The Hunger That Remains

3$ 10

He strolled down the street. The shop owners were unlocking their doors and placing display racks outside to tempt passing pedestrians.

But he walked past. It didn’t interest him. He had clothes on his body, even if it was a pair of worn jeans and a slightly too heavy winter jacket. Spring was on its way, so now he could easily keep warm.

It had looked very different during the winter. He thought back with gratitude to the Salvation Army’s clothing distribution for the homeless, where he had received the thick jacket.

He headed toward the supermarket on the corner. He had to find something to eat.

A sign outside proclaimed: “Freshly Baked Croissants in the Bakery Department – Today Only $3 for 4.” He saw the delicious French temptations twist before his inner eye. A cup of hot coffee and a croissant with butter and jam.

He went into the store. Walked to the bakery section and stood looking at the selection and the basket of croissants. They were properly protected behind a thick pane of reinforced glass. The clerk, wearing vinyl gloves, placed not just four but eight croissants into a bag for the elderly gentleman in front of him.

He inhaled the scent and his stomach twisted with hunger.

He slipped his hand into his pocket and checked — yes, he still had the ten-dollar bill Mrs. Thomsen had given him for mowing her lawn. That was all he had.

Doubt crept in. Was it wise to buy croissants? They were mostly air, not something that would really make you feel full. And he didn’t have butter or jam, let alone hot coffee.

He couldn’t afford it. He turned and walked away from the bakery section. It was no use. It was the end of the month, and his welfare payment wouldn’t come in for another four days. Those ten dollars had to stretch far. Very far.

At the end of the bread shelves there was often a basket with bread on its last day of sale. The prices were heavily reduced. He was lucky. A whole sliced loaf for just one dollar. That could easily create the feeling of a full stomach until he had money again.

He also found some cheese and a bit of cold cuts that had been marked down. That would have to do.

At the register the woman said, “Three ten,” and he watched the smooth bill being broken apart. Still, he was satisfied — cheap food and money left over. He gathered his things and went out.

On the way home he thought about the day long ago when he had found a wallet on the street. He had hardly dared to pick it up, but he had done it. He wasn’t a thief. He would never steal another person’s identity or misuse a bank card. He had been raised too well for that.

The wallet had contained various cards and two hundred dollars in small bills. It apparently belonged to a woman named Kate Mully. She was surely already in the process of blocking her cards. She probably had anxiety lodged high in her throat, afraid that someone would misuse the information shown on her health insurance card, Visa card, MasterCard. But he had wanted to tell her that she could relax — it was only him who had found the wallet, and the only thing he needed was a little money. She could have the rest back.

He took the money and dropped the wallet with all its remaining contents into the nearest mailbox. That way she would probably get it back.

That month he had allowed himself a little more than usual. His life as a homeless former army recruit was not easy. It had felt like a gift from heaven.

He remembered once, close to Christmas, when he had found a fine brooch on the street. It was gold. Shaped like a Canadian maple leaf, about an inch and a half wide. It had surely been fastened to the lapel of an elegant woman who had then lost it. He had slipped it into his pocket. Unlike the wallet, there was no identification on it. Therefore, it was his now.

As Christmas approached, he thought he could save some money by giving the brooch as a Christmas gift. His mother would look magnificent with that gold brooch on her finest dress. He had so looked forward to seeing her wear it.

He had been scolded. His mother did not believe he had found it. You stole it, she had shouted at him. Why hadn’t he thought of getting a small jeweler’s box for it to lie in — then she might have believed him.

She never wore it. When she died, it lay in her jewelry box beneath her favorite pieces. He made no attempt to point it out. It had cut into his soul — her words that day, shouted at him and the Christmas tree in the living room. “Did you steal it?” The words still echoed inside his head even now, so many years later.

He came home to his small shelter behind the park. Here he could be at peace — if only there would also be peace inside his head. Thoughts of food might drive it away, and he began opening the package of bread, cold cuts, and cheese. What a feast.

