The Bridge Red and Robert and Jim and I sleep under the bridge east of the park across from the downtown library.  Sometimes Isaac stays there, when he's not in one of those thirty-day manic-depressive programs, the kind where they pay you anywhere from three to five-hundred dollars to be a guinea pig for new drugs. The last time Isaac got out of a program, about a week ago, I came back to my sleeping bag under the bridge about three o'clock on a very cold morning and there he was, huddled against the concrete bank, not a blanket one on him.  Red was with me and we had to smile:  "Shit, that boy could freeze to death right now...he wouldn't know."  "I heard that...give me some of those good drugs!"  We laughed and each of us got a blanket out of our pile and laid over him.  Gotta keep a friend from freezing, man. This isn't like those bridges where you see some pathetic soul sleeping on the concrete at a thirty-degree angle.  This is more like camping out since the bridge runs over Buffalo Bayou and is surrounded by the Art Park.  We get early-morning joggers on the sidewalk running under the bridge that winds its way down from Memorial.  When I first started sleeping here we all slept in a row by the sidewalk on the gravel.  Cardboard from boxes helped pad the ground a bit and I'd wake up sometimes to the flash of feet pounding by. After a couple of weeks sleeping that way I decided to move down on the bank towards the bayou.  I hate to admit it but what had kept me from doing that before were the stories I'd heard of a fourteen-foot alligator that'd been spotted in the bayou before--supposedly.  The thought of an alligator snaking up the bank was too grisly to risk.  I guess it's like anything, familiarity breeding contempt and all that...it took only two weeks and I was ready to risk it.  I used the cutoff top of a can and leveled out a smooth place in the earth-sand mixture, laid down some old newspapers for extra effect and had a snug place to sleep. It wasn't a week later that my earlier fears were justified.  I'd been away for a couple of nights and when I met Robert and Jim sitting outside the library that afternoon they swore they'd seen a fourteen-foot alligator sunning itself right by the bridge the last couple of mornings.  Yeah, right...whatever!  Robert swore he'd even got close enough to poke it in the snout with his walking stick!  "Lie that broke the camel's back," I said.  You'll see, Robert said. It was in the early-morning hours when Robert and I made our way back to the bridge after playing chess at NoTsuOh (Houston spelled backwards...an eclectic, funky coffee shop that stays open all night).  I'd forgotten about the tale Jim and Robert had been building up earlier.  We were still a few blocks away from the bridge when Robert reminded me we might see the gator on our way in if it hadn't left.  "Sure, sure I really believe your lying ass, boy...especially the part about tapping it on the snout with your cane!"  Robert laughed..."Alright, alright that was an exaggeration...but the rest of it was true, you'll see, well maybe, if it's still there." Just as we were approaching the bridge, coming down the sidewalk through the Art Park, Robert says, "Hey, look, it's there!"  And sure enough you could see an unmistakable shape in the moonlight, stretched out along the bank.  "Damn, it's huge!" I said, totally amazed.  "Wait, I'll get my flashlight," I told Robert, and I dug my little micro-mag flashlight out of my pocket--not a lot of light, but enough to see the features of a true-so-help-me-god alligator.  "Watch this!" Robert's saying.  He's walking with a cane now after getting the cast off from fracturing his ankle and he's moving down the hill towards the behemoth.  "Jesus Christ, man," I'm saying in a loud whisper so's not to wake the creature up, "Don't get too close, man, those things can move!"  But Robert was steady movin' down, straight toward it.  "Crazy little shit, are you suicidal?" I'm asking but he was already there, tapping his cane on the gator's head and putting his stick inside its mouth when it opened it.  "This is too wild for words!" I thought, but Robert was laughing and saying "Come on down and have a good look!"  What the hell, he was still standing...so I edged on down beside him and that's when I saw the equally unmistakable tire treads along the side-curves of its belly.  I'd been had, and how!  Here was the newest contribution to the Art Park, an alligator made of parts of car and truck tires, complete with a hinged jaw that opened.  That's when the laughing started, mixed with a little relief on my part.  "I'll get you for this," I told Robert.  "Payback's a mother!"  