FICTION – FFFC #313

Bent but Breathing

I’m a vagabond. A minimalist, or so I tell myself on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and every other Wednesday. Which Wednesday is it? On those Wednesdays, Mrs. Johnson from the Second Avenue Church of God in Christ leaves out the Bible study leftovers. She waits until I stumble by and grab the tray. Never smiles. Never waves. Just watches. Lately, she’s started leaving grocery bags so I can carry more. Got Ms. Pearl from the bakery to set aside day-old bread. Otis the butcher leaves scraps. Every other week, I eat like a king.

I’ve been living this way long enough to learn a few things. When you’re practically invisible, you see everything. People will walk right over you if you let them. Some look at you with pity, like helping earns them heaven points. Others can’t stand the sight of you. They try to tear you down, not realizing they’re dragging themselves lower in the process.

Then there are the few who see you. Really see you. They look you dead in the eyes and don’t flinch. Like maybe they’ve been through it too. Like they know what it takes to survive — and maybe, just maybe, what it takes to make it out the other side.

A Jewish woman, not much older than me — if at all — asked me what happened. Not in that judging way that makes you want to either run off or tell someone to kiss your ass. She asked, like she really wanted to know. The ask that says, Pull up a chair. Let’s sit. Not Let me fix you. Not Here’s a sandwich, now tell me your trauma. Just: I don’t want nothing from you. You don’t gotta clean nothing, or do no freaky shit. Just tell your truth. If you want to. Take your time. Say what you can.

I sat down, eyeing her, trying to figure her game. “I’m Ruth,” she said, and stuck out her hand. Left it there. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Just waited. So I shook it. She leaned in, like she was listening already. No pressure. No rush. It was crazy.

They sat in silence, sizing each other up — not like enemies, more like two people checking if the other is real. No threat. No fear. Just… reading the room, and each other.

Everybody wants something. Nothing’s free. That’s just how it is. Whether you’re on the street or in a boardroom, there’s always a game being played — whether or not you know it. Society teaches us that. You gotta play your role, follow the rules, if you want your piece of the pie. Do the right thing and get rewarded. Slip up, get nothing. Simple math, they say: Good people go to heaven. Bad people go to hell.

We can’t help ourselves. We were bred in an incentive-based society. You know — that carrot and stick shit. We want to do good, be better people. Lord knows we’ve seen enough misery. But somewhere along the way, it all got twisted. Long before we take our first breath, it stays twisted, and it stays that way long after we take our last breath.

I asked Ruth if she had a square. She held up a finger and walked out of the room. A few moments later, she came back and motioned toward the door. We flipped a couple of five-gallon buckets upside down and copped a squat. She handed me a square and lit one for herself. We smoked in silence. I watched her. She had that stare — the one you get when facing your demons, and they don’t blink. The kind of stare that says you’ve got something on your mind, and no one else can carry it but you.

I exhaled, and something eased up — for the first time in a long time. I looked at her, still locked in that staring match with her demons. “You are just another sister in the struggle,” I said. “Trying to stay above the churn.” She exhaled deeply and looked at me. Her gaze had softened — not by much, but enough. This is usually when you make your play. But I knew this wasn’t that kind of game. Hell, for some reason, I knew it wasn’t a game at all. I struggled to understand what was happening. She leaned back against the wall, arms folded, square resting between her fingers, waiting. So I laid it out. She’d earned it — my respect.