on the Fleisch-Kincaid grade level scale, has zero passive sentences [good!]

and above all

once again shows your heart in how you perceive others...

write on!


Karilea
If I whisper, will you listen?...
I would rather be silent and write, than speak loudly and be bound.
KRJ




Earth Angel
Member Empyrean
since 2002-08-27
Posts 40215
Realms of Light
10 posted 2004-07-29 11:36 PM


Well, here I am replying 3 1/2 years after you posted this captivating and stirring write! Better late than never! You really can write, Marti!


Linda

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