Conscious

By Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb

The crack head tweaking hard expounded on his personal philosophy and said:

“I’ve got your poor, your tired and your hungry. Right here. Look around.”

And the junkie concurred.

I sat quietly and observed – incredulously amazed by what I’d heard.

You take Truth where you can find it.

“Ma’am, can you spare some change?” I said, “No,” so as not to assign myself the reputation as the “pushover,” at the bus stop…. “sucker,” “fool,” “enabler.”

The staggering man, sloppy drunk reached into his pocket and handed the stranger bus fare. I was moved beyond belief (and more than just a little ashamed) by someone with nothing to spare providing a little relief to someone with even less.

The junkie said to the philosopher/tweaker: “I thought the love of a good woman would save me, but she left me because it didn’t. Then I cried out to [G]od – and  I never could understand how the motherfucker could part the Red Sea, but not save me – so I left him.”

Two women consoled each other: “My welfare check barely covers my monthly expenses. ‘They’  make me work at some shitty job to pay for my welfare so I can’t even go to school to make my life better. I just don’t see things improving anytime soon.”

“Hang in there,” said the older woman, haggard from her own wars. “Find some peace inside yourself. Love. Laugh. Those pleasures aren’t reserved for the rich only. Be strong and joyful for your kids. Give them hope, always, in the face of adversity.”

Hopelessness and despair, as I race through my busy, hectic life, I see it everywhere.

“I’ve been on the street for one week now, sleeping in front of grocery stores for safety and shelter from the wind,” said an old lady in Spanish. “My daughter was evicted because her rent check bounced. She and the kids moved in with her in-laws, but there’s no room for me, and I’m not really family, you know. I still get to baby-sit the kids though.”

The other woman emptied her jacket pockets of personal items and handed it to the homeless woman – along with all the money she had on her and wished her well – as she hurried to make the connection to her home – waiting for her – cozy and warm.

Moving like someone stricken with Tourette’s the tweaker continued his sermon, “You’re empty inside, Man! You gotta find something to fill that hole.”

The junkie asked rhetorically, “What have you found to fill yours’?”

I winced from the sheer brutality of such a jab. Beat me. Hurt me.

“My head is bloody, but unbowed.”

“Imagine….” Said John Lennon, “…it’s easy if you try.”

I want to fly…away…so far away.

“Do you know Jesus as your personal savior?” asked the conservatively dressed man pre-judging a boy being saved by Marilyn Manson blasting into his ears.

“Fuck off, freak!” said the boy – mohawked, black-lipped, more makeup than Tammy Faye – feeling more righteous than the scribes and the Pharisees of this age.

Looking defeated, the evangelist withdrew and walked away. He eyed a bleached blonde with impressive implants, but nothing to say – and as stealthy as a predator with his prey, he approached her, the Good Book well-hidden in his brief case that screamed “meal ticket”, “How you doin’ this evening? Mind if I sit here?” She looked up and with the hope of the classic damsel in economic distress, batted her eyelashes and said, “Oh! Not at all.”

The tweaker and the junkie wrapped it up, shook hands, and one says to the other, “Where you headed?”

“Off to sell some shit. I spent my last paycheck on dope, and now, well – gotta eat.”

The poetry of Life – more honest than my occasional overflow of data that spills onto a page – out of moments of understanding – or rage…from a lost soul…

out of necessity – turned sage.