Cornell just smiled when she finally handed him his change. He folded and stuffed the ones carefully into the side pocket of his threadbare cargo pants, pleased that the button still closed solid and safe over his new stash.
When his food came—soup steaming, melted cheese oozing onto white porcelain—he sat paralyzed, staring at it. He hadn’t seen anything quite so beautiful in a long time. There was a package of cute little crackers and a slice of pickle, utensils wrapped in a crisp white napkin. A cloth napkin. All of it seemed so foreign and for a minute Cornell couldn’t remember what he was supposed to do with real utensils rather than the plasticware they gave you in the soup kitchens.
He resisted looking around. Dishes clanked, voices hummed, machines wheezed on and off, chairs scraped the linoleum. The place was busy, yet Cornell could feel eyes checking him out.
He tugged the napkin open, laid the utensils one by one on the counter, and draped the cloth over his lap. He ignored the stares, pretending that the stink of body odor wasn’t coming from him. He tried to keep his appearance as clean as possible, even making a monthly trip to a Laundromat, but getting a shower was a challenge.
Finally Cornell picked up the soup spoon, stopping his eyes from darting around for direction. He let his fingers remember. Slowed himself down and ate, painfully conscious of every movement so that he didn’t dribble, smack, wipe, or slurp.
Now, as he made his long way back to his cardboard home, he took guarded sips from the brand-new bottle. The food, though delicious, had upset his stomach. The whiskey would help. It always did; an instant cure-all for just about anything he didn’t want to feel or remember or be. Tonight it sped up the long walk and even helped warm him as the night chill set in.
Cornell had barely turned the corner into the alley when he noticed something was wrong. The air smelled different. Rancid, but not day-old garbage. And tinged with something burned.
No, not burned, smoking.
His nostrils twitched. There were no restaurants nearby. The brick building he kept his shelter against had been empty. It was quiet here. That’s all he cared about and usually the Dumpster didn’t overflow or stink. All important factors in his decision to take up residency here in the alley, his Maytag box sandwiched between the wall of the brick building and the monster green Dumpster.
That’s when Cornell realized he couldn’t see his cardboard box. Though hidden, a flap usually stuck out no matter how carefully he tucked it. A sudden panic twisted his stomach. He clenched the bottle tight in his fist and hurried. He hadn’t had that much to drink yet, but his steps were staggered and his head dizzy. The only two blankets he owned were in that box, along with an assortment of other treasures tucked between folds, stuff he hadn’t wanted to lug inside his backpack.
As he walked closer, the smell got stronger. Something sour and metallic but also something else. Like lighter fluid. Had someone started a fire to keep warm?
They sure as hell better not have used his box for kindling.
That’s when he saw a flap of cardboard and a flood of relief washed over him in a cold sweat. The box was still there. It had been shoved deeper behind the Dumpster. The box, however, wasn’t empty.
Son of a bitch!
Cornell couldn’t believe his eyes. Some bastard lay sprawled inside his home, feet sticking out. Looked like a pile of old, ragged clothes if it weren’t for those two bare feet.
He took a long gulp of Jack Daniel’s. Screwed the cap back on, nice and tight, and set the bottle down safe against the brick wall. Then Cornell pushed up his sleeves to his elbows and stomped the rest of the way.
Nobody was taking his frickin’ home away from him.
“Hey, you,” he yelled as he grabbed the ankles. “Get the hell out of here.”
Cornell let his anger drive him as he twisted and yanked and pulled. But he was surprised it didn’t take much effort. Nor was there any resistance. He didn’t stop, though, dragging the body away from the container, letting the intruder’s tangled hair sweep across the filthy pavement. Before he released the ankles he gave one last shove, flipping the person over.
That’s when Cornell saw why there had been no resistance.
He felt the acid rise from his stomach. He stumbled backward, tripping over his feet, scrambling then kicking, gasping and retching at what he saw.
The face was gone, a bloody pulp of flesh and bones. Raw jagged holes replaced an eye and the mouth. Matted hair stuck to the mess.
Cornell pushed to his knees just as the soup and grilled cheese came up his throat in a stinging froth mixed with whiskey. He tried to stand but his legs wobbled and sent him back down to the pavement right in the middle of his vomit. His eyes burned and blurred but he couldn’t pull them away from the mangled mess just a few feet away from him.