The subject of my profile started crying

He then begins to cry for a cigarette and I imagine much more: for his blown sobriety; for all the team players in homeroom who carried a lacrosse stick at a position frighteningly close to port arms and called him faggot loudly; for every state trooper who would tell him to stop hitching and get on the service road as they would rip through all his possessions hoping to find maybe a nickel bag (back in the gentler days when dope was copped in the friendly Baggie reminiscent of the daily Mom packed snack in grades K through 6 in contrast to the modern-day cold manila or glassine envelope), that the concerned and conscientious officer (italics mine) would make him spill out into the 55 mile per hour winds, leaving Bill on his knees collecting the rest of his belongings scattered on the shoulder of an interstate; he cries because he knows it’s not all because of the alcohol; he cries as he remembers the many go-getters who would be on their way to a weight room or a continuing ed. class or a job interview and would tell him to get a life; he cries for all the friends and family who would look at him and say “not again” (disappointed) or worse, “not again” (disgusted); he cries because nobody (himself included) has any idea what happened to his ambition, his personality, his bootstraps.

An excerpt from my piece “Homeless in the Living Room”


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