It was the day after Christmas, and nothing stirred except a rat and the bodily remains of a human still breathing. . The north end of the YMCA lobby smelled like dead fish. A man in the last stages of rigor-mortise lay on the floor too weak to rise. The combination of dead sweat and urine punctured my nasal passages. A half sock displayed various shades of black decay on his foot.
I can still see his eyes pleading with me for a dollar or two. So sickening was the smell, a thousand baths could have never removed the smell of dead skin. Like all real homeless, he was lean, unshaven, still had two teeth still ready to serve him - that is when he could eat a real meal.
The two bicycle brothers had homesteaded the dumpster on the corner of the Y parking lot. One removed the cans and bottles to the other who pancaked them for their black trash bag. Their two bikes held their worldly possessions. A kid's stroller was fastened to one. I first noticed the D Boys a year ago from the second floor of the Y.
I walked around the corner to Starbucks' Coffee Shop. I needed to edit a few pages of my football story. I was early for the 567 Amtrak out of the Santa Fe Station. The train offered me cool, clean air - and not the fowl stuff in my YMCA cell. something Besides, I needed cold clean air, something amiss at the downtown "Y".
While I took up a seat by the window, I saw a man with Otis on his uniform. For me it meant he fixed elevators. I begged to speak to him--since one of our two elevators has been in sick bay most of the year. On the disabled lift, a posted sign read, "Temporarily out of service. Sorry for the inconvenience." The sign has been up for more than a month so I wished to ask the him about old elevators. Besides, the four wheel chairs in the six story edifice most assuredly would have a darn time coming down in a fire drill.
"It can cost as much as one hundred thousand dollars to fix it. Wooden railing elevators are difficult to work on, and my company dislikes working on the older lifts because of insurance. Too many people have died on fixed elevators with wooden sidings."
"Well, I feel sorry for the four wheel chairs in the building. They may never get out. And God forbid that the only remaining lift also read, "Temporarily out out of service." (The rat I caught inside our kitchen. He scurried out the window when he saw me.)
My wallet felt disgusted with me. "Why George can't you save a few dollars. Now we need to pray Governor Brown has not lost your retirement check." Brown throws all teachers' checks into bulk mail to save money and fore us to deposit our funds inside a bank. They he can post a levy and withdraw funds from your account - as he did me.
I entered the Seven Eleven on the corner of India and C Street. The line inside bought the usual. On ordered a Marlboro Gold with a hot dog. Another a one dollar lotto ticket with an energy drink, and on who purchased two soft drinks and some candy. I bought my two bananas for one dollar and left. The outside trash can displayed left over eateries of the Seven Eleven. Candy wrappers, coffee cups, and an assortment of left over pizza paper plates covered the can.
"Sir can ya spare a dime?"
Not today, but on pay day. Have a good one.
The Tijuana Blue entered the American Plaza. A dozen domestics spilled out. A few ran to catch the Green Trolley that ran east to Old Town and onward to Qualcom Stadium and Santee.
The #567 Amtrak out of the San Diego Santa Fe station provided my lift for the day. My bout with the hotel's invasion of cockroaches and bed bugs now forgotten, for now. My legs no longer itched. I removed my Dickens book and began reading the last chapter of "The Curiosity Shop."
The clean air provided me with my first sneeze of day. In no way can that occur inside my hotel, Clean air no longer lives in San Diego - only black death. Fumes from overhead Navy planes, the endless chain of Broadway cars filter inside my room and thus into my lungs. But who cares. Our pot hole leaders don't.
My lungs sang in rhythm with the beat of choo choo #567. The conductor was checking tickets. My Compass pass allows me to go on eight Amtrak trains as far as OS or Oceanside.
"Goin to Encinitas Mr. Garrett?"
"Happy New Year Mitch." He never needs to check my compass card since I am a Icon on the 567.
I detrained at Encinitas and walked over the rails to my car Dolly. She has seen too many miles but his happier now that I restrict her to a few miles a day.
. A young Chinese lady ran to me. ran up to me. I know she had missed the #567 since either she had been late or the doors abruptly closed. She was with her son.
"Don't you cry. You can catch the one that should arrive at eleven. They probably will allow you to use that ticket. If you wish, you can catch the next Amtrak out of Solana Beach-about three miles north of her." She seemed relieved. I then walked to my car and took Encinitas Blvd to the Senior Center.
Yet I could not remove the stench from my nose and felt sorry for the one lying in the Cockroach Hotel.
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