by Geoff Gouveia

The line reaches back towards the cement blocks, cutting off the street. We wait there, inching forward. The smell of burgers wafts through the air.

My back is to the street. An excuse me floats from behind. The inquiry came from a sun-scorched man with long hair. A thin scar hooks over the top of his nose, following down the base and onto the cheek. His eyes are moist against a dry desert of a face. A muddy horseshoe mustache hides an otherwise empty expression. His weak chin puffs near the bottom, escaping into a thin neck that attaches his head to a wired frame. His shirt was blue, now it is sun-bleached gray. Two small holes are above the top sleeve. A thin spotted arm escapes the large shirt. Both hands, with dark clawed fingernails, clutch the handlebars of a cobalt blue mountain bike.

“Would you be able to help me get a burger? I’m almost there.” A claw held up a pile of mix-matched change.

My friend and I shrug. “Sure. Yeah, what would you like?” His dark skin is leather. It shifts in sheets, the darkness burned against each other.

“Oh wow. Thank you. A burger with fries. A shake would be amazing, too.”

“Ok. A burger with fries and a shake, then.”

“A strawberry shake.”

“Strawberry. You got it. I’m George, this is my friend Brian.” I reach out my hand. Brian matches. He returns the gesture with a Robbie and a nod, Robbie and a nod.

“Where are you from, Robbie?” Brian asks.

“Here. Been around the area. Used to have a beautiful wife and two kids. Threw that away. It was my fault.” Robbie shifts his hands on the bike, inching forward and then reversing in rhythm - a nervous fidget. When he talks, he makes eye contact and then turns his head to the right. He looks down to finish his statements. The street lights on the road shine in the night. He locks the bike to a nearby fence.

“I live near here. I’ve got a sweet tent. I’m addicted to painkillers. I ain’t gonna lie to you. I won’t lie to you. I used to be in a band and then I broke my back in a motorcycle accident. I got addicted after that point.”

I nod. The word addicted brings me back mom’s voice at the dinner table. She mentions my cousin and cries about his relapse. I wondered where my cousin was and if someone bought his meal tonight.

“This, too, shall pass. You know? It’s a season. I just wish I didn’t push my wife away. Stalked her, really. She doesn’t want me. Hell, I wouldn’t want me. I’m sober. I’m not clean, though. I’m still stuffin’ holes. I just got that bike the other day. Nice bike. Other one got stolen, you know? Thanks for the burger today guys.”

“No problem, man.” Brian wipes away the gesture with a hand. All three smile. The line shrinks into the window. Brian begins his order and Robbie hides against the wall. The girl at the register looks nervous toward Robbie, than at Brian. “ A number 1, double double, animal style only on the burger and a strawberry shake.” Robbie flies through his order as if it held no substance unless it was quick. Brian paid for the meal. We waited on the concrete slabs for the order.

“I just want my wife back, you know?” Silence. The soft roar of a far off engine. The murmur of the crowd. The close proximity of our feet betray our true stance in society.

Robbie produced a comb from his beaten blue backpack. He combs his mustache.

“What’s the plan tonight boys? What are you up to?”

Brian points at my shoes, “We just finished playing soccer.”

“Soccer, eh? You know what? Beckham. I hate ‘im. All I ever seen him do was model.” Laughter from the three of us connects in midair. We look up to watch it float away into the dark night. The intercom behind us sputters to life with our number, 22.

I retrieve the food. I thank the girl behind the counter and grab the items. They sag in my arms as I distribute it to each person. I pick a table and invite Robbie with a gesture. He declines.

“I have to get back to my tent. Thanks, though.” He undoes the bicycle lock with a click and secures it in the bag. Long hair over his backpack straps, it falls to his chest. Brian and I unwrap our meal. We watch him back the tires towards the road. He stops right near us to make sure the food is in tow.

“Hey!” he calls out.

Our heads turn to meet the sound.

“Thanks for listening. Nobody ever listens.”

His feet pump the pedals. The bike lurches forward. We watch his long hair disappear around the corner.

 

Geoff Gouveia

---

 

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this story, here's another about a time I saw a homeless man pass away outside of a coffee shop.