GABRIEL LOZANO MARCHAND

What am I even doing? Is my existence sufficiently worth the effort? It hasn’t even been 3 weeks and I’m already dying. Really dying. I thought it’d be better out here than in the cage people call home. I try to convince myself that it is, so I don’t feel like I've made a mistake. But who am I kidding, I’m worse than ever. Feeling so meaningless, so, so lost. Such quantities of hope getting lost in the haze. The only thing that’s left of me isn’t even a thing, because it isn’t, there isn’t a thing left of me, well, maybe my appetite, yes, my appetite’s definitely the only thing left of me. But that doesn’t count. Just by thinking of it makes me drool. I can’t even think thoroughly. My stomach’s going on a rampage, a riot of some sort, digestive acids vs. the emptiness of my stomach. Somehow it manages to become violent, like if they’re joining forces to fight against me. Have you ever heard of a stomach eating itself? Well me neither, but I think it’s starting to occur. It seemed endless though. I laid anxiously, on the edge of a busy street, on a fenced lot, where the only rocks, dirt and wild grass was left untouched, without human intent of destroying its purity. It was an island of nothing, and around it, covered a sea of cement. I’m at peace with it, although it isn’t as comfortable as my last home. I’ve been here long enough to create a bald spot of dirt, like if grass had never grown there.

 

         Next to me is a gas station. It’s old but reliable. It’s always filled with cars, except at night, that’s when they’d have their lunch break. Sitting on the rusty metal table, talking about their wives and soccer games they heard on the radio, eating enchiladas and tacos, that was when I would suffer the most. Like a stampede, running in to my nostrils, the smell bathed through my lungs. So warm and perfect. I couldn’t think of anything else. I was falling in love with something out of reach. I didn’t know how to ask for it, I wanted it so badly. Sometimes, from a distance, I’d have an expression in my face, an overly exaggerated one, so that someone there would have the empathy to feed my hunger. Nobody looked back. I stopped doing it for various reasons, firstly, it’s demoralizing, and second, I could get my own food without asking for it, but this was an emergency, and it was night.

 

        I went over there, slowly and silently. The closest was a man who’s chair was too small for his overly sized body. He looked like he was the one who enjoyed eating the most. I got closer, and closer, and closer, until I could almost reach the food. The man looked at me. At first he was surprised, looking at me with a pressured stare, like if my presence disturbed his peace. I bet it did, but I was hungry, and there’s no way I could continue my life with this despiteful hunger. And as his patience disappeared, “SHOOSH!” he yelled while moving his hand as if he would do to scare a fly. Little pieces of food fell from his overly filled mouth. I didn’t care how mad he was. I stood still. His anger grew. He stood up while he cleaned his mouth with a napkin. He through the napkin violently to the table. The other workers looked at each other confusingly. “Hey, hey, take it easy.” Said the guy beside him. The fat man kept his focus on me and as a way to scare me, he stamped his foot while doing a loud sound. I got a little scared to be honest, but for some strange reason, he seemed more insecure, probably feeling over-protective over his food. But I needed it, so I kept still. Without any patience, he took a knife from the table and did swinging motions. The rest of the guys kept silence, until one man gave up and sighed. A tall, old aged man whose life measured in miles, as old as the gas station, whose experiences were written in wrinkles, took a long breath and gave loose to sigh worth 66 years. He pushed the chair behind him with the back of his legs while standing upwards. With his crooked fingers, he took hold of a piece of bread. Slowly, the old man tiredly walked towards the fat man, pushing him over, and squatting down with a mighty groan. He looked at me, having the piece of food in his hand, knowing how much I’d enjoy it. He squinted his eyes, making his face look like a complicated maze of wrinkles, like if he was reading something important. I felt like he was solving a puzzle. I felt my forehead getting transparent, like he could see the thoughts of a naked mind. After an everlasting handful of seconds he chuckled and handed me the piece of bread. Let me just say that the piece of bread was more like a piece of victory, handing me over an Oscar or a Nobel prize. I would like to thank my family. I couldn’t of had enjoyed it more. Being blessed by the old man was like death itself reconsidered my existence. Then, when I never thought it couldn’t get any better, he reached for his plate and laid it on the ground. It had some beans, meat, something yellow that looked like rice that probably was in fact rice, and something colorful that resembled the feeling of ecstasy. I didn’t care how messy I looked or how mannerless I ate, I just enjoyed the 2 minute bliss I’ll never forget. I stopped myself from eating the plastic plate, knowing how stupid that’d be. I licked every single molecule of food until the plate looked like new.

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         When I was done I looked back and the old man was already gathering his things, getting ready to leave. The rest of the workers were still conversing. I walked happily towards the old man to express my gratitude. He zipped closed his bag and lifted it from the floor and placed it on top of his worn out shoulder. He patted me on the head and walked passed me. Leaving the gas station as if it was just another day of work. I followed him. It seemed like the only right thing to do. Walking behind him made me feel like if we knew each other, like if he and I had the same purpose. He would always look down, memorizing every crack on the sidewalk. After half hour of walking, he stopped outside an old house. He reached into a pocket inside his sweater and took out some money. Then, he slid it under the door. That’s when he noticed me. “What are you doing here?” he asked with a tired voice. He chuckled and shook his head. I didn’t know what to say. He turned and began to walk. So, I followed, and followed, and followed. Getting tired of walking, I was beginning to fall asleep, like a slob, just dragging myself through the dirty cement. For another 15 minutes, the seemingly endless journey came to a halt, like the bottom end of a rainbow, expecting a pot of gold. But then I began to forget why I had followed him for so long. I kept asking myself, “What now?”, and “Was this worth having walked for miles?” The jingling of his door keys took me out of trance. He opened it and looked back at the moonless night. The old but reliable man smiled and said, “Dogs don’t need homes.” He walked inside, and closed the door. I walked next to the old man’s house and laid to rest.