Fleas

Fleas flutter around the sleeping man, landing on his face, his hands. Biting, then flying off.

“Rubin!” I say, crouching down. He’s sixty, looks seventy, wrinkled, tired and just about done.

Sixty. That’s longer than most of his kind last. Street people don’t have longevity. Tonight, Rubin is inside, lying on a flea infested air mattress at Crossroads, one of the states largest homeless shelters. It’s his home, where he lays his head at the end of his long days spent wandering the streets of Providence. They let him stay here, tucked away in the corner of the “day room,” along with anywhere from ten to 100 other homeless folks. At six or seven they are shown the door, left to their own devices. For some, that means looking for work. For most, it means looking for a high. Booze, heroin, crack, pills; whatever works. Rubin depends on vodka in little half pints.

“I’m sleeping,” says Rubin, “leave me alone.”

“They’re kicking you out.”

“Why?”

“Because you are intoxicated.”

He’s nearly always intoxicated.  I watch as he closes his eyes and falls back asleep, the fleas return to his face. I brush them off, he swipes at my hand, slowly, thinking I’m a giant flea. He misses, I pull a sleeping bag over his face and leave him where he lies.

The girl at the desk apologises for calling us, but she’s not going to be responsible for him if he gets sick. Or seizes. Or dies. I tell her to call us back if he wakes up and walk back to the truck.