The Golden Gate
The boy’s name is Scott. Some people call him Scotty V, because his last name was Verona and it sounds catchy. Scotty hit the street at 6 o clock exactly on a cold Thursday in November. An ocean breeze whipped up the city block and he was thankful for his black beanie. Scotty walked quickly in his tight jeans and Vans, like he had somewhere to go. He was tall, probably six foot or so; half black, half Italian. None of these facts about Scotty really matter much. The only thing you really need to know about the kid is that he didn’t give a crap about anything. At least that’s what he would tell you if you asked him.
His headphones were in and he allowed his head to bob ever so slightly to the beat. The fog was already rolling in from the west. San Francisco was getting tucked in for bed. Orange specks of light illuminated the gloomy streets. Nobody payed any attention to our boy Scotty as he walked to the bus stop. Why would they? In the big city everyone has someplace to go. You can be surrounded by people but be all alone. If Scotty ever talked about his feelings maybe he would tell you he felt lonely out on the streets at night. He never did talk though.
Scott Verona had learned a long time ago it was better to just bottle things up. His dad died when he was eleven, leaving his mother to do it all. She would forever refuse to remarry, and Scott had never had a father figure around. His mother had only one brother. He had disappeared long ago; sometime after some foreign war. Scott was named after him. She talked about him a lot; wondered where he was. When Scott was fourteen he discovered something he could smoke that did a real good job of relaxing him. Our story starts as he heads to the park for some quite time. The lonely stoner is our hero.
The bus pulled up to stop 51. It was already packed front to back with commuters. That was really annoying for the young man. Scotty picked his way through the legs, arms, and bodies to an aluminum pole he could lean on in the back. Red and white marker was scribbled all over it. Scotty didn’t care; he was far away in his own world. The song changed in his headphones and for a second he could hear the sounds of the real world around him. The old Asian lady next to him was chatting away in another language. ‘Probably has to take the bus because she crashed her car’ he thought. In the back, men in suits argued loudly about football. ‘Stuck up jocks, looking for attention’ Scotty thought. A homeless man was babbling inaudibly to himself in front of him. ‘Crazy idiot’ he thought. The next song started and Scotty lifted off again to his lonely planet.
The other kids at Scott Verona’s school thought he was a real dead beat. He came to school every day in the clouds; failed every test. Scotty figured nobody would ever really understand him, so he just didn’t give a crap. Even in that bus he knew what they were all thinking. ‘Look at this stoner, throwing away his life like every other adolescent’. Why should he worry about anybody but himself? They would all just judge him anyway. Scotty stepped off the bus into the bitter chill. A billboard advertising that Thanksgiving was coming soon loomed above him. Every year Scott’s mom always tried to get together enough money for a turkey. It always felt like any other dinner though, just Scott and his mom at a dark table. She had finally stopped crying a few years ago.
It was really dark in the park. Scotty set off for his favorite hiding hole in the big bushes. He pulled off his headphones and picked through the vegetation. The background rumble of the big city set the scene. All was still. Then a great mournful cry made Scotty hit his head on the fog. He looked to his right and there, barely visible, was a man. There was a loud sob and Scotty realized there was a man crying in the gloom. He turned to leave; crying men make most people feel pretty uncomfortable.
The man began to stumble in Scotties direction. Hair covered his face to point where only his eyes were showing. An army cap rested on the matted grey mane that swirled everywhere. A puffy jacket covered the hobo’s torso. A dark hand whipped away tears from his eyes. Suddenly he froze as he noticed Scotty for the first time. The two beings stared at each other in those bushes, neither making a sound. Then the homeless made a scream like a tortured animal,
“It is all over boy!” the man cried. Scott turned to leave, possibly run.
“Stop boy!” the homeless man screamed. Scotty kept moving, but the going was slow. The last thing he wanted was to fall down.
“Stop!” moaned the man, quieter this time “I need someone to talk to one last time.”
It was then that Scotty stopped. He didn’t know why; there was just something about the last moan. There was just something about this man standing in the bushes crying that froze Scott Verona. The two figures stood ten feet away from each other; one crying, one wondering what he was doing not running. The homeless man opened his mouth and began to speak. His words burst between sobs like the explosions of bombs never forgotten.
“-the bush, so damn dense. You couldn’t see a thing. Water was always dripping, dripping, dripping. Johnny had a Mom, a Dad, a dog named Jake. He was from a farm back east somewhere- He had a girl. Showed me pictures of her sometimes when people weren’t around. I loved Johnny. They came one night. Those basterds could sneak through the bush like ghosts. The rain was coming down real hard. Johnny wanted to go to college. Wanted to cure cancer. I just wanted to be a hero. I went out in the open that night. I just wanted to be a damn hero. They got me straight in the calf. I don’t remember much of it really. Just lying there in the mud screaming, screaming. I told him not to come, he was safe. He had more to lose. I told him just to go back to camp. Get help there. But damn Johnny came out there to get me. He came through the rain. I saw him coming. I saw those dirty basterds blow his head off. I saw Johnny die.”
