In 2017 my wife talked me into doing a creative writing class at Amarillo college. I had this idea of a homeless person only eating luxurious food for a long time and decided to use it as my final project in the class. I wanted to explore the challenges of mental health and how a person may find a way to remedy their pain outside of what is generally expected or even normal. I hope you enjoy reading Charlie’s journey as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Drunk on Decadence
Charlie never hid his intentions. In fact, he broadcasted them from his sign, “Need money for fine dining.” Once Charlie could collect enough money, he would shower, get the suit he kept in his backpack dry cleaned and pressed, and indulge in the experiential decadence of five-star dining. No one ever recognized him as the bum from the corner. With his suit donned and his hair cleaned, he was indistinguishable from the wealthy that he ate next to.
Charlie was at home amongst the lavish interiors of high-class dining establishments. He knew all the terminology, his French accent was perfect, and he was well versed in the proper rituals that would give an imposter away. His knowledge of fine wines was always greater than that of the waiter. His heart jumped for joy at the sight of a properly set table. “You can tell how prosperous a society is by the placement of their eating utensils” he would always say as he sat down at a table. He loved to lightly tap the wine glass and listen for the sound that comes from a real crystal glass, remarking, “Some say it doesn’t affect the taste, but I beg to differ.” He could count the threads of an expensive table clothes with the tips of his fingers. The happiness from one night would reverberate for days, sometimes weeks afterward.
Charlie’s enjoyment of fine dinning and his homelessness were both due to his condition. He suffered spells where he re-experienced his past experiences. Often, when begging on a curb or sleeping under an overpass, he would lose himself in a memory for hours, reliving the details of a distant night in a lucid vividness that many cannot imagine. The memories were often so encompassing that he had trouble holding a job and maintaining relationships. His life would go on hold as he relived the past. The doctor’s assured him that with the proper cocktail of pills his condition could be numbed out of existence. He could live a normal life, but the last thing he wanted was a normal life. Charlie didn’t view his condition as a sickness, it was his strength. What would his life be without the hope of slipping back to a time when he was happy?
Most people read his sign as a joke. Jovial passers-by held dollars out their windows with a smile at the preposterous idea of a bum caring about fine dining. They all assumed he was going to buy liquor or drugs, but what harm could a dollar do? A laugh was worth a dollar. Sometimes people offered to buy him a meal or take him to eat, but it wasn’t worth it. His greatest fear was reliving a plebian McDonalds or Wendy’s experience. Because of his condition, he had to be very particular about where he dined. Once, out of desperation, he ate at a soup kitchen in Ohio. He relived the taste of burnt soup and the stinky bum that he sat next to for weeks.
It took Charlie a minute or two to reorient himself after waking from the spell. “Do you know where you are? What year is it? Do you know who the president is?” The questions were always the same. The EMT shook Charlie to consciousness. People often call 9-1-1 from the comfort of their car worried that Charlie may be dead. “Charleston South Carolina, 2017, Trump. I am fine, I promise, I just lost myself for a bit. Thank you for your help.” Charlie was lucky this time, sometimes he couldn’t wake up and would end up in the hospital. After the ambulance left, he sat down, unzipped his backpack, and counted his money. $742.16. He had saved extra money for tonight. He had a reservation at Charleston’s famed Hall’s Chophouse. Hall’s was one of the restaurants that drew Charlie to Charleston. Hall’s tomahawk rib eye is famous among steak connoisseurs, and the restaurant boasts an elegant wine selection. Charlie’s reservation was at 7pm, which gave him plenty of time to pick up his dry-cleaned suit, freshen up, and have a few drinks before dinner.
The big-boned black woman standing behind the drycleaners counter was Martha. She had cleaned Charlie’s suit for him now four times and was still baffled by his choice of lifestyle. She kindly smiled at Charlie as she took his ticket. “Hey Charlie, what big plans you got tonight?”
