The library was crowded, but I managed to find the last available nook and set up my literary camp. I was pleased to see that everyone around me was abiding by my unwritten library noise rules, including:

1.   No whistlers, hummers, or tappers.
2.   No unnecessary flipping of papers; no plastic grocery bags.
3.   No squeaky shoes.
4.   If one is to speak, it must be done so at a low, monotone level.
5.   Eating is to be done with quiet discretion.

After spending a couple of quicksand weeks sinking into writers block, I had finally escaped the muddled trap of my own head and was ready to resume writing. I could feel the magic brilliance of creativity flowing through my body, ready to drip from my pen onto the paper. But no sooner did I sit down and begin writing than my nostrils picked up the smoggy stench of body odor. I heard a squeaky-shoed limp, complete with cane, coming up behind me. The smelly intruder staggered to the table adjacent to me and sat down with a noisome plop.

I didn't have to look up. I could feel that uncomfortable “out-of-place” vibe you pick up from certain individuals. A few other homeless people sat nearby, seeking shelter from the cold, but they were quiet and keeping to themselves.

The intruder had already broken two of my library rules, and now he was in the process of breaking the “no plastic grocery bags” rule. He rummaged in the bag, digging, rustling, looking for God-only-knows what, for ten agonizing minutes. My toes began to curl.

Next, he took out a newspaper and started rustling the pages at an irregular pace. I clenched my fist, trying to hold my anger within my palm. I felt the creative juices succumb to the annoying distraction and, finally, disappear.

I looked up. My eyes strained through my reading glasses. Once I had achieved distance vision, I saw an unkempt, portly man sitting at the next table, grinning at me. I gave him the dog stare. He stared back at me with equal intensity. I resumed my work, satisfied that he had gotten my message, “Shut the hell up.”

But no. Like a rebellious brat, he persisted with his distracting noises. He was even louder this time. I watched as this obnoxious man flipped his newspaper around and around, back and forth, certainly on purpose and certainly just to get my goat. He knew that I was watching him — he must have seen my red face — but he defiantly refused to make eye contact with me again. The flaming coals of my internal barbecue began to smoke.

Ironically, I had been taking yoga classes to quell my irascible anger. I thought that I had learned not to allow annoying people to influence my moods. My yoga teacher, now dwelling in my head, said, "Suck in your tummy. Take a deep breath. Hold it. Count to ten. Exhale, pushing your tummy out. Repeat." I tried it, but to no avail. The grill was hot enough to cook this bastard to a crisp any second now.

Mad as hell, I let out an animal grunt and gave the man the finger. I slammed my fists on the table. No reaction from my nemesis. I gathered my belongings and proceeded to find a quieter and much more comfortable nest deeper in the depths of the book forest. I sighed with relief. Here I could sit, undisturbed and alone, with my beloved words.

Despite having been so rudely interrupted, I still had a couple gallons of creative juices. Once again, I resumed my writing. I became deeply immersed in a sonnet, my own personal version of heaven.

Then I heard it coming my way, the repulsive tap of the cane, the squeaky shoes, and the horrid crinkling grocery bag. The bum found a desk behind me and sat down.

I stood up, my hands on my hips, and glared at him the way the Catholic nuns used to glare at me when I was talking during Mass. I waited for a response, any response. But he just closed his eyes and pretended to take a nap. My internal barbeque scorched.

Finally, after I had glared at him for about a minute, he grinned. He grinned! And, believe it or not, his eyes were still closed. I knew then that he felt as if he had won the battle.

***************

I spend my days hanging out in the science section of the library, first because the people in the library won't bother me and second because that place takes me back to the old days when I was a specialized engineering consultant. I usually read my paper, then take a nap and dream of Sally, the beautiful woman who was my wife for 42 years. Knowing that I’m safe from the curbside denizens, I sleep well here.

The library tells me that I'm alive. At least in the library people would notice if I were dead. I'm not afraid to die; I'm just afraid to die alone, and that won't happen here.

Outside the library, I have to contend with the mean, crazy streets. Lately, I’ve been sleeping in a storage bin hidden in a vacant carport across the street from the fire station. There are no people to stumble over me on their way home. There are no tenants in the nearby apartments, because not one of the day’s 24 hours is safe from the wailing fire sirens. I don't get hassled for dwelling on private property because I’m completely alone. That’s the way I like it, yet ironically I’m comforted by the sounds of the sirens, the trucks, and the men running back and forth. The chaos reminds me that I exist, that I'm still alive, that I won’t die alone even though my beloved Sally is dead.

