Beneath the Concrete Sky : Chapter One

        My life is not a happy story. Fortunately for you, it’s not a very interesting story either, so I’m not going to even bother telling it. No, I’m going to tell you the story of another miserable fellow whose life I happened to have been part of. Well, truth be told, I wasn’t exactly part of it, more of a witness really, but that’s good enough for our purposes.

His name was Eric. I never bothered to learn his last name, and I don’t think he would have told me had I asked him. I met Eric by way of an accident, although attempted murder would be a better way to describe it. I was minding my own business, scrounging for cans in the dumpster outside of one of those trendy night clubs they plant in areas of town that are deemed worthy of gentrification. I believe it was called, quite simply, Drink. Anyway, being close to 2AM, a steady stream of moderately intoxicated hipster-trendsters was flowing out of the venue, creating a small pool of wobbly individuals waiting for their Uber rides and designated drivers. Just another Friday night, as far as I was concerned, and I did my best to tune out their obnoxious raucousness. I gave up on finding any cans among the piles of discarded bottles of craft beer and decided to call it a night, when, over the din of the crowd, I heard a shout.

“What the fuck is with you, man?!”

The rest of the throng of people suddenly went silent and instinctively formed a circle around the two who were arguing.

“Just back the hell off, okay! I told you I’m done. We’re done.”

“What?! We’re done? WE’RE DONE?! What the hell does that even mean?”

Now, I couldn’t very well see this confrontation, but it was clear from their voices that it involved two men and a relationship gone badly wrong. Just how badly became evident a moment later.

First there was another cry.

“I said back the hell off!”

Then there was a collective gasp from the crowd as it parted to allow one of the squabbling men to be pushed into the street. Quite predictably, the evicted individual lost his balance at the curb and began to fall backwards. Fortunately for him, a Toyota Prius was just pulling over, and he managed to catch himself on the vehicle’s side-view mirror. Unfortunately for him, the side-view mirrors of a Prius are about as sturdy as papier-mâché, and, with a sharp crack from the plastic, it snapped off, allowing the poor bastard to slide down into the space between the car and the curb.

The man barely had time to get to his feet, when the owner of the Prius shot out of his vehicle with a fury.

“Dude! What the fuck?! Look what you did to my car, you drunk piece of shit!”

The accused had no time to mount a defense, because the aggressor had grabbed him by his shirt and with little effort threw him back into the crowd. Things went more downhill from there. Rather than admitting defeat and scurrying off, the tossed individual charged his attacker, who gleefully accepted the challenge.

“You want to go? YOU WANT TO GO!?”

The next sequence of events happened very quickly. First, the Prius owner landed a vicious right hook to the other man’s jaw. Then, as the victim started to slump to the ground, apparently unconscious, his attacker again grabbed him by his shirt, this time launching him into street. With no ability to brace himself for the landing and no slowly-approaching cars to break his fall, the man hit the pavement first with his knees and then with his face. To everyone watching, including myself, it appeared as if the man was dead.

There was a brief moment of stunned silence, then the calm was broken with an enraged roar. The first aggressor, the one who had started the whole thing with a push, ran up behind the Prius driver and punched him in the back of the head, who then fell forward onto the hood of his car. The passenger of the vehicle, who until this point I wasn’t even aware of, promptly jumped out, and the real chaos began.

                “He’s got a gun!” someone from the crowd screamed.

                Everyone tried running in seemingly opposite directions at once and ended up in a tangled mass of panicked individuals. More screams ensued, accompanied by the inexplicable sounds of breaking glass.

                The former passenger looked extremely confused, because it turns out, that what was in his hands was not a gun at all, but rather his phone. He tried to diffuse the situation by getting back into the car, but by that point, no one seemed to be paying any attention to him.

                The Prius driver had come to his senses, and after looking in vain for the punk who had sucker punched him, wobbled back to his hybrid-electric shit-box, and sped off. 

                Amazingly, the man in the street was now giving a small indication that he was alive by moving his legs, but by then the scene outside the bar was deserted. Well, deserted save for myself, but I really didn’t want to get involved. Unfortunately, the thoughts that this person could end up quite literally dying on the street and all of the indignities associated with such a demise struck just a tad too close to home. I reluctantly went to his aid.

Standing a good ten feet away from the man, I tried to determine his mental state. “Uh, sir, can you hear me?”

