Choices

The storm, forecast to move rapidly through the area, stalled, and for three days, the cold rain fell straight down onto the already waterlogged park. Earlier, he’d stashed his tarp and bundle between two dumpsters, behind a furniture store. After checking to make sure they were somewhat secure, he walked off into the rain, searching for someone.

***

He was cold, wet, and hungry, but not for food. He huddled under his piece of sodden cardboard, burrowed deeper into his filthy jacket, and shivered. He’d run hard for seven blocks to get back here. Really hard. He was sweating, shivering and freezing all at the same time. His heart felt as if it would shatter in his chest, as he gasped for the oxygen his scalded lungs demanded. His eyes watered, his nose ran and his hands trembled, as if with a life of their own. Wisps of steam danced off his back, as his body trembled uncontrollably.

He opened his eyes, and looked for his water bottle. His shaking fingers tried unsuccessfully to unscrew the top. He sighed, closed his eyes and set the bottle aside. He knew his soggy matches wouldn’t light the cigarette he didn’t have.

He pulled at the loose threads on his jacket, and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

Gradually, his breathing became less labored, and his vision began to clear. He stared at the water pouring off the ragged piece of faded blue tarp.

***

He built the road which delivered him here today—one choice at a time.

He started making those choices at thirteen. Maybe they weren’t the right choices, but they were his.

He hated school and had the grades to prove it. He never felt anything they tried to teach him was worth trying to learn. He despised the homework, and always having to prove he’d learned whatever they tried to teach. When he was 15, just before lunch on the first Tuesday of the school year, he got his jacket and the joint he’d bought out of his locker, and left school. He never went back.

That choice didn’t play well at home. All the yelling and threats fell on deaf ears. Everyone had an opinion on what he should do. Do this—do that. Try this, but stay away from that. He felt like some stupid circus animal—jump through the hoop, paw the air, roar on command, and run in circles whenever someone cracks a whip.

He felt he was nothing more than a partially, poorly trained animal. If no one knew how he felt, how could they know what was best for him?

The more they tried to push him, the more he pushed back. He soon learned their threats were empty and their words hollow. Screw them. Screw them all.

It wasn’t long before he stopped doing anything he was told to do, and began doing as he pleased. He had an excuse and a lie for everything and everyone. It all worked.

He loved the freedom of the day, unrestrained and unaccountable. He explored the city. He began to drink. He did some drugs. When he needed money, he stole it. Eventually, he ran out of places from which to steal. He couldn’t go home; he’d stolen so much from them, he was no longer welcome.

His friends began to make excuses, and then openly shun him. “Screw them, “he thought. “I’m better off alone.” He continued to steal and sell anything he could find.

It wasn’t long before he ran out of things to steal and sell. Eventually, he was selling himself.

His choices had gradually redefined the boundaries of his world, as they diminished the parameters of his life. It was his choices, always seeking the fastest, easiest path, always looking for the make-a-quick-buck angle, which eventually put him where he is today. All those choices—all those lost chances.

***

The temperature dipped, and once again, as his body fought hard to warm itself, and the shivering became more and more violent. He pushed his back up closer to the cinder-block building, trying to pull a little warmth from the wall. He pulled his knees up under his chin, unaware of the rancid odor of his clothes and body.

As if on cue, he felt the pain begin in his lower back, building to a fiery itch in his shoulders. His teeth felt loose and in his jaw, the familiar, hollow ache. Without thinking, he knew the pain would soon explode in his head, and begin demanding. He needed to find someone, now. Now—before he couldn’t think clearly enough to go looking.

His mouth tasted pasty, dry and nasty.

“Tomorrow,” he thought. “Tomorrow’s good.”

He just needed to sit here a little longer to collect himself, but found himself struggling unsurely to his feet, walking off into the rain.

His choices dominate him—they own him. They determine what he will do, and when he will do it—he is completely ruled by the choices he’s made.

He no longer chooses; he does what his choices command him to do.