Naked Shelters

Tall and gaunt, Benjamin Plaskett was tired and disheveled when the clock struck five. Most welfare clients had already left. Those who stayed behind did so for lack of other things to do and had to be ushered out by the security guard. Benjamin was among the first clerks to leave his desk. He was in such a hurry to get out that he didn't take the time to remove the elastic band from his wrist to put it back in its drawer. He passed one of his clients being escorted out. The client told him to fuck off. Benjamin and the guard exchanged a look of disbelief. Both had been working there for several years and should have become impervious to verbal abuse. The clients were people with problems that went beyond the financial aid offered by his office. Benjamin was frequently unable to give them the assistance they needed. From the bureaucratic end he met with obstacles, and from the client's end he met with abuse. He was relieved when the clock struck five.

The subway passengers leaned against one another to make room for one more. Benjamin hung by the subway strap and was amused by a poster of a woman in a long white gown offering a glass of Black and White scotch on the rocks to a man in a black tuxedo reclining on a sofa. He didn't care to be that man nor to have that woman, but the whole scene had him tripping into an alluring world, free of decay and civil service. The subway came to a stop. Benjamin stretched his neck over the shoulders of neighboring passengers to read the name of the station, but the window was painted over with graffiti.

"Is this Canal Street?"

"Yes," some unidentified voices answered. "Hold the doors. Getting out. Scuse me. Getting out." Benjamin edged his way through the crowd.

To his relief the station wasn't crowded, but a slow-moving line of people trudged the steps to the open air. A derelict, who didn't have the two dollars for the Bowery Hotel, frequently slept off his drunk inside the subway. Today he was passed out on the subway steps, half way between in and out. This didn't bother Benjamin as much as the pungent smell of urine throughout the station. He climbed the steps holding his breath until a draft of cold air hit him in the face, signaling the relative safety of breathing once more.

He walked north on Canal Street, past second-hand stores and discount stores with garment racks on sidewalks. A Jewish delicatessen had people standing on line at the counter while the Italian restaurant next door required reservations. Across the street, a Chinese vendor displayed his produce on the sidewalk—bamboo shoots, snow peas, ginger, gin seng. Benjamin recognized some of the products but couldn't name most of them. He liked Chinese food but the sight of these ingredients grossed him out. He ordered Chinese takeout frequently by number from a menu because he couldn't pronounce the name of his selection, nor did he recognize any of the ingredients from the produce stand on his plate. He liked the simplicity of the Chinese cuisine. Meat and vegetable cooked in the same pot, all served in one dish. No need for a knife and no extra dishes to wash. His mother was a good cook but not imaginative. She didn't vary much between pot roast and meat loaf—wholesome food, she called it.

Benjamin thought he'd like Chinese food tonight, but first he must have a drink. He had just about killed the fifth of vodka last night, but there was enough left for two or three glasses. He'll finish the bottle, treat himself to an unpronounceable dinner, and go to bed early. Recently he's been getting up late and having to rush to work; sometimes arriving late and getting docked a quarter of his hourly wage for every fifteen minutes. He couldn't afford to be late for work again.

He hastened to the corner and turned towards Fourth Avenue. The cold westerly wind hit him mercilessly. He tilted his chin downward, pulled up his coat collar, and put the hands in his pocket. It didn't help. He wasn't wearing a scarf, and the wind blew right thru it. Just two more blocks to his apartment. He passed by a group of individuals in black leather jackets, loitering about their parked motorcycles. The bitter cold didn't seem to bother them. They were drinking out of bottles in brown paper bags. It's the antifreeze that's making them insensitive to the cold. The hell with it, he thought. I need a drink right now! His favorite dive bar was just one block up. The sawdust on the floor gave the place a cozy feeling.