The homeless man was on his knees now; doubled over by the sobs. Scotty watched him in horror, he couldn’t move.
“They took me home after that. I was all alone. Nobody talked to me. Nobody knew what to say. Nobody talks to me. Nobody knows me. I don’t know anyone. They thought I was a hero. Then they thought I was sick. Now they think I’m crazy. Maybe I am crazy. It has been too long now. It’s time to see the Golden Gate now. It’s time.”
Still the old hobo cried; shaking like a leaf in a storm. His chest heaved up and down. To Scotty it felt like this person had waited his whole life to tell someone this story. The man looked up from the ground and stared into the boys face. His eyes were blood shot; sadness the boy knew too well existed there. Scotty had to leave, he couldn’t take those eyes. He turned and began to run. Those sad eyes stabbed him somewhere he couldn’t explain.
Scotty stopped running when he hit the street. He sat down on a bench and realized his whole body was shaking. Scott Verona was crying. For the first time in a long time, Scott didn’t have control. Every feeling he ever had was pouring out. Every little thing he had bottled up since he was eleven was exploding in salty water. He thought of his mother; working double jobs so her son could afford weed. He thought of his father. He thought of his school. He thought about how alone he felt every day, every damn night. He thought of the weed, the alcohol. How he was throwing everything away. Scotty cried for a long time. He was ashamed to cry. He didn’t understand why that homeless man had shaken him so bad. Maybe it was because he saw everything he had ever struggled with in this crazy old man. Maybe those sad eyes reminded him of how sad he was. Maybe it was because Scotty had finally realized just how alone he was in this world. Either way, everything changed for Scotty in those moments on the bench. Everything.
It must have been an hour later when Scotty stood up, and knew he had to go back. He realized that old man needed someone. He realized he needed someone. Scott Verona had spent his whole life judging every person he met. He had spent all his energy hiding in the box he thought his peers had made for him. The homeless man needed him now. The box be damned.
Scotty went back into that dark park. He walked past the pond, through the trees, through the field, and finally into the dark dripping brush. He listened with everything he had for the sound of an old broken man crying. There was nothing. Scotty got back to the clearing, no man resided there now. ‘Where could he have gone?’ He thought. Then Scotty remembered: the Golden Gate. The homeless man had mentioned the Golden Gate. Panic gripped our boy all over. He turned to run when suddenly he noticed something in the brush. He moved closer and realized the old man had left his pack. The thing was lumpy all over and had the distinct essence of being everything a poor soul owned. There were blankets and clothes; food rappers and bottles; a teddy bear. It was then that Scotty noticed a wallet sticking out of one of the pockets. He knelt down and removed it. The old leather was faded with age. There was an ancient sticker pressed against it. Scotty opened it and with the light of his cell phone illuminated the faded image of a clean cut man on a driver’s license. Our hero leaped to his feet. Shock numbed his body. He turned and began to run; he needed to get to the bridge.
If you asked Scotty now he probably would tell you he doesn’t remember much from that run. When enough adrenaline kicks in, you barely even realize what is going on. All you do is run and run and run. Scotty ran the fastest three miles of his life that night. He may not remember, but the whole time he was thinking of his mother. She had been through too much. Scotty got to bridge exhausted. He walked out on the sidewalk and gazed to his right. Before him were the lights of the cold city. Great pillars of humanity stretched up into the heavens; joining forces with the stars above to form a pattern of twinkling lights. Even in his agony of exhaustion Scotty paused. He was so aware of his emptiness; the torment of his loneliness weighed on his soul. There were too many people in this city; too many souls to never even connect with one of them. Scotty needed someone. He couldn’t take the solitude of his being anymore.
Scotty gazed to his left. A great wall of swirling fog loomed large. Nothing could be seen but a terrible grayness that would soon envelope the great bridge. Scotty needed to find the homeless man before it was too late; before they were all plunged into the darkness. He began to run again. Wildly Scotty sprinted; his head flashed this way and that. Desperately he searched for the forlorn figure of a broken man. And the fog still rolled in, impartial to the struggles of lost human beings. Then Scotty saw him; standing on the railing 100 yards ahead. He began to scream frantically.
“STOP! STOP! PLEASE!”
The man turned his head for one last look and tensed his body for the great fall. For a moment Scott Verona thought he was a second too late.
“SCOTT, STOP! SCOTT!”
