He didn’t wield a cardboard sign or hold a paper cup, nor did he play guitar like the vagrant under the rattling tracks on Division or say nice things to the passersby. The few bills he received were clenched in one browned paw. The other hand often held a 40-ounce bottle of malt liquor, and when it didn’t, it hopped and waved on the sidewalk like an injured bird. With his wool cap pulled low, and beard hair crawling up his cheeks, the bum’s clearest connection with fellow man was through his eyes. They were dull black and quiet large, with long eyelashes that blinked the sun away. Today, however, they were closed. There was no alcohol present, so hand made a jittery dance.

From outside the grocery, down the block: “Think he’s composing a symphony?”

“You mean ‘conducting?’”

Sam swatted away a gnat. “If I meant ‘conducting,’ Jerome, I would have said ‘conducting.”

Jerome snorted. Sam fought the urge to punch his friend – he thinks I’m lying? – and took a slow drink of his pop. They watched the bum. Sam watched the man the same way he watched Jerome’s older brother and his friends play basketball, or the ambulance when it roared past, or his mom when she yelled at him. Tightlipped and half-lidded, as if the whole affair might make them fall asleep. It was better than making a fuss.

Suddenly the bum’s eyes snapped open and he pushed himself upright off the brick wall of the abandoned church. The bum smiled under his beard and motioned to them. Jerome stood up from the step and took a step forward, but Sam shook his head.

“Nah,” Sam said over the neck of his pop bottle. “I just spent my money on this.”

“C’mon, it’s hot.” Jerome motioned to the sky, as if he could poke the humid blanket that descended on Chicago in July. “He just wants a drink.” Jerome already had one foot off the curb, so Sam sighed and left the comforting step of the grocery to follow his friend towards the goddamn bum. The man nodded in encouragement.

Sam stopped ten feet away, watching his friend approach the homeless man and crouch down in front of him. There wasn’t a breeze, so the beer-piss-stink that came off the man hung dead in the air. Jerome didn’t even keep his mouth closed.

“Hello, sir,” Jerome began.

The bum’s mouth worked silently for a few seconds before a croaking reply broke through, “Sir! Why no one calls me, ‘sir’ if you can believe it.” The bum began to laugh so Jerome did too.

When it subsided, Jerome continued, “I’m glad you like it. My ma says I should call my elders ‘sir.’ She’s usually right.” Jerome glanced at Sam, who tipped the bottle back for his drink.

“Smart. Smart woman. Hmm.” The bum gazed past both boys and smacked his peeling lips.

Jerome cocked his head. “You want something to drink?”

The bum blinked and turned back to Jerome. He eyed the boy’s pop and wrinkled his nose. “That’s not quite what I want.”

“We’re not old enough to buy you alc –”

“We ain’t buying you booze,” Sam yelled.

The bum sniffed. “Oh, I can buy my own. I’m 21 or so.” Jerome tittered. The bum waved him closer. “But I have a problem – I can’t afford cups.” He shrugged.

“Don’t give him money,” Sam grumbled.

Jerome glanced at Sam, who stopped talking. “I’m sure I can find a couple dollars,” he said. He pulled out a bill and, catching a glimpse of the bum’s big black eyes, reached in his shorts for a few more. As he passed them, the bum’s shaking hand shot out and snatched then away. Jerome felt the man’s long fingernails rake his palm. The bum snapped the bill open in front of the sun, checking for a water mark next to Lincoln’s head.

“Where’d you little niggers get money?” the bum cackled.

Sam heard the word and immediately his shoulders rose to his ears. He expected to hear it echo down the street. Jerome stood up. The bum was still smiling. The money had disappeared into his claw.

“Where’re you going?” he asked. “I thought your momma taught you manners?”

“She also taught me to stay out of trouble,” Jerome muttered. He brushed past Sam, but his friend was transfixed on the homeless man, whose hand crept one finger at a time along a crack in the sidewalk.

“Don’t you know that I’ll kill you?” the bum asked. Sam sprinted back to his friend.

When they were gone, the bum sighed. The sun slid across the sky, giving him a sliver of shade to lie in, but no real relief. The people streamed past, occasionally passing him a dollar without a glance.

***

Charlotte looked up from her coloring book when she heard the familiar hollering: “The end is nigh! Ye, I have heard the bell toll and when the end comes, his wrath shall be swift and merciless. From the drunks and deadbeats to the rich men who drink the blood of the poor, destruction will raze all!” She peeked out her bedroom window, chin resting on windowsill. The hairy man swayed on the sidewalk and roared until strings of white spit littered his beard.

Another apartment window squealed open. “Shut the fuck up before I call the cops!”

The man spun to face his challenger. “Since when did the cops solve your problems? Come face me like a man or face your impending doom!”

