Deadly Part One: Envy (Revelations)

 I wish I had a tent, Ernie thought as he hauled his sleeping bag and everything else he owned all over downtown, looking for a doorway he could sleep in. Look at those lucky bastards, out of the wind and the rain.

It was neither windy nor raining. It was, in fact, a rather balmy late-spring evening. But to Ernie, the weather was always bad. It was always dark; sunshine never lit up his face or warmed his chilly soul. He felt no gratitude for sunny days or handouts from people with more money than he had.

He finally found somewhere to lay his sleeping bag and settled in on the cold, damp concrete that was, in fact, still warm from being in the sun all day. He knew he wouldn’t sleep, but he drifted off not long after lying down, pillowed on the battered duffel that contained what he had of clothes and food.

He passed another day just wandering around, spending a lot of time in the library and the many public parks. Sometimes he would walk along the busy downtown roads, looking in the windows at people shopping or eating or just drinking coffee, and he imagined how he would do these things if he had money. Damn them. Why do they have more than I do? They’re not better than me; I’m a good person! I bet none of them have ever helped a homeless person in their lives! Ernie cursed a coffeehouse full of people whom, collectively, donated more than $3000.00 a month to homeless shelters.

His primary source of income was begging for money on street corners. If I say I’m a veteran, I bet I get more pity-money, Ernie mused, creating a sign with a stolen marker on cardboard that said “Homeless. Served in Iraq. Anything helps. God bless you.” I wish I were missing a limb or something. Really get those charitable donations. Maybe I should wear an eyepatch. He spent the afternoon sitting on his rolled-up sleeping bag with his duffel beside him, displaying his sign to approaching motorists and passers-by. Some drivers and pedestrians stopped and would hand him a five or a couple of singles. He thanked them profusely, no matter how stingy they were, knowing that was what they expected.

When some rich jerk who probably had a fifty on him passed over a twenty, Ernie decided he was done for the day. He gathered up his meager funds and made his way to the closest convenience store for some food. What the hell can I buy with a measly forty bucks? he wondered. He picked out a sandwich and a bottle of cola. He would save the rest of his cash until tomorrow and skip a day of begging. I wish I could get into a shelter so I can look for work. He ignored the fact that he was on the list to get into a shelter, and that he had a social worker who was working on getting him approved for disability income.

He was given a tent by a resource center for the unhoused and set it up near some others with bigger tents. His sleeping bag and duffel fit nicely, and it would protect him from the elements, but he glared at those larger tents, angry that they should have more space. How did they get those tents? Why couldn’t they have given me one of those? I should have told them that I had a wife and kid or something. I probably would have gotten a bigger tent.

He was on the corner again, holding his sign, when the man who would change his life approached. He was digging into his pocket while making eye contact with Ernie, so he was obviously going to be a donor. The man was wearing a nice suit under a woolen overcoat. Shiny shoes. Clearly a man of means. Ernie perked up. When the man got closer, he pulled a quarter out of his pocket and held it out.

What the hell? Ernie asked himself. What kind of miser gives a homeless veteran a quarter? He reached out to take it anyway, remembering to pretend that the guy just gave him fifty bucks.

Just as his fingers touched the coin, the man suddenly whipped his hand around and wrapped it firmly about Ernie’s wrist.

Everything around them went black; the street, the people, the buildings were all gone. It was just him and this man, who was now dressed in rags even shabbier than Ernie’s own, shoulders slumped in permanent dejection.

“We need to talk, Ernie,” the man said in a tone that brooked no argument. “I am the embodiment of what you have become: Envy. You are being presented with a choice, an offer of redemption if you choose to change your ways. Come with me.”

Behind him, a nondescript wall with a dumpster up against it materialized. Ernie followed Envy toward a patch of wall no different than the walls in alleys everywhere. They passed near the dumpster, which smelled like it was used to dispose of fish guts and soiled diapers. Then the apparition walked right through the wall, and, shrugging, Ernie followed.

They emerged into what looked like the same alleyway, but distorted, like a bad TV signal. Everything was slightly out of focus. Looking around, he saw himself, standing on the street corner with his sign. The figure standing there was the only thing that he could see clearly. They watched him pack up, tucking the folded cardboard into his duffel bag. He started down the street, and they followed. Ernie felt like he couldn’t help but follow; his legs were operating on their own.

His doppelganger stopped at a large building proclaiming itself to be The Transition Foundation. Inside, the Ernie before them spoke quietly to a man behind a desk, who proceeded to make a few phone calls. Then he smiled and handed over a card with an address on the front and directions on the back. The other Ernie seemed surprised, but he took the card and thanked the man before heading back out to the sidewalk.

“Every time I’ve been here, they had no rooms, and I was put on a waiting list. They kept telling me to come back, but I gave up,”

“All you had to do was wait and be grateful for what you had. You have a case worker trying to get you into housing. You have a tent, which is not much, but better than a sleeping bag. You have clothes other than the ones on your back. You live in a city full of shelters and food boxes. Things are moving forward for you, but you do not see it because you are blinded by Envy.

“If you accept this offer, you will stay in a shelter for a while, housed and fed, and then get into your own studio apartment. Then you will get a great job with a bank and adopt a cat, whom you will name Little Monster.”

“And if I don’t accept?”

“Let me show you.”

They were back in the out-of-focus alleyway. They walked back through the wall, into a sepia photograph. Once again, they saw Ernie begging on the corner, but it went on for longer this time. When the sun started to set, he packed up and turned right instead of left and stopped at a familiar small tent in an encampment. Before he went in, he kicked the tent.

“Little shithole,” he said, and then unzipped the door.

He climbed inside, leaving Ernie and this Ghost of Screwed-Up Future alone.

“You stopped caring,” the ragged man said. “About everything. You stopped talking to your caseworker because you were so ungrateful that you just gave up on them. You stopped even trying to get into a shelter. You will die young and alone from exposure. Then you will wind up in Hell, forever crawling through a desert toward an oasis full of happy people that you will never reach. What say you, Ernest Graham Shaver? Your choice.” And he reached out to touch one finger to Ernie’s forehead.

“I want things to get better. I’ll do whatever I have to do.”

Five years later, Ernie strolled down the street in a suit, carrying a laptop bag. Up ahead, he spotted a man, grizzled and emaciated, holding a sign that said “Homeless and hungry. Anything helps. God bless you.” Ernie dug into his wallet and drew out a hundred-dollar bill. He approached the man, handed him the bill, and said “It gets better, brother.”