20 September, 2007

Ojos Rojas

Tuesday evening walk down Folsom towards a cold, deserted 11th street. Haven't seen Modesto in several days. I turn the corner and there he is, leaning on his little broom. "Modesto, what are you doing?" I ask.
"I've been waiting for V____ one hour and half". He shakes his head.
"if he don't show up soon, wait no more. Go sleep. I'm cold, tired."
"Where are you sleeping now, Modesto?" He raises his right hand and points -
"in the alley, where I always sleep - my sleeping bag there right now."
"You're back in the alley? That's great, Modesto".
A few weeks back, he'd abandoned his spot in the alley after he'd been attacked. I saw him a couple of days after the attack. There was a terrible scab above his right eyebrow. "Modesto, what happened to you?"
"Two guys come. I'm asleep, wake me up, beat me. They took all my money."
Modesto's eyes are tired and red. His sleeping bag is bright yellow.

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