After he had eaten, he still felt hungry. Yes, he thought, you could call it that. His hunger for contact with another human being. He had spoken one word today, and that was “thank you” when he received his change at the supermarket.

No other person had spoken to or with him. Long ago he had stopped trying to speak to random people in the park.

They immediately saw from his clothing that he was probably from a deprived neighborhood — or homeless. He looked poor, felt poor — behaved poor. How else was he supposed to behave?

He had been sent to war for his country and had returned home as a hero who, the next day, no longer interested anyone at all. He was forgotten. Now the government had completely cut support for veterans, so officially the country had also said, “You are unwanted.” That was how he felt.

He had missed talking. Had missed being able to tell someone about the violent events of the war. He had no one. He had begun sleeping badly at night and could not keep his job. It was as if a switch had gradually been turned off inside his head. His thoughts grew more and more monotonous, and he felt as though he was living only as some kind of robot.

He went out when darkness had fallen. His shelter was bare and cold, so a walk through town would at least warm him before he crawled into his sleeping bag, separated from the sky only by a thin tarpaulin that blocked his view of the stars — though he no longer looked up at them anyway. The belief that someone was out there, or that a God sat somewhere making shooting stars fall, he had long since given up. They were cold and shone so faintly that the streetlights drowned them out.

He walked along the main street again. The display racks were gone, as were the people they had tried to lure into buying something. The street was not dead, though. There was another kind of life. People with liquor bottles hidden in paper bags. A vice concealed so everyone still knew what was going on. Men. Women in daring, fashionable clothes. Perhaps on their way to a party. Or simply fleeing a dull evening into a nightclub.

It had never appealed to him. He had felt like an elephant in a glass shop whenever he had gone to a club. Stared at by women on the hunt. He had just never felt that he was actually the prey.

The street’s women stood on most corners as well. “Coming home with me, sweetheart?” they called to men in large, polished cars with slightly lowered windows. They glanced at him only briefly and pretended not to see him. He was clearly not a man with enough money to buy a little fun on a sheet for half an hour.

He didn’t care. He just kept walking. He had only been in love once in his life. He had never gotten as far as confessing it. Then they had been separated by external circumstances, and the feeling had faded. At the same time, he had experienced the world once again becoming a gray stream of lava, much like the time after that unfortunate Christmas.

He walked in the city’s lights and noise. Sleep would not come anyway. Eventually he found himself back near the park, where his shelter stood at the far end.

He sat down on a bench with a view of the city bus terminal. He imagined himself boarding a bus and coming home from evening work, tired, to a home, to a warm bed he shared with his partner. He drifted into the image for a moment — and then it dissolved again. Emptiness and cool night air were all that remained around him.

He sat staring at the shifting images of buses and people without truly seeing.

A few minutes passed — or perhaps an hour? He didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. Suddenly he heard a sound and felt something nudge his leg.

A tall, slender man with a dog had approached the bench.

He assumed it was yet another well-meaning citizen checking whether the addict might have died there on the bench. That had happened before. He had never taken drugs, though the thought of a fix of good heroin had often brushed against his mind. He had heard enough stories from the homeless who were addicted about how wonderful it felt. But he did not dare. He did not know where he would find the money to buy it, and he did not really want to know where to get it. He knew it was a slippery slope.

It was a golden retriever. Its owner apologized that the dog had chosen on its own and dragged him toward a stranger sitting in the dark. The dog looked up at him and placed its large head in his lap. Its eyes were bright and trusting. Was it smiling at him? He smiled back. He carefully lifted his hand and stroked the side of its neck. There was something about not patting a strange dog on the head. He remembered, in a flash, his father’s warnings about dogs. He and his sister had begged for one, but their father had told stories of dogs that bit, that must not be petted, that one would not only get dirty from touching a dog but could also catch terrible diseases from such animals.

The stranger sat down. He simply looked in the same direction as he did. The dog was allowed to sniff and stand with its head in his lap. No reproach from the man. He did not want to say anything either, because he felt how good it was to let his fingers run through the fur.

