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A man at a red light watches the theatre of charity from the other side of the windscreen.
The irony of writing 200-300 words on a 100 word story? I love irony. I conceived this piece after sitting at the stoplight, once again, off the 4th Avenue exit from I-24 in Chattanooga. This stop and the next couple before you reach 23rd Street are prime spots for travelers to flag down drivers, though most, of course, look off nowhere or down at the ground instead and let their signs do the communicating. I don’t know how we solve homelessness, but our reliance on cards instead of cash doesn’t help these interactions.
What I enjoyed about writing this story was imagining the person judging the people in the cars, instead of vice-versa. We all judge the motives of the homeless. Why can’t they scrutinize our behavior, our justifications, our discomforts, our blame-shifting, our power to decide? I sensed that his weariness would limit his thoughts to what was immediate and sensory, but the word “manna” I chose to help readers recall his previous life in society. Childhood, even. Sunday School.
The climax isn’t much of a climax. It’s a dollar. Floated so there’s no physical contact. But that’s the point. The story is supposed to leave you with the feeling that the narrator is wasting away faster than the bare sustenance of change and small bills can counter.
Bob
MANNA
Once I heard a driver say ‘There’s always hobos here.’ This stoplight off the interstate. Hobo? I’m not jumping trains. I’m homeless.
They’re trapped waiting for the green light. No eye contact. Pretend to scrounge around for cash. ‘I don’t have any cash, hon, do you?’ Exaggerated gestures. Critique my handwritten sign. ‘He needs to write bigger letters.’
The heat lifts moisture from me. I stare past them. They will the light to change red. It does. Fourth car, right before she turns, lowers window as she slows, floats me a dollar, like it’s manna, will sustain me.
I wait for red.
