Park Days

PARK DAYS

J.D. Lenzen

AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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Phone: 1-800-839-8640

© 2011 J.D. Lenzen. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/8/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4670-4433-2 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-4434-9 (sc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011917558

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.

Cover Image by R. Black

Contents

Remembering the Beginning

Awareness of the Heat

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Spilling the Dreamer’s Fuel

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Oxygen for the Likeminded

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Embracing the Reaction

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Feeling the Slippery Growth

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Resisting the Thermal Runway

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Consuming the Splendid Decay

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Daniel’s Ashes

About the Author

Other Books by J.D. Lenzen

Soft Candy (2007)

Disturbingly Normal (2010)

For Kristen B. Kakos,

who put up with me during the making of this book.

And…

Alan W. Watts,

my intellectual yoga instructor and favorite entertainer.

Remembering the Beginning

It was called the Incubator, a space for and in support of community. A San Francisco warehouse provided for use, at no cost to others, by Daniel Park. But none of that mattered now.

The Incubator was ablaze and Daniel was standing outside, watching it burn. Dense smoke was billowing out of its roof and amber flames were blackening its muraled outer walls. Such a brilliant death, Daniel whispered to himself, remembering a fire he had lit three months before.

Awareness of the Heat

Chapter 1

In a small clearing beside a well-groomed redwood trail, Daniel blew softly on a nugget of smoldering ash. He’d struggled with a drill stick for nearly twenty minutes and now his careful breaths were feeding the nugget’s amber glow like a mother bird feeding her young.

It had rained earlier that day, so his clothes were damp and his body was cold. The chill he felt produced a look of primordial determination on his face. A steady focus that relaxed into a satisfied grin once the smoldering ashes transformed his tinder into a bundle of controlled flames.

Once his stash of dry limbs and other flammable debris was ablaze and radiating warmth, Daniel sat back, ran a hand over his beard, and took in his surroundings. Beside him was a rubberized Swiss Army rucksack, un-cinched and open, revealing a loosely tied stack of weathered papers inside. He picked up the papers, untied them, and started looking them over.

Each page had a cartoonish character on it. Drawn in pencil or pen, the characters were metaphors for emotional states, unarticulated thoughts, and feelings he’d recently begun to experience, but could only express through image and art.

After setting the papers down, Daniel dug deeper into his rucksack and pulled out a Maëstro cigar box. The box was made of fine-grained wood, stained black, and had an ornate golden sun on the lid. Its hinges were brass and its clasp was snapped shut tightly. Daniel never opened the box, yet he always kept it with him. Although he didn’t understand why, he knew the box was very important and so considered it his most treasured possession.

Setting the box down beside the papers, Daniel dug even deeper into his rucksack and pulled out a small photograph. The photo was of him standing in front of the Prague Expres Hotel. With a glee-filled grin on his face and his rucksack slung over a shoulder, he looked as if he was on vacation. He was wearing a stylish, natural white roll neck sweater and a pair of designer jeans; his hair was short and well-groomed. His skin was fresh, unaffected by time, and his eyes were those of a vibrant man in the prime of his life.

The man who held the photograph now was damp and bearded, his hair was tangled and long, and his clothes were tattered and smeared with flakes of mud. This man, the man before the fire, spent his days avoiding people and his better nights sleeping beneath the trees. The man in the picture looked as if he was ready to take on the world and win.

Fucking noise! a voice suddenly exclaimed from the darkness beyond the fire.

Daniel frantically grabbed his things and stuffed them back into his rucksack. After cinching the rucksack closed, he crab-crawled backward toward a trail he knew was behind him. When he reached the trail’s edge, he spun around and scrambled to his feet. A second man promptly gripped him by his collar and lifted him off the ground.

Stand up! the man said sternly as he set Daniel back down.

How many times do we have to tell you not to set fires in the park? the first voice questioned as a flashlight beam struck Daniel’s face.

Daniel heard the beep and trill of a police walky-talky.

Still holding Daniel by the scruff, the second man unclipped a walky-talky from his chest. Reynolds, he answered firmly.

Should I dispatch the fire department? a female voice asked.

No, Reynolds replied. The fire’s contained. It’s a homeless man’s encampment. Peterson and I’ll take care of things from here.

10-4.

Roger that, Reynolds clipped his walky-talky back onto his chest.

Peterson stepped out of the darkness, maintaining his flashlight beam on Daniel’s face. This is Golden Gate Park, not the backwoods of Montana! He used the side of his boot to shovel loose dirt onto Daniel’s fire—dousing the flames.

Daniel closed his eyes.

Peterson continued smothering the fire. Get him out of here!

Reynolds pulled a flashlight off his utility belt and tugged on Daniel’s collar. Let’s go!

A horsy cough erupted from Daniel’s mouth as he struggled for a breath.

Keep walking! Reynolds said as he pushed Daniel toward a nearby trail.

