Not Home but Still Home Part II

Not Home but Still Hope Part II
I awoke. The frigid air blanketing my face and filling my hollow lungs. Edgars, lost in the chaos, had finally found me in the upstairs of the train terminal and slept innocently huddled in the fetal position as if he was attempting to cuddle himself. His parents were unreachable. His father in the UK, an island thats borders to the vagabond are impossible to permeate. But now he was lying in a niche under a metal statue of a mother and her egg. But now it was time to go.
It was 1:30, the station guards were sure of that. I packed my things, an exaggerated phrase for just two packs and loaf of bread, and woke Edgars. Down two flights of stairs and out the double doors. We were back on the block. The mood had changed. No longer were there bands of tourists getting off trains and making small talk. You could no longer eves drop into a sophisticated conversation. Now it was me and the grime amongst me. Yusin was still wide awake howling at the night. His black skin, with its black dirt around his black lips that wrapped around his black teeth. Black. If great novelists ever described such a character's appearance, teachers worldwide would make the assumption that he was the authors allusion of the devil. But to me he was angelic. he was Gare de Nore's Christ. He had been stained by the underworlds water and it was evident. The poison coursed through his veins but never reached the depths of his heart. If he wanted he could have thrown us in with the slimy, rib-bearing, fang-sharpening vipers, or been a viper himself, but he didn't. He wouldn't. He protected Edgars and I. I stepped into the cold, dry air and was greeted with two tall Amsterdam beers with a side of drunken banter. This was our home. And without qualms I drank. While everything around us collapsed the three of us got high on 11.2% alcohol beer and stories. While we slept Yusin had almost been jumped. The four Romanians, who nested across the street, had come to take his belongings. But Yusin, a man proud of owning no valuable possessions, got off scott free. As long as he had his passport, a feeble, easily forgeable, paper mess, he felt secure. The story was worth twenty coffees in energy. But with no sleep for twenty hours twenty coffees wouldn't cut it. I bought a coffee across the street at The White House and watched a period of the Thrashers-Rangers hockey game over a glass of whiskey and ice. I had a little over two hours to kill. Every time the Romanians would cruise by scoping our spot out they would see the "Russian" stand up, cross armed and ready. I was guarding our corner, and I'd be damned if they laid a hand on the orphaned Edgars or the lost Yusin. 3:00 came fast and I hadn't seen anyone roaming the streets except the Romanians scouring for cigarette butts and unfinished beers, but then an unexpected figure bust through the shadows just outside the limited reach of the street lamps. The tall body swinging and swaying deliberately. Stopping and dropping in cadence. He was dancing. Muamabe was a French African who lived life. The Giant loved music and people and without a second glance came up to me. "Whatup my nig?" in a broken french accent. Last time I checked I was obviously white, but without hesitation he continued to call me his African brother. Yusin woke up with his usual "Como se va?" that he usually yells to the ladies strolling by. Muamabe ignored him, and when Yusin repeated it Muamabe told him to fuck off. "He's my friend man" I said "Trust me he means no harm." Then as if my word was gold all was well. We listened to music on the street. Crushed beers and talked of french women and the world. Muamabe had many friends, all whom he called family and before I knew it we were freestyle rapping on that stretch of hell that I had to occupy. We were now 10. And all 10 off us stood in a circle grooving to, and digging french rap, breaking in here and there to spit our lines. Yusin danced a drunken bop in the middle and provided the comedy. On the cold night on the streets of the cold hearted we brought the heat that could warm the harshest heart. Edgars with his fucked up hand sat wrapped in Yusins sleeping blanket and nodded his head to the melodic beat. Every time the Romanians came by we were all quick to talk shit and tell the crooks to bugger off. Yusin yelling swears in Somalian to redeem his pride after the close mugging. Muamabe stepping up in their face. And me with my Jiwe and USSR hat pulled down mean-facing them. In the darkest of times we lit the light. Before I knew it it was time. The station opened and I knew I had successfully lasted the night on one of the most crime ridden streets in Paris. The group applauded me out and before I knew it they were gone. Edgars slept and I knew I would never see him again but thats the way it is. You need to make friends, best friends, just for the night to survive. Yusin prayed again, but this time, with all the alcohol, I think he fell asleep under that lamp, with the light acting as the halo he deserved. Me, well I strolled onto my next destination with Muamabes music and alcohol in my mind. Back, back, back to my comfort zone.. Traveling by myself but never alone.


-Chad A. Dokken