I've never led a normal life. I've lived it only in my imagination but I just let that ride since it seems so real to others that if I claim otherwise I'm immediately scoffed at and rebuked. But my true life in actuality has been spent on the fringes of society, anonymous and unnoticed. And while I know my misbegotten peers also live off the scraps of the world I know there's a difference: they were born to it.
I tagged along once to a party of beautiful people. They were vibrant and alive with all their friends, fucking and fun, the doors of the world opening wide to their desires. In self-preservation, I kept to myself, my inadequacies quite obvious to anyone who bothered to see. But it did give me the unique opportunity to peer into this forbidden world and have answered the question that's always consumed me: how did they plan to keep their souls alive and still fit in?
The answer? They didn't. What I heard in their voices was plenty of rationalizations and reasonable sounding reasoning they fed themselves on how they could sell out and still keep their integrity. No better than my sorry ass. At some point no longer would they be having their cake and eat it too, they'd be out there just trying to survive - like me.
Survival is a bitch and comes in many forms, bringing you to your knees, praying for a way out, for anything to hold on to. In an upper class neighborhood one can hide one's secret god quite well. How easy to discard the malevolence of money with a full belly. But in a shelter - as I've told you before - there's no hiding, your life is exposed, the scars of your soul on display for all to see.
But the beauty of that shared vulnerability creates a sense of bonding no gated community can ever know. It's an unspoken law not to taunt the scars of another lest you be burned yourself - and the reprimands can come swift and sharp (though trust me, mockery does happen). You might hear some friendly teasing sometimes over a particular quirk and if so, you embrace it for the act of love it is: "I see your scars and accept you in full."
I can tell you, those moments may seem like any other to the casual observer - but they are ones you never forget.
So after this rather lengthy lead-in, I introduce you to Colby "Lotto" Lewis, the man with a Lotto ticket-to-ride. He never bought more than one ("Takes only one to win!") but he never had less than one either. From what I could tell, he hadn't missed a drawing since 2006. "There just has to be more to life than this shit" his husky being optimistically opined, and with his perpetual ticket in hand he hoped to invoke the divine intervention his faith demanded.
The problem with little quirks like these is that you never know when it's going to go too far. Yes, it was undeniably true - "I have a chance!" - and that was the trick Lotto Lewis used to hang on, to keep plodding forward into the miserable morass of his life. He was nowhere, going nowhere, believing somewhere was out there. So he kept dying and trying day by day. But for how long?
Secretly we also called him "Loser" Lewis. How could we not? I liked LL, he's a quick buck artist like I am: do what you need to do to get money then get the hell out. Work that doesn't contribute to your soul doesn't contribute to anything else either. In that, he had no illusions and I respected his clear-eyed determination. But like all us long-termers he was bent - or broken - in his decision making. Yeah dude, I feel there's a better way too but that ain't no solution you got there.
I'd always wondered how the frustration never got the best of him in that godawful bipolar existence of his. One day the high of buying a new ticket, the next the crushing defeat of the inevitable loss. Like a burned out race car driver, his teeth grinding in the ever increasing need for speed, the lows sank him deeper and deeper into despair. I was one of the few in whom he'd confide. "I just know it, Harry. There's no doubt in my mind and I say it with God as my witness: we don't have to suffer like this. It's not meant to be and we contrive it all, every last bit of it. I asked: what is life? And I found the answer - and I'll never let these bastards take it away from me."
This part here is tough. Really tough. It's one thing to see a person's body die but to see the spirit go and the body remain...it's like an eternal knife in your belly. Colby's outbursts from losing inflated to the point of mania, lashing out wildly as it slowly dawned upon him the futility of his endeavors. Dear God, it was hard to watch. Then one Sunday morning they took him away...
The Colby I saw afterwards was not Colby. His feelings for life were nil. Both his despair and optimism were gone, medicated and legislated to oblivion, the baby out with the bath water. Never again did I see the glint of life in his eye. But in my heart I'll carry his words to my grave: "I'm so damn happy. I know what life is, Harry! Life is...love."
Never have I heard those words again...
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