by M. Blake

He got up early every morning, sometimes before dawn, or, if he had passed out from drink, after daylight, with the sound of traffic already in his ears. Yet it was always some time before seven. He always felt he had to get going, that if he delayed, someone would find him where he lay – behind some building, or under some trees in a park, or on the sand dunes of the beach – somewhere he wasn’t legally supposed to be. Wherever he laid his head these days he was trespassing. He had no choice; there were no missions or shelters in this area. The nearest shelter for men was thirty miles away, in a city he had no intention of visiting. He planned on staying right around here in this smaller, less populated community, for the next couple months anyway, maybe through the winter.

He was on the street, sure, but he’d been fortunate so far in finding places to sleep at night, without the cops bothering him. Not that they weren’t around; this was a tourist area after all. Any place on the coast was, especially this time of year when the snowbirds came from the north, like him. Only, most of them came in expensive vehicles and stayed in expensive hotels on the beach, or in houses they owned and lived in during the winter months. They were the snowbirds that the year round residents welcomed after the slow business months of fall. They gave the state’s economy a boost every year at this time, and business owners put on their biggest, welcoming smiles for them.

He, in his position, wasn’t one of the welcomed and he knew it. He’d been in enough tourist places over the years, with nothing more than a backpack and some change in his pocket, usually a little scruffy looking from a long, interstate thumb. He may have been hungry, thirsty, sunburned and tired, but gave it his best to keep a smile on his face and to look excited and enthusiastic about just arriving in this town that he had heard a lot about and always wanted to visit. He was here for the winter, definitely, and, who knows, he might just decide to call this place home and put his backpack away for a while. This said with a smile and a shrug. A man with an open future, playing things by ear. How many times had he slipped into this role when new in a town? Enough to make him feel tired and old thinking about it.

In any case, he was confident of finding work here, and with the mild winter weather he was under no pressure to find a place indoors. In fact, he preferred to do without the rent expense.

Yet, early in the morning, as he walked through different parts of the small city (usually along one of the main boulevards), he couldn’t keep from feeling disappointment. He had seen plenty of business strips like these, with their fast food restaurants, car dealerships and rentals, bars, small food markets and gas stations, supermarket and office plazas, appliance stores, churches, hotels and motels, and bus stops; it all looked depressingly familiar to him – what represented his country’s everyday commerce, more slices of business as usual. The chain restaurants, markets, gas stations and hotels all had the same facades that they showed elsewhere (and put up as cheaply as possible). No effort was spent on making appearances unique. Put the places up fast and start pulling in the cash. He could be in any seaside resort town in the country. He could be walking along any busy boulevard in any decent sized city, with the same pathetic attempts at enticement. He hadn’t been in town more than two weeks and already he was weary of much of it, which was close to the beach. The only thing that still attracted him – especially at this early time of the day – was the beach itself. He enjoyed sitting on the sand and watching the sun rise, and hearing the large waves (yes, the surf was big here) clap on the hard-packed sand. He enjoyed the hiss of the white surf and a brisk breeze in his hair.  He even got a kick out of feeding the gulls on some mornings (when he had extra bagels or bread from bakery dumpsters). Of course, the most important pleasure to him was the lack of people on the beach at this time. An occasional stroller or jogger might pass in front of him, but that was it. This was the time before any of the beach cleaning machines or official buggies came along to bring in another business day. The only other time he found the beach to be as peaceful as this was late at night, when the only people to be seen were the occasional loving couple strolling along, or a drunk from one of the bars out trying to clear his head in the salt air. He had particularly enjoyed the few nights when the moon was up, when, after his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he found he could see quite well for long stretches down the beach. He could spot anyone – cop or otherwise – coming from a ways off, which may have been why he had yet to be caught on the beach after it had been closed for the day. He had even slept in the dunes on nights when the wind wasn’t too strong, for there weren’t any mosquitoes here.

Once the sun was up and people came out onto the beach from the hotels and started laying down blankets and setting up umbrellas, his peaceful reverie was broken. He’d hear not only shouts from people, but vehicle motors starting, sometimes the heavy equipment on construction sites. It was the inevitable rude call from the business world, reminding him that he’d have to enter that world in order to find employment. He would go knocking on more doors this day, telling people he was looking for any odd job for a little cash. He would be happy for a few bucks for something to eat, and some beer to drink afterwards. A few beers helped him to relax at night, especially if his sleep-spot wasn’t all that well-hidden. With a few drinks in him he could look at the outside world as his own living quarters, even if he were only a temporary resident in this night’s spot. He’d have a few quiet hours (even if he didn’t sleep well) to himself before daylight yanked him up off the ground as if he were attached to a big, unseen leash. He knew that “leash” was necessary if he didn’t want to deal with the cops too often and end up in jail. Every morning was a reminder that he was a man on the outside (physically and mentally), often “illegal” in places, constantly having to keep his guard up, constantly on the move, it seemed. Yes, more than anything, he was a man in motion, never staying in any place too long. He kept moving at a good steady pace along those busy boulevards. There was very little to slow down or stop for this early in the morning. He had learned to be content in moving somewhere.

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