After a while, the man stood up and said, “Rex, time to head home. Sorry — he has a strange ability to find people who need to pet him a little, and apparently that was you.”

He gave a faint smile and said, “Thank you for letting me say hello to your dog.”

The stranger said, “Good night. I hope we’ll find you here in the park again soon when it’s light.”

“Yes, I’m here often,” he replied. He wasn’t about to say that he actually lived in the park. That wasn’t something to advertise — being homeless.

He stood up and walked in the opposite direction of the dog and the man. Back toward the loneliness in the dark. Yet he felt that he had received a small stirring of unease and joy under his ribs after the encounter. He just couldn’t put his finger on what it meant.

Morning Without Nightmares

He slept a little. In fact, he slept longer than he usually did. Dreams flickered through his restless sleep. He especially remembered two brown eyes looking intensely at him. At first they belonged to the dog he had petted, but suddenly those eyes were on the stranger, even though it had been so dark that he had not been able to see the man’s face. Yet it was a kind face, with brown eyes. His usual dreams of the nightmares of war had not chased him that night.

He stretched inside the sleeping bag, his limbs stiff from lying on the not-so-soft ground. He would get up, take care of nature’s needs, and then find something to eat.

There was a public restroom some distance away in the park, so he headed there. He had never been able to bring himself to urinate against a tree — what if someone saw him?

When he finished and stepped out of the small building, he was met by barking and a golden retriever running toward him.

He was actually a little frightened, but the dog looked good-natured. It was Rex from last night. A little further away, his owner was walking calmly toward them.

Rex ran circles around him, clearly happy to see him again. He was happy too. He felt a warmth in his chest; it was as if his heart beat a little stronger than usual.

“Good morning,” came a voice shortly after. “Someone found you quickly, huh? I’m Christian — just call me Chris. We never really introduced ourselves last night, only Rex did.”

“Good morning, Chris. Yes, it’s a lovely surprise to see Rex again — and you as well. I’m Ronald, but Ron is fine.”

“Shall we walk a bit together?” Chris asked.

“Yes, that would probably do me good to move a little. Rex seems to have already chosen the direction,” Ron said, seeing Rex trotting happily down toward the lake.

They walked. Ron glanced sideways at Chris, unsure whether he dared make eye contact. He was a stranger, after all. He saw a man about his own age, a neat, well-kept beard, strong blue eyes — not brown like in the dream — beneath well-defined brows, and fair hair.

He quickly looked away again, but he could feel that he liked what he had seen.

They continued in silence.

“I’ve seen you here in the park a couple of times. I know you live here. It can’t be easy,” Chris said gently.

Ron had no desire to go into explanations, so he replied, “No. It isn’t easy.”

They walked on.

“I live nearby, of course — otherwise I wouldn’t walk Rex here. What do you say to coming home with us for a cup of coffee and maybe a little breakfast?”

Coffee and food — he hadn’t had that in many days. He hesitated only briefly. “If it’s not any trouble, then yes, thank you.”

An Offer Without Pity

They walked around the lake. Rex began to stay closer to them, and Chris concluded that he had finished his morning round and they could head toward the apartment.

They entered a neatly furnished apartment, cozy and filled with green plants.

Chris quickly started the coffee machine and set the table with bread, cold cuts, and jam.

“It looks wonderful,” Ron said quietly. “It’s far too much.”

“I’m happy to share,” Chris said. “There was a time in my life when I didn’t have much either. But things are better now.”

He told Ron about his job, about the relationship that had ended, about how he had spent time finding himself, and how Rex had come into his life.

Ron was slightly confused — Chris had referred to his partner as “he” — but he did not want to ask about that just yet. He enjoyed the warmth of the coffee and listened. Chris had a slightly melancholic yet calm voice. He liked hearing him speak.

“That’s what my life looks like right now — work, walks with Rex, keeping to myself, and trying to be a good person.”

