The Benefactor

I'm squatting in a back alley in some post-apocalyptic city. I don't know where I am. I've lived in so many places, I could be in New York, Chicago, or LA. I don't know anymore. I'm a 70 year old woman. All I know is it's cold at night here, and hot during the day.

On a daily basis, I shun shriveled old toothless men as if it's an art; I've been doing it my entire life.

I still bat them away like roaches, even at the ripe old age of 70. I have no idea what they want from me.

I once was pretty, I guess, but I'm certainly not anymore. I'm penniless too.

What could they possibly want from me?

I'm no less an outcast than they are, though. I just never knew what to do with my life.

I never hurt anyone. I simply couldn't find it in me to help others as much as I should have, and now here I am, in this dark alley. This is what I deserve, I guess.

Meanwhile, there are home wreckers and murderers and rapists and extortionists and scammers and corporate wannabes and Wall Street executives who snort cocaine for breakfast and then lurk. Preying on people for a living. They're all around us, and they're roaches. They don't die. All they do is take from others, yet they keep on succeeding somehow. While us well-meaning folks who happen to be lost rot here, in alleys with no hope.

Cigarette butts litter this dingy concrete. The concrete that is my home. Ashtrays aren't a thing anymore. Why not add more carcinogens to this world? Who cares. Cancer is here, and it's already metastatized.

Dirt crumbles from bricks behind me. Windows with bars have more life behind them than I do in myself, and all that's behind them is liquor and $2 scratch off tickets. The faint, flickering glow of neon lights illuminate that realization. They're in the process of burning out. Not unlike myself.

I'm seated on the ground, back against a brick wall. A dumpster to my right. A roach creeps up my leg. I bat it away, but here it comes, back to torment me yet again. I squash it with an empty beer bottle I find laying on the concrete. I probably would have had some of that beer, to be honest, had the bottle not been empty.

The roach still lives. It's flattened. Its bodily fluids are visibly trickling out; its legs still moving. It has more will to live than I do. It skitters off into a shadowy corner, its own entrails dragging behind it, still attached. Barely. It slows down for a second and lays on its side; then it gets back up and continues steadfastly on its journey.

I wish i had that level of determination.

I also wish I had something to kill the roach all the way. Seeing it suffer kills me a little bit inside.

I've made peace with the maggots that are wriggling behind my ears and into my nose and mouth. They mean no harm to me. they're just trying to make a living, and they're already better at that than i am.

Through glazed eyes, i take one last glance up. Far off in the distance is an illuminated skyline. Young professionals in suits walking home from work. Women on their iPhones dialing Ubers. They don't feel safe walking home alone.

Home.

You can make it there if you just try hard enough, I had always been told. For so long, I was told, and I believed that outrageous lie.

Stars in the sky, dimmed by elaborate billboards and towering skyscrapers and epilepsy-inducing LED screens. A world shrouded in a facade of success and aspirations and dreams and wonder and happiness. Celebrity images pasted on sides of buildings. Ads for products all developed for and by trust fund babies. And the prescription medication advertisements, oh God.

The ads don't even say what the medication treats. It could be for erectile dysfunction, or moderate to severe plaque psoriasis. Who cares? The doctors just want our money. Everyone wants our money. Money, money, money. It can't buy happiness, but lack of it certainly buys unhappiness.

Smog is everywhere. A sea of brake lights. I can't hear anything except people swearing at each other from their fancy cars. Those who can't afford at least a Benz would rather pay $19.26 to get into a cab with a total stranger - and trust that he or she will bring them home safely; not dump them off in an alley like my own.

I don't know why I ever wanted to be a part of that world at all. A part of hell that everyone sees as heaven.

This, where I lay, is purgatory.

Everyone used to tell me I had "potential," whatever that meant. Maybe I had potential to become an unnamed cog in some rusty contraption; my only purpose being to serve "society." To fill the pockets of the ultra-rich until they're so stuffed full, they can't even walk straight without adjusting their pockets. As if the $4,000 they keep there means anything to them if they were to lose it.

It would be like losing a piece of gum. They won't be able to afford that down payment on their new yacht this weekend, they'll have to wait until next. Oh, whatever shall they do? Meanwhile, I'm just a number. A part placed somewhere within their fucked up factory.

As I'm contemplating this ridiculous thought, I glimpse an oddly placed object out of the corner of my eye. I turn my head to the right, and underneath that dumpster there's something that looks like the corner of a small black leather bound book.

