I'm on the ground, near the ventilator so the heat is nice and soft. If you actually lie down on the grate it ends up being a hard night of rolling over, and cooling off. When it rains I wear my blue hoodie tied tightly around my face.
Even when it is dry I usually wear the hood tied tightly around my face; all that sticks out is my breath and with my good eye I can see the back of the person in front of me, and little else. I sit on the corner of Thermal and Hastings and wait for bread. I never say a thing.
When the day is done I usually skip out for a couple of hours and hang out near the shipyards. If I am feeling strong and lucid I climb the last fence and run for the docks. I'm not usually there very long when someone hears me and I split. I have to run back from the water and climb the fence again.
Usually back to the 7-11, where I squat until at least 11. Usually it's a pretty good spot; traffic and the bright lights make people not so scared; and in the face of the Brittany Spears Pepsi ad in the window I can see myself as others see me. Wounded.
I don't cup my hands or sit Indian style. I squat like a catcher and stare straight ahead. Fat rich kids are good for cigarettes; a couple of bucks if they're with a chick; and not much else. Sometimes I write on the sidewalk. Usually just one word that comes to me —always a simple word like "boat"—and I write it over and over on the sidewalk. Usually with a big rock. It's always gone when I get back.
I'm wrestling the covers back to their normal place now. Adjusting the long socks. I'm settling in. I smoke the cigarette I got at noon—same guy who coughed it up gave me half an order of pasta, in tomato sauce I think, and I ate it before he was gone and never looked at him—and I'm drifting to dreamless nowhere.
Kent Bruyneel had a salad, two pieces of bread, and a double bacon and mushroom cheesburger for lunch.