Miss Sharon was kind enough to drive me forty-eight blocks. I walked two blocks to my miserable apartment and hoped my miserable car would still be in that miserable frozen lot in the morning.
My apartment was on 107th and Euclid. It was a miserable room in a miserable building at a miserable location in Cleveland, Ohio.
The front door was unlocked until dusk and now it was just after five o’clock and dark so I had to reach into my ragged coat to get the key to the outer door. Once inside, I had to get the key that would open my mailbox. Then, I had to get a third key to open the inside door.
“What the—” I shouted.
The instant I placed my hand upon the door knob, the door was thrust into my face. My mail and my school papers became a blizzard. A man pushed me aside with his forearm. I balanced myself upon the wall.
What was that smell? Was it gasoline?
There was no time to think and I did not really care. Before I could stoop down and begin to pick up my stuff, Mr. Smith, the landlord, came running through the door and stumbled over me. A black pistol fell heavily onto my papers.
“Damn, he got away!” Mr. Smith said.
“What the—” This was not a thought.
“That guy was pouring gasoline in the hall and was about to light it.”
“What the—”
“Thought I had a clear shot at him this time.” Mr. Smith collected his gun and stood up.
“This time?” I said.
I collected my stuff and entered this miserable place of misery. Is it morning already? It was dark. It was always dark in Cleveland, Ohio, except for when it was gray. It was almost as if the gray form of my dirty miserable apartment had oozed outside except for the fact that the outside was an even more pitiful black.
The only color was that of the weak-watted street lights shining on the road-dirt slush. That color made you feel as if you were a captive inside one of those green cathode-ray tubes looking out.
The one thing I did know was that it was cold. You can see cold.
Better eat a big breakfast.
I knew that I would have to eat till I could force no more food down my gullet. It was going to be a very long day.
Fifty blocks.
That was what I thought as I walked out of that miserable gray apartment building onto that pitiful black Cleveland, Ohio, street. With each block walked, I counted down: 50, 49, 48, frozen, 47, 46, 45, what the—, 44, 43, what the—, 42, until at last, 1—and what the—
The car was still there and really, I was happily surprised because it is most difficult to buy a car in Cleveland, Ohio, for less than five dollars. The snow was piled on my pride and joy, an old blue Chevrolet. Eight cylinders (six worked), black and white leather seats (that were anchored by a chain to the frame), a spotlight (rusted out), three hub caps and one working windshield wiper, but what a killer sound system (a weak AM radio). The tires were worn past the tread, two windows went down and one went back up, and the key was a screw-driver.
I did not know much but I had learned how to keep this Chevrolet repaired, so I proceeded to begin the day’s work. However, it is most grueling being a shade-tree mechanic in frozen weather in Cleveland, Ohio. The trunk had the tools and the equipment that I needed.
I just had to walk from 55th Street to 38th Street once and back caked in ice. I picked away at the ice around the tires, freed the Chevrolet, and drove home. The breakfast had long since diffused from my blood but it is one of those choices that you have to make sometimes as a discerning animal—eat or sleep. I slept.
Is it morning already?
It is one of those choices you have to make—eat or sleep. I was too hungry to sleep. The decorative scheme of my miserable rat-trap of a room was dirt on grease.
Over on the other side of the table was a stack of ungraded assignments that were long overdue to be returned.
Is this to be my life?
It came to me, that working five days a week and then one day on Sunday was miserable.
Remembering that I had not eaten in twenty-four hours, I brewed a large cup of coffee, sat in my misery, and looked at the now repulsive dirt sponge of 107th Street that forty-eight hours ago was the virgin sand in my fantasy.
Wordlessly, the assignments sat there with thousands of words—waiting for me to place hundreds of words on top of words. What was thousands of words times hundreds of days times scores of years equal to in life terms?
I did the math.
That number added to my misery.
The apartment had an incinerator and Mr. Smith allowed the tenants to drop burnable stuff down a waste chute.
The rest of Sunday was without misery and indeed most restful. I did not know, and still do not know, what constitutes a proper Sabbath but I did obey the Fourth Commandment that day.
“My mother, bless her soul, would be proud of me.”
I thought what a fine son I was, putting all those church lessons to practical use today.
“God, it is so hot in here.”
I began to wonder.
“Mr. Smith must really have a fine blaze going.”
Then, after thinking for a minute, I was most certain that he did have a fine blaze going. I was going nowhere and I had all this time to get there so I just enjoyed my wordless Sabbath. I was sure that there is a Bible quote, something about not worrying about tomorrow for there are worries enough for today and let tomorrow simply take care of tomorrow. I did not know until now what a fine Christian I was in my life practices.
I should have been more faithful sooner.
February, March, April, May, and now it was June.
“Hey, class schedules for next year are out.” Cool Lewis greeted me.
He was cool. It was not that he was cool in the James Dean sense of cool; it was rather that Cool Lewis had style. He was up to the second in style and all this style came to an exclamation point in his mouth with that fine gold tooth.
“You can get yours from DeFrancisco.” Cool Lewis spoke while looking at his hand full of papers.
“Don’t want one, don’t need one. Soon this place will be so far behind me that it will not even be a memory.” I bragged with the boldness of a hero who was claiming the beautiful princess’s love after slaying the dragon.
“With what’s-her-face gone, you will pick up her classes.”
Cool Lewis had this inflection in his voice as if there was some reward in being sentenced to two hundred thirty-seven years in prison rather than being sentenced to life imprisonment.
“Don’t care, except for the fact that I am gonna miss you, Mr. Cool Lewis,” I said.
On the way out the door, there was Steve sitting in old man Vargas’ chair. He had a pile of assignments before him but he was looking over his classes for the upcoming year. “Hey, I’ve been assigned old man Vargas’ schedule,” Steve exclaimed. “Have you picked up your class schedule yet?”
“No, I have not picked up any schedule for next term.” I grunted.
“See, here only a short time and look, I have Vargas’ schedule.”
Steve was cheerful.
I could see no joy in wearing a dead man’s pants. Mr. Vargas had died in his English class just nine days ago.
“That ain’t no kinda reward and besides, I am gone.”
“Still saying that? Just go get your schedule.”
As fate would have it, DeFrancisco walked into the room and handed me a list of classes for the upcoming year. I set the worthless paper ablaze and exited onto 55th Street in Cleveland, Ohio. As my old blue Chevy pulled onto 55th, I could see the blaze in the open window of the school.