Mean Reds
The credits to Breakfast at Tiffany’s scrolled up the immense outdoor screen in the park I often shuffle by in my search for small things to eat or wear. I normally don’t notice the flowing color and light, much less hear the blaring script over the muffled conversation of the crowd as I make my rounds, but something about Holly touched my ragged soul. To borrow her expression that first caught my notice, my life has become one long series of “mean reds.” I no longer remember if I ever had a home or people who cared for me. The faces I search in my daily wanderings inspire only an unnamed fear that stalks and attacks me wherever I go. Sometimes it comes at me with an invisible punch to the gut; other times, it creeps around my peripheral vision like a fog of mosquitoes all day, taking small bites here and there only to retreat unseen. Unlike Holly, the only escape I find to myself and my life is at night, in my dream. I only have one. It is a wondrous journey that ends too soon, at every day’s break. As I lay on my musty pallet, stained by the countless multitudes that have shared it before me, on the splintered wood floor of the overcrowded, sweat and urine soaked shelter, I dream of the impossible: a home of my own, a haven of security, where I will never be cold and hungry and afraid again.
I approach a small cottage, my cottage; nothing fancy to draw anyone’s attention, but solidly built to be snug and secure. Thick gray stone fencing encloses the front yard, the same stone as the house, separated by thin lines of white mortar that I enjoy tracing my fingers along as I make my way to the door. Dark slate covers the roof. The hard flat sheets play the music that is the rain when I know it cannot touch me, and I smile at the sight of a small nest perched precariously on the ledge of the deep porch overhang as I get closer. Baby wrens, fussing merrily in their never ending trills of “Here I am, where are you?” welcome me as I reach the thick wooden door that keeps weather and undesirables from thoughts of trespassing. I enter with the click of a key.
Wood smoke caresses my nostrils at the entryway and I gravitate to the main room’s fireplace to let its fingers of heat massage my face and melt away any bitterness from the day. I take comfort in the walls’ loosely embracing arms of soft blues and greens as I watch yellow chase red to the chimney flue. Once cleansed by the flames, my gaze moves along many bright paintings of open fields, expansive canyons and frothy seascapes that show me the beauty in the world through many eyes.
The floor is warm and soft on my clean bare feet. Thick carpet and rugs pad my way as I pass through to the kitchen. Warm buttery cinnamon, tangy apple, and roasting beef joins the cedar perfume from the living area. I’m never hungry here, but I pause to sample a fried pie with a glass of milk just to experience the taste. Light pastry flakes mixed with hot sweet filling, followed by a satisfying flood of cold freshness, and I’m filled to overflowing joy in the bounty of my life in this house.
It’s time for bed, now. I head toward the corner room where I have no more need of dreams because I sleep in one. My bed is the only grand item in the house. It fills its room with promises of comfort and warmth. Four posters support hangings to close out the world and leave me to wallow in its softness. Mattresses piled high and covered with the finest linens hold me tight and ease me to rest. My home fades to peaceful ebony as I release myself to its protection.
Every morning, I awake to the crackle of overhead lights coming to life as shelter volunteers swarm the rows of pallets, cackling among themselves like hyenas over the ridiculous positions of the hapless prey at their feet. The mean reds begin their glow slowly at first, then spread quickly to drown the scene in a flood I barely escape as I slink out the side door with my knapsack pillow, in search of whatever breakfast I might find.
