Winter Coat

Once a thick winter coat was left in the tattoo studio lobby, we hung it on a hook and watched it for months. Finally I decided that, with the number of homeless people in the area, and the cold weather rolling in, there was someone out there that would appreciate this winter coat. I took the coat and headed out into the night after closing the shop thinking that I would quickly find a taker and head home feeling good that someone would appreciate the protection from the weather.
There were no homeless on the streets. I imagined that it was just too cold, they had all headed to some shelter that was probably near by but I was not aware of. There was a laundry mat close by that I knew bums hung out around and I pulled my truck behind the building as a last hope. The laundry mat stuck out in my mind because of a strange happening that I had witnessed there while ordering food across the street some months before.  
I ordered my tacos and soda, trying to be everything that the fast food commercials wanted me to be, and noticed in my rear view mirror a large man guarding a bum, standing in front of him and moving side to side trying to keep him out of view. When he did come into view I saw that he was just sitting against a wall eating some tacos like I would soon be doing. The difference was, when he finished his tacos the large man helped him to his feet and directed him around the corner just out of view. The large man appeared to be unzipping his pants as he followed.
I felt sad for the guy, having to lower himself to that degree just to get a few tacos. I felt angry that this was happening just a few miles from my apartment. I was curious as to the events in his life leading up to that moment. Did he have a family once, lost his job and all hope? Was he once a sixteen year old run away that never got on his feet? I was angry at him for not doing something, anything to fix his situation. Was he doing all that he could every day but still just treading water frantically trying to get off the streets? If given the opportunity would he take it and be appreciative, or just end up back where he was now?
The lady asking for my money distracted me and I drove away with my tacos and a lot of questions.  
I was drawn back to that place when seeking a taker for the winter cat, secretly, vainly, hoping to help out that same guy. He wasn’t there. I sat there behind the building in my truck for a while remembering that day, and asking the same questions. I had been technically homeless as a child but had never slept on the street. First living in a hotel with my mother and a ex-con, then later after my dad rescued me, I lived in a hotel briefly with him while he tried desperately to get me out of the inner city and away from the friends that he thought were corrupting me. Little did he know that I felt that I had been the bad influence on them.
That night I began to drive home, but my arms turned the steering wheel the wrong way and parked in the parking lot of a near by sports bar. Without thinking it through, I put on my leather jacket, grabbed the winter coat, and walked back to the laundry mat. No one was at home to miss me, I remembered the line in the movie What Dreams May Come when the girl said, “What difference does it make, you weren’t looking anyways.” I sat against the wall of the building that I imagined had not been stained by spilled seed, placed the winter coat behind my head, and decided that this would be the night that I would know what it’s like to sleep on the street.  
It was cold, the concrete was hard, the jacket acting as a pillow helped, but only my head and arms enjoyed the soft comfort. I was very aware of my hip bone and ankle pressing into the gravel. I didn’t worry about getting my cloths dirty, tomorrow was laundry day.  
I found myself opening my eyes every few minutes to make sure that no one was sneaking up on me, a bum wanting my wallet, a cop wanting to take out some aggression on someone who didn’t matter. I didn’t get much sleep.
At one point I justified my experiment as camping. No one would think twice about it if I were in the woods with a sleeping bag, somehow this would be viewed very differently. I didn’t tell anyone the next day that the bags under my eyes were from a lack of sleep because I had spent the night thinking and dozing off against a cold brick wall rather than going home to my soft bed and warm apartment.  
The thought came to my mind that this experiment was art, life was art. I must admit my ignorance and admit that I vainly thought that this was an original thought. I was a artist, this was just an extension of that. Art through living rather than on canvas, or through words.
I was asked if I thought I was an artist by a journalist from a local magazine once and I said no. I lied. I said no because my ex-wife was present and I knew that she didn’t think of me as an artist, I figured that she watched me reproducing other people drawings while trying to learn their techniques, but never took into account the stories and poetry that I wrote, the paintings I did, the music I wrote, the drawing that I did with no reference were not pure art because obviously I was using the styles of the ten artists that I had tried so hard to learn from.
“No,” I told him, ”I’m an art enthusiast. I love art, I create constantly, but there are so many others out there that are worlds better than me.”
Sitting against the cold wall, asking myself a million questions per second I somehow felt like a true artist.

About the Author

I am a tattoo artist in Dallas Texas.