The junkies weren't the only annoyance on the street. Thehookers, riddled with disease and about as sexy as a vagina lined with razorblades, occasionally had their Johns park in front of his house, never for longthough. The cocking of a SPAS-12 tended to soften up even the most randy ofJohns. He smiled at the night, took a sip from his beer, and walked back overto his gun rack. He lifted his chrome Desert Eagle Mark XIX from the rack. Ofcourse, if you were looking for an effective anti-Viagra, pulling the slide onyour Desert Eagle would do the job just as well as the pump from a SPAS.
Deep down, he knew that it was wrong to point guns atjunkies, hookers, and Johns. But that's how he had dealt with his problems forthe last twenty years. The lack of institutional norms was hard to takeadvantage of when all you ever knew were foster homes and the Army, which forall intents and purposes was essentially a foster home for adults. He hadn'tlearned to talk to women in the Army. There was no "Pick-Up Lines BootCamp" unless you counted the peacocking bullshit of the other soldiers,which was just as likely to get you slapped or beat up in real world applications.His awkward conversations could fill volumes.
As he was reassembling his Desert Eagle, he heard ascream outside. "Fucking hookers," he thought to himself. He pressedagainst the barrel, holding the barrel assembly against the frame of the gun.He swung the barrel lock into closed position, and cocked and released thehammer to make sure it was working correctly. He slapped a magazine home andcocked the gun, rushing out the door, the cold, steel tang of adventure dancingon the tip of his tongue.
Chapter 2: Mort
Mort tossed and turned under the Interstate Bridge. Thechill of the evening had snuck up on him, leeching into his bones. He hadgotten so comfortable sleeping without a blanket in the last two weeks, thefirst days of summer weather, that he hadn't needed his blanket. He could hearothers in the night, coughing while the fire in the rusty oil drum gutteredweakly, putting out barely any heat. The cars roared down the highway a hundredfeet above them. He had often imagined what would happen if there were anearthquake while he was sleeping underneath the bridge. He pictured tons ofconcrete breaking away and burying him amidst cars, rebar, and empty whiskeypints. No one would even know to look for them.
He snorted in, inhaling the fragrant musk of his ownfacial hair which was marbled with gray. He felt ripe. Maybe it was time totake himself down to the fountain and get himself a bath, but not tonight; itwas too cold. Mort flinched as another person in the camp coughed, a rattling,phlegmy bit of business that didn't help him sleep any. His teeth began tochatter.
He sat up and blinked his eyes, the rods and cones takingtheir time to adjust to the gloom under the highway. Ivy flowed down a steephillside and a pillar of solid concrete, twenty feet in diameter shot up intothe sky where it met with the underside of the freeway. The freeway rattled androared as a semi-truck bounced across its rutted structure. Mort hugged himselftightly and rubbed his arms, trying to warm them up.
The ground was soft and dirty, but the cardboard he hadbeen sleeping on was fresh, and in good shape. Still, the chill of the groundhad crept up through its limited insulation. It felt like it was 50 degreesout... a low-number for the beginning of June. His blanket was stashed away inhis shopping cart, where it lay untouched for the last two weeks. His shoppingcart rested against the concrete pillar. He got to his feet, fighting pins andneedles in his left foot. He limped across the homeless camp, stepping overbearded bodies and broken glass.
Mort reached his shopping cart, a rusted old gentlemanthat had been with him for two years. He wasn't even sure the store he hadstolen it from was still in existence. It was a skinny cart, in good working order,and piled high with everything that he owned. Some bits of clothing here andthere, a spare set of shoes, odds and ends, and his trusty street blanket...impervious to moisture, totally camouflaged, and utterly priceless. He beganshifting his belongings, trying not to make too much noise. The blue tarp ontop crinkled loudly as he peeled it back.
"Shut up, Mort! I'm trying to sleep over here."
"Sorry," he hissed back, trying not to disturbanyone else.
Mort reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette,a hand-rolled smoke made with the cheapest tobacco one could buy. He twirled itin his brown fingers while he searched in the pocket of his jeans for a pack ofmatches. He found it, placed the cigarette in his mouth, struck a match andinhaled. It stung his throat and clung to the coarse hairs of his mustache, itsrich smoke infusing the evening with an earthy quality.
He leaned against the concrete pillar, his head tiltedback. The underside of the freeway was no attractive thing, just piles of metaland concrete all laced together, but it made him think. He wondered if it wastime to move on. As the cars zoomed down the highway, he felt it in his bones,the call of freedom and the open road. He wasn't homeless because of a drugproblem, a prison record, or mental illness. He was homeless because of hisaddiction to freedom. Sure, life was harder without a home address, but it wasalso purer, and when he was tired of one place, all he had to do was stick outhis thumb and ride the highways to the next place. He didn't
