The 6:30 am train moans its way along the Mahoning River, steel on rusty steel.
The odor of human liquids and solids waltzes into the camp, worming its way into your borrowed tent. You pull the sleeping bag over your face but the smell of old sweat triggers your gag reflex.
You begin to stir. The pills should have kept you out cold longer, but your mind is active, increasingly alert. Thoughts long to be thought. You don’t consider the events that brought you to tent city, the cocktails of booze and meth and heroin, the yet-to-be-named substances. You don’t ponder all the things you’ve done to get those drugs. The begging. The selling of possessions and self. Lying, stealing, conniving. You can’t recall the shameful deeds committed in the dark, not this morning, lying in the shared filth of a homeless camp under the bone bleached Sycamores of downtown Youngstown. But the day will come when you remember all these things. And more. Then you will know the penetrating grip of regret.
You will also know love, forgiveness. But before they come there will be pain. This thought of pain comes at the gut level. A deep ache rises in your belly. A mixture of hunger and intestinal discomfort. Your liver? You wonder if the harm is reversible. One day you will know this too. Not today though.
You crawl your way out into the overcast city morning, stumble your way to the woods and promptly throw up on a windblown piece of plastic. No one hands you a rag to wipe your mouth or a cup of coffee to wash away the bile. You’re out of cigarettes, and you’re jittery and awake. Of all the things you could be thinking, a song comes to mind. And you are sitting on a dead tree by the river humming Jesus Loves Me, watching the flow of water carry debris away.
Gene Brode, Jr. is a Northern Virginia native residing in Ohio. He studied Spanish and literature at GMU and works on fire alarms for a living. You can find him alteredplanepress.wordpress.com and at facebook.com/GeneBrodeJr/.