The Raggy Man

It began when Juan noticed the bum under the bridge for the second time that week. Juan noticed the way the old man's spindly legs wobbled as he lurched from one edge of the dry creek bed to the other and the way he used an frayed extension cord to hold up his stained, dirty pants. Juan hated old people period. He hated the way they looked, smelled and well, just the fact that they existed in the world, made him hate them all the more. The bum stumbled and slipped to the ground like an empty sack, the kind that held the beans and rice that his mother brought home to make their meager family meals. There had not been much on the table since Juan's father had gone off to fight in some country far away in a war that Juan could never begin to understand.

Juan frowned and squinted his eyes in the hot Los Angeles sun and he wiped the sweat that trickled down the edges of his face from his brown forehead. He guessed he hated those rice and beans, almost as much as he hated his father who had disappeared from his life and homeless, old men. He nudged the greasy haired young boy that stood near him. He wordlessly pointed in the direction of where the old man lay limply on the dusty parched ground. Juan lifted his eyebrow as if asking a question of the boy who had a permanent look of knowing something secret and not so nice on his face. In unison they both turned and headed down the embankment towards where the man who resembled a fallen scarecrow lay. The old man lay motionless, almost as if he were awaiting whatever fate might descend upon him.

Juan noticed the smell before he came within ten feet of the man who hadn't moved since his tumble. He scrunched up his nose in distaste and spat out a wad of phlegm just to try to rid himself of the stench that filled his nostrils. The greasy looking boy next to Juan tried to do the same but just came out with a barely satisfying noise and absolutely no saliva at all. It was though the putrid air had sucked all the moisture from his mouth and throat. He hated all the dirty nasty homeless men who lived under and around the old rotting bridge almost as much as Juan did. He mostly didn't waste his hatred on such trivial matters though. He saved his hatred for more important things like the sordid, poverty ridden world that he lived in. They moved closer to the inert form on the ground and peered down with some curiosity but mostly revulsion. Juan moved his white tennis shoe, poking his toe toward the mound of clothes near his feet. Before he could muster the strength and energy to kick into the pile of clothing, something in the midst of the clothing stirred and a bony hand lifted upwards, startling both of the boys causing them to gasp and jump a step backwards.

"Damn old bugger." Juan hissed, slightly embarrassed to have reacted in fear, to the old man's movements. He kicked out with all of the strength he contained and connected with something soft, something that felt rotten and smelled just as bad. The old man's grey, wrinkled hand convulsed for a second and fell limply back to the dust, from where it had risen for that brief second. Juan smiled as a whooshing sound came from within the confines of the dirty mass at his feet. He giggled, turned and started to run, his greasy looking friend close behind. They scrambled back up the dirt hardened river bank and smiled as they did so, feeling as though they had done something quite heroic early on in this pointless day. The day had begun to show some promise for the boys.

The old man tried to sit up but he felt as though he were entangled in something that held him down. He frantically fought to free himself from the tangle of clothes that surrounded his bony body. Using his long, bony fingers to untangle the mess he began the effort to raise his body from the dirt. He felt a pain in his back near where the extension cord held up his over-large pants. He felt confused and wondered how long he had been lying on the ground? The man was not as old as he first appeared. Pain, depression and addiction had aged him quickly. He swiped his hand along his face, and brushed at whatever crawled around in his hair. He felt down into his billowy pants and found the treasure that he was looking for. His fingers curled around the small bottle and he pulled it forward with something almost like reverence. The bottle was half empty or half full, depending on how he was looking at it, but as he felt the stabbing pain that shot down his back from the unsolicited kick, he figured today would be a half empty day.

He lifted the bottle to his dry, cracked lips and chugged the burning liquid down in two huge gulps. His cloudy mind craved more of the whiskey. He needed it to try to get through the day. He would have to try to pull himself together enough to walk downtown to the mission where they would first fill his stomach with a meal and try to fill his empty shattered spirit with some nonsense about a God that was supposed to care about each and every one of us. God? The man smirked. He knew for a fact that there was no God. If there had been one he would never have seen the things that he had seen, nor experienced the pain that seeing all those horrific things had caused him. God was a joke. His lips found the bottle top but found it empty. First things first. He would eat then he would try to beg a bit of change for a new bottle that would once again calm his shaking and dull his senses, blocking the memories of all he had experienced and all he had lost. He tried to brush off some of the dust from his pants and attempted to slick back his white tinged black hair with his grimy hand. He then began the long walk to the mission.

Juan's mother smoothed her apron down over the dress that she wore. She gazed over at the portrait of the handsome soldier that seemed to smile at her from it's place on the table. It seemed like an eternity since she had been in Julio's arms. Julio had joined the Army in an act of pride and the desire to serve the country that had given his family so much. The attack on the World Trade Center that perfect September day years before, had given him the courage that he had needed to leave his family on their own and to do what he felt he had to to defend his country. He knew that his family was strong and they could make it for awhile without him. He had held her in his strong arms and promised her it would be alright and that when his mission was finished he would return to her and to his son.

A tear trickled down her worn, pretty face once again as she realized that he wasn't coming home. Julio had disappeared. There had been that last letter that spoke of things that he couldn't put into words. She had known something was terribly wrong but she had never thought he wouldn't come back home. He had promised her and with all of the problems that she had been having with Juan, she was at her breaking point. Juan was on a downward spiral and if it continued it would end up in tragedy. She had seen it all around her so many times before. The absent fathers, the poverty and the gangs that promised the young, searching boys and girls something they didn't have at home, and the empty, crime-filled lives that were the result, often resulting in an untimely tragedy or even death. Her heart ached with pain for her son who missed his father so. He was headed for trouble she could see it happening but felt helpless to stop it from happening.