People You Didn’t Know You Knew

By J. F. Cronin

This book had its genesis in conversations with people who felt they had no voice. Each of these people had a story that could be related to issues facing society today. Hopefully, this book gives them a voice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532081149

J. F. Cronin

J.F. Cronin is a retired marine general who has written extensively about the state of politial-military affairs. He currently resides in a fishing village on the Oregon Coast.

Book preview

Copyright © 2019 J. F. Cronin.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-5320-8113-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-8114-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019912988

iUniverse rev. date: 08/30/2019

CONTENTS

Parrish

Alexia

Vern

Marge

Ray

Cisco

Abel

Ivette

The Breaux

PARRISH

Gus’s was what you’d expect of a restaurant in a run-down part of Upper Manhattan. It had a Depression-era look. Stuck in a row of storefronts lining a trash-strewn street, each business had two large windows on either side of a recessed doorway. The thing setting Gus’s apart was an olive-green and white sign hanging over the entrance like a doctor’s shingle. The sign upgraded the neighborhood because it advertised Greek Cuisine. The small entryway was deep enough for two people to stand away from the flow of foot traffic and transition their thoughts prior to entering, so it wasn’t a surprise when Gus Kaleskedes, Gus’s owner and cook, neared the restaurant before sunrise and, from across the street, spotted someone standing in his doorway, probably trying to stay out of the chilling early morning wind. It wasn’t common for homeless people to sleep in the small entrances to Gus’s and the neighboring businesses, but on the other hand, it wasn’t uncommon. In a neighborhood made up of a multiplicity of ethnic groups, each group had a church, and each church had at least a soup kitchen. Several had overnight shelters. The assistance available for the down and out was usually enough to keep the area free of people sleeping on the street, but every now and then, someone sought the shelter of a doorway.

Gus crossed the street, thinking the person standing in the doorway would see him and move on. That didn’t happen. As he approached, Gus saw that it was a young man and that he was asleep. Gus marveled that someone could sleep standing up. Standing directly in front of the man, Gus wasn’t afraid. He was as tall as the sleeper and beefier. From just a feet away, Gus got a good look at him. The right side of his face was caved in, as if it had been sheared off, and the knitted skullcap he wore clung to his head, showing that the right side of his skull was dented. From the head up, he seemed an alien, but from the shoulders down, his carriage wasn’t that of a street person. He didn’t have the defeated slouch, nor were his clothes ragged. Although he was leaning against the doorjamb, with one shoulder touching it, his posture was otherwise erect.

Gus reached out and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. There was no transition: the stranger became instantly alert and walked right past Gus.

Hey. What are you doing sleeping in my doorway? Gus called at his back as the distance opened between them. I ain’t mad. Come on back here. I’m going to put the coffee on, and I’ll buy you a cup.

Hot coffee on a cold morning was too tempting to pass up.

Gus unlocked the door, and they went inside. The door slammed shut behind them with the ferocity of a sprung mousetrap. As it crashed shut, an attached bell rang nervously. Anyone who had ever let the door close itself was frozen momentarily by the fear that they had broken something.

Don’t worry about that, said Gus. The bell alerts me that there are customers when I’m in the kitchen.

Gus’s was a large restaurant but held only twelve tables, so there was plenty of room between them. Sit anywhere you like. I’ll go start the coffee. He disappeared into the kitchen. Hey, you hungry? I got some soup I could warm up, he suggested.

Gus had been a drunk and a druggie, not in that order and sometimes simultaneously, and had lived on the streets, so he had empathy for people stuck in that rut. He didn’t look down on them because he was recovering and at any minute could rejoin them. He managed to stay clean by losing himself in his work. That was why he opened at six and worked until eight in the evening. He kept himself going by working in the restaurant—that, and he had a family support group. At seven o’clock, his wife Nita would show up and sit by the cash register all day to keep an eye on the money and on him. When they needed a break, other family members were always in and out to help.

Since he hadn’t received a response to his soup offer, he decided to try again. Is there anything you want to eat? Gus called out as the coffee finished brewing.

I could eat a piece of cake.

At this time of day? Man, cake ain’t good for you. How about some salad?

