Douglas Lucas

The Samaritan

I put foot after foot on the endless sidewalk, thinking the concrete had eaten the sun on purpose. My calluses fought back: dead flesh flailed off them, so as I walked I slapped the sidewalk. I passed few others coming to this stretch from the dumpster where I slept. When you did hurry by, I’d keep my eyes boring into the blankness by your side; my kind and your kind don’t look at each other, as you well know. I have nothing to say to you; you’re afraid to know about me.
          

I’d have taken in the trees, the silent street, the lawns I cannot walk on as homeowners might, but pushing my eyes hard at the blankness helps blot out some of the jawing running through my skull. Words still leaked through. C’mon, can’t you steal some shoes, ugly?
          

One of you—a woman—crested the hill far ahead, small as a fleck of ash at that distance. I flicked her out of my mind. Like ash to a shirt, part of her clung to me all the same.
           

I tried to ignore it, tried to only watch the sidewalk unrolling beneath me, but the jawing kept on about her shoes. Go ahead, laugh. You’ve never carried your life in a stuff sack on your shoulder. As concrete bits ground into my blisters, I let myself wonder what kind of shoes she wore—perhaps they had the little cushions of air.
           

Against my will I squinted against the sun, searching her figure—larger now, the size of my fist perhaps. She powerwalked in pink shorts, pink sports bra, white socks and white tennis shoes. I dropped my eyes back into my stare.
           

Her feet thumped the concrete, slowing slightly as we neared. I felt the hatred your kind casts my way, replaces with pretend pity, and lets slip from your mind like so much coarse silt. I sensed the feelings as if they were a dirty tide washing over me. A tide from the polluted ocean of people who’ve treated me your way.
           

Then I heard a syncopation in her step and a syringe of fear drove into me. I hated it, I hated it. The emotion jolted me, took my control. She tripped, shouted; her eyes sprung to me, an involuntary scream for help. I had to stop before we collided. I felt my eyelids tearing wide with uncertainty.
           

For once I had your kind at my mercy.
           

She’d crumpled facedown, one leg hooked under the other, blocking my path. A retaining wall kept me from the nearby lawn; on the street an iron grating threatened to burn my feet worse than the sidewalk. To pass I’d have to walk back and around. I hesitated. I wanted her to look at what I have to see in reflections. I wanted her to know my black tooth mouth, my once-white face with its look of ground-in motor oil, my feet—my sliced feet. I wanted her to understand my smell of sweat, urine, exhaustion. Who can imagine tasting me, kissing me?

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