He answered with a groan. Whether it was purely reflexive or an affirmation, I couldn’t tell, but I decided to take it as a yes.

“Okay, sir, you’ve been in a pretty serious accident, and I believe you require medical attention. Do you have a phone that I can use to call the paramedics?”

Two things then occurred simultaneously. Off in the distance the sound of police siren arose, and the man on street suddenly became much more animated. He jerked upright, rising wobbly to his feet, and looked at me with an odd mixture of panic and confusion.

“Who the hell are you?”

“I? Honestly, I am no one, or rather, I am just someone who…”

“Forget it. I got get out of here.” He turned to make his escape and promptly stumbled to the ground.

“Oh shit! Damn it! Fuck!”

“Yes, sir, your legs were severely injured in your, eh, fall. Might I offer you some assistance?”

“Oh shit,” he repeated. I went to help him off the street.

Managing to leverage him up and place his arm across my shoulders, we hobbled to the curb, then paused. By then the police sirens were noticeably closer, and this seemed to inspire a sense of desperation in the man. He turned his head and spoke rapid-fire into my ear.

“Hey look, I don’t know you, but you got get me out of here, okay, I can’t be dealing with the cops right now.”

Given his poor physical condition, I could only assume that whatever reason he had for avoiding the authorities had to be a pretty good one, so I obliged his request. We limped our way back across the street to the safety of the alleyway shadows. Not more than twenty seconds after we had disappeared, a police cruiser went blazing by, apparently on its way to another scene. Truly amazing. Not one person in that entire crowd of self-absorbed louts thought it was necessary to call the police or for an ambulance after witnessing a man being brutally assaulted and left for dead. Just how little regard for human life do these younger generations have?

“Okay, stop,” the man protested as he pulled away from me. “I can take it from here.”

I turned to look at him. Although the lighting in the alleyway was practically non-existent, I could make out the dark stains spreading down his pants from his shredded knees, and the blood that continued to ooze from the multiple abrasions on his face produced a truly ghastly portrait. I sighed before involving myself further with his affairs.

“Sir, might I suggest that, if you truly want to avoid the attention of the police, you clean yourself up. Your current state is far from inconspicuous.”

“What?”

“Sorry, what I mean to say is that you look like a deranged psychopath who just came off an all-night murder spree with a pick-axe.”

He responded with a vacant stare.

 “You’re covered in blood.”

“Oh shit, yeah.” He winced as he touched his face. When his fingers reopened the some of the wounds, I winced as well.

“How bad is it?” he asked, continuing to poke around.

“Frankly, I’m surprised at how little damage there is. Given the way you landed, I would have expected at least some chipped teeth or a broken nose.”

“Yeah, my lucky day.” His prodding was really beginning to unnerve me now, and I decided to intervene.

“If you want to avoid getting those infected, I’d suggest getting them sterilized and bandaged.”

“What are you, some sort of doctor?”

“Not exactly, no. Let’s just say I have some experience in medical care. I would offer to help, but… ” I trailed off, leaving the statement open to his interpretation. Understandably, he looked more than little skeptical.

“Right… yeah, I’m gonna pass on that, man. No offense.”

“None taken.”

I believe it was at that moment, that Eric first stopped seeing me. It took him longer than most. There was a subtle rise in his brow and a shift in his eyes away from my center, and just like that, I was gone. I went from being a person to being a homeless person. The former is a someone; the latter is a something. I call it “the instant of dehumanization.” It’s understandable.

“Hey man, you… do you live… uh, you staying somewhere close?”

“Actually, we’re standing on what could be considered my doorstep,” I responded.

He did a quick scan of the alleyway, noticeably pausing at the tarp covered box to the side. A simple, “Oh,” was his response.

“Yes, well, I suppose you’ll be on your way. If you go back out to the street and hang a right, there’s a twenty-four hour Walgreen’s about half a mile over. Get some peroxide and bandages. And don’t worry about upsetting the cashier. Believe me, she’s seen worse.” I lowered myself down, my own knees protesting from arthritis, and sat at the entryway of my ersatz home. Feeling the shakes begin to set in, I hoped that he would take the hint and leave. He did. Before his silhouette even cleared the alleyway, I had my kit out and semi-frantically tying off my left arm. I had the needle poised above one of the few remaining usable veins when I heard the screech of tires taking a turn much too fast then skidding to a halt.