Daniel pulled his rucksack up to his chest, stumbled forward, and clumsily started walking down the trail—his steps made clear by Reynolds’s flashlight.

Two minutes later, Daniel was standing at the intersection of Fulton Street and 25th Avenue.

Reynolds grabbed Daniel’s shoulder, spun him around, and shot the flashlight beam into his face. If we find you camping in the park again, Reynolds said, we’re taking you in. You got that?

Daniel nodded yes.

Reynolds turned his flashlight beam to the ground and started walking back into the park.

Daniel’s eyes slowly adjusted to the glow of the street lights. A moment later he let out a hard sigh and his shoulders sank. Despite his best wishes, he’d have to sleep in one of his cramped, street side cubby holes, rather than stretch out beneath the trees. There was no way around it.

Chapter 2

Daniel knew sleeping outside was made easier with alcohol, still he didn’t drink. Neither did he do drugs, another popular coping mechanism used to defuse the harsh realities of a homeless night’s rest; realities like relentless bone chilling weather, body pains, and Pit.

Pit was a stalker, a man who beat up and stole from the homeless who were too frail, doped up, or brainsick to defend themselves or their belongings. With dark, sunken eyes and a sinewy frame, Pit had a reaper-like quality; a death about him that was punctuated by the black duster he wore. Constantly on the prowl, he fed off the faintest glimmer of weakness, or the slightest hint of materialistic pride. Go on, Pit once said to Daniel, after he stole a blanket Daniel had been given, tell the police. They don’t give a shit about you or me!

A black tar heroin addict, Pit rarely kept the things he stole. Instead he sold what he took to secondhand stores and people who didn’t know any better. Cash gained him access to the junk. Every ten dollars equaled another rush, an opportunity to escape the pain and the realities of the street—the same realities everyone else living on the streets had to manage, and somehow did, without beating or stealing from others.

People begged Pit to stop what he was doing. Even the Dutchman, Daniel’s closest friend, begged him to take a load off, cop a squat, and fly the sign. But it wasn’t Pit’s way to sit around and panhandle, especially when his veins were thirsting for the junk. The quicker and easier the money came, the better it was for him. So he stole. His chemical hunger wouldn’t have it any other way.

Despite Pit’s predation, Daniel was sympathetic to his addiction. Before ending up on the streets an academically coherent, yet derealized amnesiac, he had been a steady drug user himself. What drugs he used, he didn’t remember, but he knew he’d been a user nonetheless. So, on a visceral level he understood Pit’s appetite for dope and felt for his condition, even though he no longer indulged himself.

* * *

Still, as officer Reynolds left his side, Daniel wasn’t thinking of Pit or the danger he presented. He was thinking of the space beneath a bush near the corner of Fulton and Stanyan, across the street from St. Mary’s Medical Center. The space where he could bed down for the night and get some rest.

Moments later, as Daniel was shuffling up Fulton, his thoughts slowly drifted toward an image. An image that had been simmering in the back of his mind as he struggled to start the fire in the park. Alone again, the image rose into Daniel’s consciousness, tapping on his skull like a stranger impatiently seeking his attention. It was a cartoonish character, standing with legs apart and arms outstretched above his head. The character’s eyes were open, and his mouth slightly agape, as if he was witnessing something transcendent or waiting for something to happen. Something magnificent, humbling, and beautiful.

Daniel felt the heat of the character warming his hands, calling him to draw. But his usual canvas, a sheet of unlined notebook paper, wouldn’t be enough, not this time. He needed something more, something grander, a canvas large enough to represent the character in a monumental way. But what?

Mop!

Daniel held his breath. Only Pit called him that. He stopped walking and turned around slowly.

Pit was standing five strides away from him with his arms crossed and a smirk on his face. Here’s the deal, he said in a gravelly voice. You let me take a look at that bag of yours and I promise I’ll only take one thing out of it, nothing more.

Daniel swallowed.

Pit stepped closer to Daniel.

Daniel stood his ground.

If you run, Pit continued, I’ll beat you down, tear that fucking bag out of your arms, and keep everything in it! He stepped closer again. Got that?

Daniel pulled his rucksack to his chest.

Pit flashed a smile. And, if you’re nice I won’t take that box of yours.

A stunned look swept across Daniel’s face.

Surprised I know about the box?

Daniel lowered his gaze.

Pit pointed off toward the park. I saw you back there, building your fire, lining up your things like a child getting ready to play with his toys, he huffed. I was just about to pay you a visit when those two copper tops stepped in and hauled you off. Pit focused his gaze on Daniel’s bag.

Daniel glanced up the street.

I thought you were gonna get arrested. Can’t tell you how happy I was when I saw them let you go. Pit narrowed his eyes and reached out a hand toward Daniel. Hand me your bag, Mop. I’ll pick my treat and we’ll be done here.

Daniel took a breath and ran up the street. He was able to put some distance between himself and Pit but knew the distance wouldn’t last. He hadn’t had the opportunity to swing his rucksack over his shoulders before sprinting off and the awkwardness of carrying it in front of him was wearing him down.

