4 Degrees

Here's something I wrote for my critique group meeting (which is in 45 minutes -- I hadn't written anything of substance lately and so I had to come up with something). It's called "4 Degrees," and no, I don't know what it is yet. :)

Curling into a ball and tucking his hands under his armpits to keep them warm, the man next to the garbage bin softly moans in the cold. Snow is falling, beautiful to the casual observer but covered with icy death to those who sleep in the gutter. The temperature dropped below zero a few hours ago. Who will make it through the night? The shelter is full already--they let the women and children in first, which is fine by me. Who am I? I don't really know. I used to have a name, I think. Here they call me Skins. That's all I am now.

I'm walking past the bridge, shuffling really--the ice is very slippery. I'm lucky enough to have some newspapers, but not all are so lucky. Last night my friend Preacher's feet froze. Almost black now. He's in the shelter. Hope he'll make it.

A couple of weeks ago some kids came wandering in. Orphans, probably. Lots of them around. The littlest one was really cold, so I gave her my blanket. Sure is cold out. Got to keep walking, keep the blood moving. Sometimes I jog, but not for long because people glare at me and I can see in their eyes they want to call the cops. And it scrapes the insides of my lungs besides.

There's the edge of town, just past the old well. Nothing down there, at least not any more. Over the summer I bathed in it, but only at night when nobody was looking. Not that bathing really matters anymore. Part of me wants to give up and go freeze to death in the gutter, like the man next to the garbage bin--he'll be dead by morning--but part of me won't let me go. Guess it's some instinct or something. Sometimes I wish I could shut it off. Can't feel my fingers anymore. Got to keep walking, keep the blood moving. If you stop moving, it's over. I'm blowing on my hands to keep them warm. Life's kind of funny like that--you breathe out one way and it's hot, you breathe out another way and it's cold. Some people get the nice life, but others get stuck out here. Abandoned. It's not like I chose this, you know. Things happened and it wasn't really my fault. It was the bank. But do they care?

And there it is: the Turner Memorial Bank. Turner's probably rolling over in his grave right now, the way they treat people there. I hope one of them gets thrown out on the streets so they can feel what it's like. Scavenging for food like dogs. Some people beg. Not me. You have to keep your dignity when you're out here, otherwise you're just like the animals. Except they have fur. Wish I could grow fur.

I'm getting tired. Better find a place to stay. Farms are good--lots of hay--but there aren't many of them left. Closest one's straight ahead. What's his name? There's the rusty old mailbox: Jones. The 'J' and the 's' fell off a few weeks ago. Actually, Preacher borrowed them, but that's the official story. Rules are different out here. You do things you never thought you'd do before. Like scavenging for food like dogs. Got to keep walking, keep the blood moving.

The door creaks open and I slip into the darkness of the barn. Feeling my way around, over to the bales of hay on the left. There they are. There's enough hay out of the bales to cover me, almost. Maybe this'll be the last night. If I have to go, I'd rather go in my sleep. Easier that way. Drowning would be awful, so would fire. If I got shot, would I go right away? I don't want it to take long. It sure is cold. Well, goodbye, world. Hopefully it's better where I'm going. Warmer, too.