The homeless man froze and turned his distorted face. He hadn’t heard someone speak his name for a long, long time. Scotty finally reached the railing. The old man was leaning dangerously over; barely holding on. The two men looked into one another’s sad desperate eyes, and recognition dawned.
“Uncle Scott, we gotta go home now. My Mama misses you.”
His headphones were in and he allowed his head to bob ever so slightly to the beat. The fog was already rolling in from the west. San Francisco was getting tucked in for bed. Orange specks of light illuminated the gloomy streets. Nobody payed any attention to our boy Scotty as he walked to the bus stop. Why would they? In the big city everyone has someplace to go. You can be surrounded by people but be all alone. If Scotty ever talked about his feelings maybe he would tell you he felt lonely out on the streets at night. He never did talk though.
Scott Verona had learned a long time ago it was better to just bottle things up. His dad died when he was eleven, leaving his mother to do it all. She would forever refuse to remarry, and Scott had never had a father figure around. His mother had only one brother. He had disappeared long ago; sometime after some foreign war. Scott was named after him. She talked about him a lot; wondered where he was. When Scott was fourteen he discovered something he could smoke that did a real good job of relaxing him. Our story starts as he heads to the park for some quite time. The lonely stoner is our hero.
The bus pulled up to stop 51. It was already packed front to back with commuters. That was really annoying for the young man. Scotty picked his way through the legs, arms, and bodies to an aluminum pole he could lean on in the back. Red and white marker was scribbled all over it. Scotty didn’t care; he was far away in his own world. The song changed in his headphones and for a second he could hear the sounds of the real world around him. The old Asian lady next to him was chatting away in another language. ‘Probably has to take the bus because she crashed her car’ he thought. In the back, men in suits argued loudly about football. ‘Stuck up jocks, looking for attention’ Scotty thought. A homeless man was babbling inaudibly to himself in front of him. ‘Crazy idiot’ he thought. The next song started and Scotty lifted off again to his lonely planet.
The other kids at Scott Verona’s school thought he was a real dead beat. He came to school every day in the clouds; failed every test. Scotty figured nobody would ever really understand him, so he just didn’t give a crap. Even in that bus he knew what they were all thinking. ‘Look at this stoner, throwing away his life like every other adolescent’. Why should he worry about anybody but himself? They would all just judge him anyway. Scotty stepped off the bus into the bitter chill. A billboard advertising that Thanksgiving was coming soon loomed above him. Every year Scott’s mom always tried to get together enough money for a turkey. It always felt like any other dinner though, just Scott and his mom at a dark table. She had finally stopped crying a few years ago.
It was really dark in the park. Scotty set off for his favorite hiding hole in the big bushes. He pulled off his headphones and picked through the vegetation. The background rumble of the big city set the scene. All was still. Then a great mournful cry made Scotty hit his head on the fog. He looked to his right and there, barely visible, was a man. There was a loud sob and Scotty realized there was a man crying in the gloom. He turned to leave; crying men make most people feel pretty uncomfortable.
The man began to stumble in Scotties direction. Hair covered his face to point where only his eyes were showing. An army cap rested on the matted grey mane that swirled everywhere. A puffy jacket covered the hobo’s torso. A dark hand whipped away tears from his eyes. Suddenly he froze as he noticed Scotty for the first time. The two beings stared at each other in those bushes, neither making a sound. Then the homeless made a scream like a tortured animal,
“It is all over boy!” the man cried. Scott turned to leave, possibly run.
“Stop boy!” the homeless man screamed. Scotty kept moving, but the going was slow. The last thing he wanted was to fall down.
“Stop!” moaned the man, quieter this time “I need someone to talk to one last time.”
It was then that Scotty stopped. He didn’t know why; there was just something about the last moan. There was just something about this man standing in the bushes crying that froze Scott Verona. The two figures stood ten feet away from each other; one crying, one wondering what he was doing not running. The homeless man opened his mouth and began to speak. His words burst between sobs like the explosions of bombs never forgotten.
“-the bush, so damn dense. You couldn’t see a thing. Water was always dripping, dripping, dripping. Johnny had a Mom, a Dad, a dog named Jake. He was from a farm back east somewhere- He had a girl. Showed me pictures of her sometimes when people weren’t around. I loved Johnny. They came one night. Those basterds could sneak through the bush like ghosts. The rain was coming down real hard. Johnny wanted to go to college. Wanted to cure cancer. I just wanted to be a hero. I went out in the open that night. I just wanted to be a damn hero. They got me straight in the calf. I don’t remember much of it really. Just lying there in the mud screaming, screaming. I told him not to come, he was safe. He had more to lose. I told him just to go back to camp. Get help there. But damn Johnny came out there to get me. He came through the rain. I saw him coming. I saw those dirty basterds blow his head off. I saw Johnny die.”
