Matthew Newton

What the Message Was: (Part two) by Matthew L Newton

It wasn’t just the alleys I avoided. No, not them all the time. I would also stay far from any underpass or pier, walkway and or shopping mall parking lot, which there were plenty of. Things moved in places where the light refused to show, so I drove my cart passed each shadowy cravas, drove right passed and then some. Besides, being the likes I am, and to whom I call myself, when I do, I would that none other than me know the places I slept.

The days are long, following the hunt for a snack and maybe, if I’m lucky a want or three. I find what I need when I find it. One time, a long time ago I had a job, worked for a young couple outside of the city, on their quiet patch of land at the end of a winding road. I worked and slept and ate and repeat, all for the day and not a thought on what may come. Those were the finest hours. Before, this.

“Second or two more,” says a wastrile bin sniffer, stuffing his large paws within the blotted lid of a short can in front of us,
“I’ll seek it out, you watch, search and destroy with you wishing to have what I gets.”

“Hardly.” I remind him before stepping away from the curb and continuing down the street. He must not have noticed me leaving, for I could still here his muffeled curses at me more then a block back.

The next person I came by had on a pair of wool gloves, new from my view. She rubbed her hands together vigeriously as if the warm air that sufficated the sane were cold and bitting. She smiled as I passed then went back to warming the sweat that poured from the tops of her gloves. I did not think she knew it was nearly a hundred. Maybe she did. When I made it to my hole, I turned to see if either of them had followed me here, then, satisfied they had not, crawled inside for a nap.

Matthew Newton
DOC #81868

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