My brother brought home a homeless guy. He was as you imagine: scruffy, covered in dirt, yellow teeth, uncomely. He wore a beat-up jacket covered in all manner of stink spots. Some of the spots were oil, some of it was rain water, and some of it was old milk—I hoped.
I found out after I got out of the shower one morning and went to the living room where he was sitting on the couch watching American Pickers. He had a sandwich in one hand and his hood pulled up, and his feet on an ottoman.
“Sup,” he said.
I nodded and backed away slowly.
“I met him online and he was gonna come to visit,” my brother said. “He seems like a really nice guy.”
“How long is he gonna stay?” I asked.
“For the weekend,” my brother replied.
The weekend went by and so did the week and the next week and the week after. They commandeered both televisions downstairs, used my towel as a bath mat, lost the other and hung out in the living room and the adjacent kitchen where I liked to spend most of my time. I’ve always thought the kitchen was a great place for writing. I could eat there, write, watch the news on the mounted television, get back to writing. That’s extremely hard to do when a stinky, bearded old masturbator is farting right over your shoulder as he makes food.
I live with my parents with the intention of moving in with my girlfriend over the summer. My brother moved in too, which was fine, as he is always good company, but only a month after he moved in he brought a house guest—a house guest with nowhere to go, nowhere to be, no job, no aspirations to move on except that he was welcomed by my brother. The only benefit was that he was quiet.
Yet, the freedom I once had to walk around in a bathrobe on my days off, watch television when I was bored, write in the kitchen when I was feeling creative, all jumped out the window as soon as Marty the Homeless Guy came to stay.
“He’s living off of bean burritos and the yellow crusty stuff that grows on the edges of the refrigerator shelves,” I said.
“He doesn’t want to feel intrusive,” my brother replied.
“He is intrusive,” I replied.
“Where do you get off feeling entitled?” he asked. “You’re twenty-six and you still live with your parents. You’re just as much of a mooch as he is.”
“You’re right,” I said. “But, he’s just kind of here. It’s different when you’re two brothers living at their parent’s house. When you’re a homeless guy who meets a nice friend on the internet, it’s different.”
“How so?” he asked.
I hadn’t an answer so I tore off upstairs in a tangent, thirteen-years old and incapable of rational debate. The homeless guy was at the top of the stairs eating something that smelled like sauerkraut and asparagus.
“What’s your deal?” he said.
I tore past him but not before he belched a noxious mixture of hot man breath and grandparent food into my immediate vicinity. I retched and he laughed.
“I ate that leftover food you bought for us,” he said before I could close my bedroom door.
“That’s fine,” I replied. “I bought it for you guys because my brother’s having a hard time finding work.”
“Thanks man,” said the homeless guy. And, for a second I didn’t hate him.
Then he continued: “I used some of my money to pick up food from the grocery store. It’s in a bag in the back of the fridge. Could you do me a favor and not eat that?”
I could scarcely understand what had transpired, so I changed the subject.
“I’m going to bed.”
I slowly closed my door and listened to him go downstairs in a huff. I was indignant but I didn’t know if I was right. I felt right but emotions betray logic as easy as a man snapping a stick. I laid on my bed unsure of how to proceed. I slept like shit knowing I was just as big a vagabond.
