What do they dream about?
Jim is home free. He's a drifter. I often see him on Shattuck. There's just a hint of the South in his voice, and it's prone to cracking. He has a mustache, his skin is weathered, he stands at five-eight. He's thin. Rugged. Wears a cowboy hat and flannel shirts. Dark colors, always. Blues and blacks, mostly. He smokes Marlboro Lights and usually has a twenty ouncer of Coca Cola or Dr. Pepper at hand. Don't know if the soda pop is spiked, or not.
I wouldn't hold it against him, if it was. He may very well be an alcoholic, but it isn't alcoholism that keeps him on the streets. The alcoholism, at the most, might be a symptom of what keeps him on the streets. What it is, exactly, I won't even bother to guess, right now. I reckon one day, sooner or later, I'll ask him. He isn't likely to blame anyone, so I don't fear putting the question to him.
Jim has a companion. Her name is Faraday. I thought she was a pitbull, but I was mistaken. She's actually an American Staffordshire Terrier. The breed is unique due to the bone-structure of its skull and the shoulder musculature. It's also larger than it's English cousin. In crueler times, this animal was set loose upon bulls and bears.
Bloodsports. That's how the crowds kept themselves entertained.
She is about nine months old, now. She's got short, auburn fur, and her face is accented with black. She's got a really long tail. She barks when skateboarders sail by. She somehow equates mobility and agility with hostility. Part of her still wants to kill, I think.
Jim walks around with her and his belongings. He keeps everything he owns, I guess, in a sidebag and a dufflebag. When he needs to wash up, or take a leak, he'll leave Faraday on top of his dufflebag. He'll tell her to stay and, by God, she will. Until he gets back. Sometimes, if I'm around, she'll sit up and crane her neck out to me. She won't leave her spot, but she wants attention.
Last week, Jim was arrested and spent the night in jail. He didn't say what got him incarcerated, although I didn't come right out and ask. The cops routinely harass transients in Berkeley, and no doubt some transients out to be harassed.
For whatever it's worth, I believe Jim is a good man. A good man with a healthy, anti-authoritarian streak to him. That can land you in trouble when a cop's got nothing better to do. He stays on good terms with quite a few businesses on Shattuck. Like most streets in the commercial districts of Berkeley, it's got "NO TRESSPASSING" signs hung in every doorway. So long as you've got permission to be there, though, it's not trespassing. So Jim walks the line, as best as he's able.
The cops hauled him in and confiscated his property. His dog went to a pound of some sort. Jim has a lady friend, and after he was released, this friend of his gave the pound a call, inquiring about Faraday's well-being. She was told by the operator that Faraday was the best-behaved dog in the whole kennel, and that she'd be missed. Jim hadn't slept much before telling me this. His eyes were wide. His face was pale. He didn't have the measured gaze, or the pink on his cheeks he usually does. He was worried. He kept saying that, "In theory," he'd get her back the next day.
He spent this year's first cold night in Berkeley alone. It was the second time Faraday didn't sleep with him, since he picked her up. He's had her since she was the size of liter bottle, he says. He found her, abandoned, as a pup. He's cared for her ever since. He carries a bag of dried dogfood in his dufflebag. He gives her pigs' ears, on occasion. Somosas, on others. He talks to her. Calls her a moron, sometimes. Calls her his baby. Talks to her the way most people talk to their pets, I think. I've seen him cradling her, their heads sticking out of the sleeping bag, resting on a nylon army blanket. Her ears cocked, alert even in sleep.
As it happened, he got her back the next day. He bought a toy for her. A stuffed monkey that screeched when you pressed a button hidden deep in his tummy. Like most of the toys he buys her, it was destroyed within minutes.
Where he gets his money, I don't know. He always seems to have enough for her.