“I have reservations at Hall’s chophouse. I plan on ordering the tomahawk and a bottle of their Château Rauzan-Ségla Margaux Deuxième Cru Classe 2000. It is a delightful red from France. I have been looking forward to tonight for some time.”
“Hall’s is a nice place. I still can’t put it together Charlie, you seem like a nice man. Why don’t you settle down, get a house? Hell, I will give you a job. You don’t have to be homeless.”
“You know about my condition. I relapse in time. My past experiences are all I have, if I started working here, it’s all I would see. I would be trapped in the monotony of every day.”
“Boy, that’s just being an adult. Everyone hates their job unless they choose to enjoy it.”
“I don’t hate my job. I love being homeless, gives me all the time in the world to live in the past.”
“I ain’t never heard of something so crazy. Where’s your momma? I can’t believe a woman would let her baby live so backwards.”
“I like living backwards. I could have a house, but I would never be there. I am stuck in the past. I live the way I do today so tomorrow I can have a nice experience to drift off into. It’s a little more complicated than it seems. So how about that suit? Do you mind if I use your bathroom to change?”
Martha led Charlie into the back of the drycleaners towards the employee only bathroom. The curtains of clothes casted shadows in the incandescent lighting. The farther back they walked, the dimmer the surroundings seemed to grow.
He sat his black toiletry kit on the sink and stared into the mirror. He was looking older than he remember himself being. His hair was greying above his ears, and wrinkles were appearing across his forehead. Charlie bent his head low and ran hot water from the faucet through his greasy hair. He scrubbed with a high dollar shampoo he had bought a few months back. He had to smell the part; the smells were always clear in his flashbacks. He shaved the stubble from his face with a straight razor that had been his grandfathers. He finished with a hand full of aftershave that burnt the freshly shaved skin and a scoop of deluxe hair wax to keep his shoulder length hair pushed back. The man who was in the mirror, although still old, looked more familiar than the bum who had been there earlier “Hello Mr. Buchanan. It’s a pleasure to see you again.” He walked to the front and said his goodbye to Martha.
“You sure do clean up well Charlie,” she paused and corrected herself, “I mean Mr. Buchanan.”
Walking out of the drycleaners was the man Charlie remembered himself to be. He walked a few blocks and found a good spot in an ally to stash his backpack. He loved the way people looked at him in his suit. Their eyes met his with respect. Gentle head nods and the occasional “Good evening” assured him that he looked the part of a middle-aged successful man on a normal night out on the town. The transformation was complete. He walked with the nonchalant confidence of a man without a care in the world.
He walked the few blocks to Hall’s arriving an hour before his reservation.
“Do you have a reservation with us tonight?”
“Yes, it’s Charles Buchanan. It’s not till 7, but I was hoping to have a few drinks at the bar before.”
“Of course, Mr. Buchanan, right this way.”
The restaurant’s walls were a combination of wood and red velvet. Charlie followed the host past the wine room. It was a thing of beauty seeing all that wine protected from the world in their glass vault. The bar was on the side of the restaurant and looked out over the street. Charlie picked a stool near the end of the bar so he could see the whole room without having to turn his head. He had discovered that his flashbacks were crisper if he sat in corners.
“What would you like to drink sir?” The bartender was a young man in his mid 20’s. Charlie was glad to see that the bartender seemed fit and clean cut. He liked waiters to look put together. Youthful beauty added a certain pop to the experience.
“I will have a dirty martini, top shelve.”
“This is it,” Charlie thought to himself as he looked out into the lightly populated room. He almost couldn’t wait to remember tonight. The air was clean, and the smell of chefs perfecting their craft swirled through the room.
“Are you waiting on someone?” the waiter asked as he slid Charlie the martini.
“Not tonight, I often dine alone. It makes for a more controllable experience. I am all about consistency.”
The martini was perfect, and Charlie knew he was in for a beautiful night. The bar filled up in the next 30 minutes. Charlie loved to watch the people as they came in. A young couple celebrating a special occasion strolled in and sat three seats down from Charlie. They were what Charlie referred to as tourists. The kind of people who ventured into a nice restaurant for a taste of a world they weren’t a part of. It was a novelty for people like them, not a requirement like it was for people like Charlie. Decadence is a taste acquired over time; it is a monster that must be nurtured and fed or else it will grow unruly.
