The stench of urine, waste, and rot flooded my nose. The stampede of pedestrians and the roar of automobiles assaulted my eardrums. I slowly opened my eyes, blinded by the rising sun. The light and dancing blurs took form over the next few minutes, but nothing ever quite came into focus anymore. I stayed on the ground, my back propped against a dumpster while I took in my surroundings. Abandoned garbage clung to the wet pavement like a bug on the wall. I sat up, still against the dumpster. My only company is another empty bottle; it would seem that I've been relieved of my wallet. I gently brushed the matted hair out of my face and tried to stand. It took a couple of tries to find my feet, but I eventually kept my balance. I think I was at Mulligan Park last night. Or O'Neil's. It's usually one of those two. The park is closer, might as well check there first. I checked my friend for anything left over and tossed him to the rest. He became one with the clutter and I, one with the crowd.

Mulligan Park isn't what it used to be. What used to be a family friendly area is now home to little more than dealers, users, and other fine citizens. My father used to take me here when I was a child. He'd pick me up and put me on his shoulders while we made laps. In autumn, we would make trips here just to watch the leaves turn and fall. I remember one day in late October, we laid among the fallen leaves and watched the sun set. The sky faded from a brilliant palette of blue, pink, and orange into the dark purple of the city night sky. It was the last time I went to the park with my father. That a long time ago; right now, the sky is gray and the trees are dead. I ask a few of the passed out drunks if I had been there last night. Most don't remember, but the few that did say I wasn't here. Probably at O'Neil's.

It took a few hours to get to O'Neil's. It's never easy coming here, but I don't have any other ideas. I can feel the judgement and disappointment in me from every name I know. I made my walk of shame to the back of the property and reclaimed what was mine. I looked down at my father, right next to my mother. I miss my father, he died when I was thirteen on a November afternoon the day after a stroke. I wish I could say I missed my mother, but I never knew her. She died when I was an infant. I would have liked to know her, though. I remember one night with my father vividly: we stayed up past midnight watching movies we rented. We were celebrating straight A's on my report card. He told me that he was proud of me, that I had the world in my grasp, and he was proud to be the man who raised me. I fell asleep on the couch during Predator. The next thing I remember is waking up in my bed to a quiet house.

I thought about my father's words, like I do most nights, and I left O'Neil's with more than my wallet weighing me down. I made my way to the corner store and bought something to help lighten my load, just like every night before. The clerk slightly recoiled in disgust and held his breath in my presence, a reaction I know too well. I walk out and open the contents of my brown bag with proficiency. Maybe tomorrow I'll wake up in my bed again.