It makes me very sad to think of him lying on the concrete without her, his loyal companion. What makes me sadder, though, is the thought of her without him. He doesn't seem to be an "old" man, by any stretch, and I'm sure he's not counting the years. But I think of the grief we've caused ourselves (that is, Cindy and I), by coddling our dog. And here, Faraday, is an animal that escaped from the wild into the arms of gentle, lonely man.
Who else could give her as much as he has?
I wouldn't hold it against him, if it was. He may very well be an alcoholic, but it isn't alcoholism that keeps him on the streets. The alcoholism, at the most, might be a symptom of what keeps him on the streets. What it is, exactly, I won't even bother to guess, right now. I reckon one day, sooner or later, I'll ask him. He isn't likely to blame anyone, so I don't fear putting the question to him.
Jim has a companion. Her name is Faraday. I thought she was a pitbull, but I was mistaken. She's actually an American Staffordshire Terrier. The breed is unique due to the bone-structure of its skull and the shoulder musculature. It's also larger than it's English cousin. In crueler times, this animal was set loose upon bulls and bears.
Bloodsports. That's how the crowds kept themselves entertained.
She is about nine months old, now. She's got short, auburn fur, and her face is accented with black. She's got a really long tail. She barks when skateboarders sail by. She somehow equates mobility and agility with hostility. Part of her still wants to kill, I think.
Jim walks around with her and his belongings. He keeps everything he owns, I guess, in a sidebag and a dufflebag. When he needs to wash up, or take a leak, he'll leave Faraday on top of his dufflebag. He'll tell her to stay and, by God, she will. Until he gets back. Sometimes, if I'm around, she'll sit up and crane her neck out to me. She won't leave her spot, but she wants attention.
Last week, Jim was arrested and spent the night in jail. He didn't say what got him incarcerated, although I didn't come right out and ask. The cops routinely harass transients in Berkeley, and no doubt some transients out to be harassed.
For whatever it's worth, I believe Jim is a good man. A good man with a healthy, anti-authoritarian streak to him. That can land you in trouble when a cop's got nothing better to do. He stays on good terms with quite a few businesses on Shattuck. Like most streets in the commercial districts of Berkeley, it's got "NO TRESSPASSING" signs hung in every doorway. So long as you've got permission to be there, though, it's not trespassing. So Jim walks the line, as best as he's able.
The cops hauled him in and confiscated his property. His dog went to a pound of some sort. Jim has a lady friend, and after he was released, this friend of his gave the pound a call, inquiring about Faraday's well-being. She was told by the operator that Faraday was the best-behaved dog in the whole kennel, and that she'd be missed. Jim hadn't slept much before telling me this. His eyes were wide. His face was pale. He didn't have the measured gaze, or the pink on his cheeks he usually does. He was worried. He kept saying that, "In theory," he'd get her back the next day.
He spent this year's first cold night in Berkeley alone. It was the second time Faraday didn't sleep with him, since he picked her up. He's had her since she was the size of liter bottle, he says. He found her, abandoned, as a pup. He's cared for her ever since. He carries a bag of dried dogfood in his dufflebag. He gives her pigs' ears, on occasion. Somosas, on others. He talks to her. Calls her a moron, sometimes. Calls her his baby. Talks to her the way most people talk to their pets, I think. I've seen him cradling her, their heads sticking out of the sleeping bag, resting on a nylon army blanket. Her ears cocked, alert even in sleep.
As it happened, he got her back the next day. He bought a toy for her. A stuffed monkey that screeched when you pressed a button hidden deep in his tummy. Like most of the toys he buys her, it was destroyed within minutes.
Where he gets his money, I don't know. He always seems to have enough for her.
It makes me very sad to think of him lying on the concrete without her, his loyal companion. What makes me sadder, though, is the thought of her without him. He doesn't seem to be an "old" man, by any stretch, and I'm sure he's not counting the years. But I think of the grief we've caused ourselves (that is, Cindy and I), by coddling our dog. And here, Faraday, is an animal that escaped from the wild into the arms of gentle, lonely man.
Who else could give her as much as he has?