Against the Current.

Rock, Clinton

It is several days after Thanksgiving, yet you would think it is the day before Christmas--what with all the lighted trees and tinsel about. A marketable guise of glittery bows and ribbons tempting seasonal compassion.

You stuff your cart with perishable goods and staples at a local grocery chain. In the checkout line you grab a chocolate candy bar as a reward for your shopping task, causally chatting with another customer about the inflated price of produce brought by the summer drought. You swipe your credit card and scrawl your signature before removing your eyeglasses, carefully tucking delicate frames into pocketed safety beneath your sweater. You gather your purchases and cheerfully stride toward the exit, automatic doors hissing and sliding wide. A cold burst of air smacks you in the face.

You see the woman. A single soul bundled in a soiled parka and hood. A daypack at her feet. But your view is hindered by darkness and uncorrected eyesight. A partial view without focus. For how can you truly see a person with limited sight?

She smiles slightly and you nod in appreciation of the universal language of all such smiles, yet you keep your distance and maintain a stern countenance. A serious look to convey you are not to be bothered. Not to be harassed.

The woman nods back, her eyes lost within the hood. Perhaps a homeless person down on her luck. Maybe someone who has mastered the art of begging while using winter as a template of opportunity--for that is how they reel you in, you know. With eye contact and a smile. How they demonstrate their humanity for the sake of a handout.

Hah!

But you are onto this woman's tricks and you turn your gaze toward the parking lot, your eyes casting about for a possible partner employed in this woman's scheme. But there is no such person.

You are all alone.

You remember newspaper accounts of the monumental amounts of money gleaned by some curbside beggars. But who really needs it, and who does not?

And you remember Tony. The homeless man you had known for more than two decades. An affable acquaintance who lived along the river.

Each spring the fish return against the current, leaving the salty freedom of the ocean and windswept bay to spawn in the shallow freshwater of the James River. Watery sirens guiding fish beyond dangers of boats, shipping lanes, nets and anglers en route to the fall line at Richmond. Schools of striped bass following smaller perch, shad, and herring. Fish returning to reproduce in Virginia. A seasonal routine.

You return each season, same as the fish--and the birds. You and the seagulls, black cormorants, and great herons. All returning with purpose. All following the striped bass and baitfish. A natural chain of predation stretching thirteen miles upriver through islands and rapids comprising the city's fall line: a geographical demarcation dividing Virginia's Piedmont and Tidewater regions. You and the birds and fish all propelled by unspoken primal needs transcending normal boundaries. Inherent passions of heart pulled and tugged by lunar cycles.

You rock-hop among a series of untamed islands abundant with budding trees, shrubbery, and yearning flowers. Some islands possess rookeries for herons and cranes. Other islands are inhabited by homeless people. "Islanders," as you call them. "Urban campers," a friend says. "Hobos," another fisherman offers; his historical reference still relevant in cities worldwide. You, the birds, and the homeless all coexisting without strife. An unspoken code of sorts among islanders and fishermen; the homeless respecting your right to fish, while you in turn lend privacy to their camps.

Some islanders come as outcasts of society. Individuals trying to escape past troubles through new beginnings. Others arrive struck down by hard times; people facing perilous phases in their lives as they plunge headfirst toward rock-bottom endings like water seeking a lower gradient. Vagabonds united to pull food from the river with baited hooks. Transients who bathe and wash pots and pans where turtles clean skeletal fish tossed to watery graves. Unemployed collectors of cans and alleyway recyclables. People who come and go like the ebbing of the tide along the baseline of the falls.

Some islanders live in tents or jerry-rigged shelters. Others camp under bridges spanning the river. A mother and a teenage son, the boy's face bruised and swollen and his eyes full of hate. Modern day trolls without fairytale benefits.

Yet you fish alone, crossing railroad trestles and rocky terrain to angle for striped bass finning in currents beneath shadows. Later, when you tell your fishing tales, some listeners are aghast at your sharing space with the homeless.

Isn't it dangerous? they ask. "Don't you worry about being robbed?"

But safety has never been an issue. At least not in regard to the islanders, for the real danger, it seems, lies away from the river. One simple act of fate: a medical calamity; a lapse in a mortgage or insurance payment; a fire or a flood; a lost job; one bad decision. Hidden dangers lurking in a home that is no longer a castle.