No, thanks. The tone of his voice indicated he would rather go hungry.

Okay, but if we ever do this again, I set the menu. You look like you could use some healthy food, something that’s good for you.

Gus came out of the kitchen with two steaming cups of coffee and a slab of chocolate cake. Eat up. Gus took one of the coffees and sat across the table.

Thank you, sir, but let me pay you for this. The man reached into his pocket before Gus could stop him and laid a wad of twenty-dollar bills on the table.

Jesus. Gus was flabbergasted. Put that away. You can’t show that kind of coin in this neighborhood. If people find out you’re carrying that much cash, you won’t last long. I figured you for a user, but no head that I know has that kind of dough. What gives?

I am a user. He pulled vials of prescription drugs from his pocket.

Gus read the labels and saw that he was carrying potent stuff that had value on the street, another risk to which the man across from him seemed oblivious.

Put that stuff away too. Geez, are you asking to be offed? Gus tried to make sense of the man. What’s your name?

Parrish Bancroft.

Is that the real deal, or are you making it up?

No, that’s my name. He pulled dog tags from under his shirt and showed Gus so that he could read them.

What are you, army or something?

Yes, sir, I was. The army no longer has any use for me.

Because of that? Gus pointed toward Parrish’s head.

Yes, sir.

Knock off that sir stuff. It makes me nervous. Call me Gus.

Yes, s … Gus. He smiled at his near mistake, a smile that angled across his face.

I’m being nosy, but man, you got me wondering. I’ll give it a rest so you can eat up and enjoy the cake. I made it two days ago.

Parrish then did something that stunned Gus. He took a box of sugar out of his jacket pocket and poured sugar all over the cake, essentially turning the chocolate white. Instead of wolfing down the cake, Parrish picked up the fork Gus had provided and took small bites, savoring each one.

Gus had fed many homeless people and had never seen one eat slowly. They usually hunkered over their food as if protecting it and devoured it in several quick bites. Parrish treated the cake like it was a fine meal.

I’m going to be nosy again, all right?

Sure. Parrish didn’t seem offended.

You buried my cake with sugar, but you drink the coffee unsweetened. I don’t understand.

I’ve taken so much medication my taste buds have been killed off, but I can taste sweetness if I sugar food. It has something to do with the texture. If I sugar my coffee, there is no texture, and I can’t taste the sweetness.

Gus thought about this. I guess that makes sense. After watching Parrish eat so slowly, he had other questions. Who gives you the meds?

The VA. I have a prescription pad and can go into any drugstore and get what I need. Parrish started to reach into his jacket, presumably to show Gus the pad.

I believe you. I don’t want to see it. I hate to break it to you, but a lot of people would consider that pad more valuable than you, so keep it out of sight. If you keep showing off what you’re carrying, you ain’t going to make it around here. Gus didn’t know whether to scold Parrish or feel sorry for him. Is that where you get the dough?

I get a disability check every month. He again reached for his pocket.

I believe you. Don’t show me anything else. If you want to keep living on the streets—or if you want to keep on living at all—slow down in flashing your stuff. This is a decent neighborhood, but you’re a walking ATM who could easily be knocked over. I’m just telling you this for your safety. Gus stopped and looked Parrish over. You got dough, so why the hell are you sleeping on the street? Get yourself a room where you’ll be warm and safe. For that matter, I’ll call Father Joe at Saint Anthony’s Church, and he’ll get you set for free.

I can’t, Parrish said. His voice wavered, as if he was frightened by Gus’s suggestion.

Why?

I was strapped to a bed for eighteen months. At first, I was in a drug-induced coma, so it didn’t bother me, but as my mind cleared and I could remember why I was in the bed, the ceiling I was forced to look at closed in on me. It didn’t crush me physically, but mentally it compressed me so much that I had difficulty breathing. The drugs the doctors gave me helped the physical pain, but they couldn’t block my thoughts. When I was finally able to get out of the bed, I taught myself to sleep standing up, because if a nightmare awakens me, I can move away from it quickly. If I lie down or even fall asleep sitting in a chair, I can’t escape my demons fast enough. Even sleeping standing, I know I can’t run away from the things haunting me, but the immediate activity when I wake up lessens the intensity.

