Garbage

Part 1

– My place or yours?

– Let’s go to… yours, of course! My parents are both at home, and my father is a stern man.

– He must look amazing to have such a dizzyingly pretty daughter.

– It’s all his fault! My daddy was so handsome – a spitting image of a movie star.

– Was?

– Umm… Well, yeah. He was. Before… you know, getting old and grouchy.

I swirl my glass, watching the last traces of mediocre red wine coat the inside. I try to do it as elegantly as possible. “If I’m going to pull this off, I need to make the right impression. I have to!”

I wait for my new partner to finish laughing, then let one strap of my dress slide down slowly – as if by accident. All that’s left is to watch him gulp. I’ve almost won. The trap is set. Call it what you want. But I’m starving.

Finally, we leave the party. I coyly ask him to carry my things.

– Why are you lugging around this heavy bag?

– I was at the gym. Isn’t the main point of life to stay healthy?

“And get what you want!”

The place is crowded, so no one will notice we’re leaving. Or if they do – who cares? As I descend the stairs, the hem of my shimmering evening gown flirts with every step, like a whisper full of promises. My new lover catches my hand, but I pull away, smiling. The fish is already hooked.

The drive to his house feels like a dream. I need to stay calm, but I can’t lose control. While my gallant chauffeur tries to keep his eyes on the road, I play the part of impatient desire.

“You’re all mine”.

The moment we park, he eagerly leans in to kiss me. Luckily, I know how to keep things in check. It’s not time – not yet.

– You’re so hot, baby!

– It’s all your fault, honey. Only yours.

When we finally arrive at his place, I’m floored. I expected a fancy apartment, but this? It’s beyond my wildest imagination. A two-story penthouse. Bingo. My instincts never fail me.

“I won’t miss this chance!”

– I’ve dreamed about you!

– Take it easy. Not so fast. Let me feel at home first.

I play the innocent card, crossing my arms over my chest, lowering my eyes, and nervously touching my hair. He falls for it, of course, and I’m given a show worthy of Shakespeare – a man trying to play both Romeo and savior. I know how to look vulnerable and proud at the same time, the perfect mix no one can resist.

– Oh, you’re absolutely right. I’m losing my mind when you’re this close. You said this was your first spontaneous escape from your protective daddy?

– It is. But first… where can I take a shower? My voice is pure and blameless.

– Upstairs, second door on the left. Meanwhile, I’ll prepare some snacks for us.

– That would be amazing. You’re so sweet! A couple of glasses of wine always make me hungry.

– Don’t worry, baby. I’ve got more than enough to satisfy you. What do you like?

– Surprise me!

– Of course, sweetheart.

I barely restrain my victorious grin. No doubt about it – I’m the queen of fortune tonight.

After a forgettable rendezvous in bed (let’s call it the “second-rate part”), I slip out of the room as soon as my cowboy falls asleep. I run a hot bath, raid the fridge for all the snacks I can find, and spend half the night soaking in the tub.

It’s the best Christmas I’ve ever had. My stomach is full of delicious food, my body feels renewed, and the place is warm and safe.

That’s what truly makes me happy.

***

Have I ever had such a future? This is my home, my bathroom. I feel the warmth in my toes. Soon, I’ll get out of the hot water and go to sleep in my bed, next to my husband. My dreams will be so quiet, so fresh…

Wait – what’s this? Is it a nightmare? Who am I? I am not…

I fell asleep right here, in the bath! I’ve relaxed too much. Was I dreaming about a carefree, easygoing life? I could have died.

I’ve never had a family or a home. I’ve almost forgotten what trust feels like. People are brutes. They pretend to be human. All of them play convenient roles. They act kind, sweet, noble – only when someone’s watching, only while the eyes of the law are open.

And me? I’m not a good housewife, not a decent citizen, not an innocent lamb. I’m a cruel, wild beast, like a filthy rat. I have to stay on alert.

Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!

Water is spilling over the edge of the tub. The floor is flooded. I didn’t turn off the tap. I was lost in my stupid dreams. How pathetic!

What time is it? Morning is almost here. I’m definitely in for trouble.

How long was I asleep? I need to get out of here – fast!