A woman: “Give him some money and maybe he’ll stop.”

Charlotte still had her crayon, so she traced constellations between the spots on glass. The hairy man stood at in the center of her stars.

“Come down here, miss and make an old man happy,” he was saying. “I’ll be so quiet, I promise. I’ll whisper sweet nothings in your pretty head.”

“I’m calling the cops.”

Charlotte’s mother came to her room and pulled her daughter away from the window. She yanked the cord to shut the blinds. Charlotte remained attuned to the window, even as her mother took her hand and led her out.

“It’s dinner time, sweetie. Daddie’s home with takeout. ”

“What’s impending mean?” Charlotte asked.

“He brought pizza, your favorite,” her mother continued. Charlotte took her coloring book to the table and got sauce on the cover.

***

Two weeks ago, in the drunk tank on Halstead. Officer Queenan released the stumblebums and junkies from their vomit-filled confines. Men with red, wet eyes and crumpled collars, swollen noses and empty pockets. Younger ones grinned madly as they grabbed their cell phones from the bin; older men headed for the blinding light with the certainty of someone who will return. The bum remained in the back of the cell, his free hand slapping the metal bench. When Queenan approached, the bum turned his head to the back wall.

Queenan cleared his throat. He had one hand on the cell door and the other near his baton.

“Out!” he said. Slap, slap, slap. “I said out, and that is the last time I ask before I drag you.”

The bum turned his head. “You sure you want me out in the world? What if I bump into your wife? I exercise this hand for a reason.” Slap, slap, slap.

Queenan took a deep breath and squeezed the cell door. Too many cops make it to 25 only to die on their way up the stairs ‘cause they have hearts like broken pianos. He waved over another officer and together they grabbed the bum. He gave no resistance until they reached the doorway, where he thrashed and shook his head back and forth. After Queenan hauled him outside, and returned, and locked the door, and smoothed his uniform, he noticed a spot of blood on the door where the bum must have hit his head.

***

David Levine exited a bank with his briefcase in one hand and handkerchief in the other. In stride, he swept his handkerchief across his forehead. Summer suit, he thought. As long as he was going to be out making calls, he’d need a lighter weight suit. Or none at all! He could ride the El with nothing but his briefs and his briefcase and no one would bat an eye these days.

He rounded the corner and saw a homeless man sprawled in front of an old church building. The midday heat provided a rancid curtain around the man. He readjusted his grip on his briefcase and fixed his gaze ahead.

“Good day,” he said as he passed.

“Mister,” the man whispered.

David slowed his step slightly. “I’m sorry, I prefer to give charity in other fashions.”

“I ain’t asking for money,” the man said. David continued to walk. The bum shifted into a kneeling position. David stopped. He edged closer. “Yes?”

“I just want to talk,” the man reasoned. “Five minutes.” Now, David noticed the man’s eyes. They reminded him of a horse’s, the way they seemed to reflect the whole street in their dark surface.

“Pardon me?” David asked.

The bum gave a dramatic shrug. “I’m lonely.”

David looked down and switched the briefcase between hands. “Ok.”

“What’s your name?” the bum asked.

“David.”

“Do you care about politics, David?” he asked

“Not really.”

“You should. Politics is control. The year I come back from the war was ’68 and Chicago was broken city. Control was,” he made a grasping gesture, “up in the air. They teach you that in school?”

David nodded. “A little bit.”

The bum laughed wistfully. “Who woulda thought I’d end up on the street and the blacks give me money?”

“Um, I’m sorry that you’re in this position?”

The bum gave a dismissive wave. “You ever seen a dead one? In Vietnam, we was an integrated unit. Black boy got hit by a 50 caliber and sprayed all over the place. His blood was black as tar.”

David’s dry tongue slid across the roof of his mouth. He was suddenly struck with the memory of when he was riding the El and the man next to him became violently sick. He vomited all over the floor. At the next stop, David and the other passengers exited the car. But even half an hour later, David couldn’t shake the feeling of contamination. When he went home, he checked his shoes for residue, then his pants, and eventually he’d thrown the whole outfit away.

“Don’t worry,” the bum confided. “I’m not against the Jews, not even blacks really. Just expounding on the state of history and politics.”

David had already begun walking down the street. He heard a cry from behind him.

“You a coward? You a faggot Jew? If you don’t like a man, tell it to his face.”

David hurried forward but froze when he heard the next call from closer than before. “Look at me, son,” the bum said. The man was on his feet and walking towards him.

“Back the fuck up!” David warned.

“Or what? You’ll run away?” The bum reached out his flapping hand. David retreated, felt his foot slide over the edge of the curb, and stumbled into the street. As he fell, he let go of the briefcase and thrust his hands out. They smacked the blistering asphalt a moment before his body. He scrambled to pick himself up and then snatch the briefcase. The bum came closer. David’s hand was bleeding from the fall and a drop landed on his shoes.