“HEY! MOTHERFUCKER! SUCK ON THIS!” From the echoing voice I surmised that the Prius driver had returned and just by chance encountered his former adversary. Talk about poor timing.

I heard a panicked cry of “Oh shit,” followed by a series of loud pops. Tires squealed once again, and from my vantage point I saw the silver flash of the vehicle as it sped by. Shoddy exterior aside, those hybrids do have some pretty good torque.

I still held the needle in my hand, and for a moment I actually thought about putting it down. But what was the rush, really? I shot up, untied, buried my kit underneath a pile of clothes, and reluctantly went to check out the scene.

Beneath the dim-yellow street-lighting, it was hard to tell that it was a person lying face-down in the road and not just an overly stuffed garbage bag someone had dumped. I really think that speaks more about the type of clothes people wear today than anything else, but it was still a bit discomforting to see.

Checking to make sure the area was deserted, I cautiously approached the body.

“You can get up now,” I said, gently prodding him with my shoe.

“Ughhh, man, I’ve been shot.” His groaning sounded more like he had just woken up with a hangover.

“Yes, well, unless you’re secretly an alien who oozes green blood, I don’t think the shot is fatal.”

“What?” He tilted his head towards me and grimaced. “Man, I said I’ve been shot. Call an ambulance or something.”

“Oh please, you think I can’t tell the difference between the sound of a paint-ball gun and a pistol? Pick yourself up and get out of the street. I don’t want to be around if those guys come back. Next time, they might be packing a balloon filled with urine or something equally childish.”

Moaning in protest, he pushed himself into the sitting position, and still not convinced about his physical state, patted himself down. His hands came away coated in a green slick.

“Shit.” He sounded embarrassed.

“Just be glad you’re in a good part of town,” I consoled him.

“Whatever,” he replied while unsteadily getting to his feet.  “Oh shit! I really fucked up my legs.”

While there was substantially more blood coating the lower legs of his pants, I chose to address a more pressing issue.

“You say that a lot.”

“What?”

“Shit. You say that word a lot.”

“So?” he questioned, almost falling over.

“So… being an explicative it should be used sparingly to produce a greater impact for when it is implemented.”

“Man, what is with you?”

“Just trying to help.”

“Ahhh,” he sucked air between his teeth as he took a step away from me. “You can help me get to the curb.”

As before, I placed his arm over my shoulder, together we hobbled our way out of the street. Enduring his excessive hissing and groaning, I gently lowered him down, then sat a few feet beside him. Up close, I saw that he was really just a kid, maybe in his early twenties, certainly not older than twenty-five, but more than likely not old enough to legally drink. He hung his head between his torn-up knees and let out a deep breath. The kid, and I say this with emphasis, looked like shit.

Not one to pry, I waited for him to initiate the conversation. The silence quickly became uncomfortable.

“You really need to pick better friends,” I advised.

“What?” He picked his head up, and even though he didn’t look at me directly, I could tell that he had been crying. The dried blood on his face had a new sheen from his tears. 

“Your friend, the one who pushed you, he doesn’t seem to be a very admirable guy.”

“No shit! How’s that work for you, huh? No, fucking shit.” I remained silent.

“And he’s not my friend,” he scoffed, before quietly adding, “Not anymore.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. He did seem awfully upset at the thug who tossed you into street, which indicates to me that he still at least somewhat cares for you. Although, his coming to your defense was both a bit late and a whole lot… well, cowardly.”

“Man, my head hurts, my body hurts, will you just talk so I know what the hell it is you’re saying? Jesus.”

In deference to his injuries, I accommodated his exasperation.

“He punched the guy in the back of the head, then ran off.”

“Huh,” he laughed quietly. “Figures. Sean’s real big on taking cheap shots.”

There wasn’t a whole lot left to say at that point, not without getting into more personal matters at least, and yet I stayed. I may have acted differently had I not been under the influence, so to speak, but it didn’t really matter all that much. I had nowhere to be, and the kid didn’t seem to mind the company. So we sat, myself captivated by the moths that danced and flitted around the sodium arc-lamp that hung above us, him staring at the ground. It was nice.

I woke up alone. Next to me, the curb was stained with dried blood and a few streaks of neon green where he had wiped his hands. I didn’t hold it against him that he had left without saying thank you or even so much as a goodbye. Again, it was understandable, and I probably would have done the same.