Being On Guard

Well, being in the position at work that I am, I am one of the major keepers of my boss's secrets. I have locked cabinets, and locked mind space. My boss has a big career. He's one of the people that gets personal invites to the Inaugural Ball and the like. I, on the other hand, have nothing of reason to guard.

What I've noticed, having this job, that it's really better the less that I know. That seems the best way to guard someone else's shit. Don't know, can't tell. I almost got caught up in this, at one time. There was a need for more money and more power, then I got hurt and had to stay home from work. You could say that it was just an accident, or you could say that it was fate guarding myself from myself. Being at home, I got back to normal in a short amount of time. That was a close one, I would say. At home, I was reading more, talking with my friends more, spending time with the family more. Oh yeah, those things.

If you are a person in power, there's so much to guard, so many plans to lay, and moves to play. And to me, it seems at the end, you don't have much person left, only the money. Green slips of paper, to mark your life by. What use is the money if you don't just spend it?

I can say, that I do not want power. I do not want to be in charge. I do not want to be that person, ever.

I was homeless for a bit. And yes, it was hard, but it also contained a certain amount of freedom. I have met a few homeless people, who are perfectly content to stay that way. There are three or four, in particular, that come to mind this morning, but the stories are too long, so perhaps just one.

Tony was a drunk. He was short in stature, with red hair with sun blond highlights, and dark thick glasses. He would always bring in stuff he "found" for money or trade. I never asked where he got anything. Yes, I probably fenced some crap, but I can't really say that, since I don't truly know. Don't ask, can't tell.

I would never just give him money. That would have been an insult, I think. Sometimes I would buy something from him, or give him an odd job. Or, I would give him money to go buy us both lunch, and if he came back and ate with me, I would then buy us both a forty of malt liquor. He would always tell me the most delightful stories about his past. Maybe they were true, maybe they weren't. I didn't care. They were a delightful way to spend an afternoon, instead of handing out tokens to perverts, jacking off.

Tony would always have his heart attacks right in front of my store, four that I was present for. It was as though he just made it every time, right in front of my work, on my shift, maybe because he knew that I would call the ambulance for him.

I did make Tony a deal. If he got cleaned up, and saved his money to get a place off the street, I would help him furnish it. He did. And I bought used appliances and used tables and chairs, a bed and a couch, and some random dishes.

I didn't see Tony for a bit. Then, as always, there was his short, red headed body, collapsing in front of my store, yet again. Some passerbyer, just stepping on his thick glasses that were lying next to his body. And as always, I called the ambulance. It would be some time before he came around again.

One day, months later, I heard the back door of the porn shop open. I turned away from the T.V. that I was watching, annoyed that a pervert would be interpreting my program right at the climax. But it wasn't a perv. There was Tony, holding something behind his back. His looked thinner, and whiter, and maybe even shorter, standing there in his dirty button down shirt and his taped black glasses. He didn't look so well. And didn't want to have lunch with me, either, he didn't have much of an appetite today, he said.

He told me that he had something to discuss with me, if I had the time. He was more serious than I had ever seen him. I asked him if he had brought something for me to buy or trade for. Not this time, he said. And asked that I let him finish first.

He said that he wanted to thank me for always making sure that the ambulance was called. And he wanted to tell me that he couldn't live in his apartment anymore, he had given it up. And he knew that I would be disappointed, but he just couldn't do it. And he said that he knew that living on the street would kill him. However, all of his friends, that had become like his family, lived on the streets. And that was just how his life was supposed to go. But, he wanted to thank me nonetheless. And he asked if I was still going to be his friend.

Of course, I said. I understood. No big deal.

And it wasn't. He was making his choices, just as all of us are allowed to do. Who am I to stop him or ask him to change, or to sacrifice his happiness for a silly society standard?

He seemed so relieved.

He brought forward what he had been holding behind his back. It was a tiny, purple, stuffed bear. Tony said that he found it when he was dumpster diving. Before he gave up his apartment, he had spent all night washing the bear with dish soap and a toothbrush. It did spell like fake lemons.

He found this and thought how it matched my hair, which was died bright purple for that time. And he said that he wanted me to have it, because girls always like bears, and he wanted to thank me, and give me something special back.

I took the bear, and Tony left. About a month later, Tony had his final heart attack in front of the porn store, on my shift. He would die, just like he imagined, and wanted.

I still have the bear. When I die, it will go in some pile to give away, with no one knowing where it came from or why I would choose to keep such a thing. The memory only mine. And no one with know that I still have the lessons that a short, drunk red headed, homeless man gave me one summer in the city.

So not so much about the secrets and the money today. Not so much.