No Circus, All Monkeys: A Day in the Life of a Dimmed Light

A fictional story about the spaces between the invisible.

“No soliciting. No loitering. No trespassing. Violators will be prosecuted.”

The sign, smug in its black-and-whiteness, doesn’t come right out and say it, but I know its purpose is to keep people like me out.

Loud and clear, I think.

Even though this patch of grass is far away from the hustle and bustle of the main thoroughfare and would make a great spot to set up for the night, it isn’t worth risking an early morning encounter with a local business owner.

Or worse, the cops.

I nod to the sign, turn down the block, and resume seeking.

My eyes narrow as I face the setting sun, newly revealed from behind a bank of dark clouds. The amber light temporarily brightens my mood until I catch a reflection of myself in a storefront window.

Jesus. How long has it been since I’ve showered? A week? Maybe longer?

I used to love these jeans. I’d dress them up with a black and grey flannel shirt and brown Vans and feel confident about my appearance. I lost the shirt during a brief stint in jail, and the shoes basically shredded off my feet after walking the streets for months.

The jeans persist, but they’re wrinkled, visibly dirty, and stained in spots. My hair, slicked back, is greasy, and I desperately need a shave.

It doesn’t really matter, anyway. My confidence flew the coop long ago.

I moved here from central Ohio to take advantage of the strong job market fueled by the oil and gas industry. And for a couple of years, I lived relatively well. But then, the price of oil tanked, and overnight, thousands of people like me found themselves out of work.

I’m not going to lie; I found solace in the bottle, and it continues to be a monkey on my back. There are good days. Here and there. I know I need help, but I have no idea where to begin.

It’s easier to fall into the same cycle of waking up, figuring out how to eat and score some money, deciding what I want to drink, and finding a spot where I can rest unopposed. Rinse and repeat; save the rinsing. To do otherwise feels like swimming upstream. But I’m a fish out of water, so where does that leave me?

The sun falls behind the horizon and sets the clouds aflame.

To some, it might be beautiful. But to people like me, it’s just a reminder that my invisibility will persist for yet another night.

---

I crack my eyes.

My breath hangs midair before disappearing into the ether.

My neck is jacked up, and my joints protest as I roll over.

I reenter the world of the living. My beard is stiff with frost.

The alleyway makes for a terrible mattress and my backpack a worse pillow, but at least I have a warm sleeping bag. It sure saved my ass last night. I even slept well for a couple of hours. These days, it’s the little things.

I wince as I slink out of my nylon cocoon and pull myself upright. The world briefly carousels – a problem I’ve had since I was a child. Either that or I’m still a little drunk.

I sure hope so, because the tremors start early.

Tired from the effort, I give the situation the time it needs to pass.

Once the spinning stops, I reach into my backpack’s front pocket. I bought some chocolate bars yesterday, and right now, I’d like to camouflage the lingering taste of cheap vodka.

As the sweetness hits my tongue, I close my eyes and turn my face toward the heavens. A grin creeps across my face. My lips crack.

Where the hell is my Chapstick?

Sugar rush. I roll up my sleeping bag. It’s freezing, but a bead of sweat releases its grip from my forehead, rolls down to the tip of my nose, takes a plunge, and splashes onto the blue canvas. Damn. I desperately need some water.

A few months ago, I fashioned a couple of bungee cords to the top of my backpack. They work well enough, and it’s satisfying as I slide my sleeping bag into place.

I made that.

It’s time to move, so I stand up and put on my shoes. I throw my backpack over my shoulder and greet the day. I’m alive. I have a few bucks in my pocket, and I’m invisible.

What option is there other than to be thankful?

I muster some energy, exit the alley, and enter the crush of humanity. The swarm of people sweeps me up like a fish caught in a current, carrying me along the sidewalk to some unknown destination.

Wherever I’m swimming, I hope there’s booze when I arrive.

Scenes flash like an over-exposed 8mm reel: a man on his phone.

Two toddlers in a stroller, red balloons tied to their wrists like buoys. A group of women talking animatedly. An elderly couple sitting on a green metal bench. A fountain, pigeons splashing against the chilly spring morning.

Other invisibles—some sleeping, some begging, all in various states of disrepair—pop in and out of my existence like quantum bubbles.

A man, his wide eyes bloodshot, yells at a girl no older than nine or 10.

Like me, my father was also an alcoholic.

Growing up, the drunker he got, the angrier he grew. He would fill with rage at the slightest hint of a misunderstood moment—an imperceptible affront—and take his animosity out on my mother.

Trying to protect her, I’d wedge myself between them, put my back up against her, and stand there defiantly as his face flushed with magma and hot shards of spittle erupted, landing on my face.

He’d last a few minutes before tiring himself out, but it felt like an eternity; watching Vesuvius blow was never a relaxing experience.

I consider asking the guy for some change, if for no other reason than to break up the moment and give the girl some breathing room. But I decide against it.

Not my circus, not my monkeys.

Besides, I have my own monkey to tend.

And right now, it’s screaming.