Maybe it was the sound of the waves splashing against the dark sand that woke Jack up. Or maybe it was because his dog Cranky farted.
It doesn’t matter, Jack thinks. He’s awake and, judging by the moonlight, it’s 4:00 AM. He rolls his gray wool blanket into the shape of a Drake’s yodel and stuffs his pillow into the center as if it was the cream filling. Then he ties the blanket to his backpack and heaves it onto his shoulders.
“Come on, Cranky,” he says.
The dog rolls over onto his back and sighs heavily, as if Jack is the biggest drag in the world.
“So what happened to the unconditional love of a man’s best friend?” Jack asks, leaning down and rubbing the dog’s belly.
They trudge down the beach, away from the Atlantic Ocean, toward the empty wooden boardwalk. Jack walks up the ramp leading to the boardwalk, empty now of tourists and sits on a bench, facing the ocean. Cranky jumps up.
“Poetry time,” Jack says, pulling out a composition book and a pen. He begins to write, as he does every day when he wakes up. Cranky puts his head on Jack’s lap.
The heart cracks once. It breaks the more brittle it is. The fissures relieve the strain.
Jack stops. He listens to the waves, then writes again.
There is noise always. No one explains how that is or can be.
There is no silence except in the heart. The echo of nothing repeats , but scientists cannot prove or disprove any of it. The fissures relieve the strain.
As usual, he stops after three tries, and closes the book.
He knows that he is not a poet, but a zookeeper. 30 years at the Bronx Zoo. Decades of watching people scatter on rainy days, holding umbrellas, jackets, papers over their heads. Seeing them as he imagined the animals did. It was hard to work in a zoo that long and not anthromorphosize the animals. Or vice versa. A person had to choose.
Then his wife Gloria died, her cancer having spread so far that she didn’t know who he was the last month. Toward the end her brain didn’t function, her memory was gone. Watching that happen made Jack wonder how anyone could believe in any order in the universe.
Two weeks later, he quit his job, giving up his retirement package. Within a few months, he was threatened with eviction , so Jack left, taking some clothes with him. He left the furniture as payment with an apologetic note. And he went to the only place he knew he might find peace , down the Jersey shore where he and Gloria honeymooned all of those years ago.
Jack stepped off the bus, his wallet almost empty, and his clothes in the same backpack he now carries. He slept on the beach, under the boardwalk, in alleys or anywhere he could find. And that was how he met Cranky, who was doing the same thing. That was six months ago.
The waves soothe him. The poetry helps him think that someone cares what he has to say.
Gloria used to make him feel that way.
The restaurant help in the Beachside Hotel two blocks over let him sneak a couple of coffees and doughnuts for breakfast every morning if he gets there before 6:00 AM. Jack nudges Cranky’s head off his lap and stands up.
“Hey, old man, got a light?”
Jack turns. A teenage girl , her eyes heavily made up, wearing a short red miniskirt and black halter, holds out her cigarette. He’s seen her walking up and down the streets before.
“I don’t smoke,” he says.
Cranky walks over to the girl and she leans down and pets him. Suddenly she stands. “Gross. Your dog farted.”
Jack nods. “Cute, ain’t he?”
“You don’t have a lighter?” she asks.
Jack holds his arms out. “No lighter, no matches.”
“Matches? How old are you?”
“Old enough to know you’re not on your way to church dressed like that.”
“What do you care?”
“I don’t.” He starts to walk toward the hotel. He can hear Cranky following.
The teenager runs, catches up to them. She stuffs the cigarette behind her left ear. “This is turning out to be a lousy day.”
“It hasn’t even begun yet,” Jack says. “I haven’t had my breakfast.”
“Your breakfast? Where exactly do you get breakfast?”
“You’re about to find out.”
“Nobody’s gonna let you in. They can tell you don’t have any money.”
“You don’t always have to have money to get what you need. “
She laughs. “Right. If you’re so smart, how come you and your dog sleep on the beach every night? I see you when I’m walking by, working.”
“Working? Is that what you call it?”
She shrugs.
“What’s your name?”
“Lori.”
