By Scott Berinato
It was late in the afternoon, and Kevin didn’t have the $35 a friend charged him for a night’s lodging. He had to find somewhere else to stay, and he agreed to show me his alternatives. “The trail is where we go. This is it. I mean, people in Evanston don’t even know–Hi, how are you doing?” The passerby gave him a wide berth. “See, they’re scared. They think I’m gonna attack them or I’m drunk or I’m a druggie. Sometimes people say to me, ‘Fuck you, nigger. I’m not giving you anything because you just gonna shoot it up!’ We ain’t all like that. I don’t hang around that element.
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We moved south on Sherman at a good clip. At a cafe Kevin stopped and pointed through the door. “I’ve stayed in there,” he said, meaning the vestibule. “I know a woman, she stays there a lot, but, you know, not when it’s cold like this.”
He wouldn’t say where we were going as we hurried east on Davis. “I’ve got a girlfriend. She’s separated and living with her stepdaughter, so I can’t live with her. I walked her to work this morning. She’s helping me get back on my feet too. You know I’m close. Closer than I’ve been in a long time. I was even working at that Saint Louis Bread Company for a while. But business slowed down, and he had to let me go.
We were nearly jogging as we circled back to where we’d started by the coffee shop. Suddenly he looked tired. “Don’t ever get here,” he said slowly. “Don’t lose your self-esteem. Once you slip it’s hard to get back. But I’m trying. I’m trying.”
