A Tale of socks

First Day

The relief I feel when I get to the back of the hand out van, can be explained in words. “Who needs socks?” I hear from one of the outreach workers. I bolt past the sack lunch tables, and snag two pairs of brand tube white cotton socks. I almost weep at the soft fabric against my face. Now I can get high in peace.
I go to the bathroom in the alley of the promenade, the chafing in my ass has subsided, and I can walk with freedom. Without any consciousness, my shoes are off, and feet inside the sink. I scrub them hardy, with the hard grit that surrounds my palms. I rub the foot ointment on like a petting an old dog, and the sigh that was pent for far too long comes like a dropped bucket. My soles are clean for the first time in weeks, and when they are finally dry, I put on the socks of cotton beauty. There is nothing more sublime, than the feeling I get when new socks are on clean feet. Even though I know it won’t last outside of a few days, I remain serene, even for the briefest moment.
I put the ointment back in the bag, and walk out with an air of contentment all around me. I see Pockets coming down the hallway. “Time to spark up a joint Whispers?” ”Sure is man. I just put on the first of two brand new pairs of socks. Life is sweet.” We walked like two punks on a mission, to the spot where we knew the cycle cops wouldn’t find us. A smell of shit and BO permeated our tattered clothing, and every time we walked past yuppies, an air of disgust brushed past us. We didn’t care, since they were the only ones that could smell us. I had been wearing the same dirt stained pants for the last month, and was in no hurry to change them. I knew who I was. A street punk whose plan for the next few minutes was to be sucking on Mary Jane’s beautiful paper skin.
We sat Indian style behind the concrete fence, and I sparked up the joint, which I had been saving till after the transference of socks took place. The joint was sparked, and Pockets pulled out a bottle of OE, snapped off the cap, and skulled the first sip, while I put flame to paper to get the high started. Almost simultaneously, we passed one to the other. No words are spoken, unless you count the bowel movements, which were flying at random. “Yes sir, this is living” Pockets said, as a group of middle aged stockbrokers rain by, their trudging seeming pointless. “So what’s the skating plan for the day?” I said, knowing that we would be down to the beach for the drum circle as soon as the high was achieved.

Second day

I wake up, feeling the warm sweat against my feet, and let out a confidence burst of consummate glory. Even though the girl wasn’t there, my hand supremely did the trick. I had passed out alone in my own squat, away from the madness of the promenade. The sun just barely melting the right side of my sleeping bag, and I knew the day would be pure of endless summer joints, and 40 oz. bottles, plentiful for the begging friends that I had made since I was 13.
With my sleeping bag rolled up and tied with a long shoelace, I traipsed out into the manicured city, out of the alley ways of 9 am, looking for a for a shiny new four wheeled slab of metal to come screeching in front of me, honking it’s horn, and screaming obscenities about the fact that he is going to be late to the office because of my incompetence. Sometimes people are so caught up in their lives, that the homeless people that they see everyday have no opportunity to get a job, nor start a new life for themselves. Trust me, all the time that I was homeless, I never saw a dime that the government was supposed to be helping me with.
I saw Mark sitting by the dinosaur statues, and talking to himself about the intrinsic nature of condors. He didn’t even recognize me, after the tight fisted friendship that we had together for over 6 years. His dementia, and the fact that the government wouldn’t pay his veterans services, was the reason he couldn’t remember who I was. It only came in short waves, so if he didn’t raise the effort, I didn’t say hello to him.
My friends sat in the center of the promenade. I saw Peter sitting down, reading a book with a rolled cigarette protruding from his mouth, a box of wine sitting next to him. “I’ve been waiting around for you man. Where did you go anyway, last night? One minute you are out at the beach drinking with us, the next you’re stumbling drunk down the beach. So what happened?” Peters inquisitive mind always seemed to touch on subjects that I had no clue what they were about. These subjects were always on my blackout experiences, of which I could never remember, and could never comment on. The truth would always come out weeks later, and even then I couldn’t reiterate what had happened. “Let’s not talk about that today man. Lets just go get hammered on the beach.” I said, and without contention for argument, he got up, and we walked on. The only thing that mattered to me at that point, were the clean socks on my feet, and the space bag of wine we were about to consume. Sometimes that’s about as sweet as life can turn into.

Some time later

Two weeks after I received the superbly new socks, there was nothing but a thick black thickness on both pairs, making both of the hard as rocks. In a drug induced oblivion I left town. Where I was now was in some desert, and the only article that I recognized, was the leather jacket I have had for countless drunken bouts.
The scathing sun hit down on my back, as I pour liquid from my bottle like a waterfall into a stream. I knew I would have to get to a city fast, or pick up a ride with a friendly Christian, willing to give me a ride and a decent meal. They were always trying to save someone. I stood up, and flicked out my thumb to a passing truck. He just honked his horn in an angry refrain, and kept his velocity up.
I thought of what could have compelled me to come all the way out to a desert, waiting for hours for another ride, and not have packed any new socks. Granted, the only thing that I still had with me was the rolled sleeping bag in the used shoelace. I would love the sweet cotton vegetation, nuzzling against my aching feet, but sometimes my only solace, lives in a bottle.
I drank what was left of the bottle, while a 1978 Ford Pinto came ramshackle up to my feet. “Where yah headed there, son?” said the driver. I said next town over, and in the car I went. Man I hope they have handouts in the next town. The socks were cutting my feet.

??

I got dropped off by a Mexican trucker named Esteban when my memory jogs to 8th grade Spanish class, when the teacher forced us pick Spanish names to authenticate our experience. “I hope you fin what you looking for companero,” says Esteban in fragmented English. I nod in accordance with the politeness my mom always taught me. I wonder what she is doing right now?
But the concerns of my mother are of no importance now, as I notice some hitchers that are walking around to the other side of the 711 I am dropped off at. “See you later Esteban, thanks for the cigarettes. A load clank spurted out as I shut the door, and went walking over to the back of the mini mart. “How’s it going?” I said brandishing the fresh pack of reds in their faces. “ Grab a seat man, and have a swill with us,” said the young girl, a Mohawk draped across her head. “Thanks a lot, I am parched as hell” I sat down, and wrapped my fingers around the 40 ox bottle, the rocks grinding under my feet, as I stretched my legs out. The day was melting hot and I needed to sleep. Who knows, I may manifest some new socks in my dreams.