My skin is red from the hot water. Crawling out of the bath is a struggle. My legs feel unusually heavy, my fingers refuse to cooperate. My head feels both enormous and fragile, like a bright Christmas bauble. Fortuna is playing with me like a big, ugly cat, and I’m about to shatter.

Where are my clothes? Not the evening dress – my real clothes. Of course, they’re still in my sports bag, locked in my lover’s car trunk.

I sneak through the bedroom leaving behind wet footprints, find the key next to my gaudy gold shoes, head downstairs to the garage, and pull on my usual castoffs.

I am homeless.

Part 2

I open the trunk and take my usual belongings from my bag.

The winter air blows against me, sending shivers over my still-wet skin and raising goosebumps. As I leave the warm, safe house behind, I know I will never return. The thought crosses my mind to steal something for profit, but I resist. Everyone needs money to survive, and the homeless are no exception. Today, I am full but what will I eat tomorrow?

Still, I follow my own rule: never steal.

If you take even the smallest trinket, you can never be sure of your future. What if, at the next party, while trying to charm another foolish rich guy into falling for you, you discover he’s a close friend of a man you robbed before? They’d call the police, and you’d lose access to their circles forever.

The world of these young, frivolous sons of wealthy families is small. Many of them are acquaintances or studied together at the same elite universities.

I’m not willing to take that risk. I don’t want to end up in prison or lose my ability to eat and wash luxuries I can still access for now.

If I manage to hide the faint smell of my sports bag or answer the inevitable prying questions, I can get by. Questions of morality stopped troubling me long ago. Sex may not nourish the soul, but hunger and disease are far deadlier.

Most of the men I’ve found are polite enough. They sleep soundly right after they’re satisfied, leaving me to do as I please. Celebrations like Christmas are especially fruitful; everyone’s too distracted by their indulgences to notice someone like me slipping through the cracks.

I walk along the riverside street toward the quay, carrying my sports bag, which feels lighter with each step. The area is deserted. It's a holiday morning, and all the "normal" people are still sleeping in their cozy beds. Even the sailors, accustomed to surviving extreme frosts to make a living, show no desire to work today.

I need to cross a massive international port and a long bridge before I reach my destination. The journey will take me a couple of hours on foot, step by step. Last night, covering the same distance took only fifteen minutes and a few stolen kisses. There's no fair exchange, but that doesn't change anything.

I dream of finishing this walk as quickly as possible to escape the biting wind. My freshly cleaned body is already sweating, but my poor feet, wrapped in thin socks, are starting to feel the chill. Thick wool socks are waiting for me back at my den.

Five years ago, I met someone who gave me shelter and taught me how to survive, how to carry myself as a homeless person, a "marginal," someone the world calls garbage. He saved me even though he knew my secret. He was the noblest person I'd ever met – kinder, better, and more selfless than anyone else. But I failed him.

He's dead now. More precisely, he was killed by a street gang of local teenagers. Witnesses did nothing. They didn’t even call for help. When he lay there bleeding to death, and the police came asking for descriptions of the young thugs, not a single "normal" person, not one "law-abiding citizen," offered any evidence.

I don't want to be "normal." I’d rather be like him: just garbage.

My angel left me more than a year ago, but I still feel his warmth and scent even now. The oversized, almost dimensionless windbreaker I wear has protected me since his loss. It happened the summer before last. That night was hot, and the windbreaker had been forgotten in the den. Thanks to his jacket, I have probably survived until now. I blend into the crowd and become invisible. Some people even mistake me for a young man, which works perfectly for me. Most of the homeless people in my area call me “his wife,” and none of them bother me.

The inheritance he left behind – his guidance and support – helped me battle cruel Fortuna day by day. The den remains the same. I’ve never called it “home,” only “the den.” It’s a tiny underground room between two metro stations. Originally a storeroom built for subway workers, it had been sealed off and abandoned long ago. That is, until my life goombah hacked open the door and transformed it. This dark, dingy space with its damp, basement smell became our dependable sanctuary.

I’m almost there now.

