He Walks in Moonlight

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The driver pretended he was talking on the phone. Jerry tried to let it go even though he felt anger bubbling up. Panhandling dipped into his well of hate giving him a squirrel stomach like his father's glare. His earnest eyes met ears and bald spots as the drivers sat in their cars pretending to play with the radio - or do other things - to avoid talking to him. The constant rejection provoked anger, shame, regret, and disgust. He was lucky to clear $30 a day; sometimes more and often less. Jerry hated panhandling worse than living under the cloak of indifference he ran away from.

He tried selling small bags of marijuana or the hillbilly heroin he pinched from his Aunt Margaret's medicine cabinet. He would sit in a dark alley waiting for the locals to walk up acting like spies who were certain their cover was blown. Every sale was exciting, dangerous and sickening. The money was quick. All of the customers were a bit intense as they begged for a fix. Everyone seemed so sad. He kicked himself for feeding their sickness and felt even worse. Plus, Margaret eventually found her pills turned up missing every time he came over. That ended that. Without money, a job, or a place to stay, he soon felt eyes watching him. Jerry suspected everybody was a cop. Paranoia added to his shame of being homeless and it wasn't something he wanted to feel.

Jerry had been a passenger once in a car passing through on the 95. Now, he walked away from the freeway toward The Strip carrying a grocery sack filled with two hot water bottles. They were colder earlier when he refiled them from a water fountain inside Bellagio. As cars sped by above him, he eyed a billboard promising gamblers Looser Slots; deep down Jerry felt like a loser too.

Day 397: 5 Minute Freewrite: Wednesday - Prompt: passenger by @mariannewest

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