Out of Gas
Rain fell in the early Sunday morning. It felt wonderful pelting my pea coat. It sounded perfect slapping the pavement. I walked through the neighborhood after completing an errand of humanity that virtually no one will notice I completed, which it made it all the more worth doing.
A woman with long black hair appeared down the sidewalk. She was wearing pajama bottoms, a hoodie and walking toward me carrying a gas can.
We met and stopped. She was somewhat elderly and definitely of the streets. She asked if I had any money. Her truck had run out of gas a few blocks away.
No, I did not. My wallet was back at home and I had forgotten to stash my emergency $5 bill that accompanies me on my bike rides and walks that I dole out for homeless emergencies exactly like this one.
I rummaged my pockets and came up with only a nickel. She laughed when I produced it and accepted my apology.
She said at least she'd found one of the portable toilets unlocked so there was some luck this morning.
I asked if she lived around here and she told me she was on a waiting list for an apartment for several weeks and had been living in a tent near the river when someone stole all of her stuff and—
She stopped herself mid story and said, “You don't want to hear it.”
“Yes, I do,” I said.
But she was on the move and rain was picking up.
We said our goodbyes parted company.
A few blocks later I came across what undoubtedly was her truck. It was black and battered, at least 30 years old. The front windshield was spider-webbed. The two sliders on the crew cab were busted out. The interior of the truck was crammed with possessions and the bed crammed even more, with furniture, a mattress and other items. The tags were expired.
Would she find anyone to give her some cash? Where would she go if she procured gas? How would she live through this rainy day?