Scratch Beginnings_ Me, $25, and the Search for the American Dream - Adam W. Shepard [4]
“You said you wanted a forty?” I asked.
“Yea, baby,” she muttered. “A forty.”
The gas station was filled with ordinary people loading up on vodka and cigarettes. From the looks they shot my way, I sensed that they were puzzled by the sight of a youngster purchasing a quart of cheap malt liquor late on a Tuesday night. Almost as puzzled as I was.
But never mind that. Diane was waiting for me, and more importantly, for her King Cobra.
The $1.48 total came as a nuisance as I had to dip into the five-dollar bill of my original $25 to make up for the 48¢ that Diane had shorted me. If you had asked me three hours before how I planned on spending my initial $25, I would have handed you a list riddled with underwear, toiletries, bread, and, if completely necessary, a shirt or two. Dipping into my fund to pay the overage for forty ounces of malt liquor for Diane would not have found its way to that list.
Diane was waiting for me at the bus stop across the street, barking to the moon about how her boyfriend had left her for his homosexual lover. Six years ago. She didn’t care that she owed me 48¢, but she was grateful for my courtesy nonetheless. When I inquired about the location of the homeless shelter, she invited me to come home with her for the evening. As intriguing as her invitation sounded, “Naw, I’ll try my luck on the streets,” sounded even better. A bus ride was not in my budget, and Diane had no idea where the shelter was, so I left her in her stupor and continued down Rivers.
I walked across the street and asked a half-asleep police officer whose patrol car was positioned in a speed trap if he could direct me to the nearest shelter. He seemed bewildered that I was not concerned about the eight-mile walk to get there.
“Straight down Rivers, right on Reynolds, left on Meeting. The shelter will be on your right. You really should take the bus,” he said.
I expected that he’d offer me a ride, and my enthusiasm began to grow; but before my expectations became too high, a “lady of the night” approached the car, and the officer greeted her by name. She told him that people were talking about me and that I probably should get going to wherever I was going. Neither of them appeared interested in hearing my fabricated story about my deadbeat dad or my druggie mom or how I came to arrive in Charleston in the first place. Fair enough. I wasn’t their problem, so I continued down Rivers.
Three people had asked me for money so far, as I’m sure they would have done with any newcomer to the neighborhood. One guy, Joe, spent five minutes telling me his life story (birth to present) before he asked, “So I guess what it all really means is…Can I get a dollar so I can get something to eat?” He didn’t appear happy with my refusal, and I imagine word was starting to spread that I was a financial miser. But I had no other option. A dollar here and a dollar there would exhaust my start-up capital very quickly.
My visibility became impaired as the streets became more obscure the farther I walked. When I reached the Church’s Chicken at the corner of Reynolds and Rivers, I made a conscious decision that my trek on foot would have to end there. I couldn’t see thirty feet to the right or left, and groups were huddled together in front of me, so I wasn’t going to continue walking that way. My endeavor was serious, but it wasn’t that serious. Conveniently, I stood in front of a bus stop anyway, so I decided that it would be wise to give in and take the ride downtown.
I took