SHATTERED REFLECTION

                                            by  Patrick Breheny

     I know he’s rich. Why can’t he just give me a little coin so I can buy what I want? No, he gives me a sandwich from 7-11. How does he know what I like to eat? Tuna. Shit. I like ham and cheese. He probably thinks that’s not healthy. Its not eating that’s not healthy. He’s one of those people with jobs. They have so much money. He has a car. Where do people get money to buy cars? They cost so much. I used to work casual labor, the slave market, walked to work because if I took a bus I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t save enough money to buy roller skates. He has an apartment. He pays a whole month of rent all at once. Only time I sleep inside I have the flu or something, and then its just one night at a mission or cheap hotel, delay past check-out until they give me the boot. I wash my clothes in a lake. That’s not clean water, but its cleaner than the sidewalk grime I rinse out. I splash water on my chest and under my arms. Then I smell like the fishies and fungi like the lake instead of my body odor. It may not be an improvement, but it’s a change. My Chanel statement.

     His clothes are always pressed and new, mine are old, baggy, torn. What I hate about him is his smile. Its condescending. Why does he give me food? To prove himself superior? To get a favor from God or karma or something? Get what you give? Then give more. Like your apartment, some of those clothes, your car. Does he make himself feel good by making me feel like nothing?

     I saw the prick on another street one day. At an outdoor café, talking to a woman. I took my shirt off and shimmied, held up my fingers to count the street he usually sees me on, implying something. He was embarrassed, and I’d thrown him off his game.

    Then he didn’t give me sandwiches. He didn’t  flash his patronizing smile or nod hello. He acted like I didn’t exist. He never thought maybe I’d like to be the one helping somebody. Throw some scraps his way, see how he likes it. I think I will. Next sandwich some do-gooder gives me instead of money I’m gong to save to throw at him. Say, Pass it forward.

     Somebody gave me one. Tuna! I kept it, thought about how good my throwing aim once was. But then Amy came. She’s worse off than me. Her mind is gone, and mostly when she talks its to somebody not there, but when I gave her half she said she doesn’t do anything in return. I knew that.

     I still had the other half for revenge. But---I got…hungry. I ate it. I’m a failure. You knew that, didn’t you. When I saw him again, I told him to go perform an anatomically impossible act upon himself. Used those words. He laughed at that. So did I. We all need each other. Who would he be without me? Who would I be without him? And who knows, maybe sometime he’ll give me a sandwich again.

"copr", Patrick Breheny