Curious, bored, and with nothing else to lose, I grab the book out from underneath the dumpster. It's got cobwebs all over it and several more roaches scurry away as I pick it up.

The roach is still alive. It's on its back now. In one swift move I take the book and I hit it as hard as I can. In that move it's dead and I feel a little bit better now that I know it isn't suffering.

Anyway, I'm 70 years old. I can't reach that glorious, shimmering, false world shrouded in a barely tangible facade of hope. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. It's too late to even wish to be able to go there...if even for just a few minutes, to see what it's like. It occurs to me that even that very thought seems vaguely hypocritical.

With the book in my hands, I immediately recognize one word: Moleskine. It's a nice brand. Maybe I could sell it for a few dollars and buy a pack of Marlboro lights or something, I don't know. For whatever reason, though, I'm too curious to see what's written inside.

On the very first page, there is a note:

Dear woman in the alley:

You're going through a tough time. That's why you found this book. You wouldn't be shivering by this dumpster, letting roaches crawl on you. You wouldn't have cared to open up a book that obviously doesn't belong to you. You would have sold it for cigarettes. You wanted to see what was written inside.You wanted to read something meaningful, and I know you still believe that hope exists in some form.

I've seen you here, and I know your struggle. So what I want you to do is this:

Meet me by the fountain in front of the Hyatt hotel downtown tomorrow night. You can bring someone, or take a cab if you wish. I'm not a creep, or anything.

I promise that all I want to do is help you. I understand if you don't want to come see me, and that I have no way to prove to you that my intentions are good, and so I won't be offended if you don't show up. Please understand that I'm only trying to help you. You deserve better than this life, and I want you to be okay.

Sincerely,

The Benefactor.

PS: If you do decide to come, bring the notebook. Bring your cat too if you'd like - his name is Maxwell and he likes to go places.

This person isn't for real, I think to myself. He's probably going to rob me of the last $8 I have and then I'll have to go a whole day without Marlboro Lights.

I don't even have a cat.

As I lay my head down on the hard concrete, I place my head on the book, and for the first time, I feel some sort of confused comfort. Somehow, I believe that whoever wrote that note is telling the truth.

At that exact moment, a visibly malnourished cat pokes his head out from under the dumpster and nuzzles my face. It looks like he hasn't eaten in days. I wearily stand up, reach my hand into the dumpster, and find some meat that was obviously thrown out by some restaurant nearby, not even hours ago - it's still cold. I place the meat by the cat and he devours it ravenously. He loudly meows and turns his head toward that Hyatt hotel in the distance, then scampers away in that direction.

I drift off into the most peaceful sleep I've had in months.

When I wake, the cat is back. He's snuggled up to me for warmth. I can hear him purring. All I can think about is the Benefactor. I'm not going to talk much about the day... all I remember is the hot sun beating down on me. I wait for it to set again. I want to know if the Benefactor is real, or if this is only yet another pipe dream.

Maxwell the cat never leaves my side. He's using the shadow of my body to stay cool in the midday heat. I scratch the top of his head; he purrs and blinks slowly at me.

Midnight arrives and I'm by the fountain by the Hyatt. Notebook in hand. Maxwell is perched peacefully on my shoulder. I notice a man in a long black trench coat standing there, facing the fountain, away from me.

"You came," he says in a thick, gravelly voice, without turning around. "Did you check the pocket?"

"What pocket?"

"The one in the notebook. There's something in there for you."

"I didn't check. I just read your note."

"Look in the pocket."

There's an envelope. "Open it," he says, more gently.

So I do, and inside the envelope is $20,000 in cash.

I look at the money, then back up at the Benefactor, then back at the money again. My first impression is that this is a trap; it's counterfeit, he's laundering, he wants some sort of messed up favor, or he has a camera crew filled with teens on their iPhones hidden behind a tree somewhere for views.

"There's no way this is real," I stammer.

Deadpan, he states "it's real." Somehow I can feel that he's telling the truth.

I hug him. Crying on his shoulder. He says everything will be okay.

I thank him over and over. He looks me in the eye, and he says: Do good.

He turns away and disappears. The last I see is his silhouette against the skyscrapers on the horizon; lights flickering out until I can no longer see him.

With the money, I bought a modest flat on the outskirts of the city. Maxwell still lives with me. He's my best friend. And, yes, I still have the black Moleskine notebook. I keep it by my bed. Sometimes, I write in it; sometimes I take a little bit of money and I give it to someone in need.

Usually, I just use it to buy cat food, though. The stuff is expensive.