Interview With A Running Man

"Can't find no place to sleep. Can't find no place to rest."

Rodney had that same stressed sound to his voice I'd heard countless times before in the homeless strife life. It's the kind of tense fear you hear from someone trying to tell you they're dying without telling you.

"I know, man, I know. Home is a hard place to find."

"I feel ever'thing slippin' away. Can't get no ground under my feet."

Rodney was a tall, once husky black man, 49 going on 79. Street ages you quick, like dog years.

"Everybody wants something for something. Never going to work that way but that bottle's not going to help."

"What about your man, Vincent. How much drinking him do?"

"Too much or not enough, I guess."

"Exactly. All them great paintin's he done with a bottle in his hand. How 'bout that?"

Rodney let loose a few terrifying coughs.

"Didn't give him a home, either. Just don't want you to miss out on your chance because you're too drunk to see it.'

"Chance? What chance is there out there? No fuckin' chance nowhere!"

Yeah, I know there's few chances. But I knew allowing him to give me that sharp rebuke was a chance for him to blow off steam, to plead his case.

"Sometimes the universe gives us chances we never expect."

"Chance for what?"

"I dunno. Whatever you're open to."

"I ain't open to nuthin'!"

"OK, then nothing's what you'll get."

"Like I said then: what fuckin' chance."

I let Rodney brood for a bit. He had no idea this conversation was one I'd repeated with myself over and over - never getting through. I was just hoping to find someone smarter than I. Rodney broke his own silence.

"That some crazy talk you givin' me."

"Yeah, man, it scares me too."

"Then why say it!"

"Scares me more not to."

"I don't even know why I bothers anymore. I been runnin' with no place to go. Been thinkin' lot about that, lately. How crazy is this shit? Jus' gonna run till I dies."

"But you're all some got."

Had I been a black man I think Rodney would have said at that point, "What you talking about you crazy nigger?" At least, that's what the expression on his face said. So I continued on.

"Look, you see the same disconnected people I do every day. White breaded fuckers in their teflon cars, shuttling back and forth from their ginger bread houses in bubble land, frightened like hell of their own shadow, never knowing what's going on, never wanting to know what's going on and always angry about it. Those people are depending on you."

"Man, I don't want none of your fuckin' bullshit philosophy."

"Not giving any. Don't have time. You telling me some lady lurching around in her padded SUV has any clue what's going on?"

"What's that got to do with me? Them folks don't give me time o' day unless they feelin' guilty."

"You can't hide. You can't lie about the world we live in. They give you money just hoping you'll say the world has a future."

"This world got no future no way at all!"

"I know. And how many fuckers you think walked out of city hall here today knowing that? They're babbling about 50 years down the line thinking they can keep heading off this cliff without hitting the ground. We know better. We have reality shoved down our fucking throat every damned day. They fear our words more than God's!"

"Don't you go blasphemin' there, Harry!"

Aw fuck, religious people are such a pain. "There is no god higher than truth."

If he pulled scripture out on me I was going to quit. Might as well move to Plano as think like that. But Rodney was soaking in what I was saying. He thirsteth in his soul. Even the idea he had any purpose on this planet was so astounding to him it breathed life into places long since covered in cobwebs.

"You mean I should go 'round preachin' to them folks?" he asked with a light in his eyes.

Ack, pendulum swung too far the other way. Rodney was going to cling to this for all it's worth. Seen it before. "Not unless you want a fist in your face. Trust me, you haven't seen violence until you intimate to someone the status quo is not going to work. They'll call you up and down every name in the book in the most vile manner possible. They'll do it without hesitation or reserve, like animals trapped in a corner. Even if it means their own death they'll cut you six ways to Sunday before you get another word out."

Rodney coughed again, looking more tired than ever. "Ain't no hope in that."

"No, there's not. Doesn't mean deep down they aren't crying to hear every word you've got to say. Their homes rest on a lie. Imagine how hard you'd fight to keep yours."

"Don't want no lie. Won't build no home on one neither. I just want to be an honest man."

"In a dishonest world."

"So what you sayin'? I'm not standin' on no street corner like a prophet o'doom. They got minds too. They can see anything I can if they wants it." That Rodney, he's got something! He's just got no home for it. "So them people's out there really dyin' to hear what I gots to say, and I'm really dyin' to be sayin' what I gots to say but nobody can say nothin' without gettin' killed?"

"Pretty goddam silly, huh?"

"What kind of world has we got ourselfs into, Harry?"

"The kind without love."

Rodney took a swig from his paper bag bottle. He looked up into the night sky to ponder the infinity of it. I feared he was going to ask me why I didn't have any life in my love. But I could see he was already asking himself that question - and coming up short too.

Like an autobot, Rodney stood up and sauntered to the nearest trash barrel, dropping his bottle inside. He paused for a second with his back to me and I wondered if he was going to blame me for losing his booze. Instead, he turned back around, plastering me with fear. Whose life had I fucked up now?

From the corner of his eye he said in a heavy voice, "There be lots of pain in this world." He continued on his way with lingering small coughs. Time to start running again.