Unlike other street urchins, I don't have to worry about hunger. I don’t have to beg and do tricks like a dog to convince the public to feed me; I get my three squares a day from the fire station’s dumpster. There’s always a full plate of food conspicuously sitting on top of the trash mound, securely wrapped in a black plastic bag to let me know that it’s mine.

This started a couple months back. Somebody found me passed out in the trash heap. I had just polished off a bottle of rubbing alcohol I found in a local restaurant bathroom. Usually, the owner won’t let me into it but, for some reason, he took pity on me that day. My intent was to take care of my business and leave.

I felt like a schmuck stealing from him when he had been so kind to me, but I had the shakes. It felt as if maggots were crawling underneath my skin. I had to get some relief. I went through the cabinet; it was almost automatic. There I found a bottle of rubbing alcohol. I wrapped a couple paper towels around the top of the bottle cap, tilted my head back, and let the remedy's caustic stream slide down my throat. I don't recollect much after that until I came to on the trash heap.

But don’t take that to the bank; my memory is pretty hazy. My life is a black and white 1950's movie, hazy within my subconscious. Although it lies dormant atop a vacant, dusty shelf, somehow it has been recorded…

I received my Bachelor’s and Master’s of Science, and my Ph.D. in electrical engineering, at the University of Colorado . Then I worked in electro-optics for California Edison. I married Sally as soon as I started my first good job. Even though we couldn’t have children, we were happy.

Sally was 54 when she contracted cancer. She was sick for years. I loved her too much to pull her life-support. When I ran out of money to pay her medical bills, I took out a home equity loan. But it wasn't enough. Eventually, I lost the house and my beloved wife. That’s when I started to wander the streets. I longed for her day and night, until I started drinking the pain of her absence out of my mind.

Funny, I had been a teetotaler all my life. Now, I don't care if I drink myself to death. I would just be reunited with her all the sooner. Life just isn’t worth it without her.

The only way I can get Social Security checks is to have a place to live, and the only way I can get a place to live is by getting into the "system". I’m an engineer, for heaven’s sake; I can’t grovel to a social worker. But it’s OK. I would feel lonely having a home without Sally to share it with me.

I’m at least partly to blame for my predicament. There must be something I missed that resulted in Sally’s death, something I could have done, or something I didn't do. I know my guilt isn’t logical, but I just can't shake it.

So, anyway, the other day I was in the library reading my newspaper when I noticed this pretty little lady looking at me. I couldn’t believe it; she looked just like Sally in her younger days, with pure-as-snow skin, long raven hair, brown Italian eyes, and kissable apple lips.

My stomach did a roller coaster ride. I felt a gnawing lump in my throat, and tears began to stream down my cheeks. I knew it wasn't Sally, but I wanted it to be her so badly that I became convinced that Elpis, the Greek goddess of hope, had taken pity on me and sent me this lovely young woman as a gift of mercy. Maybe she was Elpis’s way of comforting me until the day I will join my Sally in the heavens.

And the pretty girl paid attention to me. Me! The way she noticed me, she must have thought I was special. Sally used to think that. I felt so nervous and self-conscious that I read my paper upside down. As I flipped my paper right side up, she waved and got up to leave. I watched her as she moved to the other side of the library.

Then I knew. She was Sally, coming back for me. She wanted me to follow her.

So I did. Sally, my queen, chose a spot near an empty seat and appointed me, the king of the streets, to sit there. I was on top of the world. I sat down, closed my eyes, and smiled. When I opened them again, she was gone. Had it been a dream, or had she really been Sally?

I was pretty sad for a while, but then I realized that everything was OK. If she wasn’t Sally, she was still a beautiful woman looking at me and smiling, which means I must still have something going for me. I'm not the degenerate that people think I am. I’m a good person, and I don’t deserve to live in a storage bin.

The gift of Sally’s real or imagined presence taught me that, all this time, I’m the one who’s been dead. I gave up on living after Sally died. The beautiful woman in the library inspired me to find a social worker and get my life back together.

I realize now that Sally isn't really gone. We have a connection of love that will never be severed. When I quiet myself, I can hear her soft whispers, I can smell her sweet perfume, I can feel her gentle touch.

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