The Temporary Now


We're spinning circles, Faith and I.  Couple of nobodies going round and round, headed nowhere quick.  I ain't sure how
we've managed to make do these past few months.  But today, standing in the cold and the wet, future don't look so
bright.  I know I ain't supposed to think on the future.  I'm supposed to put my worry on getting through today.  Last night
we slept where we scored.  Burned and crashed.  We do that a lot.  When we got up this morning the rain was already
coming down.  We haven't eaten yet.  Way things are going might be a while before we do.  Only a few generous arms have
come out open car windows.  Seven, eight bucks.  Maybe.  Lot of coin.  Hardly no one with any extra to spare.  While I hang
back by the scrubweed and hold the cardboard sign up, Faith, she works the cars that wait on the light.  She raps her
knuckles against the wet windows.  "Spare some change," she says.

Most folks ignore, stare straight ahead.  Sometimes they'll scowl.  Occasionally, a finger'll be raised.  One guy, when the light
went green, he rolled his window down and spat in Faith's face.  Get a fucking job, fucking crack-slut, he shouted.  Faith got
her hands in the window, got hold of his collar, but she was thrown back when he jammed the gas and sped off.  She's
tough, though.  Not easily bothered.  Faith, see, she's all about the now.  She believes today is the only mattering day.  
Folks who worry on the future, or dwell about the past, Faith says, got their heads wrapped around the world the wrong
way.

When the light goes green again the lane clears.  I make mention of how bad the rain's getting.  I even stop holding the sign
out in front of me.  Use it instead to keep myself from getting too drenched.  Faith, she palms her damp red hair off her
face, shrugs, and says, We got much bread left? When I don't answer, she says, Yeah, that's what I thought.  She looks
down at herself, at her breasts, the tight pullover she's got on -- wet and clinging.  She pulls the fabric out, then tugs
downward, letting the shirt snap back, grabbing, forming.  Flaunting the goods.  That's what she calls it.  Gets desperate like
this sometimes.  Desperate in an ugly kind of way.

A month or so back when we'd caught enough coin to get a room, I asked her why.  Why she stoops.  She got uptight,
mad, said, Why do you give a shit? Besides, she went on, it's all temporary, anyway. All this shit's temporary. I said, Maybe
I care about you.  Maybe I wanna make life with you. Faith said, Talk that way again and you're on your own.  Last thing I
need, she said, is a bunch of happy-happy, joy-joy crap. But she didn't mean it.  She was putting on a mask, playing tough.
 I knew that.  She no more wanted to be alone than I did.  That night I lay on the bed in the dark and listened to her
struggle to keep her sobs inside.  That's Faith for you.  It's all temporary.  So she claims.  Love.  Life.  The things she has to
do.  In my arms in the morning, she whispered, Let's do it, Donny. Let's kick this shit and anchor down to a real address.
Get real jobs. Live real lives.

I got out of bed.  Parted the curtains and let the sunlight sweep over the room.  Felt different for a minute.  Warm and
bright.  Real and secure.  Been a long time since I felt that way.  But it didn't take long for those hopeful vibes to become
temporary.  Like always, there was the reality of the now to deal with.

Light changes again and the cars stop line up.  Faith leans over the lead car, peers into the driver's side window.  She gives
the guy behind the wheel an eyeful of the goods.  The window cranks down.  Help a lady out, Faith says to the driver.  The
driver, older guy, suit and tie type, probably says back, What's in it for me? Cardboard sign I'm hefting above my head sags
heavy with rain.  Even before she glances back, I know Faith's getting into the car with the guy.  It's warm in there.  No rain.  
No wind.  No past, no future.  Some pretty music.  The temporary now.

Glancing back at me, she nods.  I nod back and watch her open the door.  She hops in, shuts the door and gnaws on her
bottom lip the way she does when she wants you to think she don't care about nothing.  We'll hook up tonight.  After.  We
always do.  The car drives off, its tires send a splash of water off the pavement onto my jeans.  Ankles to cuffs drenched.  
What's new?  I move up alongside the lane, drop my sign in front of me, try and shake some of the water off.  They ain't
looking my way though.  These drivers.  It's like they know I ain't quite whole.  Like they know something's missing.  Like
they know Faith ain't here.  Later, if things go right, we'll eat good, maybe even get a room.

It guilts me sometimes, letting Faith do what she does to keep us going.  I wish things could be different.  I wish I could find
a way to make all this crap disappear.  But I really gotta stop dreaming.  If I've learned anything from Faith, I've learned not
to count on things being too different from one day to the next.  Life don't work that way.  Not unless through some miracle
you strike it big.  Hit the mother-lode.  Sometimes I think that happened to me when Faith came along.  But right here, right
now, with cars splashing past and the rain pounding down, I can almost hear Faith's voice.  She's saying, Don't dwell, don't
hope. Most people's dreams don't pan out.

Still, I'm hopeful she's right about this all being one of those temporary things.

Robert Aquino Dollesin