* * *
I wake abruptly.
When I first awaken from sleep, I’ve learned to quickly assess my surroundings, and my eyelashes fly open. I’m confused for a moment until I recall that I’d stayed in a homeless shelter. The cot where the old woman had slept is empty, and I quickly sit up and check my backpack. The thin blanket is still covering it, and I shove it aside and unzip the olive-colored bag to verify my meager belongings are still there.
They are.
When the momentary relief passes, I look around the shelter. Most of the cots are empty, and a few stragglers are taking their time gathering their belongings. They’re probably dreading another day out in the city, trying to survive while being treated as if they don’t exist by the general public.
I, on the other hand, am irritated that I hadn’t woken earlier. I need to put as much distance as possible between myself and the pimp from yesterday. He’s probably looking for me, and I know exactly what his plans will be if he finds me. He’ll snatch me knowing that no one will notice that I’m missing, and then he’ll drug me up until I’m dependent on whatever drugs he’s pushing. Next thing you know, I would do anything for my next fix. Next thing you know—including selling my body. I would be completely reliant on him.
Hell will freeze over first before I allow that to happen.
So I gather my resolve and stand, letting my body stretch for a moment before I leave the room and step out into the busy world once more. My stomach is begging for food, and that’s my first priority. While I make my way through the Bronx towards Manhattan, I’ll be on the lookout for the possibility of a meal. As disturbing as it had once sounded, dumpster diving isn’t all that bad. Obviously, I don’t touch the crap that has been somewhat eaten by an unknown—possibly disease carrying—person. But the items that have been untouched, especially those that are still in wrappers, that’s the good stuff. That is edible.
As I pass by fast food diners, my stomach gurgles, refusing to let me forget that I haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours. A few places look promising, but when I glance in the alleyways behind the eateries, I find other homeless have beaten me to the goods. Damn it. I hadn’t been able to sleep last night, so when I’d finally nodded off, it had probably been early this morning. Otherwise, I’m sure I wouldn’t have overslept.
Eventually, I pass by a small bakery, and when I spy the empty alley, I hesitate. Either it’s been picked over, or no one’s been this way yet. It’s worth a try.
There’s a large dumpster situated by the bakery’s back door, and I spy a stack of water-stained crates that might be useful. I walk over, avoiding crushed takeout cups and crumpled wrappers strewn across the ground. Using the toe of my scuffed canvas sneakers, I scoot the crates closer to the dumpster and then adjust the backpack on my back. I grab the second crate and set it on the first.
Well, here goes nothing.
I grab the ledge of the dumpster and climb up onto the crates. The crates feel stable beneath my weight, so I release the ledge of the dumpster and carefully lift the lid.
The scent nearly knocks me off my feet, and I quickly begin breathing through my mouth. The dumpster is filled with rotting food, bags smeared with grease and different fluids, and plenty of things that I don’t even want to try identifying. A plastic bag lies on top, and it looks like it’d been recently tossed in. Not wanting to linger, I grab the bag and hurriedly climb down.
I lift my head and look towards the alley opening. A few passersby cross near the mouth of the alley, but nobody looks my way. I hurriedly turn my attention to the bag and open it.
Muffins!
And most are still secure in their cellophane packaging. I’m excited, and I quickly reach for the unopened ones, shoving them in my backpack as fast as I can before someone else comes by to snoop. When I’m finished, I hurriedly climb the crates and stuff the bag back in the dumpster before hopping down and walking away. My arms wrap around my body, eyes downcast as someone shuffles into the alley in search of food.
Two months ago, I would have felt bad taking the entire stash, but after weeks of never knowing when my next meal might be, that guilt no longer exists. I haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours, and I don’t know the other person’s story. They may have eaten earlier for all I know. It doesn’t pay to make up stories in my mind about others. I need to look out for myself and not worry about anyone else—they’re certainly not going to worry about me.
More than anything, I want to find a quiet place to eat, but I still need to keep going. The more distance I can cover today, the better. I have nothing to clean my hands with, so I rub them on my jeans as I walk away from the bakery, only pausing to pull out a muffin. It’s blueberry, and my mouth promptly waters. After stuffing the cellophane wrapper in my backpack to throw away later, I take a big bite of the muffin. My taste buds explode inside my mouth. Nothing has tasted this good in a very long time.
The muffin is gone within minutes, and my mood has brightened. Now I just need water, and then I can continue making my way towards Manhattan.
I walk blocks, shoulders brushing others as the sidewalks become crowded, and soon I see flyers for special events posted on storefronts. The store awnings are nicer, and I’m not seeing as much garbage collecting in dark corners. I’m leaving behind the bad areas, and I begin to relax.
It’s not until an hour later that the hairs on the back of my neck begin to stand on end. Someone’s following me. I doubt it’s the pimp, or I would have noticed earlier on, which means I’ve gained someone else’s attention. Who? And why?
Damn it.
My good mood disappears. I have to find a way to lose whoever’s following me.