Part 3

Just one more turn. A musty, uncomfortable folding sofa is waiting for me. I’m going to fall asleep the moment I arrive. I can almost see it now – I’m so tired after a whole night of pretending. Pretending to be someone with money, family, position, and a home is an exhausting challenge! But it’s a useful skill I inherited from those who called themselves perance: manipulating others’ feelings. That’s my entire inheritance. My blood boils at the thought, but I want to forget the past – just fall asleep…

What the hell?! No, no, no – this can’t be happening!

I slam my fists against the wall. My nails scrape against the surface as I desperately try to rip off even a tiny piece of iron. I fight like a wild bull, but deep down, I know my efforts are pointless – just burning calories.

The door is gone. The entrance to my den has been welded shut. There’s no way to open it.

A typical homeless person carries all their belongings with them. It’s necessary to protect their property from theft, but it makes moving and finding food difficult. They can’t run fast if a thug or police officer decides to harass them. The best option is joining a gang for protection – a kind of trade union, where the leader acts like a manager and pays a tax to keep the peace with police or local mafias. But every gang member must earn enough money to cover the growing dues.

Over time, as the tax increases, the gang turns to begging, stealing, and robbing. They begin doing "side jobs" for the mafia, becoming loyal dogs for their bosses. There’s no way back to normal life. Eventually, they die – one way or another.

It may be the safest way, but it’s also the shortest road to ruin.

I grew up with different rules. I had my den. It allowed me to survive. My den was my base, where I kept a change of clothes, warm gear, documents, stash money for emergencies, books, photos – all my former life, and most importantly, evidence of my secret. Now, all of that is gone.

All I have left is a sports bag containing a bright party dress and a pair of gold shoes – my only weapon against hunger tomorrow.

Is this a joke? No. Fortune has never been fair to me. I forgot that, and now I’m being punished for it.

My life has changed. It’s a battle against death now. I’ll never live so carelessly again.

Someone’s coming…

– Do you smell that?

– Screw you! What are you talking about? All I smell is this goddamn dump. Damn this job!

– It’s like something’s burning.

– The guys from Bill’s crew were rambling about that yesterday. The brass ordered a cleanup of this area – to kill all the rats before the boss’s inspection. Oh, fuck!

– Hmm?

– I just stepped in some crap!

– I heard a new hub is going to be built here.

– That’s bullshit! I’ve never believed those bastards could do anything besides creating more of their own crap. Hell will freeze over first! I’d rather lay down like a slut before those pricks accomplish anything worthwhile! No fucking way!

– I’d love to see you in that position!

– Screw you, asshole!

– So, any small burned rats around?

– Ha? Those bastards found a nest

– And one lucky bastard got out. His fucking luck.

– What do you mean?

– Fate must wank him! The guys would rather jerk around, but they burned the den. I heard there were some photos with a pretty girl in them!

– You’re kidding me!

– And they dug up a gold pendant in all the crap. Billy sold it for good money. That gang is already out drinking.

– Ugh! If I found that pendant, I’d wait for the owner to show up and ask her about more treasures. Maybe the girl in the pictures has another one. And if her answers didn’t convince me…

– Then what?

– I’d knock out her teeth and sell it all.

– Fuck, man! You’re crazy! I thought you were a coward, but I’m starting to respect you. Now let’s get back to hauling this trash. It’s hard work.

Both of them laugh like donkeys. No doubt about it – they’re both insane. But who’s worse? Both were a subway’s cleaners, who were called “normal”. But they are ordinary under sunlights but not right now, not right there.

When I was at the Christmas party, their people came and destroyed not just my den but my life. My secret has been stolen. Yet, for the first time, I think fate might have actually saved me. If I’d stayed there, I’d have been trapped.

Has my angel been watching over me?

Part 4

I look at the remains in the ashes – they were talking about it. Those were my things. Many of them weren’t just comfortable but essential, helping me survive and even earn. Enough! I can’t let myself cry. There’s no time for that. Now it’s just ash, nothing more.

Those damn hotdogs pass by me while I’m hiding in the shadows of the tunnel. They fancy themselves as angry hunting dogs but can’t even catch easy prey. Ha!

Anyway, I’m getting out of here. There’s only one place I can go right now.