Gus tried to get more details about why Parrish had been hospitalized, but it was apparent Parrish didn’t want to talk about his past, so Gus tried to get him to think about his future.

I can tell you, you aren’t going to make it around here. What are you doing here anyway?

I was on my way to see my parents who live outside the city, and I got worried that seeing me might be too much of a shock for them, so I ended up here.

You worried about that? Gus pointed at his face.

Yes.

Your parents know you’re alive, don’t they?

The last time they saw me, there was hope that I could be reconstructed. They weren’t expecting this. He made a wiping gesture across his face.

Give them a chance. You might be surprised.

You don’t understand. My parents have a perfect life. Everything about them is shiny and new. When I went off to war, I fit that mold. I was the perfect son who was going to add to their legacy of public service. They attend a lot of galas and donate a lot to charity. This face doesn’t fit into the high-society picture. Parrish was speaking matter-of-factly. There was no hint of self-pity in his voice.

So you’re here. You don’t want to visit your folks, and you can’t make it on the streets. How do you plan to survive?

I don’t know. I haven’t thought it out.

You’re fucked. It wasn’t a snide observation. It was Gus’s analysis of Parrish’s future. I need a dishwasher. Why don’t you work for me until you figure out what you want to do?

Can I think about it?

I’m not breaking your arm. But from what you’ve told me, accepting the dishwashing job would make sense.

30489.png

Parrish took the job to kill time, and he liked that no one bothered him. He worked off the kitchen in a hot, humid room, and during the winter months the space provided refuge. As he fell into a routine, he and Gus developed an odd friendship, and though Parrish learned a lot about Gus and his life, Parrish didn’t reciprocate and left Gus wondering about him. The other thing Gus couldn’t get him to do was sleep indoors. No matter how many times Gus tried, Parrish left every night and found a place to sleep on the streets, so Gus gave up trying. What he didn’t give up on was trying to get Parrish to eat more healthfully, and a game developed between them.

Gus was always by the stove, where he could watch the plates coming back into the kitchen and going to the dishwasher room. If he saw leftover food on a plate, he would dump it into the garbage so that Parrish wouldn’t eat it. Then he’d offer Parrish a piece of fresh pastry if he would eat a salad. It was a war of wills, and in his effort to get around Gus, Parrish, being the more sympathetic of the two, got the support of waitstaff, especially since the restaurant was staffed with people down on their luck, including many from homeless shelters.

The only waitress on duty on Sunday nights was a hard case. She had come from a battered women’s shelter and was living in accommodations provided by a local church for homeless people. Her face bore the scars of many beatings, and her eyes had the scared and frantic look of a whipped dog. She identified herself as Loreen, an alias she used so that her former husband would have a harder time tracking her. She was rail-thin, and it looked as if a strong wind might blow her away, but she worked hard and never complained. She worked all the overtime Gus could provide in an effort to save money, so that she could reunite with her kids. Best of all, she got along with Gus’s wife Nita, which many people found difficult, including Gus. Nita liked to chew gum and read magazines about celebrities. The latter seemed to be her only interest, and it turned people off. Somehow, Loreen broke through the veneer. She was a celebrity-gossip junkie too and could talk to Nita. They were an odd couple, but when the restaurant was slow, they chatted and giggled at the gossip they found shocking.

Loreen and Parrish became friends. They were both scarred physically and emotionally and felt safe sharing their fears, each knowing the other would understand. Parrish got to see the world through the eyes of a battered wife, and Loreen learned about being a discarded warrior. She didn’t get his whole story in one sitting, but over time he added chapters, and she, in turn, told Gus.

Parrish had survived what he described as a bloodbath. It hadn’t taken place in a single battle, but rather the drip of blood had continued over months. Men and boys in his platoon had been killed until over half of them were gone. They had been killed one or two at a time, and he’d had the misfortune to be on hand for each death, often suffering as he helplessly watched a friend bleed out in his arms. This had played on his mind, but he’d had to overcome the depression so he himself could stay alive. But in living he felt selfish. Why him? Why had the bullets and blasts found others? No one in his