I was walking home from Walgreens on the night before my birthday. I had just gone out with some friends to celebrate since I had to work on my actual birthday — a sad affair. But who can afford to miss any time at work nowadays? Plus, with my rent coming up, I especially needed all the time I could get. This morning, my building sent me a payment reminder, so the amount of $815 rang around in my head. I can thankfully afford it, but it’s been with some sacrifices here and there. Tonight was a rare occurrence for me. Usually I just stay inside and eat ramen on my weekends.
That’s when I saw you, huddled underneath the abandoned lawyer’s office awning. You and your girlfriend are sitting there with a lighter between the two of you. A blanket sanctifies your union. Next door, at the building where Lucyja Hygge used to be (before they got priced out), you both have set up another sort of home-ish situation. The patio is strewn with bed sheets, bottles, and a hot plate. There used to be chairs, but they’re gone now.
Before Lucyja Hygge was here, this building had been an artist’s studio. The artist himself lived in the back part. When I was younger, I had hooked up with him. But that’s another story for another time. It is unrelated to you. Here is our history as I remember it.
During Covid’s first winter, you set up shelter at my workplace. The shelter was elaborate, crafted with pure intention to keep out the cold. Blankets draped across a table. A comforter hooked onto a chair. You created a den of warmth with these simple discarded items. This lighter you hold now is a mere specter of what you once had. To what myself and others had to deconstruct and disassemble each week.
We weren’t open weekdays, just weekends. So, for a bit, we all lived in a sort of silent communion. We left you alone and you usually left us alone. Everyone was always apprehensive to ruin what you had made in the night. But we called you The Tenant in jest. We still call you The Tenant when you come in. When you do, all of us take turns telling you to leave the building. I feel like a traitor every time it’s my turn. Especially since I know your name now. It’s Gray. And I say your name when I tell you you can’t stay here. Hopefully it’s a kind enough gesture.
There’s another history with us that extends deeper than Covid though. A time before we all had to stay confined and separate and survive as best as we could. It didn’t occur to me until I got home and began writing this letter. You used to be a customer. I remember you now. I even defended you once, I think. You had a schizophrenic attack after your movie. This was back when we took cash. And that’s all you had: cash. I don’t remember the movie. It was probably any popcorn flick that anyone would go to. A Marvel movie maybe. Could have been Fast & Furious.
But this is what I remember. A lady walked up to me and said you were mumbling. She seemed frightened, so I reassured her you were harmless. That you come here all the time and don’t ever cause trouble. It seems though, trouble loves to find you. Who were you talking to that night, I wonder? Who did you see? What strange dreams plagued you then and plague you still?
It’s four or five years later now. Here you are in a new home, this abandoned rats’ alley between my apartment and the Walgreens. We’re neighbors. We’ve been neighbors. You once nodded to me in camaraderie as we passed each other by, a morning salutation with whatever drink you managed to scrounge up and hold fast to.
This is to say, I hope you stay warm and I hope you stay safe. Even if it means just a lighter and another warm body beside you, two souls who know the anger of this new world and its rising, deafening tone. I’m glad you have a companion with you to hold your hand when those demons come for you again, even if it’s in the elements.
Besides, isn’t that all any of us want at the end of the day, anyway? Another body, another soul, someone to say, “You are okay and we are safe,” even if that may not be true.
As I finish this letter, I remind myself that rent is due on the 5th. And I’d better pay it.
William Smythe is a local writer and poet. He writes for Focus Mid-South, an LGBT+ magazine.