“I dare you to fight,” the man whispered. His hand touched David’s hair.

David leapt back. He swung his briefcase and the copper sheathed corner clipped the bum next to his eye. The man’s head snapped sideways. David dropped the case and brought his elbow back, aiming for the man’s gut. He felt it dig into the side of a rib. The bum collapsed on his ass and rolled to his side.

Panting, David leaned down to pick up his briefcase. His hand was shaking. As he threaded his hands through the handle, a warm, leathery hand clamped over his. The bum smiled, his eyes a wet gleam.

David jerked his arm away and stomped on the bum’s hand, feeling a finger snap like a chicken bone. He knelt down and pummeled the bum’s head and torso. His glasses fell off. The old bum writhed beneath his hands. With each blow David hit harder, for his attempts were met with howls of pain but laughter too.

From behind: “Get offa him! Jesus Christ, you gotta stop.”

David picked the bum up by his shoulders and slammed him against the pavement. The bum’s money hand finally unclenched and scattered paper – some money, but also crudely colored green paper – across the sidewalk. David’s fist lowered. The bum’s big eyes met David’s. They blinked and the homeless man nodded. David’s stood up, stuffed his briefcase under his arm and fled.

“Christ! Sir, are you alright?”

The bum blew blood from his lips and closed his big eyes.

***

Summer nights at Open Door Shelter, Lucy would walk out on the fire escape after dinner and smoke with the sunset. Sometimes she’d be joined by a few of the men, which she liked because once the last cigarettes went out and the sky was bruised, they’d open up. Martin, a former professor in Nigeria, would share his poetry. First he’d read it proudly in his language and then he’d repeat it in English, bashfully, carefully searching for the right alien words to fit his intimate musings. But tonight, as she helped Regina clean the last of the dishes, Lucy knew she’d have the view alone and only listen to the poetry of the city.

“Not too many of ‘em staying,” Regina said.

Lucy pushed back a strand of hair with the dry back of her hand. “It’s not supposed to rain tonight. Probably more comfortable to sleep out there.”

Regina reached over and took the rag from Lucy’s hand. “I got the rest of these, honey.” Lucy rubbed the old woman’s shoulder and took her lighter from her purse.

On her way up the stairs, she approached Greg with his clipboard. He was writing down the bunk numbers and paused when he saw her. The clipboard pressed to his chest. When he saw her welcoming gaze, he cleared his throat and whispered hello. It had been over five years since her divorce, and Greg’s timid affections were a pleasant reminder that she wasn’t finished with romance yet. As long as he didn’t wear his walkie-talkie, she’d let him take her out on a date.

The fire escape creaked as she eased out the window. She lit a cigarette and laughed at the thought of Greg in a polo shirt and khakis, eagerly reaching to pull out her chair. What restaurant would he pick? Probably something with half off appetizers on Tuesdays.

“Hey pretty lady!” someone called from below, disrupting her thoughts. She leaned over the railing and saw a smiling, bearded man that she recognized from the shelter. There was a bottle in his hand. He was gently sloshing the remaining contents.

“Hello!” she responded, taking a drag. His name flitted in and out of memory – Eric? Yes, his name was Eric and he wasn’t allowed back at Open Door. He’d smoked with her on the balcony before. But in the cafeteria, he’d teased Dutch about his dead cat until the poor man had started crying and then Adam – big, soft Adam – had stabbed Eric in the hand with his fork. No one slept well that night.

“There any beds left in there?” he asked. His eyes like were puddles glimmering in the light of a streetlamp.

She nodded. “A few. But you know you’re not allowed, Eric.”

His mouth closed when he heard his name. He sniffed and slugged back his drink. “Maybe I’m asking for a friend. Or just wondering how the old digs are holding up.” He took a step closer and eyed the ladder at the bottom of the fire escape.

“No.” She exhaled, and waved a hand in front of her face so she didn’t lose sight of him.

He was gesturing to the peach-colored sky. “Can’t I even share a sunset with a -”

“Eric,” she interrupted. He looked over. “I know what you do.”

He laughed. Lucy stayed silent and smoked. Slowly, he frowned, peered down and rotated the bottle like before. The liquid swirled. Watching his drink, he started to walk away and then glared over his shoulder. Lucy didn’t flinch. Suddenly, he lobbed his alcohol bottle at the fire escape. It arced up, missing the edge and shattered in the street. By the time it burst, he’d already trudged down to the corner where the streetlight was broken, blending into the darkness, into the endless patterns of bricks and sidewalks, plate glass and asphalt, road salt and bitter dust.