Daniel looked back to mark Pit’s location. He figured he’d achieved about a quarter block of distance, just enough for an idea he had. He cut left across Fulton and started heading down 20th Avenue—a street he knew was well lit by lamps. As he ran, he reached into his rucksack, dug to the bottom, and pulled out a wallet. With Pit closing in on him he dropped the wallet just as he entered the illumination of a street lamp. He curved right up the next street, immediately stopping to hide behind a row of bushes.

As Daniel caught his breath he slid his rucksack over his shoulders. Then he peeked around the corner to see where Pit was. As Daniel had hoped, he’d stopped.

Yes! Pit exclaimed as he riffled through the wallet.

Daniel smiled.

The wallet was empty except for a piece of paper that looked like a million dollar bill. The bill had been handed to Daniel shortly after he’d found the wallet and Daniel had thought it fitting to store it inside. An evangelical Christian tract masquerading as money, the back of the bill read:

The million dollar question: Will you go to Heaven? Here’s a quick test. Have you ever told a lie, stolen anything, looked at a woman with lustful eyes or used God’s name in vain? If you have done those things, God sees you as a lying, thieving, blasphemous, adulterer at heart. Repent and trust in Jesus and God will grant you everlasting life.

Pit hurled the wallet down the street, letting the fake bill flutter to the ground. You have an ass kicking coming, Mop! Ya hear me? An ass kicking!

Daniel watched as Pit walked back toward Fulton. It was late, so he figured Pit would likely find a place to pant off his exertion then head in for the night. But Daniel didn’t want to take any chances, so he took a roundabout route back to the park and the bush he would sleep a cold hard night beneath.

Chapter 3

As the night wore on, coastal fog rolled into Golden Gate Park. Those sleeping on its western stretch were covered in a heavy mist by 11:30 p.m. The spot where Daniel slept was along the east end of the park, so he was spared the mist until 1:00 a.m. Still, just as it had for others, the mist set in and wrapped Daniel tight in moisture; moisture he’d learned to combat with layers. Nevertheless, by 4:30 a.m. he started to feel the cold seep into his flesh and chill him to his core.

Later, just as the damp air was starting to shred Daniel’s nerves, the sun began to rise, returning warmth to the park. As Daniel’s temperature rose, so too did his spirits. As the white-crowned sparrows began to sing, he smiled. Having achieved what rest he could, Daniel uncurled from his sleeping position, peeled himself off the pile of newspapers beneath him, and slid out from underneath the bush he’d called home for the night. He dusted himself off and took a short walk to a nearby grass basin. Steeply sloped, it was a place he visited now and then. A place where he knew food could be found.

Surrounded by native stands of California Live Oak trees, the basin was located in the northeastern corner of the park. At the bottom of the basin Daniel found a fresh patch of Miner’s Lettuce; a leafy edible plant that grew throughout the park, but was particularly abundant here. It was Daniel’s favorite naturally growing food.

Still sleeping under bushes and eating off the land, the Dutchman announced from a park bench that overlooked the basin. As I’ve said before, the bushes of this park are only fit for squirrels, birds, and raccoons. As for the plants… He pointed up at a sign beside the bench that read:

PICKING PLANTS

PROHIBITED

CHAP. VI ART. 2 SECT. 16

MUNICIPAL CODE

Daniel looked up at the Dutchman, shook his head, and smiled. Then he turned his attention back to the patch of Miner’s Lettuce and continued eating.

* * *

The Dutchman was more a fixture of the park than simply another homeless occupant therein. His constant attire was a dingy blue captain’s coat with white lapels, a high collar, and thick-rolled cuffs. Below his coat he wore a stained pair of white sailor pants. The Dutchman was only about five feet tall, yet his impressive head of white hair and booming voice—along with his showy attire—made him seem far taller.

Daniel and the Dutchman met on Daniel’s first night in the park. Unaware that the park’s trash bins were secured at the end of each day, Daniel had unwittingly been locked inside one as he lay sleeping. Upon the realization of his predicament he began to kick and strike at the lid of the bin in terror. Moments later the lid flipped open, and the Dutchman peered in.

A garbage bin is no place for a man to sleep, he said as he helped Daniel out and back onto the street.

Daniel nodded.

The Dutchman clicked his heels together and held out a hand for a shake, My name is the Dutchman.

Daniel did not take the Dutchman’s hand.

After a few awkward seconds passed, the Dutchman lowered his hand. What’s your name?

Daniel said nothing.

The Dutchman cupped a hand behind his ear and leaned forward. Do you have a name?

Daniel gazed at the ground, seemingly transfixed by something.

The Dutchman dropped his hand, straightened up, and smiled. Well then, I’ll just call you friend.

At the time Daniel and the Dutchman first met, Daniel had recently suffered a psychotic break that resulted in the loss of his former sense of reality. The world around him had become dreamlike, less significant, and he was no longer aware of the man he once