Silver House: Scene Seventy-Six

Sitting on a caked bench, foot in spit and looking through the gates at the street. Strange faces floated around, smoking and thinking. Thinking about a score or something else. Some were too zoned out or heard voices. A cop car pulled up. Everybody slightly stood guard. The car slowly stopped. Two cops got out and opened the side door. A black guy got out. They uncuffed him and one of the cops pointed at the building behind me. Silver House. It's a place where the homeless reside. Crackheads, drunks and other walks of life. There was a cast of characters scattered behind the iron gates. They locked the courtyard. You could only look out at the wet streets. Everything was wet. Parked cars glistened in the streetlights and puddles were milky reflections in the street. I spit on the ground, mashing my cigarette into it.

Reefer paced back and forth, talking to himself. He wasn't making much sense at this point. Earlier in the night, he sat at a table in a room, drawing a picture. I asked him what it was and he said a staircase. It looked like an intricate spiral to me. I sat there playing guitar. But now he was talking to himself. Holes in his pants and intense eyes. It was a good night. In a way. Other people came in and out of the room and some would stay for a bit. Some guy said he played the blues. He couldn't. An old alcoholic. I wish he could've played the blues. I'd like to hear it.

Everybody disappeared and I was sitting alone now, except for some black guy that sat beside me. I'd never seen him before. Some crackheads hung out outside the gates. Somebody stood across the street, dripping in the rain. Leaves hung on the trees in the fall rain, dripping too in the electric light. I went back inside.