The sun finally deigns to rise, and it doesn’t feel as cold as it did an hour ago. I can feel winter brushing against my fingers, as if it wants to take me by the hand. On the other hand, I can feel the sun’s warmth grazing my cheeks, melting them like candle wax. Or is that just tears falling, scratching my skin as they roll down?

Soon, I arrive at “the place.” It’s hidden beneath the city’s old bridge, where no one usually walks. The river has thrown up slime and broken boat parts, which now litter the area. The most awful and nauseating part of the embankment, though, is the people—the indigenous inhabitants of this wasteland.

The majority of them live in makeshift camps. There are no colorful tourist tents here, no. Just cardboard boxes, leaky boat remnants, planks, ladders, plastic bags, and anything else that can offer even a bit of protection from the relentless dampness and wind. This is a village of the homeless.

I see only a few guys standing around a burning barrel for warmth. The scene is as usual: quiet, resigned, and suffering.

The others are likely still sleeping after the hard work of scrounging during Christmas night, or wandering in hopes of collecting scraps from the parties and feasts. Sometimes, we get lucky. Once, three years ago, we found a freshly baked duck. It was a bit burnt, and some housewife had decided to toss it out. What a fool!

My fellow smelled it and found the duck. It was one of the happiest memories since I became homeless.

– Who are you? – a strange young man asks me.

I’ve never seen him before. He’s not exactly polite for a first meeting.

– Who is he? – I asked another familiar guy. – A new one?

– Yeah, he’s been around for a few days, maybe a bit longer, – the man answers.

– Hey! I’m standing right here in front of you! Ask me directly! – the new guy snaps, clearly irritated.

I remember having the same reaction when I first became homeless. It happens to all of us when we’re thrown into this life and have to gnaw at our crappy circumstances like a dog with a bone.

– Relax, man! I’m not here to take your spoils, – I say calmly. I have no reason to fight.

– Fuck the spoils! I’ve never tolerated insolence from some brat! If you keep looking down at me, I’ll shove your little cocks into your ass…

He doesn’t realize I’m a girl. My mask is working.

I don’t want to listen to any more of his nonsense, so I turn away to talk to the familiar guy about a deal. But the annoying newcomer interrupts me by shoving me.

– Not listening, huh? Are you deaf? – He tries to push me again, but I sidestep him.

Breathe deeper. Don’t give in.

I’ve learned a few techniques for dealing with annoying admirers, thanks to my goombah. So… I prepare to act.

– Leave him alone! – a loud, commanding voice booms across the place.

It’s the head of the hole, the leader of this camp. He was like a father to my goombah – technically like a grandfather to me – so I’ve always felt like family. He’s also one of the wisest men I’ve ever met, second only to my goombah.

– Who are you calling “him,” you old creaker? – I shout defiantly.

– You! – The old man marches toward us. – Why are you here? If you thought I’d forgotten about last time, you’re wrong!

He looms over us, and my opponent visibly shrinks, pulling his head into his shoulders.

Surprise, surprise! Bite me, puppy! Now who’s shoving cocks into whose ass?

– What’s that? Ha?! – I taunt, grinning. – Can’t hear your mumbles, old bones?

The newcomer turns pale as the old man and I exchange knowing smiles.

The creaker rushes to hug me, and I burst into laughter. Just then, someone else appears.

– It’s a damn good question! “Why are you here?”

Part 5

Some men gather in the improvised square, joining our conversation. Among them, I recognize one all too well. He’s like my dead goombah in some ways – someone society tossed away like garbage when he was too young. But unlike my goombah, he’s bitter, filled with the desire for cruel revenge.

He reminds me of a wolf. He’s excellent at finding food or resources to help the group survive, as if he has a hunter’s instincts. He avoids trouble with gangs and the police, predicting dangers as though he can see the future. He’s a true survivor, skilled in every trick to keep himself – and sometimes the group – alive. But at his core, he hates the same like he – homeless.

We’ve never been friends. That was never possible.

– Freddy, – I spit his name out to show I’m not afraid of him. It’s not his real name, of course. Many of us hide our real names and stories. The nickname suits him, though. He’s known for chasing and robbing children in parks at night. He relishes their terror. Disgusting.

