Chapter 1, Neon Ambitions

God he hated it when the sun set. The days were cold, the nights unbearable. Most people complain about being awakened by those first rays of light on a Sunday morning, Stanley Patterson stirred when the cold began to penetrate toward his bones.
His mouth tasted of stale liquor, which reminded him of rancid fruit. He could distinctly smell himself, pungent and tangy. He glanced down at his tattered green wool blanket, and regrettably rolled out of bed. That is off his pile of rags and un-whole blankets.
As he stood, he had to grasp for a nearby tree branch to steady his weary body and throbbing head. Again he glanced down and took note of his Levis with the knees blown out, his green trench coat he had purchased at the army surplus, also filled with numerous holes and stained so thoroughly that it was hard to discern what was original color, and what was a spill’s addition. Lastly he looked at his shoes. Converse canvas high tops. Yeah, he fucking wished they were Converse. They were actually some generic knock off, and were so uncomfortable that he often thought they hindered his movement.
He lifted his head and peered toward the river bank. He could here it running, and it reminded him he needed to piss.
He stumbled to the edge of the river slipping behind a bush, trying to hide from any eyes that may be peering his way. He still had plenty of humility.
He studied the river as he unzipped. The water was high and running fast. He had seen this very stretch of the water-way be little more than a trickle. It still amazed him how the desert could contrast itself.
Most of the homeless lived by the river. It offered cover when needed and was close to the downtown area that offered so much opportunity. And sometimes you could take a bath. Not today, too damn cold.
As he peed into the river Stanley studied his reflection in a calm pool. The image thrown back his way in the hastening twilight wasn’t ugly. He had actually been complimented as a handsome man at times in his life. His look was not that unlike of a California beach bum. His eyes were blue and smiling, hovering above a small yet chiseled nose, thin lips and a strong chin. His hair was still mostly blonde, with only a hint of grey. His beard was a little wild and unkempt, but it was hard to get a good shave.
His early morning urge taken care of, Stanley startled himself back to reality.
“Shit, shit, goddamnit,” he uttered as he began reaching into the numerous pockets adorning his jacket. He began to panic. What had he done with it? Had he lost it, or spent it? He needed that goddamn money. What in the hell….
He found it stuffed in his shoe and was overcome with relief, a crisp, clean twenty. His night wouldn’t be long now. He could get pretty drunk on a twenty; maybe even inebriated enough to earn a night in a warm, dry drunk tank.
And yet he would have to do more than get good and drunk to be locked up, it wasn’t easy anymore. Once the cops could recognize your face, and realized that you wanted a dry bed, they stopped arresting you. ‘We’re not going to keep wasting the taxpayers’ money,’ they’d say. The shelters weren’t much more hospitable, and there was a damn waiting list anyway.
His mind drifted back to the Jackson in his pocket. It had been a forty the night before, and only a five that afternoon. Stanley had found a wreck of a little casino near the tracks frequented by crack heads and their dealers. He had turned his five into fifty, back to fifteen, and then to forty before he quit. Gambling was no longer an addiction, but more a means for survival, or a good drunk, one in the same on the street.
Stanley had been hooked on just about everything life could offer; boos, weed, acid, coke, meth, crack, paint, ecstasy, heroin, porn, sex, sushi, fast cars and big trucks, surfing, fighting, energy drinks, self degradation, karate, poetry, McDonalds, love, hope, and yes, gambling. An addictive personality he thought. No self restraint others insisted.
It all tied to where he was now. How he couldn’t quite remember. He’d ridden too many highs, survived too many lows. Sometimes he couldn’t tell where his life ended and someone else’s started. None of it really mattered. He’d once been better, now was worse. Details just hurt.
There was no reason for Stanley’s life to be this way. He was raised a middle class child by two loving parents. He always ate, was never abused. He had no mental problems or physical impairments. He was an excellent student in high school, and was really quite handy with his hands.