Ron wanted to tell him about himself and why he had ended up in the park, but shame held him back. Instead, he mentioned that later that afternoon he had to go to one of the suburbs to visit his sister.

His mail was sent to her address. He had to see her to collect his welfare check. She was the only family he had left. But he did not like these visits. His sister Miriam made no real attempt to understand him.

She bossed him around. “Pull yourself together and get a job.” — “A war veteran with a medal should be welcome anywhere.” — “Be grateful I don’t remove your address from here — you don’t even contribute to the rent.”

She always reminded him how tired she was, how she had a job, a house, children to manage. Her husband was not much use, but Ron wisely stayed out of that. He kept as low a profile as possible when he visited.

She constantly reminded him of their mother — who had suspected him of being a thief, who had never given him a hug or said kind words. Always criticism. Always be a man. Always do better than others.

But there was no other way. He had to go.

“When you come back from visiting your sister, would you like to walk with Rex and me again?”

Ron smiled and for the first time truly looked up into the blue eyes across from him.

“Yes. I’d like that. Then at least I have something to look forward to.”

Fortunately, Chris had not asked further about the sister. It was so comforting that he was simply here, present in the moment.

Seen

“Would you like a warm shower before you go see her? Just use my bathroom. I also have clean underwear, so you can feel clean all the way through.”

Chris had said it in such a gentle way. If anyone else had said it, he would have felt offended. But Chris did not push. He offered. And Ron could feel there was no judgment in it.

“Yes, thank you,” he replied.

The morning passed with a shower, and for the first time in a long while he saw himself clean in a private mirror. And behind the mirror he saw Chris’s eyes following him. He did not mind. In fact, he felt a slight pull in his stomach.

Be a Man

He said goodbye to Chris and Rex later in the afternoon. His sister would not be home until around five, so he had plenty of time. They had talked, drunk coffee, played a little with Rex. Now he sat on the bus toward the suburb.

He thought about everything that had happened in just a few hours. He felt happy. He felt that he had found someone who understood him without demands.

He thought back to his only love. It had been during his time in the army. It had been strictly forbidden to have feelings for another man — it lingered in the air at the barracks. He had often heard the word “faggot” and worse thrown at men in the company who had not performed well enough. He would not give anyone reason to aim those words at him. So he had pushed the feelings aside, even though his fellow soldier Nick had given him many small signals — a wink, a brief touch that had not been necessary between comrades.

He knew he was attracted to men. That he was gay. That he did not fit in. But it was secret — and he had thought it always would remain so. Until now? What was it about Chris? He had mentioned a male partner, hadn’t he? Or had he misheard? Could he be reading too much into such a brief encounter? Things that were perhaps only wishful thinking? I am just a broken, homeless war veteran living on the street, scraping by because I cannot stand pity or demands. What could he possibly see in me — other than someone to help?

The questions were many as the bus rolled on. Soon he would have to endure his sister’s equally many scornful remarks.

An hour later he sat on the bus back again. His sister had been particularly cruel, tossing his few letters at him. She had not even offered him anything to drink. The usual comments. She had also scolded the children until they began to cry and retreated to the television. The two girls at least had each other. He felt saddened and had hurried to end the visit, fleeing into the growing evening darkness — where no one noticed him.

He Chose

Now he was heading back into the city again, and everything would return to the nearly unbearable monotony that was his life.

At the bus terminal he stepped off and was immediately nudged by a soft, cool nose. Chris and Rex were standing there.

They could not possibly have known when he would return — so either it was coincidence, or they had been waiting. For him?

“Hi, Ron. Funny timing — we’re just on our way to the park to give Rex a little walk!”

There was the explanation. They had not been waiting for him. He felt slightly more at ease.

“May I walk with you?” he managed to say.

“No — you must walk with us. Rex likes your company,” Chris laughed.

They walked along the path, Rex marking here and there.

Suddenly Ron felt a hand brush lightly, almost carelessly, against his.

He caught it.