And you wonder if you could survive being homeless. You consider how long you might stay with friends or family before moving into a shelter when you were no longer wanted. How it would feel to try to eke out a living in the streets. Could you adapt to such an existence? With all your years of camping and fishing experience, you know you would possess knowledge enough to live without a home--but would you have the strength of heart?

Tony lived on an island, a raised bump of land upstream from the tumbling falls. A homeless man whose homestead offered a million-dollar view of the cascading river along the foot of the city'. A picturesque encampment overlooking a series of waterfalls; descending ledges filled with effervescent pools and flowering river grass ringed by willow and rock. A camp canopied by trees. A shady glade nestled between a series of rapids, the waterline fortified against ill-tempered floodwaters by protective stones cut and positioned a century before. An island with a history.

Tony, bearded and lanky, was seasonally employed by a landscaping crew. He enjoyed the serenity of his island, an oasis in the middle of the city. A reclusive retreat tucked thirty feet below railroad tracks crossing the river, graffiti-laced train cars providing a panorama of trundling art. Tony originally lived in a shelter constructed of plywood sheets and plastic tarps--a humble attempt to keep weather at bay, later replaced by a nylon tent purchased at a thrift store.

Tony was another welcome harbinger of spring, always relaying news of the first striped bass to appear at the end of his fishing line, the vanguard of larger bass to arrive before the lesser-sized schools, an event sometimes witnessed by Tony's brother, who occasionally stopped by the city to renew ties. A former Navy SEAL known for snorkeling among fish nosing along edges of rapids, Tony's brother was a carefree spirit who camped upon a smaller site overlooking a calmer stretch of river at the opposite end of Tony's island. Another man with a fishing pole, a ready smile and a casual laugh.

Each spring the fish return against the current, following scents imprinted at birth. Fish resting and staging beneath drops and ledges where they first emerged from eggs. Fish pooling beneath breaks in dams and rock formations. Males and females mingling en masse among eggs and milt. Instincts wrought with a purpose dictated by nature.

You return each season to continue your romance with the river, journeying alone and without ties as you hike through aromas of earth and water. Flints of fish mingling among fragrances of blossoms. Subtle smells stirred aloft on wings of ducks and geese guarding down-lined nests hidden along brushy banks. Riparian perfumes floating freely in the springtime air.

Ospreys wheel tightly against clouds as you trek across the railroad trestle to the island in the middle of the river. Raptors voicing shrill warnings in defense against trespass beneath nests of sticks on metal girders spanning the sky. A perpetuation of species unfolding with an intrinsic promise you have yet to fulfill, your own nesting mate still elusive.

You scan the river below, the water slightly stained by spring runoff. An ideal fabric of color for catching fish. An osprey spins higher to spy upon unsuspecting prey languishing in currents, the fish hawk momentarily hovering on wide-spread wings before plummeting beneath the surface, razor-sharp talons snatching fish from water. You admire the ease and deftness of the bird's fishing skills.

A ladder on the side of the trestle allows you to descend to the rocky island. A makeshift stairway of threaded bolts and creosote wood left over from a past railroad project. A passageway where you first met Tony after leaving the angling crowd lining the southern bank of the river. You and Tony stopping to talk briefly before alternately descending and going your separate ways. Tony disappearing with his plastic bag of groceries down a path winding through blooming shrubs and tendrilling vines that led to his camp, while you slip downstream to fish a favorite fork in the tailing river.

Over the years you came to call Tony the "Mayor of the Islands," an honorary title of basic human respect for a man of knowledge whose accommodations most found abhorrent. It was a respect governed by a shared interest in a life simply lived--for how much do you truly need? What really are life's requirements?

Tony lived a tenuous existence among sylvan settings where alcohol posed hazards for the homeless: a disruptive catalyst for arguments and brawls fueled among dazed company. Summer weekends provided the welcome diversion of musical performances in city parks--another week of life to be celebrated as islanders mingled with reveling citizens of the city.

One such weekend found Tony lying paralyzed on the sidewalk after a hit-and-run motorist left him mangled by the roadside. A Saturday night spree ended beside a downtown stretch of bars and clubs. Hospitalization and indigent care required before returning to his island, with a long convalescence supported by fellow islanders supplying daily support. A summer of recovery, followed by an autumn without work--and constant pain in his spine.

