A Man Lost | A Man Found
This is a draft copy of part of chapter one of my new book. I'd love to have any of your comments.
I will be sharing more of the book as I work through it. I have approximately 50% written so still a long way to go but it is a lot of fun.
Just send me a quick email at support @howardjparsons.com
I'd really appreciate it.
Thanks so much
Howard
CHAPTER ONE: The Dark Corridor
It was nine and a half years ago when I had a job, my own place to live and a life that was reasonable if not perfect. Perhaps if I hadn’t been drinking that day I could have put out the fire.
I lean against the handle as I push the rusty shopping cart with its squeaky wheels into the dark corridor where forgotten men and women gather for the night. The alley sits in the heart of the downtown financial district amidst the eighty-year-old red brick buildings that lean against the chrome and glass towers like brothers and sisters hugging. The din of transit busses, people walking and horns blaring invade this place called home for the night.
The rotting garbage in the sentinel-like blue dumpsters emits a stench that blows onto and attaches to this hapless band of no names. As I breathe the heavy air it mixes with my saliva creating a sour taste in my mouth. A heavy sigh leaves my body as it would a deflated balloon.
I look for my familiar spot about midway down the alley passed the back door of the night club with a single light bulb over its door creating dark shadows on either side. About twenty feet further the cart and me are in behind the dumpster setting up for the night. A remnant of brown corrugated cardboard is fashioned into a roof for shelter. Putting together the shelter reminds me of days on the farm.
I shiver as I pull my grimy brown toque lower over my balding head and wrap the spattered grey blanket closer. I sit on a small chrome stool pulled from the cart.
It’s a lucky night to have a Styrofoam container of Chinese food with chicken, noodles and rice.
As I relish the food and begin to eat a shadowy figure slides up beside me.
“Hey, any of that to share man?” The man asking is short and skinny looking like he had not eaten or washed for several days. I have a personal code of not sharing. I also know the law of the street. What you hold as your own might be taken away.
“Sure, have some.” As I make a gesture of scraping part of the meal onto the lid of the container. I let the man eat with his hands. I never share my fork. The man ravenously downs the offered food.
“Thanks,” he said as he disappears down the dark alley.