“Well, Lori,” Jack says, “I can’t think of a better place to sleep than by the ocean. In fact if I had $1,000,000, that’s where I’d still sleep.”
They walk along in silence. When they get to the hotel, Jack pulls a leash out of his backpack, puts it on Cranky and ties him to the flagpole. “Hungry?” he asks Lori.
“What they got?”
“Coffee, donuts.”
She follows him inside. As usual, Jack fills two Styrofoam cups with coffee and stuffs two chocolate glazed doughnuts into his pockets along with a few napkins. He nods at Lori. “Get your own. These are for me.”
Outside, he sits on the curb and drinks one coffee rapidly, downs a doughnut, then starts on the second cup as Lori comes out, balancing a coffee with a bagel on top. “Wasn’t free for me,” she says, sitting next to him. “They gave me ‘tude.”
“Maybe you should’ve been nicer to them.”
“Why do you tie up your dog?”
“Shows him who’s boss.”
They eat silently. The hotel is a block away from the ocean. Jack wants to get back so he can hear the waves. He unties Cranky and starts back toward the boardwalk.
“Hey!” Lori shouts, tripping in her high heels as she follows. “What kind of manners is that?” She catches up with him. “We were having breakfast together.”
“Who are you, Emily Post?” Jack asks.
“Emily who?”
“Never mind.”
“I don’t understand you. First you asked me to have breakfast with you, but then you don’t pay. Second, you’re rude to me as if I’m not even there. Men pay me lots of money for my time, you know.”
“So? I’m not one of your tricks.”
“Clients. We call them clients.”
“Well your clients shouldn’t be having sex with you. You’re not even old enough to drive.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Maybe not, but it doesn’t look like there’s anyone else who cares enough to tell you.”
“I don’t need anyone to tell me anything. I manage fine on my own. And chronological age has nothing to do with maturity.”
“Really?”
“Really. I know lots of people my age who are smarter about life than people your age. Check this out.” Lori opens her purse, dropping her coffee cup.
“Are you going to pick that up?”
“No. I’m showing you something.”
“You’re littering.” Jack picks up the coffee cup and tosses it in a garbage can. “So what did you wanna show me?”
“My phone. Look.” Lori holds up a pink cell phone. “This has everything. I bet you don’t know what half of this is. Email, instant messaging, text messaging, games- even GPS-“
“GPS. That must come in handy on your way to see – clients.”
“How do you know what GPS is?”
“I haven’t been homeless forever.”
“How long?”
“About six months.”
“What happened?”
Jack looks over at her. “My wife died.”
“I’m sorry.”
Silence. The waves are louder, thank God, Jack thinks.
“What did she die of?” Lori asks.
“Cancer.”
“Gary says-”
“Who’s Gary?”
No answer.
“Your pimp.”
“So what if he is? He bought me this phone, these clothes.Before you go judging me, remember I don’t have to sleep outside.”
“Swell. If you like this guy so much, why are you having breakfast with me?”
“I don’t know. I have things to do, like meet him. Look.” Lori holds up her phone. “See? My to do list. “
“I believe you. Don’t need to see it.”
“No, really, look old man-“
“My name is Jack.”
“Jack. I got lots to do and I need to go. Okay? “
“Okay. See ya,” Jack says.
They are back where they first met. Jack sits on the bench and Cranky jumps up in his lap. A few joggers are on the beach , a few bicyclists on the boardwalk.
“See ya,” Lori says.
He hears her walking away. The waves are pounding the sand, as always, one after another. A storm is probably coming, he thinks. The tide looks higher than usual.
A woman on the beach is wearing a denim blue dress that flows around her. Gloria had a dress like that.
The woman bends down to pick up a shell. Jack swallows and tries to look at the waves hitting the jetty. His eyes are tearing.
“Jack. You crying?” Lori asks, leaning in front of him.
“Of course not. It’s the salt.”
Lori scans the horizon, sees the woman, then sits next to him. Her cigarette is lit. “Turns out I have a half hour before my next appointment. If you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind. But I ain’t paying you.”
“Okay.”
“And put out the cigarette. You’re just a kid.”
Copyright 2008 Ruth Harrigan