With winter's arrival, a prolonged freeze forced Tony to seek warmth at a shelter, long after most islanders had left for warmer climes. A room packed with cots offering respite from the cold, humanitarian comfort dealt on a first-come basis. An unlikely place to meet a woman, a kindred spirit with whom Tony fell in love. A woman Tony would later introduce to his island.

Each spring the fish return against the current, fulfilling sexual obligations before heading hack to sea. Yet some fish never return, instead becoming food for reptiles and mammals, including humans. Older fish remain behind, spent from the rigors of reproduction. Baby ducks raft with without care like tiny wind-up toys behind mothers alert with worry. Nearby, black vultures wing down to scavenge leftover fish washed upon the shore. Another cycle fulfilled.

You return each season, the trip a little harder on your body. Yet you always return to the islands each year, faithful as a fish. You, alone, at favorite spots, bouncing lead-head jigs with plastic bodies across the gravel bottom. Perhaps a shallow-running balsa lure to imitate smaller baitfish, or a topwater plug skittering and popping like fleeing prey.

You wade against the current, practicing catch-and-release in accordance with fishing regulations, occasionally providing a fish to islanders you have come to know over the years. You and the homeless exchanging pleasantries in the universal language spoken by all fishermen. You and the homeless melding by the river with a fish, a shared element of life. Yet sometimes you stumble over your intentions, wondering if lending a fish to a fire is really enough. Once you start giving, where should it end? When is enough ever really enough?

Tony lived with a newfound purpose after meeting the woman. City Social Services petitioned for a chance to possess a room with painted walls, a place he might afford on seasonal wages when he could return to work. It would be a place where, together, they could realign their lives, but he was one among a multitude of applicants.

Time and paperwork dragged on until Tony's companion reverted to survival habits learned from years adrift. She wandered, sometimes spending days with others deemed more favorable for short-term benefits. Tony disregarded doctors' orders and mixed alcohol with pain killers--a broken heart is less easy to endure than broken bones. When Tony's heart stopped beating, rescue workers tried in vain to restore life beside the river.

The islanders shared their sadness. "Tony just gave up when she left," William said. "It's bad to lose hope like that," another man said. He rose from an overturned bucket to check his fishing line. "Nothing worse than not wanting to live." The man pulled gently against the line. Nothing tugged in return. "It's just wrong to get that way. Just wrong." He shook his head.

"I been trying to call Tony's brother," William said. He dialed a number on his government-issued phone as if for verification. There was no answer.

You leave the store, stepping from the sidewalk without glancing at the homeless woman again. Behind you, a man says to his wife, "They shouldn't let those people hang around here--it's bad for business, you know." His tone is sharp, cold as ice.

You walk straight to your truck, eyeballing the parking lot once more, still half-expecting someone to appear. Someone finagling for food or funds--for these are the times in which you live.

You are still alone.

Your gaze shifts toward the store. The woman has dissolved into darkness. You wonder if it is a trick of your eye as you fill the passenger seat with groceries. You shiver as you climb into the truck and start the engine. You buckle up and crank the heater full blast. You eye the leather coat beside you, but you know the vehicle will soon be warm, a comfortable and convincing thought as you shift into gear.

Overhead, streetlights play havoc with your night vision. You fish for the glasses inside your sweater, your hand awkwardly tangling in the loose warmth of the garment as you drive. But soon your conscience begins to thaw and you wonder whether you should go back and slip the woman a few dollars. Maybe a five. Perhaps a twenty. You glance at the rearview mirror. "It's the holidays," you say. You try to convince yourself as you follow the flow of traffic. Beside you, music blares from a car tightly packed with laughing teenagers.

Up ahead, a man stands on a curbed median in the middle of traffic, hunching over a cardboard sign. He steps lightly without going anywhere, the man attempting to warm his feet. He stares numbly at passive faces a few yards away.

A man alone on a concrete island.

You check the rearview mirror. Blank eyes return the stare as you continue to struggle with your glasses. You make a sharp right-hand turn into a parking lot, then unsnap the seat belt and yank your glasses free. But the frames are bent and a lens falls into your lap. You swear aloud as you toss the glasses onto the dash. You stomp the accelerator and steer into a tight U-turn before stopping to face traffic again.

You remember the woman outside the store.

"I don't need glasses!" you yell at the mirror.

A tide of vehicles advances and recedes before you, parallel streams flowing in opposite directions. The light changes and the traffic comes to a halt.

You feel a sudden need to travel against the current.

And you wonder if a fish resides within.