– You disappeared right after his death, – Freddy sneers, stepping closer. – Left us. Stopped bringing money. Why?

– I was mourning, – I reply coldly.

– Bullshit! – He spits on the ground. – I hear you’ve been shagging rich boys! Decided you don’t need us anymore, huh? We’re not good enough for you, is that it? You think you’re too clean, too decent for us now? That goof’s body wasn’t even cold, and you were already dancing on dicks! Damn you!

– Screw you, Freddy! Since when did you become a judge? Did you forget who helped you when you were worse than a whipped dog? That ‘goof’ – he chose to help you, and now you dare to spit on his memory? I get why you’re mad, though. Your mommy preferred some fancy man and kicked her ugly son to the curb, didn’t she?

– Oh, you little, – Freddy lunges at me, but the creaker steps in, his massive frame stopping Freddy in his tracks.

If Freddy is like a wolf, the creaker – the leader of this group – reminds me of an old bear. No one would dare touch me with him here. He remembers how my goombah cared for me and considers me under his protection.

Freddy glares at me, but I know his weak spot. Mentioning his mother always gets to him. Still, I’d never insult my goombah. Never.

– Enough! – the creaker roars, his voice like thunder. – Get your act together! – His words calm the group, the tension easing.

Except for the newcomer. He looks stunned.

– Wait… are you… a gay? – he stammers, his face pale.

Before I can answer, Freddy jumps in. “She’s blind!” he sneers, twisting the truth to his advantage.

– You’re kidding me. What the fuck?– The newcomer looks around, expecting laughter, but the group remains silent.

– She plays men like fools. Don’t fall for it! – Freddy adds, his voice dripping with malice.

The newcomer’s expression darkens, scorn and spite replacing his earlier confusion.

– You’re a fucking bitch, – he says slowly, his words chilling me to the core.

– I said, ENOUGH! – the creaker bellows again. His voice ends the dispute, silencing everyone.

I don’t need to be told twice. I head to the other side of the square where, if nothing has changed, the creaker's camp should be. There’s nothing remarkable about it. The leader of the homeless doesn’t have a sturdier shelter than the others – just a pile of junk that looks like, well, a pile of junk. The old man has never sought to elevate himself above the rest or live off the backs of his people. He’s always been ready to share everything – from valuable knowledge to food – even if it’s his last.

That’s part of my plan.

After a short exchange, the creaker approaches me decisively.

– Did I come at a bad time? – I ask, trying to ease into the conversation.

– There’s no such thing as a bad time for us. We can be anywhere we want – we’re homeless. That’s one of the few rights we have left. So… why are you here?

I look at the creaker and notice the shadows on his weathered face.

How old is he? How many years has he lived like this? And why?

I’ve never asked him about it – maybe because I don’t want to share anything about myself either.

The creaker has always been an integral part of the streets. His flabby face, deep, almost black wrinkles, and bearish, round-shouldered frame have been a constant. But I’ve never seen sorrow in his eyes. Just as I’ve never seen Freddy act so bold.

Is the wolf rallying a few allies to challenge the bear? Ha! Impossible.

So, what’s weighing on the creaker?

– His den was damaged by some bastards last night, – I say quietly. Though I know it’s not really a secret, I’ve always kept the place I lived with my goombah – and later alone – a secret for my own safety. Someone like Freddy is always eager to “pay a visit.”

The creaker’s forehead furrows, the creases resembling an old, decrepit leather boot – one that’s been discarded and left to rot in the trash. Even the homeless wouldn’t wear something like that.

– What about your possessions? Did anything survive? – he asks.

– Nothing. Except this, – I reply, showing him my sports bag with a dress and shoes inside.

– I can give you some money to start. How much do you need?

– All of it.

– Excuse me? – The creaker seems so surprised he even resorts to polite phrasing.

– Those bastards took something I am going to get back.

– Is it a secret?

– What do you already know?

– Relax, girl. That’s all. Everyone has something they guard closely.

He stretches into his inside pocket to get his own money that he earned a couple of days ago.

– No, – I stop his intention. – I need it all. All of what you saved up.

– Blow me down! Do you realize what you’re asking? It’s impossible!