Provenance

He said she couldn’t take his truck, but never imagined it would become his home.  He didn’t blame her.  He thought there were two types of people in this world, and it had nothing to do with pessimism and optimism.  It was all about blame.  People either took credit, or blamed someone else when things didn’t go their way.  Blame didn’t offer shelter, so he chose to accept responsibility and make the most of it.

He had a good job that provided the court-mandated health insurance for the children.  He had prepaid  an annual gym membership, which gave him a place to shower for a few months.  His primary meal came from the cafeteria at work, and he supplemented with berries from the invasive species along the highway.  Child support was automatically deducted from his paycheck, his only means siphoned to his three kids.  It could have been four.  Should have been.

He didn’t blame her.  He lived with her in abundance for years.  The children had expectations he wouldn’t deny.  He slept in the truck, wandering between beaches each night, escaping authority.  In three months, he aged three years. Winter was approaching, and he did not believe in luck.  He scoured papers and bulletin boards for opportunity.  He used library computers to send applications for more work.  He took the children to the park between meal times to hide his shame at being homeless.  No one knew.  No one asked.

This night he walked the beach in his bare feet seeking abandoned coins, useless until paired or partnered.  He held a scrap in his palm, squeezing, wishing he had been taught to pray.  The card in the grocery store was barely legible.  FREE ROOM/BOARD — P/T CARETAKER  – OWNER HOSPICE.  All the tabs were torn away, but the number was printed on the card.  He copied the scrawl onto an ad for custom checks and walked to the beach.

He stretched his vision to the shore of the distant island and spread his toes into the cool wetness.  He felt the familiar resistance of a coin, and squatted, pinching the quarter between his thumb and finger, dusting the sand with the corner of his dirty shirt.  He now had enough to wash his clothes, but not enough to make a phone call.  He continued to polish the coin, accepting the reality that the room was probably already taken, his discovery too late.  He dropped to his knees, and as the crushed shells cut into his flesh, he saw.  He was in the dreams of another, a woman in pain, scars that wouldn’t heal, fires inside that would not be extinguished. 

He rose and felt the new burden pressing him down, stronger than gravity, compelling him to continue his search.  He spent another fruitless hour on the beach, distracted by disturbing visions of things he could not control, decisions that were not his to make.  He walked across the street, carrying his load of laundry, the paper stuffed carelessly in his front pocket.  As he shook his work pants into the dented washer, a crumpled dollar bill fell from the pocket.  He flattened it against his thigh, turning it over and pressing it again.  The rinse cycle started.  He looked around the room, then walked up to a young man and asked to borrow his phone.