Exiting the Quick Mart I head for home, the 17th Street Bridge. If I get there too early, the police will run me off. I walk slow giving the patrol car time to make their last pass. My home is dark. I must knock on the door before entering. This is done by simply making my presence known. I need to be satisfied that no one has taken my spot. Once cleared, I walk under the bridge and throw a stick to the top of the embankment to scare out the pigeons. I do this ritual every night before crawling up to the top. Home at last. I stretch out propping myself up with my right elbow and listen to a distant siren from the city streets until it fades away. I end my day like I do every day, with a prayer for my girls. I take my medicine and watch the stars wink goodnight one by one. Having spent the night under the bridge, I walk down the street to the Quick Mart. I have no acknowledged presence here, but I am not overlooked either. The glare of repulsion draws a bead on me. I have experienced it so many times. They do not realize they are doing it. It is like breathing to them. It is demoralizing to me. I step up and grab a free paper then return to my spot of condemnation. I watch them exit the Quick Mart. They are wearing polished, wing tip shoes, wool pinstriped suits, professionally starched cotton shirts and designer silk ties all under stylish overcoats. A scent of signature cologne is in the air. This is all contrasted by my pull-on boots, a double pair of raggedy jeans and a dirty canvass jacket buttoned to the top to hide layers of shirts. All in an obvious effort to contain my pungent body odor. See the world through the eyes of a homeless, glassy-eyed, worn-out shoe alcoholic. Enter his mind and join his daily encounters as he walks the streets of Chicago.
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