At 7, the host showed Charlie to his table. The room was filled with a gentle murmur as Charlie ordered his bottle of wine. There was a quartet tuning their instruments in the far corner of the room. He noticed the young couple from the bar a few tables away. The man, or boy, by the looks of him, was rapidly snapping photos of his freshly served plate. He rearranged the table for the best light and the perfect setting. The women talked into her phone, most likely to her mother. She couldn’t wait to share her present splendor. Charlie took in the scene and thought to himself how sad it must be to be “normal.” “And they say I am the one with the condition,” Charlie scoffed to himself as he sat in his seat.
A few hours later and after two bottles of wine, Charlie was adequately satisfied. He was sure that the cut of meat, which now rested in his stomach, was the finest steak he had ever tasted. The wine had been of the highest quality, each sip a testimony to the crafter’s dedication to excellence. He closed his eyes and inhaled a deep breath through his nose as if to capture the moment in his chest. He took a close look around the room for the first time since his food had arrived. The music controlled the sonic atmosphere melding with the conversations of the room. The smells of clean people enjoying their perfectly cooked food. Charlie was on cloud 9 as he called for the bill and took his lasts sips of wine, he always left wine in the bottom of the glass to show he did not consume from greed but only from enjoyment.
The bill came, and Charlie parted with all the money he had in the world. “We all make investments my friend, some just make better investments than others,” Charlie said as he handed the waiter his money. As he stood, the weight of the wine settled between his ears, and he was assured that he was sufficiently drunk. He thanked the waiter and laughed his way out the door onto the crowded street. Charleston came alive in the evening.
Charlie stumbled along the ancient cobblestone streets in admiration of the world he lived in. He walked past the old slave market that is now used to sell souvenirs to eager tourists. As he walked, thoughts of his mother drifted into his head. She is responsible for his appreciation of fine dining. She had been a waitress at the finest restaurants in Chicago when Charlie was a child. She often brought home leftover food from the tables of the wealthy for Charlie to eat. She would tell him all the secrets to satisfying the appetites of the prosperous. “Money is nothing to people like them,” she would say, “you can’t put a price on an experience like that.” Once Charlie hit middle school, it was obvious that, with a condition like his, public school wouldn’t work for him. His mother was forced to bring him to work with her. It was there that his sickness turned into his pleasure. He remembered the smells, the sights, the wonderful sounds of soft music and bounding laughter. He washed dishes in the back, but when he was all caught up, he would sneak to a vantage point where he could look at the people enjoying their food. “You will find your purpose Charlie,” his mother would say, “always do what makes you happy.”
Charlie proceeded this way, lost in thought and direction, long into the night. Where one street would end, another began, and he found endless enjoyment around each corner. He was not sure what time it was when he arrived at the graveyard. Graveyards are great for sleeping off the decadents of life. No one bothers you, and there is always nicely trimmed grass. “Sara Rotherton, 1868-1891. My name is Mr. Charles Buchanan. Do you mind if I share this grave with you?” Charlie whole heartily listened for a reply. After two bottles of wine, you are never quite sure what you may hear. After a moment, he gave a slight bow to the gracious grave and crawled next to where Sara was buried.
“Have you ever eaten at Hall’s, Sara? If you get a chance, I highly recommend going there. It is full of the loveliest things in life. Life is all about the experiences, you know. If you want to go, I am sure I can get reservations. I could take you next week. Oh, you will love it there Sara, I just know you will. I am going to say goodbye to you tonight, I will leave out before you wake up. I got a bit of a Cinderella thing going on, and I don’t want you to see me after the magic wears off.” There Charles Buchanan fell asleep. As he fell asleep he smiled to himself, “I can’t wait to remember this evening, what a wonderful night.”