Parable of the Talents

They should roast in hell!'

There are times when I wish I believed in hell—other than the hells we make for one another, I mean.

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sunday, april 15, 2035

I’ve spent my first week doing other people's scutwork. Odd how familiar all the jobs are—helping to plant vegetable or flower gardens, chopping weeds, pruning bushes and small trees, cleaning up a winter's accumulation of trash, repairing fences, and so on. These are all things I did at Acorn where everyone did everything. People seem pleased and a little surprised that I do good work. I've even earned some money by suggesting extra jobs that I was willing to take care of for a fee. People warn their kids away from me most of the time, but I do get to see the kids, from babies in their mothers' arms to toddlers to older kids and neighbor kids. I haven't seen any familiar faces yet, but, of course, I've just begun. I've gone to as many Black or mixed-race families as I could. I don't know what kind of people I should be check­ing, but it seemed best to begin with these people. If they seem at all friendly, I ask them if they have friends who might hire me. That's gotten me a couple of jobs so far.

My problem has turned out to be having a place to sleep. A guy offered to let me sleep in his garage that first night if I'd give him a blow job.

I wasn't sure whether he thought I was a man or had spot­ted that I was a woman, and I didn't care. I bedded down that night in a shabby park where a few redwood trees survive. There, among a small flock of other homeless people, I slept safely and awoke early to avoid the police. People in Georgetown have warned me that collaring vagrants is what cops do when they need some arrests to justify their pay­checks. It's also what some of the meaner ones do when they've had no amusement for a while.

It was cold, but I've got warm, lightweight clothing and a comfortable, shabby old sleepsack that I'd used on the trip up from Robledo. I woke up aching a little from the uneven ground, but otherwise all right. I needed a bath, but com­pared to the amount of crud I used to accumulate back in Camp Christian, I was almost presentable. I had already de­cided that I'd wash when I could, sleep sheltered when I could. I can't afford to let myself worry about things like that.

On Tuesday, I was allowed to sleep in a toolshed, which was a good thing, because it rained hard.

On Wednesday I was back in the park, although the woman I worked for told me that I should go to the shelter at the Christian America Center on Fourth Street.

Hell of a thought. I've known for weeks that the place existed, and I've kept well clear of it. Laborers at Georgetown say they avoid the place. People have been known to vanish from there. I'm afraid I'll have to go there someday, though. I need to hear more about what the CA people do with or­phans. Problem is, I don't know how I'll be able to stand it I hate those bastards so much. There are moments when I'd kill them all if I could. I hate them.

And I'm terrified of them. What if someone recognizes me? That's unlikely, but what if? I can't go to the CA Cen­ter yet. I'll make myself do it soon, but not yet. I'd rather blow my own brains out than wear a collar again.

On Thursday, I was in the park, but on Friday and Satur­day, I slept in the garage of an old woman who wanted her fence repaired and painted and her windowsills sanded and painted. Her neighbor kept coming over 'to chat' I under­stood that the neighbor was just making sure that I wasn't murdering her friend, and I didn't mind. It turned out well in the end. The neighbor wound up hiring me herself to chop weeds, prepare the soil, and put in her vegetable and flower gardens. That was good because she was my reason for going to her part of town. She was a blond woman with a blond husband, and yet I had heard through my contacts at Georgetown that she had two beautiful dark-haired, dark-skinned toddlers.

The woman turned out to be not well off at all, and yet she paid me a few dollars in addition to a couple of good meals for the work I did. I liked her, and I was glad when I saw that the two children she had adopted were strangers. I write now in her garage, where there is an electric light and a cot. It's cold, of course, but I'm wrapped up and warm enough ex­cept for my hands. I need to write now more than ever be­cause I have no one to talk to, but writing is cold work on nights like this.

 

sunday, may 13, 2035

I've been to the Christian America Center. I've finally made myself go there. It was like making myself step into a big nest of rattlesnakes, but I've done it. I couldn't sleep there. Even without Day Turner's experience to guide me, I couldn't have slept in the rattler's nest. But I've eaten there three times now, trying to hear what there might be to hear. I re­member Day Turner telling me that he had been offered a bed, meals, and a few dollars if he helped paint and repair a couple of houses that were to be part of a CA home for orphaned children. He had not known the addresses of the houses. Nor had he known Eureka well enough to give me an idea where these houses might be, and that was a shame. Our children might not still be there—if they were ever there. But I might be able to learn something from the place. There might be