Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71303 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71303 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
“Believe it or not, Oscar came from a shelter,” the stranger said. “I saw that sweet face, heard the name they’d given him, and knew it was meant to be.”
“Kismet?” I smiled at him, and when he smiled back, it seemed hard-won, but what did I know? It was still a nice gesture from a stranger.
“Anyway, thanks again.”
“No problem.” I gave Oscar one last scratch underneath his chin. As I watched them walk down the street to the coffee shop, I vaguely wondered what the dog’s name signified to the owner.
He tied Oscar’s leash to a nearby tree and headed inside. Oscar whined for his owner, and though I felt compelled to walk over and keep him company, it was unlikely that would go over well. He might accuse me of theft or something. People had thought worse of me, even giving me a wide berth on the street.
Regardless, it was time to fold up my tent and make my daily trek to the shelter for breakfast. It was clear across town, but it got my heart rate pumping and provided me the exercise I needed to endure my days on the hard concrete.
By the time I finished storing my possessions in my rolling cart, the man had retrieved his dog and left. Might’ve been the first and last time I saw them, so I felt grateful for the civil conversation as well as the animal’s affection. It kept me tethered to humanity.
I squatted down to tie my sneakers and wiped off a streak of dirt, glad they’d held up through the winter. Gripping the cart handle, I was on my way. It had one rickety wheel, but I’d been fortunate enough to swipe it from a dumpster, so I wasn’t going to complain, not when it essentially carried everything I owned. Which was the reason I never let it out of my sight.
I got to the Hope Memorial Bridge, where the guardian statues loomed over the city, just as the sun had striped the fluffy clouds in golds and pinks. It would’ve been easier to walk over the Detroit-Superior Bridge—who knew Cleveland had so many bridges—but I enjoyed the walk across West 25th Street to the shelter, located on the upper side of the Flats. Sometimes there was leftover fruit from the West Side Market that vendors discarded in the trash. Perfectly good peaches or apples that were slightly bruised. It was like finding a treasure trove of sweetness. As long as the security guard didn’t spot me loitering outside.
A line had already formed at the shelter entrance, but I didn’t mind. I had nowhere else to be. I was hungry, though, and the smell of eggs and bacon wafting through the open doorway made my stomach rumble. I’d lost a lot of weight in the past year, but wearing layers helped keep me warm, even if it made me an easy target. The cart was a dead giveaway too.
“Found these plastic bags blowing in the wind,” a woman said, lifting one of her feet toward a man I recognized from the nights I’d spent under the Main Avenue Bridge. “Kept ’em dry last night.”
We were all down on our luck, and some days I didn’t have the energy for small talk, but we did try to share news or resources. Especially when it came to our safety.
A couple of days ago the buzz was about a man who’d been attacked while sleeping under the Soldiers’ Monument in Public Square. He was a vet himself, even had dog tags visible around his neck, but it didn’t seem to matter. Again, an easy target.
Soon enough the line moved me inside the doors, and I breathed a sigh of relief that I’d get to eat today. The truth of shelters was that for all the good they provided, food and beds were on a first-come-first-serve basis. If you were lucky enough to get shelter for the night, you were also afforded a shower and clean clothes—the rumor was so that bedbugs wouldn’t spread among the residents—but it was obviously also a luxury.
It wasn’t until I had to fend for myself on the streets that I realized how particular I was about my belongings getting dirty or stolen. Honestly, I’d rather sleep in my tent with my own blanket and pillow than one of those beds—as long as the weather held up. But even then, the rain could help wash away the grime with a little soap, and the snow could provide water as long as it wasn’t yellow.
I gripped my tray as I moved down the line toward the eggs and coffee, planning to savor them more slowly today. I found myself thinking about that dog again—and, okay, the owner too; he had a deep, distinguished voice. I wondered what he did for a living and if he was visiting the city or lived downtown.