Some people just won’t fight the current, they are just happy to keep their head above water. The people all around them swim to shore and take control. They go where they want to go, not where the current takes them. Stanley was adrift, and felt no reason to fight. That’s the only explanation for a man like him to be at the bottom of the sociological pile.
He had given up all of his addictions but booze. It wasn’t a consciences attempt to better himself, just a product of his circumstance. Most addictions cost too much. The crack kept him awake, the weed made him hungry for all he couldn’t have, porn was up to ten ninety nine a damn movie, McDonalds disturbed his inner workings and he didn't even own a latrine, love always crushed him. Alcohol kept him warm, dulled the pain and was relatively cheap. He could eat and drink most days; especially in this town.
Stanley’s trade at the time, the way he saw it, was that of a beggar. (He’d come to terms with what he was and accepted it, besides he was a good beggar). The Casinos lining the river drew tourist. Tourists were good marks for begging. There was always someone who didn’t recognize his face, and if you’re gambling you’ve got money to blow. This town had produced well for Stanley.
He hadn’t always begged. There had been a time when had earned his way through life. He’d been a carpenter, fast food chef, busboy, gardener, dealer, artist, jeweler, thief, locksmith, sewer technician; he’d had his hand in just about everything, and never really found a passion for any of it. The jobs always seemed to slip away for one reason or another, and Stanly would drift. Drift to another town where he would tell himself it would be different. He would take control. It was a cycle he could not break, no different than the river pushing at its banks it the spring and trickling along them in the fall. It was nature’s way he had decided, why fight it. Why the hell take when you can be given anyways?
With that Stanley turned and faced the light of the downtown casinos. Here he would go to work. First he needed a drink.
Stanley started shuffling of toward a nearby liquor store, cursing his hangover with every agonizing step. Driven forward only by his need to taste liquor on his lips. Upon entering the establishment he felt instantly better. The sight of all the bottles, undoubtedly all the colors of the rainbow and all shapes imaginable contained the spirits. With names like Hot Damn, Tuaca, Yegarmeister, Goldschlager, Grey Goose, Captain Morgan, Early Times, Old Crow, Budweiser, Sam Adams and Sierra Nevada, the flavors varying as much as the shapes, colors and names. Stanley, at this very moment, couldn’t think of a one he did not enjoy.
Stanley’s moment of euphoria was cut short by piercing eyes. He glanced over to see the clerk watching him intently, a noticeable scowl on his face. Stanley was all too aware of his suspicious appearance and hastily moved to the beer cooler.
Quickly he snatched the cheapest forty ounce beer he could find out of the fridge, and walked to the counter to pay. He wouldn’t bother buying any food. Someone would do that for him later in the night. Many people figured it was better to feed a beggar than give him money. Stanley had learned to work this angle to his advantage.
He handed the keeper his twenty, and waited for change. When the man snapped the register shut without taking out any change Stanley knew immediately what had just happened. He’d been screwed. His two dollar malt liquor had just cost him twenty.
Stanley said nothing. He knew there was nothing he could do. No one would believe him, and who really cared about twenty bucks anyways? Stanley simply raised his eyes from the counter and looked at the man’s smirking face, trying to memorize every detail that he could. He’d get the son of a bitch if he got the chance.
Stanley then hurried towards the door, cursing himself for not buying more. However, his intention at this time was not to get plastered, but rather to take off the edge; being sauced while begging was bad for business. People wanted to believe they were helping someone who could truly be helped. Few gave to the stumbling incoherent drunk. Stanley would need his wits and charm about him for the first bit of the night.
He’d beg from about sundown to somewhere around eleven o’clock. The time when people had enough alcohol in them to be compassionate, and maybe mistake a ten for a one, but before people became belligerent with booze. Before the heroes masquerading as twenty something men in sweatshirts and ball caps decided to better the world by kicking the shit out of a worthless bum. Stanley was a master of his newest craft.
Stanley stepped out of the store onto the neon street. Time to make a living.