The homeless man was on his knees now; doubled over by the sobs. Scotty watched him in horror, he couldn’t move.
“They took me home after that. I was all alone. Nobody talked to me. Nobody knew what to say. Nobody talks to me. Nobody knows me. I don’t know anyone. They thought I was a hero. Then they thought I was sick. Now they think I’m crazy. Maybe I am crazy. It has been too long now. It’s time to see the Golden Gate now. It’s time.”
Still the old hobo cried; shaking like a leaf in a storm. His chest heaved up and down. To Scotty it felt like this person had waited his whole life to tell someone this story. The man looked up from the ground and stared into the boys face. His eyes were blood shot; sadness the boy knew too well existed there. Scotty had to leave, he couldn’t take those eyes. He turned and began to run. Those sad eyes stabbed him somewhere he couldn’t explain.
Scotty stopped running when he hit the street. He sat down on a bench and realized his whole body was shaking. Scott Verona was crying. For the first time in a long time, Scott didn’t have control. Every feeling he ever had was pouring out. Every little thing he had bottled up since he was eleven was exploding in salty water. He thought of his mother; working double jobs so her son could afford weed. He thought of his father. He thought of his school. He thought about how alone he felt every day, every damn night. He thought of the weed, the alcohol. How he was throwing everything away. Scotty cried for a long time. He was ashamed to cry. He didn’t understand why that homeless man had shaken him so bad. Maybe it was because he saw everything he had ever struggled with in this crazy old man. Maybe those sad eyes reminded him of how sad he was. Maybe it was because Scotty had finally realized just how alone he was in this world. Either way, everything changed for Scotty in those moments on the bench. Everything.
It must have been an hour later when Scotty stood up, and knew he had to go back. He realized that old man needed someone. He realized he needed someone. Scott Verona had spent his whole life judging every person he met. He had spent all his energy hiding in the box he thought his peers had made for him. The homeless man needed him now. The box be damned.
Scotty went back into that dark park. He walked past the pond, through the trees, through the field, and finally into the dark dripping brush. He listened with everything he had for the sound of an old broken man crying. There was nothing. Scotty got back to the clearing, no man resided there now. ‘Where could he have gone?’ He thought. Then Scotty remembered: the Golden Gate. The homeless man had mentioned the Golden Gate. Panic gripped our boy all over. He turned to run when suddenly he noticed something in the brush. He moved closer and realized the old man had left his pack. The thing was lumpy all over and had the distinct essence of being everything a poor soul owned. There were blankets and clothes; food rappers and bottles; a teddy bear. It was then that Scotty noticed a wallet sticking out of one of the pockets. He knelt down and removed it. The old leather was faded with age. There was an ancient sticker pressed against it. Scotty opened it and with the light of his cell phone illuminated the faded image of a clean cut man on a driver’s license. Our hero leaped to his feet. Shock numbed his body. He turned and began to run; he needed to get to the bridge.
If you asked Scotty now he probably would tell you he doesn’t remember much from that run. When enough adrenaline kicks in, you barely even realize what is going on. All you do is run and run and run. Scotty ran the fastest three miles of his life that night. He may not remember, but the whole time he was thinking of his mother. She had been through too much. Scotty got to bridge exhausted. He walked out on the sidewalk and gazed to his right. Before him were the lights of the cold city. Great pillars of humanity stretched up into the heavens; joining forces with the stars above to form a pattern of twinkling lights. Even in his agony of exhaustion Scotty paused. He was so aware of his emptiness; the torment of his loneliness weighed on his soul. There were too many people in this city; too many souls to never even connect with one of them. Scotty needed someone. He couldn’t take the solitude of his being anymore.
Scotty gazed to his left. A great wall of swirling fog loomed large. Nothing could be seen but a terrible grayness that would soon envelope the great bridge. Scotty needed to find the homeless man before it was too late; before they were all plunged into the darkness. He began to run again. Wildly Scotty sprinted; his head flashed this way and that. Desperately he searched for the forlorn figure of a broken man. And the fog still rolled in, impartial to the struggles of lost human beings. Then Scotty saw him; standing on the railing 100 yards ahead. He began to scream frantically.
“STOP! STOP! PLEASE!”
The man turned his head for one last look and tensed his body for the great fall. For a moment Scott Verona thought he was a second too late.
“SCOTT, STOP! SCOTT!”
The homeless man froze and turned his distorted face. He hadn’t heard someone speak his name for a long, long time. Scotty finally reached the railing. The old man was leaning dangerously over; barely holding on. The two men looked into one another’s sad desperate eyes, and recognition dawned.
“Uncle Scott, we gotta go home now. My Mama misses you.”
No comments:
Post a Comment