But he was havin' too good a time on my account to care and we both went to sleep smiling on that one. The homeless lead different kinds of lives within the scope of the subculture.  The alcoholics and way-gone winos think about little but how to get that next drink, the more healthy think about that next meal or the next chance to shower and wash clothes.  Most days it's not that hard to get a meal at any number of programs.  Payment usually involves submitting to a sermon or bible lesson or such.  No big deal, although now and then the provider gets carried away with the evangelism and you feel like it's too high a price to pay for a meal.  Most of the effort is usually in the getting there, though. A lotta walkin' on these streets gotta be good for me, I figure...best way to lose those extra pounds I got and start to get back in shape.  Truth is, I like walking. I get into a rhythm with a pack on my back.  I'll do little shoulder rolls and push my legs all the way back and push up on my toes...kind of like power-walking without the funny stuff, you know, rolling hips or arms pushing out like pistons.  So I do a lot of walking, sometimes I feel like the energizer bunny, sometimes like Captain Ahab with quarter-size blisters on my feet.  More than once I've had to sit a day out on my sleeping bag, my feet too sore to use.  Robert and Red seem impervious to it, they've been at it so long.  I get a kick callin' Robert "Crip" with his cast and crutches and cane.  When he later got his cast off he'd shoot ahead of Red and I on our treks downtown...he kept saying "Man, it's like my foot just wants to go!  Now that the cast is off."  "No shit, we'd say, "better not work it too hard, man, you gotta get it back in shape easy or you'll hurt it again."  But he couldn't help it, I guess it was joy less constrained. Usually we'd only catch one good meal a day, sometimes a second sandwich-and-chips or bowl-of-chili kind of snack, like on Thursday nights and Sunday afternoons.  Great chili brought out by a church group under an overpass on the northwest side of downtown and only an energetic prayer from the preacher as payment.  We always go back for seconds and sometimes thirds, eat and sit and talk with homeless friends we only see on such occasions.  It's interesting how much laughter you sometimes hear under these circumstances.  Like the human machine can do just fine, thank you ma'am, as long as it's fed and kept from unreasonable cold. Last time I was there, a couple weeks ago, it was cold as a witch's teat and the good people from the church brought a pile of sweaters and such, and gave away some good cotton blankets out of the van.  Probably helped save a life or two, it wouldn't surprise me.  We had cold-ass nights for a time. I have what passes for a summer sleeping bag, not much good below forty-five degrees or so and brother, when Houston dips below freezing you feel it down to the bones...humidity like a pile-driver to the cold.  So far I've been given a wool blanket and a cotton blanket to snug in under my sleeping bag, help keep my feets from freezin' off.  Most nights are milder though.  I'll often sleep on top of my bag for extra padding and use the blankets to stay warm with...they say layering is the trick these days. The sidewalk that runs under the bridge is built up above the bayou twenty feet or so.  Looking toward the bayou from the sidewalk, the ground is level a few yards to the three pillars that hold up the bridge on this side of the bayou, then slopes down about twelve feet, leveling out another nine feet then begins a steep descent to the murky waters.  The ground around the sidewalk is hard-packed and numerous rocks and stones have become embedded in it.  On the slope towards the bayou the ground becomes sandier, with some kind of cane growing profusely, giving me a bit of cover from the passersby. About fifty yards from the bridge each morning two trucks with horse trailers owned by the Harris County Sheriff's Department pull up and unload.  They've been saddled somewhere before being loaded and the sheriffs, with their knee-high riding boots, get on and head downtown on patrol.  Sometimes we'll wave at them and they'll wave back, and I'm always grateful they don't feel a need to hassle us about where we're staying. The hassles were yet to come, though, the day Ranger Rick kicked us out...but that's another story altogether. Randy Guess ©1999-2001 [Shaman]    [The Bridge] [Harbor Light Mission: Part One]    [Harbor Light Mission: Part Two] [The Heart of Homelessness] [Home]    [What's New] [Short Stories]    [Philosophy]    [Forums] [Webrings]    [Biographies]    [Site Index]    [Contact] [Extras]    [Links]    [Copyright] <top>